I yank the hood from my head, my eyes adjusting to the dim light as adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream.

Fight or flight.

I’m ready.

I expect to see a smug man waiting for me, the one who sat at my desk like he owned it, but there’s no one.

I spin in a circle, barely keeping myself upright on the tall heels. I’m completely alone.

My first thought—did Scar bring me to the wrong place? I expected a bedroom fit for a bordello with a massive bed where Mount would force me to do whatever sick things his twisted mind desired.

But there isn’t a bed in sight. In fact, the only furniture in the room is massive bookcases lining every wall, two large leather chairs perfectly suited for the frame of a big man, a few lamps on the tables, and a sideboard with crystal decanters. My eyes scan the room from wall to wall, looking for the door.

Another shot of fear courses through me when I realize there isn’t one.

I swallow again, my mouth even drier than in the car, and focus on my breathing. This is New Orleans. Hidden rooms and secret passageways are run of the mill. It’s no big deal.

Except when the man you’re meeting has a history of making his mistresses disappear.

But that’s not what I am. I’m just the piece of ass he’s taking in lieu of payment for a debt. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I stand in the center of the room, waiting, and I see a dark glass bulb tucked into one corner of the ceiling.

A camera.

Is he watching me?

A shaft of courage, bolstered by my rage, straightens my spine once more.

For the first time in my life, I sure as hell hope Lachlan Mount is watching. I untie the belt of my trench coat and let it fall to the floor.

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