Number Six (The Villains #3)

Chapter 13

Tease Me

C arrie Jordan was the name on everyone’s lips in Vegas. It wasn’t hard to see why: The internationally famous singer was on dozens of billboards promoting her concert residency at Duxton Vegas. H er long jet-black hair, blue eyes, and sultry expression promised both girl next door and sexy minx. Worth millions, she was the face of dozens of brands.

And now she was sitting on the edge of Monique’s bed, reading through her menu.

Monique wasn’t often surprised, but her newest client had floored her.

The uptight vice principal yesterday—a woman so intense, intriguing, and unusual—would normally be her most memorable client of the week. But then Carrie Jordan’s assistant had called.

International superstars weren’t common clients, despite Monique working out of Vegas. The big names usually had their own discreet arrangements with preferred professionals rather than opting for someone unknown, risky.

Carrie Jordan’s assistant had been especially persuasive, doubling her fee if Monique would sign a nondisclosure agreement and fit the singer in before her opening night show this evening. The assistant had mentioned something about her boss needing urgent stress relief. Well, that Monique could understand. There would be few jobs as stressful as headlining at Duxton Vegas for the next six months.

One thing Carrie Jordan had made clear the moment she’d swaggered into Monique’s room was that her image of being fiercely heterosexual, along with sweetness and light, was not even close to the truth.

“Number Three. I want BDSM; I want power plays. I want nothing held back.” She met Monique’s eye with a burning need. “I expect fucking , not sweetness. I’m so over sweetness. All I get all day is men treating me like a little girl they want to fuck and little girls treating me like their hero. I’m neither. I’m an adult woman with real needs. I want you to take me like you know that.”

“That can be arranged, darling,” Monique said smoothly.

Carrie supplied her gorgeous smile and said, “Thank you. I hoped you’d understand.”

Monique smiled back. “So, is that all you want? Power plays? Being treated like the adult you clearly are?”

“I really want freedom and mess and disorder.”

“Interesting, since BDSM generally involves a degree of restriction, order, control.”

“I meant in my life.” Carrie rolled her eyes at herself and added, “My God, you should see the circus that’s my life these days. I have a posse , for Christ’s sake.”

“Not a fan of the fawning?”

“I don’t think I’d sell many tickets if I told them all what I really thought. It made sense when I was only a teenager. I had so much security, as well as managers, agents, my mother, and a whole army of minders watching out for me. Then I turned eighteen. I thought it’d change. It didn’t. So I bided my time. Then I turned twenty-one.”

“Still no change?” Monique asked sympathetically.

“Only that my mother left and went home. Then my manager seemed to think it was her job to take her place. She got more overprotective, not less.”

“That sounds frustrating.”

“Very. I told my manager that if all she sees me as is a teenager, get ready for adult me. She laughed, so I fired her.”

“Did that feel good?” Monique asked.

“It felt…overdue. I should have told her to get laid and save the lectures for her own kids. But I didn’t. Because I’m Carrie Jordan. And I always say the right thing.” She gave a brilliant fake smile, then dropped it in an instant. “After I fired her, I told the rest of my hangers-on to get lost. I demanded a hotel suite to myself for once. And I want to be in control for the first time in my life.”

“Understandable.”

“And right now I want to fuck whoever the hell I want in my private life, no matter how many conniptions it gives my assistant. She’s hyperventilating over the thought this will get out.” Carrie waved at Monique. “Sorry you had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. But you get it, right?”

“I do. But never fear, I’m the soul of discretion.”

Carrie exhaled. “Good. Shit, sorry for the rant. Had a lot bottled up, I guess.”

“So, with all this newfound freedom, will you be wanting toys with that?”

Carrie laughed. “Not something I hear every day.” An impish look crossed her face. “Do I get to fuck you through the bed with them?”

“No, darling. I’m afraid not.”

“Then pass. But I do want power. Domination.”

“From me?” Monique checked.

“No! By me! Don’t you see how long I’ve been dominated for? It’s my turn!” Her hands turned into small fists.

“Ah.” Monique considered that. “I’m wondering if you want to rethink selecting Number Three because I assure you, I’ll be the one in charge for that option.”

A hint of mischief shot into Carrie’s eyes. “So you say.” She grinned.

“I do say.”

“Will you tie me up too?”

“If you wish.”

“Whips?” Carrie suggested. “I really want to play with some whips. Yeah, I know I can’t whip you,” she added, teasingly. “Just before you warn me again.”

“No to whips. Look at the low ceilings. I’d take out a lamp!” Monique chuckled. Besides, she only did light BDSM. Her specialty was in the power of suggestion, having the whip of command rather than actual whips.

“I have a rather snappy riding crop,” Monique continued. “And a slapper paddle. But if you want anything more serious, I know several specialists who’d be more than happy to—”

Carrie shook her head. “I chose you, Ms. Carson. I just want to have what I want for once. It’s pathetic that despite all my fame and money, I have fewer choices than a regular person.” Her eyes were wide and earnest.

Monique nodded. “I will attempt to accommodate you but within my rules.” She indicated the menu again.

Carrie shrugged. “Right. My assistant’s already paid, hasn’t she?”

“She has. First, we need to discuss rules, a safe word, and any limits you have. Then you get a shower so you’re all pink and perfect…” She ran her eyes suggestively over the singer. “And then we get down to business.”

“I’m already pink and perfect,” Carrie shot back, amused. “ Glamor Girl Magazine called me the Singing World’s Perfect Pinup.”

“I won’t argue as to your perfection,” Monique said smoothly, “but a shower is required for all my clients.”

“But I showered before coming here,” Carrie argued playfully. She was cool and unflushed, no evidence of ruddy cheeks warmed by a shower. The lie was both obvious and sweetly told.

