Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0)

by Jennifer Bene

  I will not shoot her. I will not shoot her. I will not shoot her.

  “Good evening, I was wondering if my wife and I might join you? We’ve just moved into the city, and I don’t seem to see a single person I know.” Smith’s voice was smooth as honey, and the two women seemed to perk up just at the sight of him. Of course, Camille’s own ears foolishly twitched at hearing him call her his wife. Idiot, it doesn’t mean anything.

  “Of course, always glad to meet new blood in town.” One of the men smiled broadly and offered his free hand, shaking Smith’s firmly. “I’m Henry, and this is my wife Lisa.”

  Ah, the bitch of a brunette who thinks a certain spa is beneath her.

  “And I’m Tom, and this is Margaret. Also my wife, although I think she’s looking to disown me after I brought her here tonight.” The man laughed while his wife gave him a sharp look.

  “I just don’t like being dragged out four nights a week so that he can make new business contacts.” She smiled without letting it reach her eyes. “Be careful, or he’ll have you talking about stock portfolios the entire evening.”

  “Thank you for the warning, Margaret.” Smith nodded his head, all charm, and then flashed a grin that almost stopped Camille’s heart. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. “I’m John, and this is Caroline.”

  “Nice to meet you, Caroline!” Lisa piped up, incredibly chipper since she was obviously borderline drunk already. “Oh! You’re not wearing a wedding ring? Did you – um – just get married, perhaps?”

  The snide comment in her voice wasn’t missed, but Camille just smiled slowly. “My ring?” She laughed, mimicking the haughty tones the woman had used just moments before. “Well, I just thought wearing all the diamonds and such would be a little tasteless considering this event is for underprivileged youth in the city… but it seems I was off base. You and Margaret are a regular display case of beautiful jewelry!”

  Tom and Henry burst into laughter, and the two women forced polite chuckles past their lips, but Lisa began nervously tugging at the gorgeous array of emeralds and diamonds at her throat a moment later.

  “Darling, I did tell you that you could wear anything you wanted to the gala,” Smith purred next to her, and she had to suppress the shudder his voice sent down her spine. Where the fuck had this guy been in the last two years while he’d been ruthlessly kicking her ass as he trained her? Hell, where had he been this morning when he’d pinned her to the ground and made her relive her own personal hell just to teach her a lesson?

  It’s just an act.

  “Well, I guess I won’t make that mistake again!” She smiled brightly, and Tom winked at her. His eyes stayed on her a minute longer than necessary, but she made sure to shift her gaze between all of them as she kept track of him in her periphery. Eventually the creep gave up the staring contest and tuned back into the group’s chatter.

  It was an endless, droning discussion of a million things that Camille didn’t give a shit about – luxurious vacations, stocks, other parties, other guests – and the fact that she had to listen and actually pay attention made her want to stab someone. Talk about nightmares.

  “I do wish they’d just start the dinner, all of this standing around is so insufferable,” Lisa slurred, and her husband slid his arm around her waist with a soothing murmur.

  “It’s because of the auction. Yet another pathetic attempt to get us to pour money into whatever cause they use as an excuse for a party.” Margaret rolled her eyes, and took a hefty drink of the white wine in her glass.

  “From what I understand the youth of the city are particularly vulnerable, and that is the purpose of tonight. Was I wrong?” Smith asked.

  “Not at all! There were all kinds of stories about homeless teens and such. Just terrible. They show up here trying to be the next big Broadway star, and then end up starving.” Henry sighed. “But, honestly, if me bidding on a weekend trip that I’d take anyway helps them out, why not?”

  “What are you bidding on tonight, dear?” Margaret asked Tom. A broad man with a loud laugh, but something about him was still making her want to walk away from him.

  “Ah, it’s a surprise.” He grinned and she playfully shoved at his arm.

  “Surprises are usually very expensive.”

  “Aren’t they?” Henry asked and the two men laughed, but Smith simply smiled. “What about you, Caroline? Do you feel like John is simply torturing you by bringing you to this gala?” Henry chuckled, and she flashed him a smile as she took a sip of her drink.

  “Torture? That seems a little over the top. I mean, is it ever really torture if I get a new dress?” She laughed, and on cue the others burst into polite laughter too, and Lisa even reached over to squeeze her arm.

  These people were too easy.

  Smith leaned down and pressed a kiss to her hair, but his lips lingered by her ear just long enough to whisper, “You’re doing very well.”

  The words felt like lightning through her, filling her up with vibrant energy. Smith had complimented her, he’d actually fucking complimented her. In the two years he’d been training her, he’d barely said anything beyond the occasional ‘that was good’, and he’d never said it with that tone. Proud and practically purring.

  It took more effort than she expected to maintain the shallow smile as she sipped the vodka. Two down, and on her third, the steady hum of alcohol in her veins was exactly what she needed to tolerate the elitist drivel spewing out of these wealthy fucks.

  “So, John, what do you do for a living?” Tom asked him, and as Smith carefully avoided actually answering him, Camille studied him. She wished she could read his eyes the way he always seemed to be able to with her, because that momentary glimpse behind his mask early in the morning had been too short.

