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“I’m Dant
e.” I nod. The name suits him, elegant and edgy all at once. “Stage name or real name?”
“Real name. I’m too new for a stage name.”
“What do you mean?”
“This was my first night.”
He studies me for a while. “Why do you think you’re worth a million dollars, Samantha?”
I glance down. “Because it’s a month. And because I’ll do whatever you want without complaining.”
“You sound desperate.”
“I kind of am.”
He stands up and takes a few strides toward me. It takes everything in me not to back up a step. He walks around me.
“Is this how you usually dress, Samantha? Is this how you’ll dress for me?”
“I’ll dress however you want me to.”
“Do you usually dress like a whore?”
I close my eyes. “No,” I whisper.
He reaches out and runs a big, calloused hand down the side of my waist, and I tremble. Not all of it is from fear. I’ve never had a man even touch that much bare skin before, and it’s a shock.
Not entirely an unpleasant one, and that’s sick, because what kind of girl wants a strange man touching her?
“Why are you so desperate?” he asks, standing in front of me, hands off me now. “Look at me.”
I force my gaze up to his.
“Why?” he repeats.
“My father owes someone money. He’s running out of time.”
“That’s your father’s problem.”
I shake my head. “It’s my problem. He has no way of paying the money he owes. He’s a dead man otherwise.”
“Gambling?”
I shake my head. “He took out a loan to pay for school for me. Arts academy,” I add in a whisper. “And then he lost his job.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
He stands there in silence. “One million. You’re at my beck and call. You stay with me. What I want, you give me.” I nod.
He reaches out and unties the knot in my shirt with a flick of his fingers. The fabric falls away, and my breasts spring free. I can barely breathe as he stands there looking at me, appraising me.
“Can I touch you, Samantha?” he asks in that low, smooth voice. In its own way, this calms me, even if only a little bit. I get the sense that this man won’t try to force himself on me, when he so easily could. He easily stands nearly a foot taller than me, and he’s built like an athlete: broad shoulders, biceps flexing even under the suit he’s wearing.
“Yes,” I whisper. I need this. One million dollars. My life will never, ever be the same. I’ll do whatever he wants, as long as I get my fresh start.
