Cash Remington and the Missing Heiress (Sexy Dreadfuls Book 1) (2 page)

“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 better 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

O
NCE
A
RNAN 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.

“I thought I made clear this is
my
operation. You’re just here to get the other girls.” I narrow my eyes as Arnan starts his spiel about the red-haired beauty from South Carolina.

“I will.” She leans back and whispers in my ear. “And then I’m coming for Collette.” She slides her hand down to my cock.

I want to grab her by the neck and let her know just how wrong she is, but giving myself away isn’t an option. The mission comes first. Collette comes first.

She pouts when I don’t rise at her touch. “What’s the matter, Cash? Can’t get it up?”

“That’s never a problem for me…” I smirk and stare into her eyes. “At least it isn’t when I see something I want.”

She hisses and pulls her hand away. “Asshole.”

“Clear out, merc.” I jerk my chin up and she stands, her perfect body blocking my view for a few more moments before she struts away and offers opium candies to the men in other rows. Ibiza is a beautiful woman, but I didn’t come here for her.

The redhead goes to the highest bidder, and then another girl is brought out, then another, and another. They are all sold in turn, some of the bids reaching over half a million dollars.

Anticipation grows in the crowd, their appetites whetted for the main course. I shift in my seat, my right hand tingling for the feel of cold metal and the recoil of a shot.

Collette is quite the prize, and I expect her to be the final auction. My eyes are greedy for her, though not in the same way as the other men here. I want her because I know her. I studied every scrap of information on her before I left for the Middle East. Now, with her so close, my cock tries to stiffen in my pants. Would her hair smell the same as her pillow case?

Arnan circles to the front of the podium. “And finally, the crown jewel of this auction. A girl who has stolen my heart.” He rests his hand on his chest for dramatic effect. “She will fight, gents. She will make you work for it. But once you get a taste of the untouched Promised Land between her legs, you will know heaven.” He snaps his fingers at the door, and in one blinding moment, Collette appears.

Her long brown hair hangs in waves down her back, and her frightened blue eyes search the crowd. I sit a little straighter—even though at 6’5” I’m already taller than every man here—and will her to look at me. She won’t know who I am, but I want her gaze for myself. She complies, her blues flitting past me and then back, hanging on me as she is hauled up to the platform.

High, plump breasts accentuate a narrow waist and the flare of perfect hips. Her skin glows, warm and pale in the light. She is a vision. The crowd quiets, all eyes on the beauty for sale. I let my gaze slide down her gorgeous tits with pink nipples, past her navel, and finally to the bare pussy on display. My cock grows hard, and I have to force myself to focus. The plan would only work one way. My way.

“Pure, perfect, and with a spirit that would be admirable if only it were instilled in a man.” Arnan grins and rubs a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. I imagine severing his hand from his body.

She tilts her chin up, trying to be brave, though I see the fear in her eyes.

“She comes from a family of good genes, very smart. Perfect for breeding once you tire of the joys of her flesh. Let’s start the bidding at two hundred thousand U.S. dollars.” Arnan retreats into the shadow at the back of the stage as Collette tries to keep it together. Her chin trembles as men let out bloodthirsty cries in an attempt to buy her virginity.

The bidding continues, fast and frequent, until the number tops two million dollars. Only two men remain: the Egyptian I’d tangled with on the steps, and a Chinese businessman. They vie back and forth until, finally, the turbaned Egyptian offers two-and-a-half million.

The Chinese businessman on the front row hems and haws until he finally takes his seat. The Egyptian gives a self-satisfied smirk and climbs to the platform to inspect his wares. The blond merc and a couple of other Egyptian men follow at his back, eyeing the prize right along with their master.

Arnan steps from the shadows. “This concludes the auction. Congratulations to the winners. Payment is due immediately to Hadnan.” He points to the same attendant from the front door who is now set up at a small table near the exit to my right.

The Egyptian pinches Collette’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and pulls her face toward his. He whispers something to her that makes her flinch. Rage courses through my blood, and that’s all I want—blood. But the Egyptian is fouling up the plan, delaying Collette’s release from the post.