by C. P. Foster
Hurry, she thought.
Getting her suit off one-handed wasn’t too difficult, but changing underwear was another matter. Angie wriggled her panties down and kicked them aside, then hopped on one foot while she got the other through the leg of a new pair. As she’d told Samuels, they matched the strapless red lace bra that went with the dress.
A knock at the door made her flinch.
“I hate to rush a lady,” Samuels drawled, “but I recommend you don’t keep a Monarch waiting. That will make a worse impression than the wrong dress, I assure you.”
“Almost ready. Get my shoes for me, would you? The red heels.”
The bra required both hands. Angie put the phone down and yanked the garment into place as quickly as she could. When she brought the phone back to her ear, she heard James on the other end.
“Angel, are you there? What’s wrong?”
“Thank God,” she whispered. While they talked, she darkened her eye shadow and liner to something more sultry to go with the change of attire. “Soul Killer moved up the time table. I’m meeting Rimbeau right now. Can you get someone here? We’re at the Diamond Lil Casino.”
James didn’t hesitate. “I’ll have someone there as fast as I can. Fifteen minutes, thirty at the most. Can you stall that long?”
“Do my best. Got to go.”
Angie put the phone on silent mode, tucked it into her bra, and wriggled into the dress. She yanked the pins from her hair and shook it out. It would have to do.
Evan Samuels had his hand on the knob when she opened the door. He stepped back, startled, then sketched a mocking bow and held out her shoes.
“Thank you.” Angie plucked them from his hands. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slipped on the high-heeled sandals and adjusted their straps. The shoes were built for showing off her legs, not running, and couldn’t be kicked off like a pair of pumps. She hoped she wouldn’t have to do anything too athletic, or she’d likely break an ankle.
Samuels headed for the door. “Finally. Let’s go.”
“One more thing.” Angie took a moment to apply some dark red lipstick and check herself in the mirror.
The man glared.
“Come on, admit it,” she teased. “It was worth the wait.”
“You’d better hope His Highness thinks so.”
Chapter Thirteen
Don't play for safety—it's the most dangerous thing in the world.
—Hugh Walpole
The garish décor of the casino made it hard to focus on any one part of the room. Most of the slot machines were busy, people pulling the handles over and over, dribbling their money away one token at a time. Dealers in black-and-white uniforms laid out cards, and waitresses in tiny skirts carried drinks to the gamblers, smiling brightly at those who tipped them with a chip. Evan glided through the room, his hand touching her elbow. His subtle guidance took them into the high-limit area, where whales in their designer suits and dresses gathered.
Soul Killer perched regally upon a stool at a blackjack table next to another vampire, who played with the carelessness of someone who didn’t mind losing a few thousand a hand. A crowd had gathered to watch. Thick, sandy blond hair swept back from his face in a well-coiffed wave. He grinned, showing his teeth, and it reminded her that in the animal kingdom this was a sign of aggression. Soul Killer caught his eye and tilted her head ever so slightly in Angie’s direction. He glanced around and went still at the sight of her.
“Angeline Devereaux.” Rimbeau rose and gave her a particularly charming smile, his hazel eyes sparkling. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
“Your Highness.” She inclined her head.
“Excuse me one moment; then you shall have my full attention.” He turned back to the blackjack table and tossed a couple of his remaining chips to the dealer. The rest he spread out in a line and gestured to the crowd gathered around him. “Have a game on me.”
People hurried to take him up on the offer before he could change his mind, but he’d already forgotten them. Taking Angie’s hand, he threaded it through the bend of his arm and led her to a lounge overlooking the action. He chose seats in plain view of everyone in the room. Soul Killer and Samuels followed at a discreet distance. They sat at the next table over, close enough to interact but far enough away to offer the illusion of privacy. A waitress appeared at Rimbeau’s elbow the instant he’d settled into his chair. People who threw around large amounts of money always got special attention from the staff at a casino.
“Bring a bottle of eighteen-year-old virgin for me.” He flashed a grin. “And whatever the lady wants.”
“Cognac,” Angie ordered. “Do you have Black Pearl?”
The waitress blinked. Out of the corner of her eye, Angie watched Rimbeau’s eyebrows climb.
“Ah, no, I’m sorry. We do have Courvoisier L’Esprit.”
“That will be fine.”
“I appreciate women with expensive tastes.” Rimbeau leaned closer as the waitress moved away.
“Then it’s a good thing you can afford them.”
He laughed. “Isn’t it, though?”
In this social situation she could not conduct her negotiations in the usual way, so Angie didn’t try to put on her professional façade. This was better, she decided. The rejection would sting all the more because it would feel personal.
“I understand you have a birthday coming up,” she said.
“The day I was created. A death day, really.” He winked, inviting her to laugh at his little joke. “I will be nine hundred and fifty years old as a vampire.”
Angie smiled. “I don’t usually conduct business like this,” she confided. “It feels more like a blind date. The first stages are taken care of; your control has been vouched for, which is important to me, as I quite literally put my life in the hands of my clients.”
“Indeed.” His eyelids lowered a fraction. “You and I are both gamblers, it would seem.”
