Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

“I’m tracking down an old business associate of my father’s. It’s always nice to renew old friendships.”

Oh, sure. Friendships. “What are we really doing here?”

He smiles a slow, smoldering smile. “Always so quick, Bethany. You don’t need to worry about that just now. What you do need to do is play a part, and play it well. If you’re a good girl, you’ll earn some privileges.”

“Like what?”

“More freedoms. Nicer things. And when this is all over, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“And if I’m not a good girl?”

He leans in closer and whispers, “You wouldn’t like how I punish.” He smiles wider. “Or maybe you would.”

He stands up and snaps his fingers at me. Imperious jerk. “Come on.”

“Come on, what?” I say, staying where I am.

“I need a red carpet look from you. There are things for you in our cabin. Be ready in an hour.”

I scramble to my feet. “An hour? If you want a red carpet look, you’re going to need to give me three.”

“Two.” And then he’s walking away.

I growl in frustration. “Sure, let me go bust my ass for my kidnapper so he can have some candy on his arm tonight,” I mutter, stalking along the deck of the yacht. On the inside, though, I’m celebrating. He’s going to take me ashore tonight. It’s sooner than I’d hoped.

There are indeed things in our cabin, most notably a vivid red gown hanging up on the wardrobe door. It’s encrusted with shimmering crystals. Holy moly. Now that is a dress.

There are a few basic hair things like shampoo and conditioner, bobby pins and hair spray. I wash my hair and body and shave my legs and underarms. There’s no hair straightener or curling wand, so I put my naturally curly hair up into pin curls to give them better definition, winding each one up and securing it to my head with a bobby pin to dry.

The makeup is all in prepackaged kits from high-end brands, so it’s decent enough quality, but the colors are all pretty random. Whoever purchased it—Boris, I’m presuming—bought five different shades of liquid foundation, I guess hoping that one of them would be correct. I test each one on my collarbone until I find more or less the right shade, and apply that, along with bronzer, eyeshadow, mascara and blush.

There’s no concealer, though. No eyebrow pencil. No primer. No highlighter. No emery board for my nails and no red nail polish. This isn’t going to be so much red carpet as pub carpet, despite the incredible gown. Oh, well. I’ve tried my best.

As I gently unravel each of the pin curls, I wonder if I’ll be able to escape tonight? Damir’s going to be watching me with laser focus, and so will his men, presumably. I’ll just have to play it by ear. Whenever I decide to make a break for it, I’ll have to make sure it’s the right time. I’ll only have once chance.

You wouldn’t like how I punish.

I don’t know what scares me more. That I wouldn’t, or that I would. I eye the bandage on my inner thigh, gnawing at my lower lip for a moment. Could we get so deep into crazy shit that he might actually kill me by accident? Or on purpose? What if I begged him to do it? Choke the life out of me. Plunge the knife in deep.

“Damir Ravnikar,” I mutter, as I take the dress down and step into it, “I think you may ruin me for all other men. And that’s definitely not a compliment.”

I put on the dress and a pair of high heels, take one last look into the mirror, and then step out onto the deck. Night is falling, and the view is glittering. Tonight, I’m seeing Monte Carlo. What a way to do it, coming ashore from a superyacht on the arm of a billionaire on the run. I feel like a Bond girl. No, a Bond villain’s girl. Remembering how disposable women are in those films and how often they end up dead, though, perhaps it’s not the happiest of comparisons.

Boris is standing by the speedboat, his hands clasped before him in the manner of a secret service officer. As he looks at me, his face slackens in surprise, but he quickly recovers his composure and firms his mouth. His eyes, as they look into mine, hold regret, or distress, and I wonder if he feels some sympathy for my plight. But a moment later, the expression passes.

“Princesa.”

Damir moves li

ke a panther as he steps forward to take me in his arms and press a warm kiss behind my ear. “Krasen,” he murmurs. “Magnificent.”

He’s wearing a gray suit and an open-necked black shirt, all immaculately cut and fitting close to his body. He’s freshly shaven, and his eyes gleam like precious stones as he looks down at me.

He helps me down into the waiting speedboat, and into a seat. I feel wildly unsteady in the rocking craft in these high heels, but he keeps a tight arm around my waist. Boris is at the wheel, and then we’re speeding over the water through the sunset. The salty wind whips at my curls.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my eyes on the shimmering shore.

“A casino, to look up an old friend.”