Cash Remington and the Missing Heiress (Sexy Dreadfuls Book 1)

by Celia Aaron

  Cash Remington

  and the Missing Heiress

  Celia Aaron

  Cash Remington

  and the Missing Heiress

  Celia Aaron

  Copyright © 2016 Celia Aaron

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. Please do not participate in piracy of books or other creative works.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Please store your files wisely, away from under-aged readers. This book stars an alpha male who never misses. It’s full of sex and violence. It’s an erotic adventure, not a romance, and is not “safe.” If you're cool with these caveats, enjoy!

  Cover art by Perfect Pear Creative

  Content Editing by J. Brooks

  Copy Editing by Spell Bound

  Other Books by Celia Aaron

  SINCLAIR

  Acquisition Series, Prologue

  COUNSELLOR

  Acquisition Series, Book One

  MAGNATE

  Acquisition Series, Book Two

  SOVEREIGN

  Acquisition Series, Book Three

  ***

  The Hard and Dirty Holidays

  ***

  The Forced Series

  ***

  Zeus

  Taken by Olympus, Book 1

  AaronErotica.com

  Twitter: @aaronerotica

  Celia Aaron on Facebook

  Author’s Note on Cash Remington

  Cash Remington is a man of action and adventure. He kills the bad guys, gets the girl, and always has a story to tell. He may come in different guises—spy, pirate, private detective, prize fighter, prince, and many more. But he’s always the same Cash Remington—the alpha who never misses, takes what he wants, and leaves his women satisfied.

  These are erotic adventures, not romances with a safe HEA. I’ve modeled them on the 19th Century “Penny Dreadfuls,” but added plenty of erotic content. Therefore, I’ve dubbed them “Sexy Dreadfuls,” and I hope you enjoy them.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  I JUMP. THE WIND whistles past my ears, and a cold blast to the face gets my blood pumping. I howl into the night, loving the feel of a free-fall. My plane continues silently above me, heading back to a friendlier country.

  Is there anything better than a sky dive at night over enemy territory with no clear landing zone? Of course not.

  The palace lights glow to my left, illuminating the white arabesque domes typical of the country’s grander architecture. The streets directly below me are all but dark, the peasants given candles instead of electricity.

  Somewhere close to the palace is a poppy field whose flowers are the gem of the opium-producing world. I aim for where I know it is, more than happy to stomp the shit out of a few crops as a special fuck-you to the warlord who controls the area.

  By the faint light of the rising moon, I sense the ground approaching. A few more moments and my altitude is low enough for me to pull the cord. I fall a little farther, making sure the bloom of my chute won’t be seen from the palace. Gripping the cord, I yank. My fall is impeded with a swift jerk.

  Floating down, I get a glimpse of the shanty town a few hundred yards away. I brace and hit the ground, crunching a few rows of flowers under my polished black oxfords. My knees take the impact, and I stroll through the field.

  I depress the button at my chest, and the chute comes off easily. It remains where it lands, yet another fuck-you. Someone will find it in the morning, but by then I’ll be long gone, in friendly airspace, with the missing heiress on my cock.

  I smile and straighten my black bowtie. The poppies crunch under my feet as I stride toward the palace. The glowing lights are welcoming, promising me a good time and a successful mission.

  The building’s layout is already ingrained in my mind. Not that I have to sneak in. An invitation rests in my pocket for one of the most exciting events in this part of the world. A slave auction, replete with American women from good stock who will sell for a high price.

  But I didn’t come to buy. I came to reclaim one girl in particular—Collette Stanford, heiress to a tech fortune many times greater than most countries’ GDP. She’d gone missing from her college dorm two days prior after meeting a mystery man on the Internet.

  Her photo intrigued me—mousy brown hair, intelligent blue eyes, and an innocence I could almost taste. When the assignment came in, I jumped on it. She was mine. I solved her disappearance in record time and demanded I be the agent to collect the spoils—her. Seeing as I was the best spy the agency had on hand, it was a no-brainer.

  A cool wind sighs through the air, bringing me the scent of blooms and earth as I reach the end of the poppies. The field recedes behind me, and my feet hit cobblestones. I knock the dirt from my shoes and dart down a few side streets. No one is out at this hour except bad men like me. I smile at the thought and stroll through the gate of the outer palace wall, the white stone looming above me on either side.

  I smooth my black hair down and wait between two parked luxury cars. The turnout looks to be even larger than I’d planned. My trigger finger itches as I see the fuckers lined up at the palace entrance for a taste of virgin pussy from foreign lands. But I don’t make a move. Not yet.

  When another car rolls down the drive, I step out and approach. It’s a black McLaren, fast and perfect. I give a little bow, and the owner rolls down the window.

  “Valet?” I ask.

  He steps out and hands me his keys. He eyes my tux and cocks his head, uncertain. To assuage him, I whip a ticket from my pocket and flash him a dumb smile. He relaxes and takes the square of paper. After one more long look, he turns toward the palace.