“I try to make sure the deck is stacked in my favor.”
As if by magic, the cognac appeared on the table before her in a tulip glass of the thinnest crystal. Angie picked it up, cupping the base in the palm of her hand while the waitress decanted Rimbeau’s blood and poured a little for him to taste. Its coppery smell wafted through the air. When he’d nodded his approval, the waitress filled his balloon glass.
“Would you care for some?” he asked Soul Killer. “It’s quite good.”
“Very well,” the Monarch agreed, and their waitress went to fetch another glass.
Angie did not sip her drink or even raise it to her nose. She let it sit in the palm of her hand and allowed the warmth of her skin to gradually release its exquisite aroma.
“Tell me, what are the other stages of your negotiations?” Rimbeau asked when Soul Killer had been served and their waitress made herself scarce.
“The second is financial,” she told him. “I require proof of the client’s ability to pay my fee. My services do not come cheaply.”
“They are more expensive than the cognac you prefer, or so I’m told.” His eyes gleamed. “It’s quite a status symbol to have employed them.”
“Really.” She cocked an eyebrow. “What have you heard?”
Rimbeau leaned closer, just at the edge of invading her personal space. “Is it true you impersonated Marie Antoinette for a certain Ruler who fantasized about tasting her?”
Someone had been talking out of school. One of the conditions of her employment was that a client be discreet. The last thing she wanted was to become some sort of trophy for the rich and powerful. It would garner far too much attention and exponentially increase the chances she might be recognized.
“I never reveal a client’s fantasies,” she demurred. “You would not want yours bandied about, would you?”
“Why not? I have nothing to be ashamed of. It would enhance my reputation to have certain people know I’d enjoyed your…company.”
“I see. And who do I have to thank for this word of mout
h campaign to bring me more business?”
Rimbeau chuckled. “Oh, I don’t recall. A friend of a human companion of someone important, or something like that. You know how it is.”
“And would my reputation grow by taking you on as a client?”
“Without doubt.” He flashed that smile again.
Angie sat back in her chair, crossed her legs to reveal another inch of thigh, and brought the cognac closer. She inhaled gently at first, letting herself grow accustomed to the strong scent, then lowered her head so her nose hovered just over the rim and drew in another breath. The fumes had their usual dizzying effect. She closed her eyes to savor them. Killing time. Thirty minutes, James had said. It might take as much as thirty for backup to arrive.
“Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind?” she suggested. “My most popular scenario is the hunt. Is that what you’re looking for?”
“Not exactly. I find the use of force somewhat gauche. My preference is persuasion, but I need a challenge. Most humans are eager to give me whatever I ask.”
“It is impossible for us to resist entrancement,” she pointed out, neglecting to mention she was immune to that particular power. One of her rules was that no client attempt it with her, partly because she didn’t want anyone to discover she could resist. So far as she knew, there were no other humans who could claim this, and to admit it would almost certainly give away her true identity.
Rimbeau waved a hand, dismissing her concern. “Entrancement is another form of force. What I wish is to convince a strong, willful woman to give me everything she has to offer.”
“You want me to make you work for it, then.”
“I’m told you provide a genuine experience, Miss Devereaux, and that is precisely what I seek. You will degrade and humiliate yourself, not because I have given you my blood or manipulated your mind, but because you are so hopelessly besotted that you would do anything to please me.”
“I see. At what point would you want my character to succumb?”
“When you truly feel it, Miss Devereaux.”
“And if I never do?”
One corner of his mouth curled upward, and he leaned back, looking at her.
Angie took her first sip of the cognac, using it to excuse the shiver that crept up her spine. Warm, amber liquid slid over her tongue and down her throat to leave fire in its wake.
The thing she required of her clients, above all else, was respect. Those whose fantasies required her submission, abuse, even degradation, must still respect the woman who offered them their heart’s desire. But this creature did not want a fantasy. He wanted to do these things to her, not to some character she created. She was something to be conquered, used, and displayed as a trophy, like a hunter making a rug out of a lion’s skin or hanging a rhino’s head on his wall.
The scenario would never work. Whatever his charms, and he did have them, they would never be enough for her to willingly accept such contempt. He was so confident he could win her over, she was almost tempted to agree to a session just to see him learn otherwise. But that was much too dangerous. He could very well kill her in a fit of pique. Besides, a public rejection would hurt his pride on a much larger scale. She would stick to the plan.
Where were James’s people? She pretended to stare off into space while thinking about Rimbeau’s proposition. Just outside the lounge, tourists gaped at the vampire royalty and their companions, but none of them were the help she sought.
“Does Her Highness know what you have in mind?” she asked idly, and took another sip of her drink.
“I might have mentioned something to that effect,” he admitted.
Did Soul Killer know nothing about her? Had she heard vague rumors of Angie’s services and assumed she would accept such a proposal? If she had actually spoken with a former client, she would have known better. Or perhaps she thought she could coerce Angie into doing what she wished.
“Would you want me to portray anyone in particular?” she asked, trying to buy more time. “Hillary Clinton, perhaps. Queen Elizabeth the First was notoriously strong willed. Someone like that?”
