Hunted

By Jaycee Clark

Sins can be buried, but they’re never forgotten . . .

Morgan Gaelord has lived with the knowledge of her past and the fear of her secret for years. No one knows the truth behind her nightmares in the hellish Czech Republic underground, and they never will. She’s carved a life for herself, helping her brothers run the family antiquities business. Nothing and no one is taking this slice of contentment away from her.

Lincoln Blade III, owner of the premier Blade Jewelers, has put his past behind him. Retired from his days with InterPol and undercover operations, he’s enjoying the corporate side of life. He’s spent years in the cesspools of society, helping the lucky escape, and he has no intention of being dragged back.

But someone from both their pasts changes that. Women who escaped the world of sex slaves are being hunted and eliminated. When the victims are linked to Blade and his past, he’s forced back into a role he’d vowed to leave behind, and both he and Morgan must trust each other before the killer reaches his final target.

About the Author:

Jaycee Clark is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the wildly successful Kinncaid Brothers series, including Deadly Shadows, Deadly Ties, Deadly Obsession, Deadly Games, Deadly Secrets, and Deadly Beginnings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Sep 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781937349530

Book preview

Prologue

Czech Republic; late summer

The body landed in a tangle of naked bloody limbs.

Mikhail Jezek watched. Dried, half-decayed leaves, dirt and other debris sticking to her body as the girl rolled over the ground. The summer night breathed hot and thick around them all.

He sniffed and looked to the other woman who stood before him. Her face was bruised and battered, her lips split and cracked—from the beatings and the fact he’d denied her food or drink for days. Her eyes, those icy eyes, were blank, almost accepting, almost broken. Almost. She’d been a hellcat when he’d first found her. He’d tried to train her, to instruct her, to break her, but he was finally forced to teach her the hard way. Some had to learn the hard way. Mikhail brushed his finger down her bare arm. She was naked, but no one in their group noticed. No one cared, and no one else would pass by. It was desolate here.

Goose bumps pricked her skin in his finger’s wake and he smiled.

He hadn’t wanted to put this one in the brothels, she was a rare beauty. True grace and a face that rivaled those caught on priceless canvas, but she thought he was horrible. She would learn what true horror could be.

Tonight was just that. A lesson.

He looked from her averted face back to the still figure on the ground beside the open grave one of his men had dug earlier. They’d all known this was coming and he chose to end it now. Mikhail nodded once to his men. They stepped back, one pulling a gun free from a shoulder holster hidden beneath the dark jacket before looking back to Mikhail.

Mikhail waited, studying the stupid girl’s prone body lying on the night-dewed grass. He’d given that one the name Ebony. Some of the girls came to them complete with identification, visas, passports, which were all quickly destroyed. Others, he or his contacts simply found and liked. Either way, the girls became his. Ebony was one of those who he’d seen, liked and took. He didn’t know her true identity and honestly didn’t care.

You should, an inner voice warned him.

He ruthlessly ignored it and took a deep breath.

Stars glittered quietly from the dark sky. The headlights from his limo slashed across the quiet scene. The dark trees, still and silent, witnessed tonight’s events.

The other woman, Dusk, trembled before him. In darkness, things looked different. Not colored, but in a macabre, harshly contrasted black and white. Two of his men, Ebony, and the empty grave. Black on white, gray on shadows.

The leaves of the trees rustled near the wood’s edge. Creepy places, abandoned cemeteries, but it served its purpose. An old cemetery was a perfect place to dump a body. Rarely did anyone look for the dead if the place catered to that very need. His eyes stayed on the point of tonight’s venture.

Ebony, a lovely little Italian piece, had been beautiful once, but not now. Now she was bloody, dirty, no longer graceful, but broken. He’d broken her, let his men break her. Not merely reining her in, not only teaching her her place, but breaking her. If she’d come around, she would have brought him a pretty price. However, he’d learned long ago some losses simply must be cut and the profit forgotten.

Stupid bitch. She’d tried to escape.

Her dark matted hair twisted around her neck and face, blood trickled in rivulets from various cuts and wounds inflicted on her. Her arm lay at an odd angle from her body where it had been broken hours before.

Still she had whispered of vengeance, screamed it until her throat had been raw and hoarse.

Mikhail took a deep breath in through his nose. The woman before him still didn’t look at Ebony. He grabbed her face, digging his fingers into her chin and forcing her to watch.

