“A year? Of me?” She no longer sounded like a programmed auto-voice. There was actual emotion in there now. Okay, so it was shock, but it was still better than listening to that lifeless tone she’d had going a minute ago. “You want to use me for a year? Can’t you get other women? Is it because you only have one eye?”
He laughed loud and hard, attracting the attention of wary customers. “No, chère. I have no problems getting women. Believe it or not, some women find the eyepatch sexy. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve been asked to play pirate. There are a whole lot of women out there who want to pretend they’re being raided and pillaged.” He cocked an eyebrow at her as he smiled, but she obviously didn’t think he was amusing.
She gaped at him again, her eyes wide. Cute. Seriously cute. “Then why?” she whispered.
“You don’t need to know my reasons. You just need to know the price if you want my services. And my price is one full year, starting right now. A year in which you do what I want, when and where I want, no questions asked.”
“I-I-I…” She swallowed again. “How can you ask that of me when I don’t even know what you might want? What if you plan to harm me?”
She needed parameters. He could do that. He just couldn’t give her the details of why he wanted her and what he expected her to do. “Okay, here are the ground rules. I won’t do anything to harm you in any way. I won’t cause pain. I won’t inflict emotional or mental torture. I only want a year of your time and your compliance. It’s up to you. Just how desperate are you to live? Desperate enough to sign yourself over to a real outlaw?” He folded his arms and waited, confident she would make the right decision. She was seriously out of options.
As she thought it over, he signaled to the waitress for a water. A moment later the glass was placed in front of Friday. She snatched it up as though she were dying of thirst. As she drank, her eyes stayed on him. When the glass was empty, she clutched it to her chest. The cool, controlled facade she’d had in place since walking into the dive was gone.
“You can’t be serious, I can’t offer myself up as payment. It’s”—she cast around for the word, color leeching from her face as she did so—“wrong. No, barbaric. It’s barbaric.” Her blue eyes were wide with shock—or horror at the thought of spending a year in his tender care.
“You got some other way of getting me the credits you’d owe?”
He watched her eyes flicker as her agile mind raced through options. “I can pay you off over a set amount of time.”
“A payment plan?” He laughed again. She was too much. “For how long? Considering what you’ll owe me, bébé, you’ll be paying it off for the rest of your life. What’s one year compared to a whole lifetime of debt?”
“But it’s one year of…” The poor, sheltered little bee couldn’t even say the words.
“Of whatever I want,” he supplied helpfully.
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”
He shrugged. It was a pity, but not unexpected. “Then you die.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “There are no other options that you’ll accept?”
He knew his smile was feral and watched her shiver when she saw it. “Chère, you ain’t got nothing else to offer.”
He watched realization sink in and her shoulders slump. Striker didn’t like to see a woman defeated, but reality was sometimes a hard pill to swallow. He knew that better than most.
She licked her lips. “What happens at the end of the year?”
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go and leave you there.”
“Unharmed?”
“Unharmed.” But not unchanged.
Her hand shook as she put the glass back on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Striker saw the owner of the bar head toward them. Glen studied Friday thoughtfully, but wisely kept his conclusions to himself.
“Got incoming. Enforcement.” Glen cocked his head toward Friday. “They’re after her. They got a tip-off she was here.” He scowled as he scanned the room full of cash-strapped miners. “Not unexpected. They’re offering a reward.”
Friday sucked in a breath but didn’t freak out. Striker appreciated that.
“What do you want me to do?” The bar owner rubbed his jaw. It wasn’t a nervous action; it meant he was already thinking of scenarios and countermeasures.
“What’s it gonna be, chère? You need to decide. Time has just run out.”
“This isn’t much of a choice,” she snapped, showing some spine. He liked it.
“It’s the only one you have.”
She swallowed, bit her bottom lip, then straightened her shoulders. He’d expected to find dull acceptance in her eyes. Instead, he saw determination.