Going Once, Taken Twice: A Dark Romance
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Going Once Taken Twice copyright @ 2017 by Claire St. Rose. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
GOING ONCE, TAKEN TWICE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
TOUCH ME BAD BOY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
GOING ONCE, TAKEN TWICE
Chapter One
Claudia beamed a sugary smile at her captor, blinking demurely as the bloated man reached for his gin and tonic.
“Are you feeling well?” She stroked his arm lazily, glancing down at her cleavage, repeating the mantra in her head that would get her out of here alive: Keep him fat and happy and you’ll survive.
He grunted, standard protocol for the hostage-taker she’d found in the three days they’d been together. Strange how being stolen from a completely enjoyable trip backpacking through Croatia could prove to be such an intimate getting-to-know-you process with this total stranger.
I hate you. She dragged her nails over the top of his hand. Once Cresimir the Captor—that was her private nickname for him—had tossed her into the backseat of his sedan and then tied her up in a dingy warehouse, she realized that escaping was impossible. The only option was to play coy—and cunning—so that she might be able to mitigate whatever he had planned for her. The first stop on their frightening itinerary had been this cruise ship.
An enormous, brand-new beast, five levels of rooms, multiple dining rooms, saunas, pools, and more. Surrounded by well-dressed, perfectly coiffed men from all the upper ranks, from every part of the world. Glittering, millionaire smiles. The sleek look of money, fetish, and dysfunction.
And she, the American girl who also happened to be the Princess of Slavonia for god’s sake, was here at the auction block.
They floated just off the coast of Croatia, where she was sure her friends in Dubrovnik were still searching high and low for her. Surely they would have called the cops by now. Maybe the rescue boat was just setting off from the coastline. Maybe help was moments away.
The term sex slave seemed too vulgar to even think, but more than that, it brought about a certain sort of despair that she just didn’t have time for. She needed to think, and she needed to act. As in play the role of the demure and subservient acquisition. The woman who wanted to be here, for whatever unknown reason. At least until help arrived. Until her father sent secret agents to come bursting through the two-story window in the dining hall, sending a spray of ammunition through the air.
A waiter came up behind them as they lounged on the upper deck, refilling their waters. He disappeared without a word and she watched him go, anxiety prickling across her shoulders.
“We should get ready,” Cresimir said, and then cleared his throat. He was grossly overweight, and ate each night like cows were going extinct. Luckily, he hadn’t made a move on her. The thought of what lay under that straining button-up was enough to make her jump overboard.
She adjusted her sunglasses, tilting her head up toward the sun. “Is this my debut?”
Cresimir nodded, a seedy smile overtaking his face. “You betcha. And I’ve got plans for you, missy.”
Fear knotted in her belly. He’d hinted at these plans enough to know that they weren’t going to be entirely great. Every single woman on board here was coerced or bought, so the future didn’t look so bright for females on the cruise ship. It was like the opposite of the cruise packages she’d seen advertised at Christmas each year. The horrible, bleak, illegal opposite.
“Well I bet tonight will be fun,” she said, popping to her feet. Cresimir insisted she wear scanty things, an entire wardrobe of delicate items and cleavage-enhancing pieces that she didn’t even own back home in D.C. It was for the clients, he insisted. Salacious hints of what they were buying.
“You’ll be attending to some very important men tonight,” Cresimir said. He groaned, pushing himself up off the lounge chair, wobbling slightly before he wiped a hand across his forehead. “And we’ll get them to pay out the asshole for you, my sweet Cait.”
She forced a smile a mile wide as she took his arm, her heels clicking softly as they wandered off the deck. When her kidnappers had asked her name in the car on the way to the warehouse, she’d freaked and lied. Cait
was the first thing to pop into her brain. But now, three days in, nobody seemed to realize it wasn’t her real name.
Seems nobody knows I’m the daughter of Stjepan Zvonimir. Nobody knows I’m an actual, real-life Princess. She couldn’t figure out if that was a good or bad thing.
