“The sender called us whores,” I said dryly, a wry smile twisting my mouth. “I think it’s probably a safe assumption this is motivated by anger, not monetary gain. The ransom demand is just a means to entice me into action. Tell me what you learned, if anything.”
I tipped the coffee cup back and a sweet, scalding rush of liquid burned a trail down my throat. Pushing to my feet, cup in one hand, I marched for the door as he spewed out computer speak. This was a conversation for the office. The blackmailer could and would spy on me if given the chance.
The screen door opened soundlessly as I crept into the foyer of the house. The wide double staircase took up a portion of the space and drew the eye to where new Hustlers would reside after being welcomed into the organization.
I reached the second-floor landing before I cut Tucker off. “Can you please stop sounding like you’re vomiting up a computer manual and give it to me in plain English?”
“Philistine,” he griped. “Fine. I’ll dumb it down for you. The long and short of it is, the person who sent the email was either a hacker on par with yours truly or someone with enough money and clout to hire them. I went down a rabbit hole of wonderland proportions to try and catch this guy. No dice. The email is untraceable.”
Goose bumps erupted along my arms and no amount of scrubbing at them helped. Tucker had been my only hope of escaping the six-million-dollar demand leveled at me. After all, I’d seen Tuck do technical wonders I’d thought were damn near impossible.
As if he’d read my thoughts, Tucker spoke, using the cautious tone people normally adopted to approach feral animals. “Do you think it has something to do with the tape? Do you think that your ex might have anything to do with—”
“No.” I stiffened at the mention of Logan. “He’s a bastard. He probably released the tape. But I don’t think he’d threaten my girls. That’s not the sort of man he is. He was in the army, last I knew. The motto is literally ‘This we’ll defend.’ And he has a thing about women being hurt. It’s not him.”
Tucker lapsed into silence, and I knew he was biting his tongue to keep from stating the obvious. My ex had hurt me when he released our sex tape.
Six years ago, when he’d uploaded revenge porn onto Jizztube of all places, my life had come crashing down. I’d been disowned, disinherited, and thrown out of the house. My stepfather’s bid for the presidency had been completely tanked by the scandal.
The video titled “Red-haired slut creams all over a monster cock” had been watched over a million times.
A hot flush of shame spread over my chest and into my cheeks. A million people had seen my naked body before I even knew it had been put up. I’d trusted the wrong man with a camera, and the tape had destroyed any chance I’d ever had at working in the film industry. As the stepdaughter of a conservative politician, there hadn’t been enough spin in the world to work it to my advantage.
At the time, Tuck had worked a miracle on par with Jesus by scrubbing all traces of it from the internet. He had an alert system in place so that if it was reuploaded, he’d be able to take care of it in short order.
If he couldn’t trace the mystery man, no one could.
“You’re not going to follow through with this, are you?” he asked.
The sweet undercurrent of the caramel from the coffee was being overpowered by the bile resting in the back of my throat. “I don’t see that I have a choice. Keep me updated, Tuck. And thank you so much for this. I really appreciate it.”
My beleaguered hacktivist was silent for a long moment. “I’ll get into the Ritz-Carlton’s security system tonight and make up a dossier of whoever approaches you with the message. There has to be a trail that I can follow somewhere.”
“Thank you, Tuck. This means a lot to me.”
“Not a problem. And Mina?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
I didn’t have time to respond before the line went dead. It was probably just as well. I couldn’t promise him that. For all I knew, I was walking into a trap. But it was a risk I’d have to take.
Lives were on the line.
* * *
After careful deliberation, I decided to attend the function at the Ritz-Carlton without a disguise. My blackmailer hadn’t been gracious enough to include an invitation to the party, so I was left on my own when trying to gain entry. If I had to gate-crash, the face of Carmina Blakely would serve me best.
The Blakely name still held sway in the heights, even to the disgraced daughter of a former Senator. I was also the stepsister of one of the most sought-after action stars in Hollywood. Keenan Blakely had broken into the scene not long after my expulsion from family life, and I could only assume it was the Senator’s petty way of wreaking vengeance, handing my arrogant ass of a stepbrother the life I’d always wanted.
I was certain I could charm some doorman into letting me in. Hopefully, my appearance and the contribution of a few hundred dollars would grant me entry without any fuss.
My fingers shook as I pulled down the rearview mirror of my white Lexus and examined my reflection in the mirror one last time.
Heather was truly a miracle worker. She hadn’t demanded to know where I’d be going, for which I was grateful. She’d radically reshaped my appearance until I could have been a celebrity stepping onto the red carpet. Thick lashes framed my hazel eyes, making them immediately noticeable. She’d erased the dark circles beneath my eye sockets and smoothed my skin until it was flawless and faintly glowing.
I knew the black bodycon dress used my figure to its best advantage, outlining every curve, drawing the eye to my bust and thigh lines. All attention was directed away from the face, which was all the better for my purposes.
I gripped the steering wheel so hard the diamond-encrusted bracelets on my wrists jangled. Forcing a deep breath into my lungs, I still wondered if I’d be able to follow through with this. I wasn’t a bastion of honesty, but that didn’t mean I wanted to con a man out of an amount as large as six million.