Was she testing Monique? Or was she just impatient to get started?

“I’m happy to refund your money if you don’t wish to abide by my very simple rules,” she said, keeping her tone light. “It’s no problem. So: shower or refund?”

Carrie chuckled at being called out and held up her hands in surrender. “Okay! But don’t think I’ll be singing in the shower for you. I don’t do free concerts.” Her laughter was infectious.

Monique, who had never much cared for Carrie Jordan’s overproduced pop, said with a smirk, “My loss.”

Carrie rose. “Point me to the shower.”

“First, I’d like you to agree to the rules and establish limits. So we can get straight to it afterwards.”

“I have no hard limits.”

“None?” Monique checked. “At all?” All clients disliked something . Usually, there would be some kink that didn’t appeal.

“No.” Carrie shrugged. “Nothing.” That perfect smile returned.

“Ah.” Often clients who insisted this to be true were actually new to BDSM. They didn’t yet know what they didn’t like. It might be interesting to possibly be Carrie Jordan’s first mistress. “Safe word, then?”

“ Country . Because country music is for boring old farts and I’d sooner suck a dick than listen to it.” Her eyes danced. “America’s sweetheart” probably loved the audaciousness of being able to say rude things out loud for once. “No, I don’t have anything triggering.”

Monique didn’t comment on her safe word, although she rather enjoyed country music herself. “You understand that I will touch you but that you cannot touch me without explicit permission?”

“It’s on your website,” Carrie said, lips curling up at the edges. “Bottom of the page. Last paragraph. I’ve already read the fine print.”

Just in case, Monique outlined her rules anyway.

Carrie shook out her beautiful raven hair. “Shower?” She added lightly with a wink, “Sometime before my opening performance tonight?”

Given it was only three in the afternoon, that wouldn’t be hard. The playful wink took the bite out.

“But of course.” Monique pointed the way.

When the shower door closed, Monique dug out her riding crop and paddle, a selection of silk scarves, and a mask. As she did so, her thoughts meandered to Ottilie. She wondered what she would make of this selection. Would she like to play? Be intrigued? Or would she back away slowly and sternly suggest none of the above ?

Monique’s thoughts slid to Ottilie’s looks. She could blend into backgrounds, making herself smaller. But when you talked to her, and dug into that observant mind, she was breathtaking. And when she didn’t know she was being watched, when she strode by like a conquering queen, Monique had met none more breathtaking. And yet Carrie Jordan—with her sunshine, brilliant smiles, and mane of glossy black hair—was the one society deemed most beautiful.

She paused, remembering that Ottilie also hid darkness. The woman’s former corporation was up to its neck in scandal. Ottilie might exude a calm, confident charisma that Monique found deeply attractive, but she was also not someone safe, not someone she should want. But even knowing that, Monique found herself still craving more of her.

How disturbing. Hell. What does that say about me?

Carrie left the shower, ignoring the fresh robe Monique had left out, and reentered the main room stark naked. She was clearly attractive although far too youthful to turn Monique’s head. She had small, pert breasts, flat, muscled abs, and absolutely no hair on her pubic area, which made her seem uncomfortably young. If Monique didn’t know for a fact that the singer was twenty-two, she would have demanded ID.

Her toned limbs spoke of a personal trainer and regular workouts. Her even, golden tan spoke of a top salon or spray studio.

For a moment, the artificiality of this woman made Monique crave Ottilie all over again. She tried to picture how she might look, freshly stepped out of the shower. The thought made her nipples harden against her crisp, white blouse.

“Yeah,” Carrie said, smirking. “I have that effect on people.”

“I’m sure you do,” Monique teased. “Please restate your safe word, and we’ll begin.”

Carrie crawled onto the bed, ass high, giving Monique a deliberately provocative view, and said, “Country.” She rolled over onto her back, splayed her legs, and added, “Impress me. I’m told that women like you know how to fuck a goddess.”

Women like you. Those three words usually made Monique wary. But Carrie blinked up at her innocently, clearly meaning nothing by it.

“I’ll do my best,” Monique murmured.

“Tie me up,” Carrie ordered excitedly. “Nice and tight.” And then she waited, spread-eagled. Naked. Hungry.

“You will address me as Ms. Carson going forward,” Monique said. She kneeled on the bed, gathering a small wrist in her hands and looping a scarf around it. She insinuated two fingers between the scarf and wrist as she tugged it tighter, ensuring circulation would not be cut off. “Understood?”

“Yes, Ms. Carson,” Carrie parroted sweetly.

Monique tied the scarf to the headboard. “Too tight?”

“No such thing.” Her eyes were fixed on Monique the whole time. “Make me feel it.” A beat. Then, “ Ms. Carson. ”

Definitely the right move to allow slack in the knot, then. Carrie appeared to enjoy pain. M onique similarly tied her other wrist and eyed her. “Test it.”

Carrie simply looked at her. Then slowly grinned.

“You wish to disobey me?” Monique asked, curious. “Because you want to be punished?”

“Mask next,” Carrie ordered, not answering. “Then run that riding crop up and down my pussy. Over my clit. Okay?”

Well, she might be the client, but Monique was quite certain she’d never had a Number Three session start quite like this. A bossy bottom right off the bat?

“Ignoring my commands and bossing me around won’t get results. I’m not your subordinate,” Monique said sharply.

“Aren’t you, though?” Carrie teased, eyes sparking and bright. “Aren’t I paying you to do what I want?” Another pause. “ Ms. Carson .”

That was true. Monique reached for the mask, pulling it over Carrie’s eyes, and felt an odd sense of relief that the woman’s unsettling blue-eyed gaze was no longer on her.