This is what I do to those who try to escape me, he said softly.

She shut her eyes, the bruises and swollen skin marring the beauty of those thick-lashed, icy blue eyes.

He tsked and tightened his hold on her chin until she opened her eyes. You. Will. Watch.

Her eyes weren’t blank now, but shadowed with fear . . .

Good, she should fear him.

He nodded to one of the guards, who pointed the gun at Ebony’s still figure on the ground and pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Then his man moved the gun a fraction lower and fired off two more rounds into Ebony’s heart. The woman he held flinched with each bullet. He waited until those wide, tear-filled eyes rose from the girl’s body on the ground to him.

He smiled, shoved her forward and waited, made her watch while his men rolled Ebony’s body into the grave. He shoved her harder and she went down on her knees beside the grave, a small whimper moaning through the night, her fingers flexing in the loose dirt.

He pulled his own gun free—a wonderful CZ75. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. Would you like to join Ebony?

Her body trembled, her breath wheezed out.

He waited.

Her chest shook as she inhaled. She appeared as broken as the one they’d just disposed of, but he knew better.

Her hands were fisted in her lap, the knuckles marred and dirty on those long lean thighs.

Still a bit of anger left in her, was there?

He put the barrel of the gun at the base of her skull and waited.

She flinched and her trembles increased.

He could all but smell her fear. He smiled. Would you like to join Ebony, Dusk?

Still she only trembled, her head bowing.

He waited.

P-p-pl-please, she whispered, so quietly he barely heard her.

What was that? I didn’t quite catch it. Did you say something?

P-please, she said a bit louder.

"Please what, Dusk?"

Her body shook on another breath. Please d-don-don’t kill me.

He pressed the gun harder against the base of her skull, and she threw her hands out with a small cry to keep from falling into the grave.

A sob choked into the air, as the yawning grave waited . . .

Slowly, he pulled the gun away.

She didn’t move.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. You see, I can be lenient. He held his hand out, noting she winced as she stood, but then she would wince after the beating he’d given her.

As she stood, she swayed, but he tightened his hand on her arm, watching her eyes.

He waited until she looked at him, then he nodded back to the grave. This is what happens to those who don’t listen, Dusk, to those who scorn what I provide them, to those who try to escape.

She glanced to the side, down into the grave, the dark shadow open wide as if waiting to be fed again, and shuddered.

You won’t ever try anything so foolish, will you? he asked her softly.

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then those eyes rose back to him and he saw the acceptance in them. Slowly she licked her lips, then shook her head. N-no. No, I promise, I won’t ever do that. I won’t ever escape.

He smiled. She was right. She wouldn’t escape him. No one ever escaped him.

Chapter 1

Cheb, Czech Republic; December 2

The music pulsed through the floor into the room she’d been assigned. The body over her moved, plunging in and out in a purchased dance of relief.

His relief, not hers.

The music screamed in a language she couldn’t understand. She closed her eyes and wished for the end. The end of the music, the end of the job, just . . . the end.

She no longer cared if she lived or if she died.

He grunted, once, twice, and then stilled.

Her mind focused on the music as she always did. It was the only way to survive. The foreign words and bass boomed through the floor, a male punching the air, the vibrations hitting her as surely as the man who climbed off of her to sit on the side of the bed. From the sound, the club below was all but raving tonight.

She didn’t move.

Why? Someone else would be in, in a few minutes anyway.

She no longer cared if they killed her or not. At least then the torture would be over, an end to this hell of a nightmare from which she knew she’d never awaken.

"Kurva," he muttered.

She knew what the Czech insult meant, but didn’t care as she rolled to her side, heard the snap of the used condom, the slide of his clothing, the rip of his zipper. She could smell his expensive Armani cologne, his heavy cigars, over the stench of the room, of used sex and rancid bodies.

Sex sold. Always had, always would.

He muttered something else and pulled the threadbare blanket over her, its dirty material stiff and musty against her skin. She might not understand the words, but the tone was easily enough understood. He slapped her hard before walking away. She didn’t even try to evade. His expensive shoes thumped on the bare wooden floor as he walked to the door. Red haze slashed across the bed from the open doorway. She heard the girl in the room, crib, next to hers crying. Women were always crying here. For a while. Forever.

At least it was simply crying and not the tortured screams that the basement walls drank into their mortar. She would hear those screams even after she died.

Don’t think about that . . . Not that . . .