  “Thank you so much,” I say under my breath.

  I park the McLaren at the front gate, stash a gun inside, and pocket the keys. The row of sports cars has several other contenders, but the McLaren is low hanging fruit and will certainly do in a pinch.

  I climb the stairs to the palace portico and join the group of depraved fucks who came here to buy slaves. Vines, heavy with night-blooming jasmine, snake overhead, giving the place a pleasant scent despite the assholes milling about on the steps. Waiting my turn, I overhear several conversations about the anticipation surrounding the finest female to be auctioned off yet. They’re speaking of Collette. My Collette.

  I glare at the older Egyptian in the white turban. He has the worst plans for her, including “destroying” her “American pussy” the first chance he gets. His swarthy moustache is filled with flecks of food, and his protruding gut begs for my knife.

  He catches my eye, and I don’t look away. “Problem?” he asks in a thick accent.

  I smile, imagining his blood on my hands. “Not yet.” I answer in perfect Arabic.

  A taller man steps forward, the Egyptian’s security. “I sug
gest you back away, my friend.” His blond hair and brown eyes are familiar. An operator, likely a mercenary. British.

  “I suggest your boss mind his manners.”

  The blond’s eyes darken, and he reaches toward what I know is a holster under his jacket. Starting trouble here isn’t part of the plan, but the threats against Collette have my blood boiling.

  “Boys, boys. There’s plenty for everyone.” An attendant waves the Egyptian into the palace. The blond follows after giving me one more glare. I‘ll remember his face. He’s on my radar now, which is unfortunate news for him.

  Once the Egyptian is gone, I approach the attendant holding a tablet. Two burly guards stand at his back. They hold Kalashnikovs, the gunmetal gray so familiar to me it’s almost comforting. The attendant swipes across the screen, his bushy eyebrows hiding him from my gaze.

  “Name?” His nasal voice is almost as bad as the Egyptian’s.

  “Cash Remington.” I hand him my invitation, expertly recreated by the geeks at the agency lab.

  He examines it, then glances at my blue eyes with his beady brown ones before swiping through some more screens. “I don’t see your name on the guest list.”

  One of the guards shifts slightly, freeing up his range of motion to pop me should the need arise. It won’t. I’ll kill him and his friend before they can raise their guns. But it won’t come to that.

  “Check again.” I affect an impatient tone. The men who come to things like this believe they are the most important in the world, no matter how tiny their dicks are, or how useless they’d be without a little blue pill. Being an asshole is the way to fit in, so I add an impatient sigh.

  He swipes down a list. “Ah. I see you here. My apologies, Mr. Remington.”

  The boys at the lab must have finally hacked through and got my name uploaded. Late fuckers. One of the guards waves me through, and I join the steady stream of men. None of them have any idea there’s a wolf in their midst. I intend to keep it that way until the last possible moment.

  The marble floors gleam white, like the rest of the palace, and topless women stand on all sides, offering dates, wine, and local delicacies.

  I approach one. Her tear-shaped tits are perfect, the nipples upturned and a shade of deep brown. Plucking a date from her tray, I pop it into my mouth. The bottom half of her face is covered with a black gauzy veil, and her eye makeup is overdone in peacock shades.

  “Ibiza.” I whisper as I swirl the sweet date around my tongue and then down my throat.

  “Cash.”

  “The girl is mine.” I stare down into her light brown eyes.

  Her too-red lips curl beneath the patch of fabric. “The bounty on her is more than you earn in a year. I’ll have her whisked away from here before you get the chance.” Her accent has a decidedly Arabic lilt. For now. Ibiza is a chameleon, fitting whatever role necessary to get her bounty.

  We hired her to take care of the additional girls up for auction. Two agents in the same operation would put the entire mission at risk, but a gun-for-hire like Ibiza could get in and out like smoke. The bounty on Collette is an added complication.

  I sigh. “Her daddy didn’t trust the CIA to handle it?”

  She smirks. “He bet two million against you. I intend to collect.”

  “We’ll see, merc.” I trace my fingers from her collar bone down to her hardened nipple. “You’re here for clean-up, nothing else. When shit goes down, grab the rest of the girls and get out.”

  I pinch her stiff peak, and she gasps.

  “Cash!” she hisses, the thin fabric in front of her mouth billowing.

  “What?” I squeeze harder. Then I twist the bud between my thumb and forefinger until her smile is gone and an entirely different look glazes her eyes. One I know well.

  “Stop.” It’s a breathy whisper.

  I let go and rub my thumb across her nipple. “Try to take my girl and we’re going to have a repeat of Algiers.”

  “I kicked your ass in Algiers.” She leans away from my touch.

  “You tried.” I snort and glance around. One of the Kalashnikov guards is eyeing me.