She was having a difficult time getting a fix on this client, who was both sweet and amusing yet bossy and constantly testing Monique’s limits.

“The riding crop.” Carrie drew in a shaky breath of anticipation. “I want to feel it. Make me feel it.”

“What if I said no?” Monique asked her. “What if I said you should earn it? Or that you won’t get it as payback for ignoring my title?”

Silence fell. Then, “Do not test me.”

“What are you going to do about it, all tied up, hmm?” Monique asked.

“I’ll make sure you remember me if you don’t play my game my way.” She smiled widely.

“Was that a threat?” Monique asked incredulously.

“Don’t be silly,” Carrie said with a light laugh. “Where’d you get that idea from?”

Monique knew gaslighting when she heard it, regardless of how charmingly delivered. “I’m only going to say this once,” she said, her tone warning, “You will not disrespect me. If you do, I’ll ask you to leave.”

Carrie sounded astounded when she said, “What is so hard about giving me what I want? I thought you were in the pleasure business, Ms. Carson?”

And she had Monique there. Pushing down her doubts, Monique decided to give her client exactly what she’d asked for.

Monique trailed her riding crop along Carrie’s pussy, playing with her, teasing her, making her moan, making her buck upward into it.

Carrie swore constantly, her words merging into one long dirty thought as she twisted and thrust against the hard crop, making breathy demands.

In turn, Monique did her best to taunt her because the singer was clearly far too used to getting whatever she wanted, immediately. For all Carrie’s protestations she’d been treated like a child for too long, perhaps spoiled brat might have been a better description.

Her behavior earned occasional stinging smacks of the riding crop to her inner thigh that only made Carrie writhe more. She loved pain and groaned hardest when sharply corrected, sometimes mewling in excitement.

Carrie turned out to be far more than just a bossy bottom with brattish tendencies. She fought every command Monique made—and got punished for it, which only made her argue more. Obviously, that was what she wanted.

The blindfold had dropped down, and that disconcerting gaze was affecting Monique again.

Carrie had a weakness, though. Every time Monique called her a “naughty girl,” her hips jerked and her pussy became slicker.

“You like being called naughty, don’t you,” Monique said, eying her folds. They were swollen and seemed to be aching for direct touch, something she’d resisted supplying so far.

Carrie’s impatient pleas were turning into demands. “Touch me there. Touch my clit. I’m ordering you to touch my clit!”

“Why is it you get off on being called naughty , hmm?” Monique taunted. “Mommy issues?” Her finger trailed the crease around her thigh, torturously close.

“That would mean I think you look like my mother. Don’t flatter yourself. She’s gorgeous.”

Was that an insult to Monique or a weird compliment for her mother? Monique had no clue.

Carrie laughed. “You know, I could have anyone. I have thousands of fans who’d volunteer to suck my pussy dry.” She shuddered. “Which would be nice since you’re refusing to right now.”

“Then why did you choose me and not one of your compliant fans?”

Carrie licked her lips. “Truthfully? You look like my former manager. A lot like her. On the website, that shadowed picture of you from the back? Your hair, your shoulders, even the way you’re standing. It’s uncanny. Of course, I can’t fuck my manager because she’s straight and a complete cow.”

Her smile turned vicious. “That bitch would nag me and set strict rules that I should never have had to follow as a grown-ass adult. I used to fantasize about fucking her to shut her up and asking her while I do it if she still thinks I’m a child.” Her eyes fluttered, and she shuddered at the thought.

Now her choice of Number Three was clear. This was veering into seriously uncomfortable territory. “You want to fuck your mother figure,” Monique said slowly as understanding dawned.

“No! She just thinks she’s that. I want to fuck her for treating me the way she did. I want to do every depravity with you while thinking of her. Now, is that too much to ask?” Her eyebrow lifted. “Let’s just say I’ve gotta lot of shit I’d like to work through.” She smirked. “Hate sex can be fun. So can we stop playing around and get to it?”

Over the years, Monique had had plenty of clients with obvious mommy issues. She simply bossed them around, disciplined them, and sent them away happy. Carrie Jordan was probably the first client who had admitted outright she wanted to fuck her substitute mother. Making it all the more unsettling was how disturbingly young— childlike —she looked at this moment. Her eyes were wide, pleading, and intense. Her bottom lip quivered.

Suddenly, Carrie wrenched her arms down, tearing away the silk ropes. “Enough! Foreplay’s over.”

Her dark gaze set Monique back on her heels at how chillingly cold it was.

“Let’s finish this.” Carrie curled up to her knees, her breasts bouncing. “Promise I’ll behave.” She shot her a fake pop star smile. “Well? I’m overdue my orgasm. Get your dirty whore mouth on my cunt! Now!”

Dirty whore mouth?

Every warning klaxon went off in Monique’s head. Oh hell no. She stepped away from the bed in distaste. “No. I don’t respond well to demands or insults. Why should I reward bad behavior?”

“Fuck me now, or I will ruin you.” Carrie’s voice was crass and heavy with warning. “I’ve paid twice what you normally get. I expect twice the goddamned service.”

Monique’s jaw ground in displeasure. “I don’t think so. Apologize for your disrespect and I might think about letting you come.”

“Fucking whore !” Carrie trembled in the face of Monique’s sharpness. Oh, she was definitely getting off on Monique’s anger. “ Whore, whore, whore !”

Monique forced her tone back to calm. “Insult me all you like, but I think I’ll just say no.”

“You can’t!”

“Oh, I can: No . You don’t hear that very often, do you?” She gave a soft laugh.

Carrie glared in fury. “I’m the one paying you. You’re in breach of contract.”