She didn’t look at him as he walked out the door. When it clicked shut, she sat up and looked around her room.

The dingy cracked window let in more cold air. She rose and stumbled to it. Bars obstructed her view of the old Czech city in winter. From here, she could see the street below, the city square in the distance with St. Nicholas spearing up, calling forth the weary. The church might as well have been another planet. A car zoomed by below and another. People going about their lives. Did they know what they were so close to? Did they know of the slaves? Did they care, or know many of the women here didn’t want to be here? Would kill to be free?

Biting December winds snaked through and around the small window. Wallpaper, yellowed and stained, probably with blood or semen or God only knew what, was peeled and ripped in places, hung down in others.

She didn’t care.

Caring would mean she’d have to face where she was. Another whimpering cry echoed through the thin walls. She tried to ignore it.

Another new girl. The vague curiosity of who the newbie was flittered across her mind, but it hardly mattered. American, British, French, Romanian, Croatian, Armenian, Italian, it didn’t matter. They liked girls here. Any age, any nationality, then again, any sex too. She’d seen the young men and boys down the street in another house.

The window was cool against her forehead.

This place gave them all a commonality. Humility. Shame. Though she knew the club owners did like the few Western women in their hold. It gave them a chance to demean and humiliate those who thought they were too good for places like this. Those who, in their normal suburban, SUV-driving, environmentally conscience, latté-drinking lives did not know hells like this still existed.

She had no idea how many Western women were here. She knew of two, maybe three of them for certain. There were women, and young men, from all over, mostly from war-savaged Eastern Europe. Others had simply been the lost, too forgotten for anyone to notice they were missing.

It didn’t matter.

Blood and nationality were stripped away. Status and wealth meant nothing here.

They were all the same.

They were all whores.

If she had anything left inside her, she might cry, but her tears had been beaten out of her, even drugged out of her, terrorized out of her long ago. Or it seemed long ago.

She’d had no idea of the month, though she now knew it was December because one of the johns told her Merry Christmas. When she’d looked at him blankly, he’d muttered it gutturally in English. He’d been pretending he was Saint Nicholas. She hoped his dick rotted off.

She’d last known it was the end of October because of the Czech Independence celebrations that had lasted all night with revelries in the streets. Then again, here, things tended to last all night anyway.

The light this time of year was a bit softer, the air colder. Though the last time she’d smelled clean air, seen an unbarred sky, was weeks and weeks and weeks ago. It could be Christmas today for all she knew.

The cracked dirty glass was cold against her forehead. She ran her forefinger over the crack.

November . . . December . . . Lots of embers here for her. There was no way out, no way out. There was a reason these places were historically called hells.

The afterlife held no fear for her.

She already burned. Burned with hatred at what was done to her. With pain they liked to arbitrarily inflict. With shame at what she couldn’t control.

At least they only used beatings and fear on her. Some were punished on drugs, addicted in the end and sooner or later died. What better way to control someone than to hold what they needed. It was all part of Mikhail’s punishment. He liked to use drugs as a punishment, just enough to get a girl hooked, and then take them away.

And right now, she wondered if it would be better in this hell if she went floating and jittering through on a fog of addiction.

Her hands shook as the hatred welled up in her. At herself. She was stronger than this, wasn’t she? Or was she? She no longer knew who she was.

Some part of her, some small part that she tried to ignore, knew, knew the drugs were simply a way for the bastards to control the girls more, a way to keep them in line and a way to make more money. Mikhail could easily keep the money for a screw, a job, and give enough dope to keep a girl doing anything for the next fix.

Need six cocks sucked?

Fine, so long as the fix came.

No, drugs were not for her. That would make it easier for her, and God knew Mikhail didn’t want it to be easy. Especially not for her. A hit of X would make her actually enjoy what was going on, and Mikhail wouldn’t allow that . . .

Fear trickled through her at the thought of what Mikhail was capable of, but it was quickly swallowed by a short burst of hatred, black and roiling, clawing up in her.

She hated herself to the point that the idea of breaking the window and slicing her wrists held a bright ray of hope.

Bright rays?

Hope?

There was neither for her. She was either too strong or too weak to kill herself. Like everything else in her life, she was in some fogged limbo.

A knock sounded before Dame came in.

You should be cleaned and dressed.

She should. When’s my next appointment?

Dame made a noise in her throat. You don’t have one, yet. Mikhail called.

