Chapter 20
Coral Gables wasn’t a mansion. It was a palace, the Atlantic shimmering behind it. Emily stared at it through the window, fighting the urge to throw up. The van lurched to a halt, all four doors popping open at once. No turning back now.
Deep breath, Em. You can do this.
Go in, do the job, let Alec’s testosterone militia handle the takedown, and then maybe you can retire from undercover work forever. Or at least sleep again. You’ve got this.
Probably.
She’d heard better pep talks. And her confidence wasn’t bolstered when she slid across the bench seat, stepped down from the van, and immediately stumbled, her sky-high heels catching on the uneven stone.
She grabbed onto the doorframe, tugging down the hem of the too-short, too-tight, humiliating skirt of what she’d come to call her bait uniform.
Regina noticed instantly. Her eyes narrowed. “If you spill champagne on a guest, I’ll have your head.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she murmured, straightening and tossing back her hair, left loose around her shoulders to hide her GPS earrings.
Her stickler of a boss zeroed in on that too and pointed at her head. “That’s a health code violation. Put it up. Heaven forbid a stray hair lands in the Beluga blinis or on my lobster medallions.”
Before Emily could respond, Benny moved past with a crate balanced on one shoulder.
“Leave it,” he said, without breaking stride. “They’ll like it that way.”
Regina’s shoulders jerked. Emily could tell she was about to chew him out for daring to countermand one of her orders, but Benny kept walking, disappearing into the house with his usual swagger.
When Regina pressed her lips together without saying a word and hurried inside after him, Emily got a better picture of the hierarchy, at least where sales were concerned.
She followed with the other servers, ten young women, dressed identical to her. Inside, the kitchen was quiet. No outside staff. Just Regina’s crew setting up for dinner service.
She looked at their chefs’ whites and aprons—boxy, slightly baggy, covering everything—and wished she were one of them.
After adjusting her uniform once more, tugging the hem southward and the neckline north, Emily got to work plating pre-prepped hors d’oeuvres and arranging champagne flutes on trays. They’d wait to open the expensive sparkling wine until the last possible moment, to preserve the bubbles.
Within the hour, Regina swept in. “Guests are arriving. Let’s get out there,” she ordered, a drill sergeant clapping sharply.
Before she entered the glittering ballroom, Emily’s stomach flip-flopped. Showtime.
With a plastered-on smile, she circulated.
The space was opulent—velvet drapes, gold accents, a string quartet playing something slow and expansive.
Guests milled about in perfectly tailored suits and exquisite designer gowns—clearly, nothing off-the-rack was allowed—as they sipped the exorbitantly expensive Cristal like water.
She felt their eyes upon her—some assessing, others hungry and leering.
Several of the faces she recognized from the slide show at the briefings. The tech mogul from Dubai. A shipping magnate from Singapore. The disgraced senator’s brother. All here. All real.
A man approached, tall and regal, his accent thick and foreign. “You are exquisite,” he said. “Your hair is the finest silk.” He reached out and stroked it without asking. “You must wear it down always!” he insisted.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, smiling tightly. “Champagne?”
“Only if you join me,” he said smoothly, taking two glasses.
“I couldn’t. I’m sorry. My boss would combust, but I appreciate the invitation.” She stepped away before he could say—or touch—more.
She suppressed a shudder, though just barely. His touch made her skin crawl.
Emily searched the room for Jace and found him near the back, dressed like money, lounging with calculated ease.
Only she knew he was alert, watching her and everyone else as he talked to a server.
She wore the same skimpy black outfit as her, but Emily didn’t recognize her as part of Regina’s staff.
Something about her seemed familiar, though.
“You, girl!” someone nearby barked.
She turned instinctively, knowing he meant her.
A man she didn’t know was bearing down on her.
He seemed out of place among the guests, who oozed wealth as easily as they breathed.
His tux was over the top, his jet-black hair with way too much gel, and an enormous diamond stud in one ear. But he spoke and moved with authority.
“I have VIPs in a private room. They need attention. Follow me.”
Emily hesitated. Then her feet moved before her brain could protest.
The private room was much smaller, intimate.
The air was thick with a heavy, cloying cologne and cigar smoke dense enough to choke.
Six velvet chairs were arranged in a half circle.
The five men seated in them locked eyes on her, expressions calculating.
What was the going rate for a sex slave? She didn’t even know.
What she did know was this: she was alone, outnumbered, vulnerable—prey dropped into a den of salivating wolves.