“Mmm.” Monique eyed her evenly. “And I did warn you I don’t take well to disrespect. I’ll issue a refund. Get dressed, and get out.”

“You’re not serious?” There was venom in her eyes now. “You know, I had this whole plan for you. I was going to take photos of you, naked, doing something dirty, your face half hidden. I was going to get someone to leak them and spread the word they’re of my old manager.” She trembled slightly at the thought.

Monique recoiled. “ Excuse me?”

“I can see you won’t let me do that. So how about this? You’re a businesswoman: I’ll pay you five grand to do it. Your face would be hidden.”

“Absolutely not.” Disgust coiled in her gut.

“Ten grand.”

“I don’t need your money. And I will not help you disrespect a woman because you’re angry she tried to keep you in line. I can see now you deserved it.”

I n a blur, Carrie jumped up, reached over, and grabbed Monique by the biceps. She flung her down on the bed and squatted over her. “I’m so sorry that Your Royal Fucking Whoreness thought she was too good to take my generous offer.”

Before Monique could even react, a warm liquid gushed over her. She gasped in shock and locked eyes with the woman peeing on her—and laughing.

Monique shoved her off. Then, voice shaking with fury, she roared, “Get out!”

Carrie jumped back on her, slamming her whole body against Monique’s this time, and pinned her to the bed. With all her force, she shoved a finger between Monique’s legs, trying to worm past Monique’s underwear and penetrate her.

A tearing sound filled the air. Monique half howled in rage and shock. The disrespect was off the fucking charts—exactly as Carrie had intended.

She wrenched the hand away before it succeeded, crushing the wrist in a ferocious grip. With her other hand, Monique slapped her. Hard enough to rattle Carrie’s teeth.

Carrie swore, twisted out of her grasp, and leaped from the bed. She reached for something.

Still dazed and shaken, it took a moment for Monique to make sense of what Carrie was holding up. Her phone? What? Who would she be calling now?

Monique sat up. Her white shirt, yellow and reeking with urine, clung to her bare breasts underneath. “What are you—”

The phone clicked, the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter.

“My manager apparently loves golden showers now. Who knew? Great shot,” Carrie mocked. “I’m sure that’ll fuck her up worse than you looking nude and freshly fucked.”

“If you post that anywhere, I’ll sue,” Monique said coldly. “Delete it now .”

“If you sue me, everyone will know it’s you in the photo. So you won’t. You Dirty. Fucking. Whore.” Her eyes gleamed at the insult.

“ You paid to have sex with me . What does that make you?”

“Someone with a grudge against her manager and who doesn’t care how she gets payback. Face it—you can’t do shit. Sucks to be you.”

Monique would have dearly loved to tell this vulgar upstart exactly how much her investment company was worth. Rub her nose in the fact that she made more money last quarter than Carrie Jordan would make this year. But it would be disastrous with investors if that got out. If that photo got out.

“Delete it,” she ground out.

“Or what? You’ll call the police? Who are they going to believe? America’s sweetheart or the sleazy hooker telling some preposterous lie to extort me for drug money?” She gave her most innocent look.

A loud pounding rattled the door.

For a moment, a flicker of concern crossed Carrie’s face before it disappeared. “Don’t say a fucking word to whoever that is.” She ducked into the bathroom, still clutching her phone.

Monique wrenched open the hotel room door to find Ottilie, her mouth pressed into a thin, worried line and her sharp gaze concerned.

“I heard you cry out,” Ottilie said tightly. Her gaze flicked over Monique’s urine-drenched shirt that showed every inch of her breasts, and her torn black panties. Her expression was blank—no revulsion or surprise—almost as though she were…checking for wounds?

Uncertainty filled Ottilie’s tone, and she darted a look around, as if assessing the empty room. “It was the sort of cry that… Well, it wasn’t normal. What happened?”

“A client happened.” Monique ground her jaw. “A nasty, vicious client.”

“Are you hurt?” There was that concern again, coming off her in waves. “Do you need medical attention?”

“A phone hacker would be better.”

“Oh?” Ottilie’s expression changed to cool and efficient. She didn’t ask why. “Do you have the phone’s number?”

Monique located her phone, scrolled, and then held it up. “All I have is the number for the client’s assistant. She’s who paid.”

“Text me her name and number.”

A moment later. “Done.” Monique couldn’t look Ottilie in the eye.

“And what do you need from the client’s phone?” Ottilie checked she’d received the details.

“A photo.”

Ottilie’s lips thinned even more as if understanding exactly where this was going. “Has it already been uploaded anywhere?”

“Too soon.” Then Monique’s eyes flitted to the bathroom door and back. “I hope she’s getting dressed and not uploading it now.” She eyed Ottilie pensively. “Can you really do this? With just the assistant’s details?”

Ottilie smiled. “Leave it to me.”

* * *

In Beirut, in 1985, Ottilie had heard a lot of cries. Cries for mercy. Cries of pain. And cries to be let free. So she had been very aware of the nature of Monique’s scream that had filtered through their shared wall. It was a cry of pain, shock, and outrage. Anger too. But the shock had been most prominent.

Given the nature of Monique’s job, Ottilie hadn’t been about to sit around to wait for a second cry. She’d banged on the door, loud enough to wake the dead.

The sight that had greeted her was beyond disturbing. Monique’s hair and shirt were wet, the smell unmistakable. And she looked as if she’d been fighting a demon.

Ottilie was surprised at her own surge of protectiveness. How sorry she felt for Monique, who only ever seemed to want to make people happier. Even if her methods were not something Ottilie related to, her heart seemed good. And good people needed protecting.

Ottilie could hear faint movement in the bathroom. The client. She fixed her gaze on Monique.