She just looked at the woman. What made her want to please the lady? She didn’t know if she wanted to rage, and risk a beating or worse, or if she sought the woman’s help in order to ease things. Anything. Nothing. Things here were like freaking rabbit holes. Up and down were sideways. One unending nightmare.

Another song screeched and shook the floor beneath her bare soles.

Jezek called? The thought greased nausea through her. What did the bastard want now?

You’re to wear this, Dame muttered, tossing a silver dress across the bed, then a pair of strappy, scuffed, black fuck-me heels to complete the ensemble.

Why? she asked, noting her hand already trembled. Jezek. He’d left her alone for three days now. She’d thought that maybe, just maybe, he was tired of her.

Dame looked at her and pointed to the dress. "You’re to wear that. You do have an appointment, but it’s in Prague tonight. He’s a businessman and asked specifically to spend the night with you. Maybe he remembers you before, yes? When you were better, not here. The woman’s English was stilted. Though after Sparkle escaped from the other club, I’m surprised Jezek’s letting anyone out of his sight." Dame shrugged.

Sparkle. She knew when Sparkle had escaped. He’d been furious and he’d come to her. With his needles and cocktails and stories of horror.

Sparkle.

She, herself, was known as Dusk.

A wry grin pulled her mouth. At least someone got away.

Dame raised her penciled brow and pulled a gold cigarette case from her silk trouser pocket. The one Mikhail had given her for her loyalty just weeks before. You find something amusing?

Did they ever find her?

Dame jerked her bleached chic bob toward the wall. "Sparkle? Not that I know, but then I don’t know everything. We don’t speak of her. Don’t even think of her. Dame cursed beneath her breath, something about stupid. You have a job to do tonight. She motioned to Dusk. Hurry. You make this one happy. Dame sneered. If you fail, you’ll go below for a week. You hear? Be happy the last client merely complained to me and not to Mikhail or you’d be below right now. Clients must smile. That is motto, yes? You make trouble, you end up like that other one. You remember, yes? You’ve had two strikes against you already. Three times and you know what happens."

. . . that other one . . . whose screams she would forever hear. Gunshots in a quiet graveyard. She shuddered. The black monster of terror toyed with her mind and memories she begged to forget.

The other one. Ebony. Ebony, who had been Italian, said her father would kill these men if he ever found out what they had done to her. Dusk had been here long enough to know that most girls said something along that line, at least at first. So-and-so would pay them back. Then again, not most. Only the really brave, or the incredibly stupid. Either way, there had been a look in that girl’s eyes that sent a shiver down Dusk’s spine. Ebony had told the truth. Whoever her people were, Ebony was convinced they’d avenge her.

But the boys below had finished with Ebony before any word could be gotten to whomever she belonged.

Below.

Just the word greased her stomach with nausea. Below. She shuddered, remembering the smell of blood and dirt, the darkness. The screams that went on and on and on. Below was worse than a bullet in the brain, worse than the gun at the base of her skull, worse than the K trips Mikhail often sent her nightmaring through. Below. She shivered.

Dame came forward. Is not so bad, once you get used to it, and many of the girls think the desserts help, no?

Desserts, drugs, same difference. Dusk really had no idea. They only gave her ketamine that made nightmares real. Those trips were punishment. There had been the occasional hits of X so that she’d enjoy fucking her pimp, his idea. Or the rare times he wanted her complacent for a client. However, no girl was allowed to become a junkie. Drugs were used as much for punishment as anything else here. Anything else would cut into his profit. Everything here could be a punishment, she’d learned.

Mikhail liked a bit of fight in his girls, but not too much or the girl went from his perfectly designed home to one of the brothels, and if she fought too much here, then she went below.

You could have had it all, Dame muttered, shaking her head. He wanted you for himself, but you would not listen. She tsked. This is test. If you do this right, Mikhail may take you back.

The words jerked Dusk’s eyes from the cracked window back to Dame, who reached over and grabbed up the dress.

What? Dusk asked.

Dame unzipped the material and threw it at her, then motioned to the little bowl of water. There were no private bathrooms here. It was like a page out of history. A washstand and a bowl and pitcher of water.

Dusk didn’t let herself think of what she used to have. The small things she’d always taken for granted, like privacy, a locked bathroom door, warm running water, or a warm safe home, or people who really cared . . .

