Prologue
From the journal of Barrett Campbell:
No matterhow much you change, you will still have to pay the price for what you have done.
Chapter1
BARRETT
“Good evening, Madame,”themaître d’greeted in French.
“Good evening.” I smiled, enjoying the way his eyes attempted to remain on my face but instinctively drifted lower.
The white satin gown hugged my curves, dipping in the front and back. It was a tease of a dress, clearly designed to entice.
My auburn hair was twirled up and pinned back, highlighting my cheekbones and long neck. Something primal happened to men when they saw a beautiful woman composed and put together. They wanted to rattle their cages and break free for the hunt and find out what sort of sensuality was concealed beneath the armor of hair spray and makeup.
“Do we have the pleasure of you dining with us tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t have a reservation, I’m afraid.” Though the height of the Monaco tourist season was long over, tables atLe Roiwere booked solid for months. “I’ll head to the bar.”
“Enjoy,” he said. “And please, let me know if there’s anything you need.”
I smiled.
There was nothing intimate aboutLe Roi. It had been designed to impress, to overwhelm. It verged on being almost too much, gaudy even. Golden drapes garnished the glass doors that led out to the terrace, where one could dine while overlooking the Mediterranean.
I strode through the restaurant, recognizing celebrities and rock stars who dined on fresh oysters and expensive champagne. There were others I recognized too. The truly powerful movers and shakers who made the world turn, whom you’ve never heard of.
My righthip twinged, but I ignored it. Tonight, I’d worn heels instead of flats. They instilled the greatest sense of confidence. Heels showed that I was feminine, desirable, and waiting to be impressed.
I felt it in the air. The promise. The power. Thewant. Hunger stirred deep in my belly.
Diamonds the size of small marbles adorned my ears. They were the only jewelry I wore.
I approached the bar, noting the man with broad shoulders. He filled out his gray suit jacket, and dark hair almost brushed the collar of his crisp white shirt.
I sidled up next to him but didn’t look at him.
“Buy you a drink?” came his rumbly, thick voice.
I turned my head to look at him, meeting his cobalt blue eyes. My gaze slid to the glass of amber liquid in front of him. I reached across the bar and grasped it. Without taking my eyes off him, I brought it to my nose and took a delicate sniff.
“Balvenie DoubleWood, 17 year.”
His eyes lit with humor. “A woman who knows her scotch. I’m impressed.”
I sipped from his glass and arched a brow.
He signaled to the bartender for another.
“So,” he began.
“So,” I repeated.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