She was in so much disarray. Gone was her customary confidence. She looked so crushed. Well. The request for a phone hacker was one Ottilie could easily manage.

Before she could leave, the bathroom door opened, and a face Ottilie had seen all over Vegas appeared: Carrie Jordan. The pop star looked cocky and calm, as if she hadn’t just crushed a good woman and made her scream in shock and fury.

Ottilie transformed herself instantly. “I’ll inform the cleaning staff at once you need a change of sheets, Ms. Carson. I apologize once again for being late to do your room today. As you know, we’re down several maids this week.”

“Yes, thank you,” Monique said, catching on instantly. “That would be good. I appreciate it.”

Ottilie bustled out, feeling the singer’s eyes on her. But they weren’t suspicious, more…dismissive. She hadn’t noticed Ottilie wasn’t in a maid’s uniform. She hadn’t noticed Monique had never even called for Housekeeping. She hadn’t noticed anything at all because Ottilie was a no one. No ones were not a threat.

Foolish child.

* * *

Back in her own room, Ottilie called Snakepit, asking if he had the power to hack a phone based on a name and number alone. He scoffed.

She sent him the details. “This is an assistant to a person of interest,” she explained. “Get into this phone, find the number for her boss, our target—which probably will be listed as a nickname or a codename.” No assistant worth their salt would have their celebrity boss’ actual name listed in case their device was stolen. “Then get into the VIP’s phone. After that, you’ll need to access some sensitive material.”

“What sort of sensitive material?”

“A photo.”

“Of?”

“A woman.”

Silence fell. “Uh, that’s not a lot to work with.”

“Just obtain the last photos taken on the target’s phone and send them to me. Then wipe it.”

“The photos?”

“The phone. All of it. I want to punish its owner as much as possible. Is that in your power?”

“Wiping shit is easy.” A few minutes passed. Then, “I have access to the assistant’s direct messages and texts.”

“How does that help us?”

“I can work out which contact her boss is, based on the contents. So, uh, does CJ sound right for the boss?”

“It does.”

“Okay. I’m sending a text with a phishing link to the target, pretending to be the assistant. If this ‘CJ’ clicks on it, it’ll embed some tasty spyware for me to exploit. I’ll get full phone access.” A pause. “ Sent. Now we wait for the fish to bite.”

“All right. How is the other business coming along? Tracking down our missing man?”

“He’s been on the down-low for a few days, but that can’t last. He hasn’t checked into your hotel but has gambled there in the past week. He’s gotta pop up for air again. No one goes too long without using their credit cards or phone. Not in a place like Vegas.”

Excellent point. “I appreciate you making yourself available to me,” Ottilie said.

“I, uhm, appreciate you didn’t set any goons on my ass after the shit hit the fan,” he said. “I know you know it was me.”

“Of course I know. Who else could so efficiently hurt our organization?” Ottilie pursed her lips. “It was a short suspect list.”

“Well, I’m happy to help now, ’specially if you, ah, never set O’Brian or any other neckless wonders after me?” His voice rose a little in discomfort.

“I’m paying you, so I’m not about blackmail. Well, not about blackmailing you ,” she corrected, in the interest of accuracy.

He gave a low laugh. “Thanks.”

Ottilie paced the room as she waited, turning over Snakepit’s comment: No one goes too long without using their credit cards or phone. Not in a place like Vegas.

It was odd. She paused by the balcony doors, phone to her ear, and gazed out at the city. Her eye caught the corner of a blue electronic billboard two buildings away.

Vegas’s Richest Poker Tournament Starts Sept 12: WIN BIG! WIN CASH!

Hardly exciting . Half the casinos on The Strip ran poker contests. Hell, Hotel Duxton had signs everywhere advertising…

Ottilie froze. The answer had been under her nose the whole time. “I know where he is.”

“Huh?” Snakepit replied. “Our target?”

“Or, rather, I know where he’ll be. He loves to gamble, and poker is his game. Hotel Duxton’s holding Vegas’s richest poker tournament in a few days—on the twelfth. That has to be why he’s here. He’s always fancied himself a contender. I suspect he’d love to go pro. It’s also common for poker players to do the rounds of lesser competitions as a warm-up to a major event. He could even be placing highly in a few of those minor games. That would explain why he’s not needing his credit card: he’s cashed up.”

“A lot of guessing there, ma’am,” Snakepit said, his tone diplomatic.

“Call it intuition. It fits his profile and the man I know.” She tapped her chin. “That means he’ll probably check into Hotel Duxton on or just before the twelfth. Can you see if he’s registered for the tournament already? If he is, I’ll need you to get me his room number the moment he checks in.”

“Okay, ma’am. Can do.” A clatter of keys sounded, then stopped with a loud clack. “Oh, hey? Speaking of winning.”

Her phone pinged.

“You got that?” he asked.

“The target clicked your bad link?”

“Yep. I’m in. Total access.”

“Look for the photo.”

“Already located. That ping was from me. Check your email.”

She opened her phone and scrolled. Ottilie stopped. Hell .

Monique was in mid motion as if about to rise or push someone off her. She was soaked—urine, clearly—and her hair clung to her stricken face. It was an appalling photo. Ottilie’s jaw clenched at the thought of Carrie getting away with demeaning Monique like this.

“Ah, ma’am? Before I wipe anything…uh…there’s a LOT of bad shit on this phone. A lot, a lot…”

“Oh?”

“Gross stuff.” He hissed in a breath. “Sick stuff. And, um, porny stuff? Like naked, beaten women tied up, looking scared? Not acting scared either. Their expressions…” he faded out. “And—I swear I’m not making this up—I think this person has Carrie Jordan nudes, for real. Like, not fakes.”

“It’s her phone.”

