Page 7 of Seven Sons (Gypsy Brothers)

He strokes my breasts, seemingly absent-minded. I want to push him away, to grab the silver letter-opener from his desk and jam it straight into the family crest on the back of his neck.

“You can clean up in there,” he says, pointing to the bathroom that adjoins the office. “Take a shower if you want.”

I’ll be taking a shower. The hottest fucking shower ever to burn your touch off my skin.

“I’ll be quick,” I say, high-tailing it into the bathroom with my clothes still held over my torso, covering my scars. I close the door, fighting an inner battle as to whether I should lock the door or not. In the end I don’t, but I pull my shorts on immediately, not bothering with the shower. I immediately feel better once they’re zipped up and the marred flesh on my hipbone is covered. I grab a towel from the shelf and run it under the faucet until the water is warm, adding a squirt of soap to the material. I wash my back as best I can. I just need to be presentable enough to get back to my hotel before I give myself third-degree burns in the privacy of my own shower.

I put my bra and t-shirt back on and look at myself in the large mirror that hangs over the sink.

A complete stranger stares back at me, so different I wouldn’t recognize her as me. Juliette had shoulder-length blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes. The girl I’m staring at has dark brown hair that skims her ass, thanks to extensions, bronzed skin, thanks to hours lying in a tanning bed, and dark blue eyes that still reflect the tiniest hint of hazel that the contact lenses can’t stifle.

I miss being Juliette. But I feel invigorated by my new appearance at the same time. The anonymity it affords me is something I underestimated when Dr. Lee and I were going over my surgical rework plans. I’m on an adrenalin high; having just screwed Dornan, my ass is throbbing but my spirit is elated.

I did it. I fucking did it. I fooled him.

He has no idea who I am.

Four

When I exit the bathroom, Dornan is back behind his desk as if nothing ever happened.

“So,” I say, as if I don’t already know. “Did I get the job?”

He stabs the air with his pen, gesturing for me to sit down. I drag out the metal stool from under the desk – the desk we just fucked on – and sit my throbbing ass down.

“You into drugs?” Dornan asks. “Drinking? What’s your thing?”

I shrug. “I’m kind of boring, really.”

Dornan smiles knowingly, and flashes his straight teeth. He and his sons might be rough and tattooed, but they all have amazingly straight, white teeth.

“Well,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, “I have a lot of sex with a lot of different people. Could that be a problem?”

His smile stretches so wide I think his face might break under the weight of it. “I don’t see that being a problem, no.”

“I do have one other problem,” I say, looking at the floor. “I mean, I just got here from Texas, I don’t know anyone … I’m staying at a backpackers’ hostel a few blocks away, but I’m going to run out of cash soon.”

He nods. “You need cash?”

I shake my head. “I don’t take money unless I earn it. I just need … somewhere to stay, a few weeks at the most.”

Say it, Dornan. Come on and fucking say it.

“That’s not a problem,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ll stay at the clubhouse. Plenty of extra rooms. You’ll have to sign a non-disclosure statement and agree not to speak with anyone about what goes on there, of course.”

Hooked, line and sinker. Sucker.

“What goes on there?” I say, my Bambi eyes as wide as I can stretch them.

“Baby girl,” he replies, clearly high-fiving himself for his luck today. “Why don’t you just see for yourself?”

He writes the address down on the back of a business card and hands it to me, letting his fingers brush against mine again. I see the glazed look in his eyes and a small burst of adrenalin spurts into my stomach as I realize he’s pretty damn taken with Samantha Peyton.

“Here,” he says, handing me a roll of crisp fifties. There’s probably cocaine on them. “Get yourself some nice clothes. Damn, I like those shorts, but you gotta wear something a little more upmarket if you’re gonna be working here.”

I laugh to myself, thinking that he still holds his club to such a high esteem even though he’s turned it from an artistic burlesque club to a strip club and whore house.

The cell phone on his desk vibrates and he gives me one last look up and down. “I gotta take this. Go shopping, get yourself some nice things to wear, and I’ll see you here,” he points to the address on the business card, “tonight. Be there at eight. We’ll go over everything then.”

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