  These fucking sheep didn’t have a clue though.

  While she couldn’t read him like a book, she still knew something wasn’t quite right. To the two couples his expression probably looked open and content, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his weight shifted to his back leg, away from them, like he wanted distance.

  What’s going on with you, Smith?

  When the conversation shifted again to some other annoying comment from Margaret, Camille stepped closer to him. “Why don’t we go look at the tables?” she asked softly, and Smith glanced over at her with a flicker of surprise.

  “If you’d like, darling.” He nodded his head at the others, lifting his glass. “Please, excuse us.”

  Turning away from the group he matched her step as they headed towards one wall, where the silent auction was continuing, monitored by the staff. The peace of not listening to the constant chattering was like a fucking vacation, and she enjoyed it for a moment until Smith stepped in front of her to face her. His broad chest filled out the suit in all the right ways. Damn him. He was handsome, and eloquent, and blended in just as well here amongst the richest of the rich as he ever had in Bill’s bar.

  Focus, Camille.

  “So, why did you want to step away? Did you actually want to look at opera tickets?” Smith asked, a slightly more playful expression on his face as the tension in his jaw faded.

  “Don’t be an asshole. I suggested it because while I was definitely not having fun, you looked even more uncomfortable than me, and I’m the one in these fucking heels.” She kept her voice low, scanning the people around them before she looked back to him. “What’s up, Smith?”

  “My, my, C. You are observant tonight.”

  “You told me to be.”

  “That I did.” Smith took a large drink and swallowed hard, which was fucking weird. He never drank much, and never this fast. The bourbon in his third glass was almost gone.

  “Have I pissed you off somehow tonight? If I did something wrong, just fucking tell me. This gala thing might be a game, but -”

  “No, that’s not it at all. It’s fine. I’m fine.” He rolled his neck and his eyes tracked over to the wall. “We should at least keep up appearances and go look at
the auctions.”

  What the fuck aren’t you telling me?

  Camille wanted to call him out, wanted to push it, but it would only cause them to stand out. A gossip hungry audience like this would instantly be drawn to angry words, to aggressive body language, so she plastered on her Barbie smile and nodded. “Sure, let’s look. Maybe they’ll have an exclusive, rare batch of C-4 that we can get for a steal.”

  “It would likely be gold plated,” Smith muttered, and she laughed under her breath as they started to browse the ridiculous items on the tables. There was no C-4, and no guns or ammo, but there were guided wine tours through Napa Valley, river cruises in Europe, some fancy coffee machines, ski lessons in Vail, a painting by someone whose name she couldn’t even pronounce, and a bunch of other bullshit that these people seemed to want. The bids were insane. Thousands of dollars, tens of thousands in some places, and where the fuck was it all going? In the six months Camille had lived on the streets no one had come to her to ask if she was an underprivileged youth and offered her a handful of cash with no strings attached.

  Assholes.

  As they walked around Smith wandered to the bar twice to refill their glasses, and he was still drinking as they rounded to the other side of the auction. They were laughing to themselves, the alcohol working magic on the tension in her bloodstream, and his, as they traded hushed comments on the auction items. Every time she turned to tell him what she thought of the next outrageous thing, she found him looking at her instead of the Louis Vuitton luggage set or the private chef with cooking lessons or the jewel encrusted parrot pendant.

  Finally, she stopped in place, refusing to move forward, and met his eyes, trying to peer through the stoic mask to see what was happening underneath. “Okay, spill it. What’s going on, Smith?”

  “Nothing,” he replied quickly and looked away from her, out to the groups of people who were beginning to fill the tables and trickle away from the auction.

  Apparently, dinner would be starting soon.

  “Don’t bullshit me, is something wrong?” She scanned the room around them, looking for whatever could be setting him off, but for all of her SLLS practice, she couldn’t find a single thing out of place in this white-washed elitist landscape – except for his behavior.

  “I’m going to get us a refill.” Smith snagged the glass from her fingers before she could stop him and walked back towards the bar, leaving her standing by the glittery parrot.

  What the ever-loving fuck is happening?

  Camille was on alert, her fingers itching to have the gun in her hand so she could react fast if something happened, but even when she started to evaluate everyone she could see for a threat risk – there was nothing. Fucking nothing.

  “Now, why would he leave a beautiful creature like you all alone?” Tom, Margaret’s husband, approached on her right and she turned on her bright, shallow smile.

  “Ah, John is just getting us our drinks.”

  “Lucky me, then, I get a little more time with you.” He turned and pointed at the parrot. “Is this what you’re hoping to go home with?”

  She couldn’t stop the laugh before it had escaped her lips, but she stifled it by pressing her fingers to her mouth. “Oh, no, no way. I’m sure someone would like it, but it needs to be a different girl.”

  “If you did want it, I’d buy it for you.” Instantly, the strange feeling Camille had felt from him earlier in the night clicked. It was the same feeling she always got when a john pulled his car up on the street. That intense, hungry gaze. The bastard-level confidence that came from a guaranteed fuck because they were paying for it – and that’s exactly what Tom was trying to do now. Pay for the guarantee with a shiny piece of shit bird.