“You need not be anyone other than yourself.” Raising his glass, he saluted her with it, then took a long drink.
It was all she could do to smile and return the salute. What she wanted was to gut him like a fish and replace his entrails with silver. As soon as she became conscious of her growing rage, she sealed herself off from it and let it drift away.
“But why,” she asked, “would you want me? I am no one.”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course. I need to know what the client truly desires before I can give it to him.”
Samuels sat forward in his chair. “His Highness has told you what he wants. What more is there to say?”
Angie gave him a flat stare that he held for only a few seconds before his eyes flickered away. “My negotiations are not with you. Why are you here? Do you two think you can control the outcome by hovering over us like chaperones at the prom?”
Soul Killer stiffened, and Samuels flushed as only a fair-skinned redhead can. He started to rise to his feet, but his mistress stopped him with a touch to his arm.
Rimbeau broke the tension with a bark of laughter. “My God, you are fearless. I don’t know whether you’re courageous or insane.”
“Definitely insane,” Samuels said through clenched teeth. Soul Killer tightened her fingers on his arm, and he fell silent, his face going from red to white in an instant. He looked down, and a muscle in his jaw stood out. Only when those delicate fingers withdrew their touch did the tension leave his body.
Angie continued watching them but let her eyes lose focus as she scanned the room with her peripheral vision. The crowd thickened around their little group, moving in closer, and she sensed something different from the avid curiosity of mere tourists or thrill seekers.
Angie turned her attention back to Rimbeau, and smiled. “Perhaps I’m both.”
“You are a fascinating woman. Where do you come from, Miss Devereaux? You seem to have appeared out of nowhere a few years ago, as near as anyone can tell me.”
Alarm bells rang in her head. She did not like the idea of a vampire prodding at her past. She had done exactly as he’d said: appeared out of nowhere, like Athena springing from Zeus’s head, fully formed. Before he could see fear in her eyes, she made them dance with merriment.
“I’m flattered, Your Highness, but the more my clients know about me, the harder it is for me to convincingly play a part. A clean canvas allows me to paint a better illusion.”
“But I have told you, I do not desire an illusion.”
“I don’t believe you ever answered my question. Why me? Why do you want to seduce and debase me and not a character I create?”
Rimbeau studied her over the rim of his glass. That predatory look in his eyes deepened. “Because I want it to be real.”
“But there are thousands of women out there for you to conquer in the manner you describe.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. I like a challenge. And from what I have heard of you, Miss Devereaux, you would be quite a challenge indeed. You have power over us.”
“Us?”
“Vampires. You pick and choose your clients, and we pay you a great deal of money for the privilege of employing your services. You make us want you, or at least the fantasies you have to offer. You don’t have brute force, so your power is subtle and much more intriguing.”
“You make me sound far too important, Your Highness. I offer a unique service, true, but in the end it is nothing beyond entertainment. What power is there in that?”
“A great deal more than you let on.” He kept his gaze locked with hers as he drained his glass and set it down, leaving his lips stained red. “Why so humble, Miss Devereaux? I don’t doubt for one second you know exactly how much power you wield, yet you are trying to convince me otherwise. It makes me more curious about you than ever.”
She had to get ou
t of this, and fast. The last thing she needed was the scrutiny of a creature who wanted to crush her under his heel.
“You’re going to make me blush.” She chuckled. “If I’m so fascinating, why have you never contacted me yourself?”
“Well…perhaps I exaggerated the extent of your fame.” Rimbeau refilled his glass. “In all honesty, I had never heard of you until Soul Killer told me she could arrange a meeting. That was when I began making inquiries, and I must admit I was quite titillated by the fact that I could not get information on how to contact you. The people I spoke with either did not know or did not choose to share it with me.”
That made much more sense than his stories of her so-called reputation. Though it did not explain how he had learned of the Marie Antoinette fantasy. She wondered just who had given Soul Killer the means to get in touch with her. Certainly not Hope Ashworth, as she’d claimed.
“How frustrating for you,” Angie teased. “I imagine you are used to getting what you want.”
“I am.” His playfulness leaked away, and she saw before her a cold, ancient creature with the blood of a human gleaming on his lips. He reached across the table and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Amusing though this has been, I am ready to move past the verbal sparring. Don’t you agree?”
Carefully, she set down her glass. Angie took his wrist and held his hand against her face as she said in her softest tones, “Yes. I do.”
How did he not sense the tension in the room? Vampire arrogance? Perhaps, surrounded by mere humans, he and Soul Killer dismissed the crowd as unimportant. Angie’s heart beat faster. She saw Rimbeau’s lids lower a notch, clearly anticipating her response. She prayed she wasn’t misreading the situation. If the people surrounding them were not the cavalry come to her rescue, she was about to be in deep, deep trouble. She could not turn her attention away from Rimbeau to look, all she could do was roll the dice and cross her fingers.
The Monarch of the Rocky Mountain Territory smiled lazily. His thumb moved to nudge at the corner of her mouth, and she gave him a moment to think he’d seduced her into granting him what he desired. Then she pushed back her chair and stood.