Snakepit made strangled noises while Ottilie pondered what to do next.

How easy it would be to release the nudes. Make the awful creature suffer the way she’d doubtlessly planned for Monique. But she wasn’t about to participate in revenge porn. Disturbing business.

“Ignore the Jordan nudes,” Ottilie said curtly.

“Okay,” Snakepit said. “What about the other pics? The creepy shit?”

“Remember a few years back, when that child-porn ring contacted The Fixers and asked for help in hiding their online activities?”

“Yeah,” he gritted out. “Disgusting pieces of…” He swore under his breath.

“I’m aware Michelle Hastings instead got you to hack them and feed their illegal content and personal details to police.”

“You knew about that?” His voice rose into a startled squeak.

“I knew everything,” Ottilie said. “If it happened in that building, I knew.”

“Oh. Uh, I guess I can believe it.”

“Can you do the same again? Tip off the authorities that Carrie Jordan might be abusing women and explain that the images are copies of what’s on her phone? Suggest a raid might be in order to find more?”

“They’re not going to believe that Carrie Jordan would ever do something like that,” he scoffed. “She’s the patron of two kids’ cancer charities!”

“They will believe if you use the same username you used before when contacting police. You have credibility now.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” There was a rattling of keys that went on for about five minutes. “Sent and done.”

“Out of interest, how much damage could you do to someone having a concert in Vegas?”

“Having? You mean for someone attending?”

“I mean…onstage. Performing.”

“As in…Carrie Jordan?” he asked slowly. “I can do a whole lot. You’re lucky. See, if it was a one-off concert, roadies bring all their own sound gear and use that; not much point learning the venue’s high-tech equipment for the sake of one or two nights. But for shows where someone’s in residence, like her? They tie in their gear to the superior built-in equipment and leave it set up that way for the duration of the run.”

“And how does that help?”

“When I was tooling around the Duxton Vegas security systems, I found their soundstage setup. Also, their lighting and pyrotechnic files. I can wipe it all back to factory default. It’d take ages to reprogram all the cues and effects. And even if they have some whiz with a backup who could fix it fast, they’d have to notice it’s been hacked well before showtime. Doubt they’d realize until the pyrotechnics don’t go off.”

“Do it.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. Lights, sound, anything else you can think of.” Ottilie rather appreciated this idea. “Destroy her opening night show.”

There was a long pause.

“Don’t tell me you’re a fan,” Ottilie said moodily.

“Ah, nah. No, ma’am. I like metal.”

“Are you sympathizing with the fans, then? They’ll get refunds.”

“No, I was just thinking.” Keyboard clattering went on in the background. “How everyone thought you were the nice one at The Fixers. Harmless. Well, until Eden turned up and she got the title. But you’re not nice. You’re lethal. No offense, ma’am.”

“Yes, Mr. Snakepit. Thanks for noticing,” she said dryly.

There was a longer rattle of keys. “By the way, our target is confirmed as a player for the poker tournament at your hotel.”

“Excellent.” She smiled. One step closer.

Snakepit didn’t speak for long moments, causing Ottilie to frown. “Something else?”

She heard furious keyboard rattling, and low muttering that sounded suspiciously like… Bad Godesberg . Diplomat . Then… Albrecht … Ottilie sat up straight and fast, chest thumping. “What on earth are you doing!”

Bad Godesberg , the birthplace of Annika Marie Albrecht.

Albrecht , a German diplomat , based in DC. Also: Ottilie’s mother.

The last mumble was unmistakable. Directorate of Analysis .

A chill shot down her spine. No one would have access to her former job title and all that biographical information unless… “Get the hell out of the CIA database right now!”

The keys paused but then rattled some more.

Ottilie knew Snakepit had hacked the CIA database a few years back for the Chaudary assignment. He’d found a back door. Apparently, he’d returned.

“Why?” she asked in exasperation.

“Confirming a hunch. Uh, ma’am.” Snakepit spoke nervously, but his usual reluctance to incur her wrath was apparently nowhere near as strong right now as his curiosity.

“Mr. Snakepit, I’d strongly advise you not to pursue this—”

“ Holy shit! Your dad’s Robert T. Zimmermann? The German mathematician? I’ve read his books! He cracked part of the CIA’s Kryptos code!”

She sighed, well aware of her father’s genius. She did not need the recap.

“German, Arabic, English, French, Hindi…” He gave a low whistle.

Ottilie relaxed marginally. The languages she spoke were hardly too reveal—

“Fuck!” All typing sounds stopped. “You…you…” His words sounded pushed out, strangled.

Damn it . It seemed, top secret didn’t deter hackers of his skill.

“No one had a clue at The Fixers, did they?” Snakepit asked, his tone awed. “Everyone assumed you were a career bureaucrat. But you did actual undercover special-ops shit.” He drew in a sharp breath. “Beirut? Wait, was that the terrorist cell that…”

“You would be well advised not to finish that sentence,” Ottilie snapped, her tone as hard and cold as she could make it. “Not to me; not to anyone. And you will exit that file immediately ! You’ve already breached the Espionage Act. And accessing that particular file could get you life imprisonment or worse.”

Silence fell. “Shit, sorry. I, uh, got carried away. Aborting now.” Keys clacked loudly, and then the sounds stopped.

“I’m only going to say this to you once, Gerald ,” Ottilie told him icily. “If you share any of my details with another soul, there will be consequences that will be far worse than your limited imagination can conjure up.” She waited a beat and then growled, “Are. We. Understood?”

He swallowed audibly. “Y-yes, ma’am. Sorry ma’am. Truly. I didn’t mean to…ah. I got curious, and I chased down a rabbit hole without stopping to…ah… Shit. Sorry.”