On the one hand, keeping her identity protected might save her father from scandal. Any one of these men could be connected to just the right people who might want to hurt her father, or her, in some way. Who knew what they might do in the name of good old fashioned exploitation? A sex tape didn’t seem too far-fetched. Her gut tightened. What do these men have planned for me?
She needed to stay cool and collected, no matter what was going to happen. There had to be a way out of any situation she found herself in—even the most unsavory. That’s what she kept telling herself, at least. It was the echo of her father’s diplomatic influence in her life. Even in the face of tragedy—like when her mother died at age ten—he was calm and rational. Urging them to a balanced conclusion, even amid the sadness and tears.
“Any preferences for my dress?”
Cresimir shrugged, huffing as he hobbled down the stairs. “Probably that long silver one. The glittery thing. You know.”
Yeah, she knew all right. It had a plunging neckline that went practically down to her belly button. She didn’t know how she’d get her boobs to stay in it, but maybe that was the point. She grimaced. “Sounds like a plan.”
They descended two flights of stairs laboriously, and then pushed through the heavy door leading to their hallway. The whole ship was full of these important men, eager to purchase their important vice. Claudia hadn’t thought stuff like this existed outside of creepy pornos and bad spy films. But here she was. Living proof in the Adriatic Sea, miles from the western Croatian coastline.
“Go get ready,” Cresimir said, drawing deep breaths. “We’ll leave in a half hour. You better look your best, sweet thing.”
She batted her eyelashes as she pushed her way into the room they’d put her up in, the smile falling off her face as soon as the door shut behind her. For a hostage, she was treated well enough—a private room with adjoining bathroom, a big window overlooking the sea churning beyond the ship, regular vegetarian meals at her request.
The only issue is what lies at the other end of the rainbow. She stood at the window, looking out over the sea, desperate to see any sign of a rescue attempt. Like a helicopter approaching, or a tiny dinghy filled with burly men and rifles. Hell, James Bond had to be out there somewhere, attuned to the quiet cries of women in distress.
But no. She swallowed hard, turning toward the wardrobe, pulling it open with leaden arms. There would be no rescue. Nobody even knew she was here. And the worst was yet to come.
She covered her face with her hands, letting a sigh that turned into a sob. Just a few moments, and then she lifted her head, pulling herself together. No unnecessary tears. No pity. No sadness. Just forward motion.
Tugging the glittery, silver dress from the hanger, she laid it on the bed, undressing with a morose air. She tossed her bathing suit into the corner and rinsed off in the white-tiled shower stall, not wetting her hair so she could add a few curls to it. Once she’d patted herself dry, she pulled the dress over her head, spritzed some perfume, and got to work on her makeup.
Cresimir and his cronies traveled with a full arsenal of human trafficking supplies. They had tons of suitcases of dresses and lingerie and bodices, in all sizes; and then other suitcases of makeup, curling irons, feminine products and more. Just from the clues of what she’d seen and overheard, they were professionals in the kidnapping business.
They probably lived solely off capturing women and selling them aboard disgusting auctions like this one. And what happened to the girls they kidnapped once they were sold off? She was on a fast track to finding out. When I get out of here, I’m gonna bring these assholes down. They had no idea who they were messing with—and what sort of connection she had access to back in D.C.
Provided she could make it out of here alive.
Once her makeup was set, she tousled her hair and added a few curls, then pulled it back into a loose, sexy ponytail. She added tight curls to the hair framing her face and then sighed. She was ready.
Cresimir knocked on her door just as she was blotting her lipstick. She glided to the door and opened it, his unnerving gaze prickling over her body, settling on the V of her breasts.
“Lovely.” He held out his hand, which she took tentatively. “You are a doll.”
She eased out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. “I feel like one in this dress.”
Cresimir grunted. He’d changed into a different button-up, tucked into black slacks. They headed down the hallway, and hung a right toward one of the larger dining rooms. As they approached, the undertones of music wafted out. The crash of cymbals, a tooting trumpet.