The safest course of action would be to attach myself to the arm of the mark and use every second of the two-month time limit I’d been allocated to pump him for expensive gifts. I could turn around and sell what I’d acquired for cash and build up a fund to pay off the blackmailer. Assuming that I could raise the right amount by the deadline, I could end things on an amicable note and he’d never have to be the wiser.
The note instructed to do otherwise, but what blackmailer would turn down the cash once I had it stuffed under his nose?
“Just get out and do it,” I hissed at my reflection, trying to sound self-assured. My reflection didn’t buy it.
I brought the car to a stop in the drive of the Ritz-Carlton hotel.
A man wearing a hotel uniform opened my door, his dark eyes sweeping from my head all the way down to my toes as I stepped from the vehicle. I couldn’t read his expression well enough to tell if he liked what he saw. He held out a hand for my keys and my invitation.
All around me, others were undergoing the same ritual. I draped the chain of my tiny beaded bag up on my shoulder and pretended to rummage through it, affecting a false frown when I found nothing.
“Sorry, sir, it was just in here a moment ago. I must have taken the turn too fast and it fell between the seats. If you’ll just let me talk to the host, I’m sure—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you can’t present a valid invitation, I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”
“I’m sure my name is on there,” I insisted. “It’s Blakely. Could you check?”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he checked his list. He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If you don’t go peacefully, I’ll have to call security.”
My eyes burned, and I cursed my traitorous biology. My anger was hardwired to my tear ducts. It was the worst trick my body had ever pulled on me. Pissed as hell, and all I could do was cry.
Before I could start sobbing like a little
girl, a dainty feminine hand came to rest in the crook of my elbow.
I craned my neck at the strikingly beautiful woman standing just over my shoulder. She was taller even than me, at my six-foot-nine. Her sleek, dark hair had been arranged in an elegant twist at the base of her neck. Two trademark emerald studs offset her green eyes. I knew who she was, even though we’d never met. I’d seen her picture on the cover of Business Insider too many times to not recognize the face of Isadora Anwick.
My blood congealed in my veins and I stopped breathing. I was fucked. Beyond fucked.
My claim to know the host had been a desperate grasp at straws. And now it was going to blow up in my face, with the hostess of the damned party standing right behind me.
Isadora smiled at us. “Let Miss Blakely through, Julian. She’s my guest.”
Julian, the ever-stoic, looked rather nonplussed by this development. “Miss Anwick are you su—”
Isadora waved the sentence away before Julian even had the chance to complete his thought. “Of course I’m sure.” Her grin was as false as my own when she turned to me. “My dear girl, you have to get better about RSVPing.”
A weak smile was all I could manage. “Of course, Miss Anwick. I’ll do that next time.”
“You must call me Isadora,” she insisted, tugging me past Julian and toward the front door.
I tossed the keys to my Lexus to him as Isadora’s nails bit crescents into my skin through the thin lace sleeves of the dress.
She waited until we were in the elevator before she spoke. “What do you think you’re doing here, Carmina?”
I flinched. I hated hearing my full name.
I fished around for a plausible lie. “I heard that the senator might be here.” There, let her make of that what she would.
No matter how hard I’d tried, I’d never been able to address him as Walter or Dad. He’d always been Mr. Blakely or Senator, on the rare occasion he was home.
Isadora’s lips pursed. “Yes, your parents are supposed to attend. I was informed that they’d be arriving late. Your father’s flight was delayed. Would you like me to inform them that you’re here when they arrive?”
Oh hell no. “Yes,” I lied, injecting a note of manic cheer into my tone. “That would be lovely. Thank you so much, Miss An—I mean...Isadora.”
Isadora’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. I wasn’t sure she bought my act.
The elevator doors slid open soundlessly and deposited us into the Ritz-Carlton’s dining area. There were over a hundred people milling about already. How on earth was I supposed to find my mark in this mass of people?
Isadora released my arm. “Make yourself comfortable, Carmina. The wait staff will be serving hors d’oeuvres and light refreshments for the next hour.”
I inched my way along the wall, doing my best to remain unobtrusive. The flaming brightness of my hair felt like a neon sign, broadcasting my location to whoever cared to look. I snatched a kebab and a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sat down at a nearby table, pinning my gaze on the carnations of the centerpiece as though they were an amazing botanical phenomenon.
I’d made it in, which was half the battle. Now I had to wait for my blackmailer to make his or her intentions known. So I both wanted to be seen, and didn’t want to be seen, at the same time.
I stuffed the end of the kebab into my mouth, sliding the appetizer off as I chewed without even looking at what I’d selected. Cucumber, cream cheese, and salmon washed across my tongue in a refreshing burst of flavor. I let out a short, surprised laugh. God, had it really been so long since I’d attended a party like this that a simple appetizer tasted phenomenal?
Sadly, the answer was yes. I’d made it a policy to avoid events like this one, even when attending high-profile parties with clients. The chance that I might run into my parents, or worse, my douchebag older brother, was not something I wanted to risk.
