Number Six (The Villains #3)

Chapter 2

Naked Truths

M onique Carson strode out of the hotel elevator on floor six, headed toward her room after a rather delightful lunch with h er oldest friend.

Cleo had been up to her usual mischief, suggesting various women for Monique to date. And Monique, as always, batted away her suggestions with disinterest. One thing she already had in abundance was women. All ages, all types, all shapes, and all naked and desiring her. Yes, they were clients, but she had no burning urge to add even more women to her life in any capacity.

Besides, what woman would want to date someone who pleasured other women for a living? Hers was not a popular profession for suitors. Every woman she’d ever gone out with in recent years had, sooner or later, asked her to quit or inquired as to when she’d be retiring from her job. The question meant they didn’t understand her at all.

Any woman she seriously considered a relationship with would have to accept her exactly as she was. And where did one meet a special woman like that? They didn’t just materialize in front of you.

As she neared her room, a woman who Monique had never seen before approached. Not unusual in a hotel, of course, but Monique was quite sure she’d have noticed this one.

Dressed in a tweed skirt suit, she strode at a devastating pace. Her eyes were sharp and cool, her expression determined. The woman was of average height with a slightly rounded stomach and hips, and generous breasts hidden by a tightly buttoned-up ivory blouse. Not a hint of cleavage showed, which seemed a rather large pity.

The woman’s hair was blonde, streaked faintly with gray, and curled into her neck just above the collar. At her forehead, her hair swirled softly up, sweeping to kick up just above her right, formidably arched eyebrow. Her skin was flawless and unlined, quite a feat given her age, which Monique judged to be just over fifty.

Her neck hinted she might be a little older than that—necks and hands on women were age’s true indicator, Monique knew full well. No amount of makeup or surgery could hide all one’s secrets. So, perhaps, closer to sixty.

Age was irrelevant, though. Because, from Monique’s point of view, this woman was utterly magnificent. Her grace, poise, and commanding stride said she was someone to be reckoned with.

For Monique, there was no more impressive sight than a woman of a certain age who knew her own worth, oozed charisma and confidence, and had absolutely no fucks to give.

At the exact moment the woman sensed Monique, her impatient pace instantly slowed. Her countenance shifted from determined to serene. Suddenly, it was as if the stranger had always been some refined, elegant grandmother out for an afternoon stroll.

The transformation was so swift, so unlikely, that Monique wondered if she’d imagined it. As the woman drew level, Monique tried to meet her eye and offered a “hello.” It came out throaty because Monique was weak in the orbit of powerful women.

Monique’s sensuous voice was almost always guaranteed to get a response. People couldn’t help reacting to her. She was used to the attention and well aware she had a “presence” that was hard to overlook.

T here was a lot to look at: her tall height could be considered impressive. She had long, thick dark-brown hair, prim teacher-glasses eternally perched on the end of her nose, and a maroon bra peeking from beneath a plunging black executive jacket. Even those who loved to be outraged by her overt sexuality invariably sneaked another peek. They couldn’t not look.

Not this woman.

She didn’t react at all. There was barely a glance in her direction before she strolled past, and then she was gone.

Monique was overwhelmed with questions.

Who was she? Someone who could change her whole persona in a split second and someone utterly impervious to Monique’s presence.

She prided herself on being able to read people within moments, but now here she was, confounded. That was new.

Oh, how Monique loved a mystery.