Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Nicolette
“Alright, handsome.” I pat the bed beside my latest guest. When he doesn’t stir, I smack the side of his arm. “Yoohoo, Prince Charming, time to get up and go back to work or your wife or whoever else you’ve got waiting for you.”
He rolls over and props himself up on an elbow. Dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, he seems to think he’s God’s gift to women as he flexes his biceps. While he’s not repulsive—fairly fit and well-dressed in an anonymous, dime-a-dozen accountant sort of way—he’s hardly got my panties on fire.
“I have a little time for round two,” he says suggestively in French. Somehow, even the beautiful language fails to entice me. I much prefer it when the tourists come and speak plainly.
“Glad to hear it,” I say, giving him a forced smile as I sit up in bed.
“But I don’t, and I’m sorry to say you only paid for a round one.
” I tap my fingers on the headboard, mentally calculating if I have enough time for a shower and a shave before my next client.
There’s something about the lunchtime quickie these businessmen savor.
The first warning bell clangs when his eyes begin to narrow. “Is that all this is for you?” he asks in a low voice. “A job?”
I feel my eyes go wide at the utter stupidity of his question.
No, dumbass, I think to myself. I’m here for fun.
Instead, I force a smile.
“Um, hello,” I say. “Are you still in sleepy land? Because before you took a little nap, our roles here were very clear.” I shake my head. “Yes, this is a job, one you’re utterly familiar with because you’ve been a regular client now every week for three weeks.”
“You remembered. You wouldn’t remember if this didn’t mean something to you.”
I never forget details, I never forget dates, and I remember exactly the first interaction we had together. It means literally nothing.
Sometimes, I can’t believe how easy this job is. And other times, like this moment, I wonder if I need my head examined.
I draw in a breath and remind myself of my ultimate goal, my ultimate purpose. This is only for a short time.
I’m here because my sister deserves a better life. I’m here because this is the fastest, most efficient way out of nowhere, and I am not going to back down now.
So when it gets rough, or uncomfortable, or challenging, I remind myself I can do this. I’ve got this. And right now, that means throwing this asshole the hell out of my room.
He isn’t important enough to be one of them.
I’ll stay professional, but firm.
I shake my head and swivel my legs over the side of my bed. “Your time is up. You paid, I delivered. Now excuse me, you have five minutes—”
He grabs the back of my arm and yanks me over toward him back on the bed. Alarm flares in my chest. On instinct, I elbow backward and connect with something hard.
“You bitch!” he hisses, cursing up a blue streak. The momentary distraction gives me enough time to hit the discreet call button I have hidden under my bed. I slam it once, twice, three times, before I’m forced belly-down on the bed, his full weight on top of me.
“Get off!” I scream, but he outweighs me by a good bit, and he’s furious.
With a vicious yank, he tears my panties down.
Cold terror grips me. Even though I hit the panic button, my mind fast-forwards to what will happen in the next few seconds.
He’s going to rape me. He’s going to assault me.
He’s going to force his way inside me, and I can’t do a thing to stop him.
Footsteps pound down the hallway, drawing nearer.
“You called someone, didn’t you?” he growls in my ear. “Too late. I locked the door and stole the master key.”
He planned this, then. My God.
“Help!” I scream. “Someone help—”
He shoves my face onto the bed to muffle my screams. I writhe, unable to breathe, and finally manage to steal a breath of air as the voices outside my door carry through.
“It’s locked! Who has the key? We need the key!”
He shoves my legs apart like he knows he’s running out of time and needs to see this through.
I throw the weight of my whole body to the side, rocking so hard I jostle him enough that I can roll myself onto the floor.
But I don’t make it two steps before he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me back over.
Pain ricochets through my skull. I scream.
The sound of metal keys in a lock. The jingle of a doorknob.
High-pitched female voices. I scream again as he pushes me over the edge of the bed and forces my legs apart.
I sob, wriggling as much as I can beneath him, when I hear a loud whomp against the door.
My attacker actually pauses at the sound of a deep male voice.
“Move.”
Another guest? Seconds feel like they last minutes as another loud whomp sounds against the door. It begins to groan.
“What the—”
My face still pushed to the bed, I can’t see anything, I can only hear the sound of wood splintering and worried voices.
Suddenly, I’m released. I jerk my head up to see my attacker dangling in the air as if he’s hung by a string.