“Circulate,” Slick ordered. “Serve them champagne. Smile, be polite, and answer any questions they may have.” He shoved her forward. “Gentlemen. A preview.”
Laughter erupted aa Emily stumbled, fighting to keep from spilling champagne on their heads—Regina’s threat the last of her worries.
Two of the men stood, circling her with slow, hungry interest.
She looked for an escape, but guards lingered at the doorways, silent, watchful, and from the bulge ruining the line of one’s dark jacket, armed.
“She’s got good bone structure,” one murmured.
“Shapely legs,” said another. “Nice symmetry.”
“A little older than I prefer,” a third said dismissively.
“How old are you, girl?” a big man asked. He was about sixty, his belly protruding over his garish diamond belt buckle, with a pronounced Southern drawl and a wide-brimmed Stetson.
She didn’t want to answer. She wanted to slap his disgusting face. She hated this, how they saw her not as human but as a commodity.
But she stuck with her role. She had to.
“I’m twenty, sir.”
“Perfect. Count me in on the bidding, Mr. Denali.”
Her eyes shot to Slick. Correction—Enzo Denali. How had she missed the lisp?
The word bidding rattled around in Emily’s head; her stomach lurched. Mateo had been right. This was more than a party. But she stuck to her role—a young woman dazzled by wealth and power, here under an NDA to earn a quick $500—and pretend she had no idea what they meant.
One man reached out and tipped her chin up. She jerked it away, instinct overriding her training.
The bolero-tie-sporting cowboy chuckled. “She’s got fire. I do enjoy a filly that needs breaking.”
“What was that, sir?” she asked. Even an airhead would think twice about that.
“Nothing. Just serve the champagne,” Enzo snapped. To the billionaire, he smiled—as greasy as his hair. “You’ll get your chance if the price is right, Tex. The bidding starts soon.”
Emily’s pulse roared in her ears. She scanned the room, searching for exits, for cameras, for Jace. Where was he?
A moment later, the side door opened and Jace sauntered in—thank God. He took the sixth chair.
She moved toward him at once and offered him a glass, the crystal glasses clinking from her trembling. He took one and rose, putting his body between her and the leering men, playing his dual role—interested buyer and human shield.
“I noticed you in the ballroom,” he said smoothly. “You’re even more stunning up close.”
Emily lowered her lashes, if she could have forced a blush, she would have. “Why, thank you, sir,” she said with a hint of a smile.
A tall, thin, squirrelly looking man rose from his seat and rushed over to Enzo. He spoke too softly for her to hear but gestured toward her and Jace, agitated.
“Stay close,” her protector murmured. “Something is about to go down.”
As Enzo crossed the room, his two thugs fell in step behind him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr…”
“Reynolds,” Jace supplied, reaching into his jacket. Enzo tensed, and both thugs pulled their guns.
“Whoa, now! I’m just getting my invitation,” he said, raising his hands.
“The hell you are,” the jumpy man blurted. “He’s no guest—he’s a cop. I recognize him from court.”
Shocked, Emily backed up, hands shaking. The champagne flutes on Emily’s tray clinked louder. Was the squirrelly man a judge? Holy crap.
“What? No,” Jace protested. “You’re mistaken.”
“Search him,” Enzo ordered.
His burly, scary men grabbed Jace and slammed him against the wall, the muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple.
Instinctively, Emily’s hand went to her waistband searching for the panic button. Enzo noticed and turned on her. “You two seem awfully chummy. You a cop too?”
“No,” she said, backing up more. “I work for the caterer.”
He yanked viciously on her arm, tipping her tray and sending the glasses crashing to the floor. She cried out as his fingers dug into her flesh and pain shot through her wrenched shoulder.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” he hissed.
“Nothing,” she cried, struggling to get free.
His grip only became more vicious. His other hand slid over her waistband and closed on the small, flat disc clipped inside. He yanked it out and held it up. “What’s this? A wire?”
Enraged, he dropped it and crushed it beneath his heel. The next instant, his knuckles connected with her cheekbone in a stunning backhand. Her head snapped sideways as blood bloomed in her mouth.
“Fucking bitch. Who’s listening on the other end?”
“He’s wired and packing, boss,” one of the thugs called, having searched Jace none too gently. He tucked the gun into his belt and, like Enzo, destroyed the transmitter with a stomp of his heel. It left them with only one device keeping them connected to the team—in her bra.