“Cassandra.”
“Cassandra.” He said it slowly, trying it for size. “Nice. This is how it goes down, Cassandra. I sample the goods first. Then I work out where I want to place you.”
The goods? This was her body he was talking about.
“Place me?”
“I’ve got four clubs. Different clientele in each. They like different sorts of girls and pay a different price for their pleasure. I’m guessing you’d be right for one of my high-end clubs. But I don’t do guessing—I run a business. I need to know the product I’m selling.”
“So you sleep with all the girls who work for you?”
“No.” The lupine grin was back in evidence. “Far from it. I usually leave that to Darcy. But you’re not the usual type of girl that comes looking for this sort of work.”
“I didn’t come looking for it.”
Moore exhaled a heavy breath.
“It’s up to you, Cassandra. The money’s gotta be paid back one way or another.”
Cassandra bit her lip. Could she really go through with this? Prostitute herself? Sleep with men she’d never met for money? Or the alternative? Send her kid sister out stripping in front of the same men? And back into the environment that had got her hooked on drugs in the first place?
“When would we…?”
“Have the tryout? Now would be as good a time as any, don’t you think, Cassandra?”
She should have been horrified, but there was something about the way he said her name that made the muscles inside her contract and made her breath catch up tight in her throat.
“N-now…?” This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
“The sooner you start and the better you are, the quicker you’ll be able to pay it off.”
Cassandra stood. She knew Moore was in total control of the situation. He held all the cards. But if she couldn’t hang on to a small semblance of her own free will, she’d never be able to look herself in the eye again.
“I’ll come back here this evening, Mr. Moore. That’s when you can try the goods.”
One dark eyebrow shot up.
“You’re assuming that I’ll be here this evening.” His gaze slid down the length of her body with new interest. “When—and if—you start working for me, you’d better remember who’s boss. D’you know Mitcham’s, on State Street?”
Cassandra nodded.
“Be there at eleven. But if you’re late, the deal’s off and Melly will have to pay back her own debt.”
* * *
Mitcham’s was smart, the swankiest restaurant in town. Cassandra wondered what she ought to wear. This wasn’t a date. It wasn’t even really a job interview—she wouldn’t be paid for what she was about to do. She was going there to make herself the willing victim of extortion, to present herself to her pimp to see if she was up to the job. As she got ready, she felt sick to her stomach. But she still made an effort to look good—a body-skimming black sheath dress that flattered her figure and, underneath, her most revealing underwear. Chestnut hair tumbling in glossy curls around her shoulders, shimmering eyes and lips, a dab of perfume behind her ears. If she was hot, if Aston Moore found her attractive, perhaps he would put her to work somewhere smart, where the men would pay more. A better class of clientele? Who was she trying to kid?
At five minutes before the hour, she walked up the steps of Mitcham’s, peering at the brightly lit interior through the open door. She’d never been there before—it was way beyond her budget. But she occasionally heard of people going there for a special celebration, and it featured in the local papers regularly for sponsoring a nearby children’s charity. To Cassandra, it seemed a strange choice of venue for the job in hand. But maybe he owned Mitcham’s too.
As soon as she stepped into the lobby, her way was barred by an officious mâitre d’.
“Madam, I’m sorry—the kitchen has closed for the night,” he said in a genuine French accent.
“I’m meeting Mr. Aston Moore.”
His whole demeanor changed at her words.
“Please, your coat…”