Perhaps conceding to Mikhail would not be so horrible. Either he fucked her in his mansion or he locked her here to have other men take her. At least with him she’d have warmth, and a freaking bath.

No.

Some things were better left in the black parts of memories. What was pride anyway?

Survival. She could hold out. She could.

The dress shook in her hand.

Dame pulled out another leather case. Dusk knew what it contained, she’d seen it before. Her throat closed up, her muscles tightened. Sweat broke out on her forehead, cooled her bare back.

Wash up, and you get a treat. The pouch opened and Dusk saw the vial, the syringe inside, the bag of white pills. Dame looked at her and asked around the cigarette, What?

Do you have to? The last . . . I don’t want . . . I’ll mess up. It’ll make him mad. She hated the tremor and catch in her voice, the thick coat of fear as she remembered the hellish images of torture the last drugs induced.

Dame shook her head. It’s not a hit of K, for God’s sake. She mumbled something in Czech, or maybe German. You think I want Mikhail down both our necks? Well, I don’t. I just don’t want to see you screw up again. I help you, give you a treat to make you more . . . agreeable tonight. Though you shouldn’t have anything. She tsked. At least you’re lucky. You have any idea how many girls we lose thanks to these little punishments of his? He never should have started. Cost too much. Girls get hooked, must keep them supplied or they get sick and stupid, or you lose money.

. . . more agreeable tonight . . .

She should tell Dame she didn’t want them. But a fog, not knowing what was going on . . .

You don’t need them . . .

Yesss . . . It would be easier . . .

A hit of X would make her enjoy the night, make her make the client happy . . .

That voice was dangerous, it could give her hope.

Dusk quickly washed, using the smelling oils they were forced to use. Hopping from one customer to the next with only a pitcher of water, you did what you could. Her long black hair was beyond fixing. Besides, the girls weren’t allowed mirrors.

Who is the next client? she asked, trying to control the tremors.

She sat on the bed and fumbled with the shoes. The buckles and straps wouldn’t work. Anger started to burn, but she tamped it down.

Anger was dangerous. It led to hope, to ideas best left forgotten.

Would he help her? Could she get away? Sparkle had escaped. Could she? Get to the embassy? She blinked, squeezed her eyes shut, and then opened them again.

Home, the girl inside her whispered. And like the memory of summer lemonade at twilight, hope flickered, rushing the blood through her heart.

She shoved away from that idea. Escaping was a death sentence. She’d think of what was ahead instead. The client. The job.

The job.

Escape . . .

If she ran, she died. Plain and simple.

. . . escape . . . home . . .

Home? If she ever managed to get home, she knew they’d not only kill her, but those she loved.

Some big dealer, Dame said, Mikhail wants to impress him. She walked over and started to pull the strands of Dusk’s hair up. This hair needs coifing, yes? She checked her watch. Best hurry, Mikhail wants you in Prague before his meeting so he can check you over himself. Already has the car downstairs waiting for you.

With guards.

Dusk sat still while Dame twisted her hair up and stabbed some pins in the mass.

The job. Plain and simple. One foot in front of the other.

Dealer? she asked. Drugs?

One penciled brow arched again as Dame stepped around and in front of Dusk, studying her work. She nodded, ran her hands along the sides of Dusk’s hair, smoothing fly-aways. The simple gesture twisted a longing inside of Dusk. She shut her eyes, then opened them as Dame blew smoke out of the side of her mouth, holding the cigarette between her lips while reaching for the bag of pills. Dame pulled two small pale blue pills out stamped with the devil’s head.

Please, no. I—I don’t need it. I promise I’ll be good.

It would matter to you? If this man dealt drugs? Her red-painted lips curved in a smile before a rusted laugh danced out. Like you should care. No, and client said he likes coherent partners. So no real floats for you. Just enough to take the edge off. It’s just a hit of X. He might give you more tonight, yes? What’s with the questions?

Her hands shook and she fisted them. Please, I promise, I won’t fuck it up, like you think. I’ll do whatever the client wants. Please. Please, Dame, I swear.

Dame studied her and then shrugged. I don’t care. She leaned down, her sharp eyes pinpricks along Dusk’s skin. You screw up tonight and I won’t cover your ass this time.

Dusk swallowed and nodded. Dame straightened and dumped the pills back into the bag and shoved it back into its slot in her feel-good trove. Dusk sighed.

Good, the client wanted coherent and lucid. Maybe she could get his help. But would she dare?