I finished my champagne in one go, to ramp up my wilting courage. The bubbles tickled my throat on the way down. I was on my second glass of champagne before a waiter approached. Dressed sharply in the black of the kitchen staff, he bore a tray containing an envelope not much larger than a business card.
He held it out to me deferentially and murmured in a quiet but appealing voice, “I was asked to give this to you, Miss Blakely. The sender insists it’s urgent and that you should open it straight away.”
I examined the man’s features. He appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties, with blonde hair and a slight widow’s peak. His blue eyes were guileless. If he knew what he was being made a party to, it didn’t show on his face.
I took the envelope from the silver tray with a nod and thanked him, watching him disappear into the crowd.
My fingers began to shake once more as I unsealed the envelope and withdrew a card. The message was typed on the card and thus gave me no clues to the identity of the perpetrator. I wasn’t a graphologist, but the slant and pressure of handwriting might have given me at least some idea of what kind of person I was dealing with, male or female.
Your target is wearing a charcoal gray Armani suit and will have a decorative lion pin in his lapel. Happy hunting, Hustler. Don’t fail me.
The champagne sloshed in my stomach as I stared at the words, the reality of what I’d been tasked with smacking me upside the head once again. This was like nothing I’d ever done before. I didn’t have a client. I had a mark. And now I had to find him and act my ass off.
I pushed away from the table, leaving my kebab stick and empty glass, and slipped into the throng of people milling about. The mark was a he, which alleviated some of my worries. I’d been arm candy for wealthy businesswomen before. But in my personal and professional experience, women were more observant than men. Most women my age or older would see the strings attached to my advances, while a man in the same position would assume it was something innate about him that drew me. The utter arrogance of men could be staggering. Just by nature of having a cock, they thought they were entitled.
Ten minutes after I’d started my search, the room was filled wall to wall. I was getting a little frantic by the time the main course was announced.
A woman wearing far too much Chanel elbowed her friend in the ribs. “Oh my God. Do you see who just arrived?”
“Like, how could I not?” the friend hissed back, glee coloring her tone. “Keenan Blakely—I think I might die. Look at that suit. How much do you think I’d have to pay to rip it off of him?”
I gagged a little and ducked my head. It wasn’t that Keenan wasn’t handsome—if you liked the meathead-with-no-neck-and-less- brains type—but the comment made me want to puke all over their patent leather pumps.
More distressingly, it meant that my family had arrived. Fuckity fucking fuck. What the hell would I do? I had yet to find my mark and my parents were sure to spot me when everyone sat down for the dinner course. Isadora might even escort them over to me in a misguided attempt to be helpful. I had to get out of there before I was tossed out in one of the most publicly humiliating ways possible.
I inched my way along the wall to the secondary exit, where the staff would be bustling in and out. I’d have to take the long route to find my Lexus. If I was lucky, I could con some kitchen boy into escorting an apparently drunk party girl out to the parking lot.
I found the double doors just as Isadora tapped her glass with a spoon, drawing all eyes toward her. Seizing the opportunity, I leaned my full weight into them, swinging the heavy doors inward...promptly hitting someone in the face.
A muffled curse was followed by the smack of a hard body into mine and then a speedy tumble down toward the floor. Strong arms braced around me, holding me securely to a muscled chest that was accentuated very nicely by a charcoal gray suit. A hand flew up to cradle the back of my head, saving my skull from a collision with the stainless-steel edge of a cooking station.
I followed the white line of the man’s dress shirt up to his lapel and gazed upon a glistening gold li
on’s head pinned to the material there. Tearing my eyes from the lion’s profile, I forced myself to look into a devastatingly handsome and too-familiar face.
My stomach clenched hard, and I was once again seized by the desire to throw up. Gratitude died on my lips, and I could do nothing but glare at him.
Logan Farraday. CEO, billionaire, and spiteful son of a bitch.
And apparently, my mark.
I wanted to scream. How could this be happening? My only chance to save my life was to con the man who’d done his level best to ruin it. Someone had a sick sense of humor.
My ex returned the glare, one-upping me in the intimidation department, as always.
“Blakely, what the hell are you doing here?” he growled.
Chapter Four
Logan
For a stunned instant, all I could do was take in the vision of loveliness sprawled on top of me. Her body pressed enticingly into all of the right spots to drive me to distraction.
Long-legged and soft, she was a supple and welcome weight on top of me. Her hair felt like corn silk beneath my hand, and the desire to wind my fingers into it and tug was difficult to ignore. Ample, pert breasts peeked out of the top of a dress that was plastered to her curves—the creamy expanse of flesh begging to be licked, tasted, sampled.
For a moment, I allowed myself the pleasure of indulging in the fantasy of taking this enticing stranger into a back closet and seeing what that ivory skin looked like flushed with desire.
But then my brain caught up with the rest of me and I realized that the woman on top of me was far from a stranger. I’d only seen that shade of red hair on two women, and I didn’t think the Senator’s wife would have my cock straining at the fly of my pants. At least, I hoped not.
“What the hell are you doing here, Blakely?” My voice came out as a surly snarl. I could tell immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.
Mina had never taken well to being barked at, and the fire kindling behind her eyes could raze the entire city to ash.
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