Page 2 of Passion's Wicked Torment

“Hey, quiet down.” He grasped her upper arm, and his expression became threatening.

“Let me go, you bully!” she said loudly. More people turned to stare at them. Kristin knew she was putting herself in what could turn out to be very grave danger, but she had no choice. The man was going to force her out of the club now if she didn’t do this. And once out, she knew there would be no way of getting back in. Raising a ruckus, making a scene, was the only way.

She began fearing that her hopes were to be dashed and that she had gotten herself into hot water as the pit boss began pulling her toward the stairs. “You’re hurting my arm!” she declared loudly.

“I’ll hurt more than that,” he growled, his eyes darting to the left and right.

She continued making a scene, when suddenly a tall figure loomed up before her, cutting her short and halting the henchman’s forward motion.

The man wore an elegant tuxedo, which couldn't hide his muscular build. He had black hair and a face that was more than handsome. It was rugged and potently masculine. He had a square jaw and a contemptuous mouth. His brow was quite pronounced above his dark eyes.

He was glaring at Kristin with one eye narrowed, his hands on his hips. He had appeared before them so suddenly, it was as if he had materialized out of thin air. The henchman had to stop short to avoid running into him.

“What’s the trouble?” the tall man asked in a quiet, masculine voice.

“Boss, the dame here is raising a ruckus. I’m trying to show her the way out.”

“He’s trying to break my arm is what he’s doing! Look at the grip he has on me!”

Her false anger seemed to slide off the tall man’s hard, knowing features without registering. His dark eyes beneath the jutting brow looked at her coldly, instantly sizing up the situation.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to . . . to. . . . Who are you, may I ask?”

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

People were still standing around, staring at them. Kristin thought that since the scene she was causing had interrupted the gambling, the tall man would almost certainly welcome the chance to get her out of the main gambling room.

“Can we go into your office to talk?” she asked. She was certain that this was Dallas Hunter.

“No,” he said.

“I ... I came to ask for a job.”

“You can’t have one. Anything else?”

“I’d like to talk to you, please.”

“I’m busy.”

For an instant she felt like screaming: what have you done with my brother! But she knew this was not the way. Behind him, she saw the office he had come out of. Standing in the doorway, watching them, was a beautiful woman who was dressed elegantly. So that’s the type he’s interested in, Kristin thought.

“Blackie, escort the young lady to the door. Politely."

“Yessir, Mr. Hunter.”

“Leave word that she’s not to be admitted again.”

“Right.” The henchman named Blackie began pulling Kristin toward the stairs again. She did not resist. When they began descending down to the exit on the first floor, though, she turned back for an instant to look at Dallas Hunter. He was disappearing into his office, his arm guiding the beautiful woman in before him.

All right, thought Kristin. If that’s the way to play the game. . . .

CHAPTER 3

The gown she bought was silver lamé, shiny and extremely slinky. It made her blush just to see herself in the dress shop mirror. It clung to every curve, emphasizing the contrast between her slender frame and her full, shapely bosom. The gown was sleeveless and had a cowl front that dipped very low, exposing a good deal of her cleavage. It was backless too, meaning she had to buy a special slip to wear under it.

But it was worth it. The effect was truly stunning. Even the clerk whistled softly as she checked the dress for fit while Kristin stood before the mirror.

“I don’t know who you’re out to kill,” said the girl, “but this gown sure will do it.”

“I feel embarrassed wearing it,” Kristin admitted.

“You’ll get over it. You’d better if you don’t want to ruin the effect.” She smiled in a friendly way, but her eyes were pure business as she imparted some of the wisdom she had learned from selling high fashion clothing to upper class ladies.

“You can’t let the dress dominate you, as you’re doing now. You’re letting yourself be cowed by it. The only sort of woman who can wear a dress like this is one with true beauty, like you have. But the only sort who can wear it effectively is one who has beauty and the self-assurance that goes with it.”

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

“Stand straighter. Raise your chin. Pull your shoulders back. You’re hunching forward slightly, unconsciously. You’re doing this, you see, because you’re not used to wearing anything so revealing, and you subconsciously want to compensate for the show of cleavage.

"You don’t have to tell me you’re not used to wearing this kind of dress.” She smiled. “I can see it. But I can also see that you have the poise and grace that can bring it off perfectly if you just stop being so intimidated by the style.”

Kristin knew that what the girl was saying was true. Just wearing the dress would not accomplish what she wanted to accomplish. She would have to wear the dress and also act the part. She threw her shoulders back proudly now and raised her chin slightly.

She saw that her usual open, bright expression wouldn't work for the sort of image she needed to project. She deliberately erased her usual expresdsion. And she raised her eyebrows in an aloof manner.

“There!” exclaimed the girl, smiling and clapping her hands. “How haughty you are! How arrogant! You learn quickly, I’ll say that for you. Oh, I’d love to see the man who’s the target you’re zeroing in on. The poor sap doesn’t stand a chance.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Kristin softly. “But I don’t think you are.”

She remembered how tough and hard-boiled Dallas Hunter had looked. He probably ate little girls like her, a dozen a day. But at least this dress, coupled with her new poise and false image, would give her a fighting chance.

Later that evening she was in a cab on her way to the Crimson Club, her stomach knotted with anticipation and tension. She knew what she was getting into. She knew what would happen if her plan succeeded. Deep in her heart she almost wished the plan would fail so she could be spared that particular fate. But frightened and adverse as she was to what might lie in store for her, she knew she had to go through with this. Chad’s life might depend on it.

She caught the cabdriver looking at her hungrily in the rearview mirror. She expected him to make some lewd comment, but instead he did something totally unexpected: He lowered his eyes and appeared humbled. Thanks to the way she had made herself up and the way she carried herself, she looked like a woman of class and breeding. The cabdriver was actually intimidated. For all he knew, she could be the wife or mistress of a very highly placed, powerful man.

He could not see whether she had a wedding ring, for she wore long white gloves that came up to her elbows. She wore gold earrings, and at her throat was a diamond necklace. It was the most expensive piece of jewelry her mother had owned. Kristin’s father had given it to his wife on the day their first child, Chad, was bom.

On the clasp was a tiny inscription: To Molly, with love. Actually, Kristin’s own legal name was Molly Kristin Fleming. She had been named Molly in honor of her mother, though no one had ever called her anything but Kristin.

Kristin moved her hand up to touch her hair, and she felt sharply saddened. She had, very reluctantly, had it bobbed—cut short in the latest avant-garde fashion. This made her look older than her years, and much more sophisticated than she felt.

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