Did he have guards? Was he a decent man? Did this man have her for the entire night or just a couple of hours? Maybe the client wanted lucid and coherent because like Mikhail he loved to know the women felt whatever pain he inflicted to its fullest extent. Was tonight’s client as sadistic as her jailer?

Questions danced evilly in her mind, taunting as if they could call her hopes then laughingly shatter them with a vicious swipe of fear.

He deals, that’s all I know. Diamonds, I think. Maybe you get a pretty bauble out of tonight, yes? Dame’s eyes, some color between gold and green, shone with greed.

No girl was allowed to keep anything. Any bauble would go to Dame or Mikhail. Dusk took a breath, glad she didn’t have to watch Dame slide the needle into her vein. Tonight was just another job. She wouldn’t think, she’d just do it. Then it’d be over and . . .

And what?

Hope was for fools and idiots; she was afraid she was both.

Chapter 2

Prague, Czech Republic; 10:28 p.m.

Mikhail Jezek took a deep drag from his cigar, the expensive smoke filling his mouth and mixing with the fruity taste of Charbay vodka he and Reyer were sharing. The heavy oak flavor complementing the skopová kýta na smetane. He’d always liked the mutton with sour cream sauce. The dishes of vegetables, and finally the dessert had been cleared. Now the table only sported the frosted bottle of vodka, their glasses and the gems.

He and his companion smoked in relative silence. The club, seen through the two-way-mirrored, soundproof wall, raved tonight. Bodies clothed in spandex, skin-tight leather, whimsical flowing skirts, all strobed a rainbow to the occupants sober enough to watch.

Mikhail watched. He watched and smiled. Tonight should see a good take, not only of those inside there to party, but off those wanting a shot of more than the booze, and again off those who sought a bit more skin for entertainment. The boss would be happy.

Mikhail’s dinner companion cleared his throat. The man, a South African Dutchman, leaned back gracefully in his chair as if not a care in the world. He didn’t really care for the prick. Excitement trickled through him as he looked again at the glittering tray between them. Diamonds. Five million dollars’ worth of sparkling gems lay cold and brilliant on the black velvet.

Mikhail turned his attention back to the dealer.

One blond brow arched in silent question.

There was something about this man that did not sit right with Mikhail, but the man had his uses. Something about the dealer warned Mikhail the man was not to be taken lightly. Perhaps it was the eyes. Those eyes were black, not dark brown, or blue. Just black.

Mikhail took a deep breath and reached for one of the diamonds. Sierra Leone, you say? Out of which mine? The diamond mines are regulated. He rolled the sparkling gemstone between his thumb and forefinger. He snapped his fingers and one of his men handed him his loupe. This one was almost clear, with just a slight blue tint. The clarity was wonderful. He wished he could have seen them in the raw, but this would work. There was an allure to cut gems, shooting off prisms as light hit them this way and that. Mikhail wanted these. All of them. Even at this price. Setting the loupe aside, he studied the dealer.

John Reyer smiled, his black eyes narrowing. The smile could not be termed amused. The man’s features were as carved as marble statues in the old town’s architecture. His deep voice held a warning, like the sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber. There are ways to obtain anything if one can meet the proper price.

Mikhail again studied this man. They’d done business previously, though before it had been tanzanite from Tanzania and sapphires straight out of Sri Lanka.

I will need to think about it, Mikhail said.

Reyer shifted, leaning onto his elbow and motioning with his index finger to his own guard. The muscular man, skin the color of midnight, strode forward without a word and waited, holding the case. The dim lights in the black and red modern room did nothing to soften the guard’s bald features.

Mikhail sighed, disappointed, and released the gem, watching as it fell back onto jet velvet before the guard snapped the case shut.

How much time will you give me? Mikhail wanted those diamonds, but he’d not be seen as easy. Mikhail Jezek was never, ever easy. Everyone knew that. The gems were beautiful and several would be worth millions themselves once set in rings or necklaces. He liked to have jewelry made, special jewelry. It was a . . . hobby of his.

Reyer’s dark eyes didn’t blink. The man didn’t move. That was what was wrong with him. Most fidgeted in Mikhail’s presence.

Mikhail wasn’t known as Devil’s Advocate for kicks. Everyone knew he held the power. The bosses looked to him to keep things tight. The girls in the clubs cowered. Even his guards were on edge around him, but then they’d learned to be when he killed one of them for trying to help that Italian bitch escape.