“We’ll make a lap first,” Cresimir instructed. “Get the eyes on you, strut your stuff. Then we’ll see who might want to spend a little time with you.” He lifted a brow as they crossed the threshold into the sprawling dining room. Wood floors stretched from bay window to bay window. Servers flitted between mingling guests, carrying platters with champagne flutes. The only attendees here were rich men leering at scantily clad women, and a small jazz trio. This was misogyny at its peak. Worst party ever.
“Go on.” He pushed at her hips, wetting his bottom lip as his gaze traveled up and down her figure. “Make a lap then come back here.”
She did as she was told, starting off unsteadily in the sky-high heels, but regaining her strut after a few steps. She held an innocent gaze as she walked the perimeter of the room, trying to size up the men around her as much as possible. Looking first to see if she recognized anyone, then to see if there were any men she might try to stay away from.
The majority were a turn off, and not only because they were registered guests on this sex cruise. Slimy stares followed her, unnerving sneers, hooded eyes that made a distinct trail from her face to her breasts. She shuddered as she walked, trying not to snag anyone’s gaze for too long. Please have no one bid on me. Please let there be a raid before anything happens.
Toward the far end of the room, she met the eyes of a man lingering near the bar, his broad shoulders and the angle of his jaw snagging her attention as she sauntered by. He turned as she passed, gray-blue eyes scorching over her.
She yanked her gaze away, cheeks heating up. That wasn’t cool—she couldn’t be physically attracted to someone on this floating slave jail. She looked over at him again. He was handsome. In a way that she couldn’t really articulate. His lips were plump, slightly parted as he watched her go. He looked sturdy beneath the suit coat and dark slacks, like he might be made of pure muscle.
She swallowed and click-click-clicked her way forward. There was one handsome man aboard the ship. So what? She fought the urge to turn and look at him again. He was sexy in a way that made her think of the glossy pages of celebrity magazines. He had a hairline that most men would die for. Eyes that could render a woman immobile.
Cresimir stood up ahead, watching her with satisfaction, like the twisted version of a proud parent. He was old enough to be her dad. Maybe he’d done this same thing with his own daughters. Ugh.
As she approached Cresimir, an idea sparked to life. What if Mr. Sexy Man could be the guy she tried to woo before the auction?
He was no better than the rest of him—but something in his eyes told her she might have a shot at the best outcome if she set her sights on him. Or maybe she was just desperate, imagining that he might be the one with a conscience onboard.
Coming up to Cresimir, she said in a low voice, “Do you see that man across the room, by the bar? He’s wearing the white striped tie.”
Cresimir nodded. “He’s rich. You like what you see?”
Her heart kicked into high gear. “Yeah. I want to get to know him. What do you think?”
Cresimir narrowed his eyes as h
e studied the room again, like he was calculating the cost-benefit analysis before giving his consent. “Start with him. We’ll see how it goes from there, but find out what he does and where a starting bid might begin.”
“How much is in it for me?” She raised a brow.
“Plenty.” He pushed at her hips, his thin lips turning into a sick smile. “Now have at it, sweet thing.”
Chapter Two
Boris sipped at the tumbler of whiskey, studying the far side of the room, trying to look bored. There was a certain type of etiquette in these parties, a protocol he wasn’t quite comfortable with. As another prospective buyer—trying to act as corrupt as the rest of them—he had to ogle women and even bid on one by the end of the night. Not his regular preferences, but the job demanded he fake it, and fake it well.
Men gathered in pockets of conversation around him, while lithe girls, most of legal age he hoped, sauntered around with fuck-me eyes and too-tight dresses. These sex auctions weren’t his thing, and the whole air on board the ship was taut with deviance. Like he had to stick his head out of the window every so often to clear his mind, so the weird norms didn’t sink into him and stain.
“Another drink?” The bartender was a young man, which surprised him. Apparently the only role women were allowed on this cruise was eye candy and cash cow.
“No, I’m fine.” The ice rattled as he took the final draw from the glass and he set the tumbler down, enjoying the warm lick of alcohol through his body. He couldn’t get too toasted today—there was some delicate negotiation ahead, and he needed a clear head.