The Master (The Game Maker #2)(11)

My lips parted. He’d expected me to let myself out, without even saying good-bye?

Yes. Because my purpose had been served. He was looking at me like he might look at a used condom. Oooh, this man got my back up! He’d been all excitement and passion before; now the icy chill was back.

He sat on the edge of the bed, casting me a disgusted look. “I suppose you remain in the hopes of upselling me for the rest of the night. Maybe even offering me your private line?”

Although that was precisely what I’d been advised to do, I gave him a haughty smile. “I’m good for the night, and my private line stays private, querido. I’m just on my way out.”

When he dropped his towel and climbed into the high bed, I turned to find my dress. From the bedroom, he gazed out into the sitting area, rising up on an elbow. I caught him ogling my body, actually tilting his head for maximal viewing.

Keep looking—last time you’ll ever get to see it.

Once I’d gotten my dress on, he lost interest and shifted over on his back, bending one brawny arm behind his head. I’d been so affected by what we’d done, while he behaved as if he’d just completed a bodily function.

It hurt. I wanted to hurt him back. “Apparently I need to remind you that tips aren’t included.”

In a forbidding tone, he said, “There’s cash on the dressing room console.”

I found a gold money clip filled with hundreds. Maybe two grand’s worth. “How much?” I called.

“Take whatever you think your performance deserves.”

Performance? What a dick! I’d come my brains out, and so had he! So I took it all, including the goddamned money clip. Passing the bedroom door, I said, “Thanks for the tip, pendejo.” Asshole.

“I’m surprised you aren’t acting ingratiating.” He was still talking to me, engaging me?

I turned back to him.

Mocking sneer in place, he said, “You’re supposed to tell me how I moved heaven and earth for you. You’re supposed to fawn over me, increasing your chances that I’ll book you again.”

I gave him an aren’t you adorable? smile and purred, “Oh, baby boy, don’t you know statistics? Chances can’t be improved from one hundred percent.”





CHAPTER 6




On the long cab ride home, I took stock of myself.

Catarina stock had taken a beating in today’s trading. Even as I gave a bitter laugh at the double meaning, my fists clenched. While my body felt well-loved, a little sore, the rest of me felt cheap and used. He’d made me feel that way.

Before he could say anything more, I’d pivoted on my heel and left him, heading downstairs to face the real world. By the time I’d reached the lobby, I was shaking. Bright lights had accused me; it’d seemed all eyes were on me. Like everyone knew what I’d done.

When I’d asked for a cab, a gap-toothed bellman whistled one forward, but he’d smirked as he opened the door. “Madam.” I’d almost popped him in the groin, but refrained because of rule number five. No undue attention, Cat.

One measly paid sex act had netted me burning humiliation. But the money! Five grand and then the two I’d lifted. Seven thousand dollars! I could probably pawn the money clip. I had plenty to get out of town. Yet even my windfall couldn’t cheer me.

Dinero sucio. Dirty money, for dirty deeds.

I could now add hooker and thief to my rap sheet. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off this feeling. A mal tiempo, buena cara, Cat. To bad weather, good face.

When my cab was a few blocks from my apartment, I told the driver, “You can stop here.” Rule number two: never create links. If I didn’t take precautions, this cab’s route would link my home to the hotel.

He raised his brows. “Drop you in this hood?”

Nothing here could be as dangerous as what had lurked within my former Jacksonville mansion—my husband.

I paid the cabbie, and he peeled off. I crossed a murky abandoned parking lot in my stilettos, dodging a minefield of broken bottles, tires, rusted mufflers, and weeds growing amok.

My spirits sank even more as I came upon my shady apartment complex. I didn’t need the busted streetlights to see peeling stucco, rust stains, and duct-taped windows. Fat vines grew along the walls like tentacles claiming the building for the deep.

The interior was much, much worse. I felt fifty years older as I climbed the cracked cement steps to my studio apartment.

While I worked to unlock my door—it always stuck—movement to my side caught my attention. Mr. Shadwell, my creepy apartment supe/manager, stared at me with his buglike eyes.

He was one of those Florida rednecks who should never have left the swamp. He wore a sweat-stained wifebeater that showed off his puny arms and furry shoulders. He didn’t even offer to help me as I struggled with my lock.

In our last conversation, I’d asked him to fix my leaking roof. He’d propositioned me again. So for now, I kept pots all over my studio.

Already, he’d been hitting me up for “protection deposits.” My need for anonymity meant I didn’t get to do anything about it. Basically, I paid him not to attack me—as he did the vulnerable single moms, prostitutes, and undocumented workers in the complex, those who would never go to the police.

Shadwell was the reason I hadn’t saved money to move. Which was why I’d screwed the Russian.