She glowered.

“Butyoureallyareabadass,” he said quickly, blurring the sentence into one word.

Christ .

“So, ahhh, if you speak to your dad,” Snakepit rushed on, “could you tell him I’m a big fan? He made me fall in love with cryptography. It’s my number one hobby now.”

Ottilie pressed a thumb into her eyes. “Why, yes, I’ll tell him a hacker called Snakepit passes on his regards. My father thinks I work for an international translation agency. That wouldn’t raise any questions at all.”

“Oh. Right.” He paused, as if pondering how to get around this issue.

“No. Don’t bother. This conversation is long overdue to end.”

Snakepit made a sad little noise of acquiescence.

“Before I go, look up Carrie Jordan’s room number for me.”

A pause sounded, then a brief rattle of keys, “Penthouse suite. Floor fifty. Room 5001.”

“All right, one last task, and then we’re done. I’ll throw in a bonus because you’ll be losing sleep over it—literally.”

She outlined her needs and appreciated he didn’t say a word of complaint about it. Probably too frightened of her now. Good .

“Lastly, send me the home numbers of the two lowest-paid room service employees on Duxton Vegas’s payroll,” Ottilie added.

“Can do.” Pause. “They’re all on sucky wages, looks like. Shit, their manager earns less than my cleaner.”

“Just pick me one who looks the poorest, and a backup.”

* * *

Monique immediately began stripping the bed, her fury rising. So much for her delusion she could always spot the monsters. The vice principal had been right. Monique had been so arrogant, waving her concerns away, assuming she would always know .

She hadn’t seen how bad Carrie Jordan was until it had been too late, and by then she’d humiliated Monique. Anger burned anew.

Why the hell am I doing this?

Between Kensington and Jordan, she was starting to wonder if even low risk was too much. “I’m too old for this crap,” she muttered.

Monique couldn’t wait to stop touching these filthy sheets and everything they represented and wash away this whole disastrous hour in a shower.

A heavy staccato banging sounded.

Pulling on a robe, she opened her door to find a tanned, sandy-haired man in an expensive suit, flanked by two hotel security guards.

Now what?

“Ms. Carson,” the suited man began, his accent a mix of Australian and New York. “I’m—”

“Simon Duxton,” she said dully, recognizing him from the finance news reports and dreading where this was going. The CEO of Hotel Duxton USA wasn’t doing a courtesy call to a loyal guest, she was quite sure.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve had a complaint. A very serious complaint. That you’re running a prostitution ring from your hotel room.”

She gave a long-suffering sigh. “By any chance did you get a tip-off from an angry woman just now? Someone famous, rude, and entitled?”

“I can’t say the source of the allegation, but we can clear it up quickly. If you’ll just step aside, Security will make sure there’s no cause for concern. They’ll be conducting a search of your rooms and their contents.”

Monique saw red. “You think I’m a pimp? Forcing women to have sex from my hotel room? For God’s sake! Wait here.”

She stormed into her room, sorted through her desk drawer and returned. “My business card, stating I’m the CEO of an international finance company. And here!” She slapped a copy of The Economist magazine with her face on the cover under the headline: “ The Freak of Wall Street: The investment CEO with a sixth sense for market moves.”

He blanched, then glanced at the guards, who peered at the magazine cover in confusion.

“I agree you don’t fit the profile but…still,” Duxton began. “What if…”

“Why would a woman who runs a top international, ethical investment company need to run a prostitution ring? And where would these unfortunate women even sleep?” She waved behind her at the queen bed with its ruined mess of sheets. “In the shower?” She gestured at the bathroom.

Its door was ajar. A guard craned to look and sagged. Yes, idiot. Empty.

“Well, you do have two suites,” Simon tried. “Maybe the other one…uh—”

Dear God, Simon Duxton was apparently as stupid as everyone said. “Just how many prostitutes do you envision can fit into either suite? Let alone the fact they’d be needing privacy to perform, and each suite has only one main room!”

One guard cut in. “Just let us have a bit of a look around, and we’ll be on our way, ma’am,” he announced, sounding bored.

“Yes.” Simon nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“No! I’ve had an appalling day, and I do not give anyone permission to poke around my things.” She scowled. “And you two?” She pointed a finger between the guards. “You have zero business with me. You’re just cosplaying cops without any legal authority.”

“Well, I’m the CEO,” Simon said, straightening. “This is my hotel and therefore my property. You can’t deny me access.” He took a step closer, and then his nose twitched. He stepped back, looking disgusted.

Monique didn’t blame him, given she was still wearing Carrie Jordan’s pee. But his revulsion just made her angrier.

“Can’t I?” she snapped. “Hotel guests, like rental tenants, have a presumption of privacy. And if you force your way in, that’s an illegal search. I will sue. Don’t think I can’t afford the best lawyers in the country. Christ, do you people even know the law?”

“Hey, now,” Simon said, looking lost. His anxious eyes darted all about like a kid at a new school. “That’s not fair.”

“Well, if you don’t know the law regarding hotel guests, I know someone who does. Stay there!” She stormed back into her room, shut the door, and grabbed her phone.

“Ms. Carson?” Amelia Duxton answered, professional as ever, on the third ring. “I assume you’re calling about the final paperwork. It should be back from my lawyer tomorrow. I apologize for the delay. He found a clause he wanted to look at more closely.”

“No,” Monique said curtly. “I am calling because your idiot, sunstroked cousin Simon wants to conduct an illegal search of my hotel room. Call him for me? Tell him he can’t?”

“That’s odd. I understand you wouldn’t want him to find out about your side business, but I’m not sure he’d care. As long as you pay your bills on time, that’s all he’s interested in.”

