“We just met up for lunch,” I say, apologetically. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
“Sure, okay.” I don’t miss the disappointment in Hallie’s tone, and I feel guilty for turning her away, but I really don’t want anyone knowing about my current ‘job’. Especially a peer in the profession I trained hard for and loved.
If I was a straight-up waitress and was actually getting paid for the work, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I’m basically someone’s whore for a month.
Still, I don’t want her to leave before I’ve checked that she’s okay too. “But quickly, what about you? Was everything okay after?—"
“Yeah.” She flicks a sideways glance at Shane, somehowknowing I want her to speak in code. “It was the weirdest thing. No one was there. They just… left the payment on the coffee table.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Wow. Okay. Weird. But… good weird. We’ll talk later, okay?”
She flicks one final glance at Shane. “Yeah. Tonight. It was good to meet you Shane. See you later, Fi.”
Feeling all kinds of guilty and anxious, I watch her leave then sit back down opposite Shane.
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What auction?”
Shit. My heart pounds.
“Oh, it’s just, um… I work part time at a place downtown and the auction’s just a name for how we find out what job we’ll be doing each evening.”
It’s a terrible lie but I’m too frazzled to come up with something better.
Her head tilts. “What place?”
“It’s a club. My uncle put a word in for me. It’s worked out okay, actually. I get to be with my dad all day, and I can earn some money in the evening, you know?”
That seems to appease her and she waves her fork before spearing a pancake. “Of course, makes total sense.”
I smile back but my whole body is vibrating with tension.
And not for the first time since I returned to New York, I wonder what on earth my life has become.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fiero
Twenty-seven nights to go.
I stareat the camera feed trained on the back entrance of the club. She should be arriving any minute now, but for the last hour I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything else. Not even a phone call from Augie Zanotti, the Di Santo underboss, about a person of interest he wants some background on.
We have a lot of ‘persons of interest’ at this club. It’s what keeps the wheels turning. I provide the best in entertainment, the best in debauchery, and the dirtiest assholes in the city can’t resist showing their faces.
Unfortunately for them, we record those faces—in every room, with every person they encounter, in every position. And we save it for posterity—and potential blackmail.
My chest tightens when I see a small figure dressed in black walking across the lot.
It’s definitely her.
Even the way she walks hasn’t changed. She still struts a little, those creamy hips shaking with every step, her hair flicking about her shoulders and her blue eyes wide, taking everything in.
I switch to the next feed and watch her unbutton her coat as she walks down the steps, then the next as she pushes through the heavy curtains. She doesn’t walk through the lounge with her head down anymore. Instead, her chin is lifted, her gait more assured.
My gaze snags on some of the guests when their heads turn to watch her pass. She’s a striking woman—far more attractive than she believes herself to be. I wonder if she notices the looks she draws. Somehow, I don’t think she does.
My dick swells a little when I remember her words.
Because I like it when you stare back.