  I’d paused too long. Time to move. “But if memory serves, you ended up pinned beneath me, taking every inch and loving it.”

  I stroll to the next girl before Ibiza can retort. Snagging a glass of wine and passing up a tray littered with opium candies, I leave the merc stewing behind me.

  The line of wealthy bastards moves through the open, airy center of the palace toward a set of heavy double doors. The wide stairs beyond curve down and to the right, the way dimly lit. After all, what is a palace without a dungeon?

  I clock four guards on each end of the expansive inner courtyard. Two massive stone columns support the entire structure. In the very center, a skylight is open to the night, and a fountain on the floor matches the opening above to catch rainwater.

  More nude women stand around the edges of the room, offering more than just refreshments. An orgy of moans and slapping skin rises through the lofty room. I pass a threesome, the woman trapped between two hairy Russians. Turning at the last moment, I graze my hand along the round support column, affixing explosives painted to match the very same white of the stone.

  I continue my circuit of the flesh carnival. Several of the women look at me with desirous eyes. The depraved assholes line up in front of the gorgeous girls, looking for a taste or a fuck. The guards take no notice of me. Instead, they give all their attention to the debauchery. Once I reach the other column, I lean back against it and watch two of the women kiss and grind on each other. Smoothing a hand behind my back, I set the explosives. One of the women motions for me to join, her dark eyes promising pleasure. I shake my head, though their luscious bodies test my resolve.

  On a balcony to the right, a short, round man dressed in a brown robe with red stripes speaks to an assistant.

  Arnan, the warlord who rules this little corner of the world and runs the slave auction. He nods and rises, surveying all his guests below. His voice, thin and strained, wafts over the steady stream of almost a hundred men.

  “Friends! Welcome. Downstairs, you will find the most beautiful, most pure, and choicest of all women in the world. Spend coin and leave with one on your arm, on your face, or on your cock.” He laughs and disappears from the balcony, likely to meet us downstairs and start the bidding. I want to snap his neck. Instead, I crack my knuckles. Everything in due time.

  I make it to the stairs and follow the crowd of men, their conversations growing louder the closer they get to the bottom, their anticipation cresting. A wide room opens out ahead of me, the walls made of compressed brown sand and the floor made of the same.

  Metal chairs are set in a circle, surrounding a platform with a crooked wooden post at the center. A single iron loop is situated waist-high in the wood. The room is already abuzz as the men circle like vultures and take their seats. Accents of every tongue flicker across my ear, and I’m willing to bet more than a few heads of state are present, seeking the next addition to their harems.

  The front row is full already. Good. I choose a seat at the rear, my back to the wall and the only visible exit to my right. A spotlight above the stage flickers on and bathes the center post in warm light as the gallery lights dim. The seats on either side of me remain empty. I unbutton my jacket and sling my left arm across the back of a chair, keeping my right hand close to the pistol holstered along my ribs.

  Arnan, full of self-important puff, waddles down the aisle and—with the assistance of two brutish guards—climbs the three steps to the stage.

  “Welcome, gentleman.” He bows slightly, but not enough to show any real respect.

  I lean back in my chair. The serving women from upstairs filter through the crowd, offering their wares as Arnan launches into a spiel about the glory of slave auctions and the choiceness of the stolen women he has up for sale.

  “All virgins. All pure. All ready for your attention and your cock. You will not find any bette
r in all the world.”

  My pistol calls to me, demanding vengeance on the insufferable prick, but I wait it out. Arnan will get his. It’s only a matter of time. I have a bullet with the warlord’s name on it, and I never miss.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ONCE ARNAN IS DONE with his introductory words of welcome, he steps back out of the spotlight and waves to the guards standing in the back of the room. One man opens a hidden door while the other reaches in and yanks a girl out by a chained wrist. She scans the room wildly as her nude form is dragged up to the platform. Her blond hair falls past her trembling shoulders, and she winces as she’s hauled to the post.

  The guard threads her chain through the metal loop, pulling her lithe arms behind her back. She is fully exposed to the leering men, and a murmur of appreciation wafts through the crowd. She squeezes her eyes shut, but it’s too late. They’ve all seen the light green color. With her flawless body, high tits, and firm ass, she will pull a hefty price.

  “From the sunny shores of Florida, United States, this one has never known a man’s touch,” Arnan speaks into his microphone. “Let’s begin at fifty thousand U.S. dollars.”

  The girl shakes, tears falling down her face and onto the tan lines of her pert breasts. A cacophony of bids rings out, the number spiraling higher and higher. Finally, one man in the front row in an over-the-top Armani suit wins out. His wrinkled skin expands with his smile, and he speaks rapid French to the assistant at his side.

  The girl is removed from the post. She cries but doesn’t struggle as the guard takes her back to the slave quarters behind the stage.

  “Care for a treat?” Ibiza slides into my lap, blocking my view of the stage as the next girl—a redhead—is brought out.