“He’s here with two rent-a-cops from Security. He’s had an anonymous tip-off that I’m running a prostitution ring from my room. A whole ring? From my two one-bedroom suites? Is he a moron?”

“Yes,” Amelia said with a sigh. “He is. I’ll call him immediately. And you’re correct. Under federal law, they cannot conduct a search of a hotel room, even with manager approval, without a warrant or probable cause. There are exceptions, what’s called ‘exigent circumstances,’ but none of those apply here—nor could they as police aren’t even present.”

“Good.” Monique ground her jaw. “That was my understanding too.”

They ended the call, and Monique paced the room for a moment to get her temper back in check.

Another charming side effect of her secondary job was having to always hide what she did. It was draining. Yes, it was illegal; she was well aware of that. But she was also aware that it was easy to forget its illegality for long periods when everyone around her looked the other way. Especially given her clients were clearly all adults, all willing, and one of them was even the hotel’s front desk manager. It was easy to forget the illegality too when parts of Nevada had legal prostitution and it wasn’t seen as a big deal.

Monique could hear murmuring through the door. She could make out Simon attempting to get a word in with his cousin.

Amelia was, essentially, jaw-droppingly brilliant, and the whole undeserving Duxton clan were too busy being angry with her for uncovering illegalities at Duxton Vegas to appreciate her. They’d shunned her. For being too good.

Amelia’s business acumen was the reason Monique had invested in Amelia’s latest venture, which was right in the wheelhouse of Carson Investments. It was a no-brainer, even if Amelia’s ridiculous family couldn’t see the diamond they’d tossed aside.

Snatching open the door, she found Simon putting away his phone, cheeks pink. He glanced at her. “I, er, have decided not to conduct a search of your rooms at this time. You’ve been vouched for by my cousin. Amelia is unimpeachable, so I will take her word for it that you are not running a prostitution ring. But be aware, as Hotel Duxton’s new CEO, I will be watching you.”

Well, he had to say that, didn’t he? To save face .

Monique glowered and folded her arms. “I’ve lived here for fourteen years. Do you have any idea how much money I pay your precious hotel each year? You should look it up. And while you’re at it, learn your damned laws!” Monique then turned to the guards. “And try to remember an anonymous tip-off does not constitute probable cause. It’s little more than malicious gossip.” She glanced back to Simon. “You can make yourself useful and send up Housekeeping urgently. Now, that’s it! Everyone leave me the hell alone!”

With that, she retreated into her room and leaned against the door to shut it hard. Faced with the sight of the urine-soaked pile of sheets and everything they represented, she wanted to scream.

How was this her life?

She flung herself into the shower, scrubbing every bit of Carrie Jordan from her, real or imagined. Then she pulled on a soft, worn pair of jeans and her snuggliest pullover, her comfort clothes. She hadn’t had to pull these out in many months.

Hair still a little damp, she answered the door to the two cleaners Simon had sent up and apologized for the urine-soaked mess, placing a sizable tip for them on a side table.

The women knew her, of course, making it more embarrassing. They merely nodded politely with a look of resignation.

Monique felt humiliated all over again. She needed to be anywhere but here.

Moments later, she found herself knocking tiredly on Ottilie’s door, all but slumping miserably against the frame when it opened.

“Can I come in? The maids are in my room. Real ones this time.” Somehow, her words didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

“Of course.” Ottilie stepped aside.

Monique stumbled over to the couch.

“Tea?” Ottilie asked. “Coffee? Something stiffer?” She waved at the minibar.

“No. Thanks.” Monique felt wrung out enough and didn’t want to add artificial stimulants to her brain’s shaky ecosystem.

Ottilie, making herself a tea, seemed to have her charisma back to full.

“I still don’t know how you do that,” Monique said, eying her. “In my room? You just shrank away. Slid right inside the wallpaper, just about. I don’t think Carrie Jordan even registered you were there.”

“You don’t want to know how I do it,” she said with a slight smile, joining her on the couch. She took a sip of tea.

“Because you’d have to kill me?” Monique joked. About all she had left, it seemed, were overdone lines and shallowness. She hated the prickling at the back of her skull. It felt like fear and panic, now that the adrenaline was wearing off. She’d have to face it sooner than she’d like. But not right now.

“Please,” Ottilie said sweetly. “I couldn’t hurt a butterfly.”

Monique smiled in spite of herself. “Any…news?” she asked tentatively. She had no idea what she’d do if Ottilie was unable to access that photo.

Ottilie placed her teacup onto the coffee table and reached for her phone sitting beside it. She sifted through it for a moment and then held it up. “I’ve had this retrieved, and it’s now also wiped from Jordan’s phone. From the cloud too. No copies remain except this.”

Monique gazed at the photo and then felt as if she were crumpling. In the image, she was small and shameful and a mess. She shook her head, drew up her knees, and wound her arms tightly around her calves. “I look…” She scowled. “Look at her. Is that really me? She’s pathetic.”

“I’m deleting this now,” Ottilie said and did so. “And emptying the bin.” She did that too, in front of Monique. “And I see someone caught in a cruel and callous attack. Hardly pathetic.”

Monique swallowed. “I won’t ask how you got that.”

“I know people.” She said nothing more.

“Thank you. You did me a great favor today.”

“Well,” Ottilie said, apparently at a loss. “I don’t like bullies. For all her reputation, that woman was vile.”

“I’m sure you know better than anyone how looks can be deceiving.”

“Very true.” Ottilie met her eye. “Do you wish to tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know. I’m suddenly deciding between talking it out or getting drunk and not examining my decisions too closely.”

Ottilie regarded her kindly. “Or you can do both. Either way, help yourself to my mini bar.”

“Famous last words,” Monique muttered.