He’s gripped by a huge, larger-than-life, absolutely furious man holding him up in front of him.
I hold my breath. Relief floods through me so rapidly I’m dizzy.
Growling like an animal, with one swift move he throws my attacker as if he’s no more than a small animal. My attacker lands with a nauseating crunch against the wall and slumps to the floor.
Joelle and Gwen are by my side, Cosette grabbing a fuzzy throw blanket and tossing it over me. Gwen takes one look at my bloodied cheek, screams in fury, then turns and kicks the prone body of the man on the floor.
“Back down, Gwen. Leave him to me,” the humungous guy breathes through flared nostrils.
My attacker’s eyes are comically wide as he crouches in the corner of the room. “My God, my God,” he says in French, bringing up his hands to cover his face.
“Turn away, honey,” Cosette says. “We’ll leave Monsieur to deal with him. You come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up and a nice, hot cup of tea.”
In a daze, I allow myself to be led to the doorway. Behind us, whoever Monsieur is lifts the man up by his hair. I hear the sound of his heavy fist landing like a brick. As I’m nearly carried out the door, I hear my attacker beg for mercy.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on Cosette’s bed, wearing borrowed clothing. I hold the teacup with both hands, but I’m trembling so much I’m afraid I’ll slosh it all over me.
“There, there,” Cosette says, her brow furrowed in concern.
A tall, thin blonde with kind green eyes and a freckled nose, she looks like a little porcelain doll, in such sharp contrast to Gwen’s bold and brazen black hair and red lipstick they look like they could play the angel and devil on my shoulder.
Cosette strokes her hand down the length of my hair. “I hope he killed him.”
There’s no hint of exaggeration in her eyes.
“Killed him?” I whisper, even as my heart begins to beat faster. Maybe he can help me. Maybe he’s the ticket…
I keep my tone steady with difficulty. “Who was he?”
Gwen paces the room, cursing and muttering. “He was planning this. He knew you’d call for us, and he managed to not only lock the door but hide the master key. I hope Monsieur makes him hurt before he ends him.”
“Ends him? I feel like I’m on a reality TV show or something. Is this how you crazy French girls do things? Girls, girls, please. Tell me who he is. You can’t just kill someone.”
Gwen pauses and stands in front of me. She blinks in surprise. “You can’t. I can’t. Monsieur Gerard? He can. Don’t you know?”
Excitement builds. I tap my foot to get rid of some of the energy.
“Gwen, honey, I don’t believe anyone ever really told her…” Joelle grimaces.
“Told me what? Honestly, this is maddening.”
Joelle twirls one of her bright red curls and bites her lip as she looks over at Gwen.
“He’s the owner,” Gwen says. “The very proud, very stern, very scary owner of our establishment.” She pauses. “He takes the safety of his girls extremely seriously.”
“I’ve heard that. It was one of the reasons I came here to begin with.
” Okay, so I’m not totally in the dark. Not long ago, Cosette and I were college roommates before tragedy struck.
She was the one that brought me here. She promised me safety, and so much money I wouldn’t know what to do with it all.
It was a good reason to come.
“Nicolette,” Gwen says with a sigh. “Monsieur’s last name is Gerard. You don’t know the name?”
His name hangs in the air with the weight of a rain cloud, but I have no idea why.
She waits for recognition to hit. When I shake my head, she groans.
“She’s American, Gwen,” Cosette reminds her. “She’s new here.”
“Didn’t you tell her anything?”
“I know some things,” I protest, not wanting my friend to be ridiculed any further. “Just tell me who he is.”
She looks at the doorway, then at Cosette.
“Tell her,” Cosette hisses.
I want to know. I need to know.
“He—”
Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside the door. Gwen, who is afraid of literally nothing and no one, blinks and stares at me. Cosette jumps to her feet. Joelle stares at the door. We all start at the sound of a loud, confident, resounding knock.
“Yes?” Cosette squeaks. “Who is it?”
“Fabien. May I come in?”
Fabien? I mouth. Gwen only nods.
“Yes, yes, of course, come in!”
The door swings open, and Monsieur Fabien Gerard makes his entrance.
Under duress, my vague impression of him was some sort of hurricane-fueled monster with fists of steel and enough authority to make a full-grown man wet his pants. Now, though, calmed by my friends’ tender care and the warm tea, I’m in a better frame of mind.