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Midnight Romance Publishing

Renee Rose Romance E-Book Starter Library

Renee Rose Romance E-Book Starter Library

Precio habitual $11.95 USD
Precio habitual $22.95 USD Precio de oferta $11.95 USD
Oferta Agotado
Impuesto incluido.

This starter bundle includes:

  1. King of Diamonds (Vegas Underground Series, Book 1)
  2. The Director (Chicago Bratva Series, Book 1)
  3. Her Royal Master (Master Me Series, Book 1)
  4. Don't Tease Me (Made Men Series, Book 1)
  5. Alpha Bully (Wolf Ridge High Series, Book 1)
  6. His Human Slave (Zandian Masters Series, Book 1)



I WARNED HER. I told her not to set foot in my casino again. I told her to stay away. Because if I see her around my suite again, I’ll claim her as my own.  And once I make her mine, I’m not gonna set her free. 

I’m king of the Vegas underground and I take what I want. So she'd better run. Stay the hell away from my casino. Or I’ll never let her go.

King of Diamonds is a stand-alone mafia romance in the Vegas Underground series. No cheating, no cliffhangers.


NO ONE TAKES WHAT’S MINE. The lovely attorney kept a secret from me. A baby she’s been carrying since Valentine’s night. The night we were thrown together by the roulette wheel. She never contacted me. Meant to keep me in the dark. She’s about to find out what happens when you cross a bratva boss. Punishment is in order. Sequestering until the birth. And I’ll use that time to win her surrender. Because I don’t just plan to keep the baby—I plan to make his mother my bride. And it would be much better for both of us if she were willing.

The Director is the explosive first book in the USA Today Bestselling Chicago Bratva series. It’s a dark mafia enemies-to-lovers romance, complete with HEA and no cliff-hangers. It contains steamy bedroom scenes and a dangerous and possessive hero who falls hard for the woman he decides to claim for life.

Look Inside Chapter 1

King of Diamonds: Chapter One


I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls.

 I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. 

When in Vegas, right?

My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this.

I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. 

I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellisimo to get a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy.

Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. 

Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. 

But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing card with her here. 

But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment--only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels, because my car got totalled by a hit and run the day I arrived. 

Not that I plan to stay here long term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. 

If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it, because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. 

I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. 

“Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. 

I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather

“You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them pushing my cart around.

“I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.”

I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?”

I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. 

I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. 

“Well maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.”

Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information.

Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a key card to access.

“So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.”

The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room.

Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door.

They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues.

She knocks again and the talking stops. 

“Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. 


We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. 

They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them.

“Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.”

She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do kitchen, office and living area.”

“Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. 

The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but really, they are amazing. 

Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. 

It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys we passed slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move onto the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. 

She switches it off and wind up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.”

I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer.

She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully.

I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.”

She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.”

“Same routine?”

“Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.”

“Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous.

This place is the same as the last, as if they paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who ran the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect?

I make the bed and move onto dusting. 

From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. 

“What?” I call out, but then I realized she’s talking on the phone. 

She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.”

“Oh shit. Go--I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the key card for the rest of them?” There are three suites on this top floor.

She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.”

“Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.”

“Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves.

She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.”

I grab the vacuum and headed back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. 

“Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked.

“Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” 

“G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut.

My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out.

I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad-shoulders and back of another finely dressed man.

He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?”

I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me.

“Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?”

I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything.

He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands.

Stunned, I stare down at them, scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. 

He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like…” his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again, “—you—works in housekeeping.”

I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. 

There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassles and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.”

He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. 

“Are you bugging the place?” he demands.

“Wha—?” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot.

He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What, do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?”

I attempt to answer but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? 

He stands up and gives me a tiny shake, “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of vodka and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence.

“No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. 

He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wire tap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off.

To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. 

If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. 

So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips.

 I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself.  

Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wire tap while I shiver in my bra and panties.

I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I don’t have it,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” 

“Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?”

I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say.

He reaches for my bra. 

I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. 

I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.”

He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot.  

He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters.

Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. 

Then his brows slammed down, as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. 

That’s when things really go to shit.

He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?

I pee myself.


God help me.

I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thigh before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation.

Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

He stares at the dribble on the floor.  I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction.

He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation.

Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check for temperature. 

My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. 

He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.”

Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off?

Fuck it. I am a mess.  I step in, panties and all. 

I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell was happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment.

Keep it together, Sondra.

Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat.

Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry.

I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. 

The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. 



Son of a bitch.

My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my HR head why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom.

I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me--making me paranoid and itchy. 

“Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. 

Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. 

I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon.

Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up, here.

 I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” 

A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. 

I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. 

I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. 

She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first class asshole.

“Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” 

She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. 

“Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. 

I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. 

She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it.

I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. 

And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. 

Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive.

“It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too.

But this one--she’s different.

Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything.

I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. 

Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. 

“A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.”

Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up.

“Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women.  “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?”

This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together. “May I go?”

I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt.

She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. 

“I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed.

I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one.

And that’s my strangest thought, yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating.

“I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing.

Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.”

I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. 

And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation.

“Who are you and why are you here?”

She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin Corey Simonson works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars were out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. 

I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. 

She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” 

I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?”

“Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. 

“That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean one corner of my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. 

I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? 

She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” 

“You follow a guy here?”

“No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.”

I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. 

“Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So--” she shrugs. “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totalled when I arrived.”

“How is that your karma?”

“Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.”

I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?”


“Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.”

Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. 

Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck I need sleep.

She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?”

I was right. She’s smart.

The corners of my mouth twitch. 

“Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. 

Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy.

Oh yeah. I already set that up. 

But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. 


She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.”

Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her, now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. 

But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” 

Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself.

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