This man, Reyer, didn’t move, didn’t twitch. Hell, he acted as if he were doing Mikhail a favor. Arrogant prick. Mikhail poured another shot of vodka and downed it in one gulp. He motioned to the bottle and Reyer ignored him.

Reyer tilted his head to the side, the rotating lights from the club slashing across his unforgiving features.

Tomorrow. I’ll return with the girl and the diamonds and you decide, Reyer said, watching him.

Irritation rippled under his skin.

You did obtain the girl I requested? Reyer asked, dropping the end of his cigar in the ashtray between them.

Mikhail nodded, the irritation bubbling into something more.

At that moment, the other door to the room opened. Two guards entered, their black jackets doing little to hide their submachine guns—Czech Scorpions with laser mounts—in the shoulder holsters. Not that anyone would mistake them for anything but guards. One man held a gold chain. The other end was attached to a jeweled dog collar. The collar was around the neck of a woman.

There she was.

Dusk. His Dusk.

Mikhail felt the same instant awareness he always did when he saw her. And the anger that she’d had the courage to refuse him and all he had to offer her rushed through him anew. Just as it had half an hour before when he’d seen her arrive and checked her appearance. He was in the position to have any woman he wanted and the one he wanted looked at him with disdain.

Still.

Dusk should have already come round. Proud little American bitch. He’d give her tonight. If she behaved herself, he might take her back to his place tomorrow, or the next day. For now, he’d simply remind her of her place. She was almost broken. He could see it, sense it, practically smell her tension and shattered pride. Nothing was sweeter than shattered pride, and he loved wielding the weapon that destroyed it. Yet even defeated as she was, the class was still there, a slow elegant grace not often found in women he knew. He wanted that. He wanted her, wanted to master her and all she was.

She wore her dark hair coiffed. The cheap silver dress caressed her curves like liquid mercury.

Reyer chuckled. You certainly live up to expectations, Jezek. He stood and straightened his jacket, waiting on the woman to be brought to him.

Mikhail motioned toward Reyer with his head. She is yours for the night, my friend. I must, however, insist one of my men accompany you.

Reyer speared him again with those damn eyes. I like to watch as much as the next man, but I find I like privacy for my own fucks, thank you.

Mikhail held his hand up to the guards. I never let any of my girls leave. He crossed his arms and smiled. The streets are much too dangerous for them.

Reyer looked as if he might argue, but then shrugged. "I will allow one man, and only one, but he will not be allowed to guard the girl all night. I have my own plans." Reyer motioned to the guard holding the chain, who looked to Mikhail before gaining permission to proceed. Mikhail’s guard, Peter, jerked the chain and Dusk toward Reyer.

She didn’t speak, but then she knew better. They only spoke if asked to, and then only very, very little.

Misgivings stirred in him, but he shrugged it off. He would be ruled by no damn woman, no matter how beautiful she was. If it was the last thing he did—he’d break her. Her eyes shifted from Reyer to him and he thought he might have seen a flicker in those icy eyes. He studied her harder, but her eyes were blank.

Dusk.

The name, the sight of her, though clearly thinner, had memories whispering through him.

Dawn. Mikhail cleared his throat. You have her back by dawn, he said, thumping the tabletop.

Reyer looked Dusk up and down. His fingers grazed her arm, her cheek, the collar. Mikhail watched as Reyer tilted his head, watched as Reyer’s eyes narrowed in appreciation of Dusk’s beauty in those high cheekbones, the perfect, flawless features. Her icy blue eyes, a contrast to the rest of her with her Latin skin tone and jet hair. Those plump, lush lips—God, what she could do with those lips made the blood pound straight to his groin.

Mikhail had left her in the club in Cheb for almost two months now, to teach her, knowing all the while what she would be forced to do. By the time he asked her back, she’d be thankful to him. Wanting to go with him, which is the way it should be.

Reviews for Hunted

[pcorrea3-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

WOW! that was an amazing story. I cried, cheered and cried some more! WOW!

[april moffatt · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Ug! There are so many storytellers out there that can’t write. This author is no exception.

Awkward phrases, forced characterization, and of course she breaks the cardinal rule of writing; show don’t tell constantly. This author really needs to learn her craft. I teach 6th grade Grammar and she makes many of the same mistakes my students make. The plot is OK. She has potential as an author but the writing! God the writing!