Page 24 of Sin & Sapphire

“I won’t,” I said in English, loath to reveal I spoke French fluently.

“Très bien,” the other answered before unlocking a door with his thumbprint. “Le patron n’a pas de patience pour la pagaille,” he said, when the door opened. Too bad I was made of trouble these days.

The door opened with a loudka-chunk, revealing a long concrete hallway lit with flickering fluorescent lighting and nondescript doors on either side. The men led me into a room and shoved me into a chair.

“We don’t appreciate cheats here,” one of them said. “Especially ones working with criminals like Jean-Marc St. Etienne.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protested as they tied my legs to the legs of the chair, spreading my knees obscenely. One of them peeked between my legs and made an appreciative noise before attaching my arms behind me.

The reality of my situation caught up to me as I realized how much trouble I was in. “Let me go!”

The two thugs laughed. “Fucking American tourists who think we’re less sophisticated than Vegas because we’re not American. You’re wrong, you stupid little girl. And now you’re going to pay for it.”

A third man entered the room. He was tall, imposing, and wore a suit that cost more than I’d made today, that was for damn certain. Handsome, or would have been if my eyes hadn’t caught on the brass knuckles wrapped around his tattooed fingers. My heart pounded a mile a minute as I ran through my options. If they figured out who I was, they might not touch me, but then I’d be on the first flight back to Yorkfield.

Or Angelo would hand me right back to Grégoire Tchérnov, and I’d find myself back on that yacht, drugged so he could rape me yet again, or worse, force me into marriage like my father had intended. No thank you.

I opened my eyes wide and relaxed my knees, so my skirt rode further up my thighs. He tilted my chin up with one gloved finger. “I see you spreading your legs for me like the stupid Americanputeyou are. That won’t save you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.

The thug in the suit sneered at me. “You’re a filthy cheat, and you’re going to get what filthy cheats deserve.”

“How could I be cheating? I didn’t win anything!”

I hadn’t. I’d closed out with almost exactly as much as I came in with.

“Jean-Marc did,” the thug said. “You’re lucky the stakes were low today, little thief.” His blue eyes sliced through me, cold and deadly. “And you’re lucky you’re pretty enough that I regret what I’m going to do next.”

Who the fuck is this man?

My mind raced through my knowledge of French organized crime and came up empty. He backed up and backhanded me hard enough to snap my head to the side. Blood filled my mouth.

Shit.

I resisted the urge to harden, to show thisputain du merdeexactly who he was dealing with. Instead, I whined and let my eyes fill up with tears.

He chuckled. “Regretting your life choices now?”

A fourth man entered the room. “Patron? L’autre dit que c’est elle la responsable. Qu’elle a organisé l’équipe pour ganger gros.”

Shit. Jean-Marc was ratting me out, lying to save his own miserable ass.

“C’est faux,” I snapped, keeping my accent terrible in an effort to further hide my antecedents. They didn’t need to know I’d been raised in expensive private schools and spoke several European languages fluently. “C’est Jean-Marc le cerveau.”

“Stupid fucking Americans,” the main thug mused. “I don’t actually give a fuck who was in charge. Both of you will get the same lesson.”

He punched me in the stomach, and this time, the groan came naturally.

The man worked me over methodically, boredom written on his face—quick blows to my sides, and then one more on my chin that left me reeling.

He nodded to the two thugs remaining in the room, who each hit my ribs and my face, leaving me moaning in pain. They were good. I didn’t think anything was broken, just bruised and bloody.

The man in a suit surveyed me, exhausted, in pain, tears streaming down my face, as I slumped in the chair. In my previous life, I never would have permitted myself the weakness of crying. But in this one? Anything to convince these assholes to let me go.

The door opened again. “Patron?” Boss?

“Pas maintenant,” he snapped. Not now.

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