  “If I wanted it, John would get it for me.” She smiled, trying her best to maintain the charade of dumb, rich girl, when what she wanted to do was kick him in the balls until he started crying.

  “John?” Tom laughed low, stepping in closer to her. “He doesn’t look like he can keep up with you.”

  You stupid fuck.

  Camille forced herself to laugh too, and smiled up at him. “And, let me guess… you think you can?”

  “I think you should give me a try.”

  “And what does your wife think?” she asked, pointedly looking over his shoulder where Margaret was observing them closely.

  “She and I have an arrangement. She gets to spend what she wants, and I get to do what I want.” He moved a little closer to her and she let him, shifting a hip to accentuate her curves, the delicate angles of the dress highlighting her waist and the gentle swell of her breasts. His eyes followed the movement, roving down to the exposed length of leg peeking out of the slit.

  That’s right asshole, be predictable.

  Camille took the opportunity to look over her shoulder to find Smith at the bar. A blonde in a silver dress that looked like liquid moonlight was talking to him. She was practically climbing on Smith, her body brushing against his every time she laughed, her hand trailing up his arm when she leaned back.

  Bitch…

  “Caroline?” The man’s voice brought her attention back, and she flashed him a flirtatious smile, giving him just enough rope to hang himself with.

  “So, you get to do what you want, huh?”

  “Yes… and I always do.”

  “Well, what do you want to do, Tom?”

  “You.” The confidence in his voice, so sure that his money could buy him anything or anyone in the room, made her skin crawl. It took a level of self-control Camille never would have believed she had, but she laughed low and moved so close to him that she had to look up into his eyes.

  “Well…” she whispered softly, running her fingers up his jacket to tug at the lapel. He smiled slowly, so confident of his win that he wasn’t even looking at her face anymore. His eyes were glued to her curves, his erection already starting to misshape the front of his pants, and then he reached for her waist. Catching his hand before he could touch her she twisted it just enough to make him gasp in pain, and then his eyes widened, meeting hers again – and she smiled slowly. Dropping her chipper cheerleader voice, she spoke softly, “I can assure you, Tom, that there isn’t a single thing in this entire fucking room to get me into bed with you. Even if I were remotely interested in whatever pathetic package you’re hiding in your pants.”

  Tilting her head and broadcasting her best Barbie smile, she patted his lapel back into place, released the grip on his hand, turned in her heels, and walked away – even though what she really wanted to do was take that ornate, gold letter opener from one table up and drive it between his motherfucking douchebag ultra-privileged ribs.

  Progress. This was progress.

  When she knew she was far enough away that her urge for violence would take more than a simple kick between his legs, she turned and saw Margaret closing in on him. Her voice was barely controlled, acidic and angry, and Camille couldn’t help but smile as the other guests of the gala all seemed to shift their attention towards them.

  Sheep.

  She huffed out a breath and stopped a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Without asking she snagged two of the drinks off the tray and downed them. One was something citrus that might have had a mix of several fruity alcohols in it, but the second was pure whiskey and it ripped her breath from her on a cough.

  “Fuck,” she whispered under her breath and abandoned the two glasses in front of a bid card for something that referred to the Amalfi Coast – whatever the fuck that was.

  With the alcohol thrumming in her veins she risked a look back at Smith and saw him physically peeling the blonde off him, those intense eyes locked onto her from across the room. As soon as he was free he was moving towards her, stalking over the marble tiles like he did whenever they fought in a session. All lethal grace, a specter of death that she never feared.

  He didn’t even speak as he got to her, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the exit. With his long gait she had to walk faster, the
heels clicking a metronome pattern that seemed to urge him on further.

  They exited into the empty hallway as a voice from a microphone inside the gala started to welcome the guests for the dinner, but he turned away from the party, away from the front doors and moved them deeper into the building.

  “What’s going on?” she hissed, but he didn’t respond. Her mind was working on overdrive – had she missed something? Was there a threat? Was this just another test gone fucking sideways because she had no idea what she was doing?

  Smith’s grip on her hand was bordering painful as they hurried towards the darker end of the hall, and she could see that the large wooden doors at the end were shut, and they did not seem like the kind of doors that would be unlocked. Suddenly he pulled them to a stop and dragged her into a rounded alcove.

  “C…” With a tug on her hand he pulled her towards him and then pressed her back against the wall, his body close to hers. His hands brushed her cheeks, his expression reverent, holding her in place as his eyes danced over her face – and then he kissed her.

  It wasn’t soft and gentle, but hungry, powerful. Raw with need.

  He nipped her bottom lip and let out a growl against her mouth as he delved his tongue inside, her hands gripping the front of his tux to pull him more firmly against her. He tasted like whiskey, sweet and warm, and she dove into the kiss with everything she had. One of his hands slid into her hair, tightening to tilt her head back so he could control it and she moaned against his lips as lightning took up residence in her spine. Everything tingled, and she couldn’t tell if it was the haze of alcohol building in her bloodstream from those last two hasty drinks, or if Smith was seriously just that good of a kisser. When he suddenly leaned down and scooped her off the floor, his strong hands under her thighs, she decided on the latter.