King’s (The King Trilogy #1)(9)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

I began to hum “She Loves You” by the Beatles, something I did whenever I felt nervous. After about ten minutes of standing around in my heels—a pair of black Jimmy’s with very sharp points that could easily double as daggers—I reluctantly decided to sit at the lonely desk. I hadn’t forgotten how he’d used it against me, but tried not to think about it. Instead, I ended up chewing on how little I knew about this man, King. I knew he had an empty office, he liked expensive suits, he smelled incredible, and was the biggest bastard I’d ever met. Oh, and he also belonged to a really weird club. 10 Club.

Yes, I had returned to those mysterious doors the morning following my unsavory introduction to King. Inside were an empty hallway and a lone elevator with a golden plaque to the side: 10 Club. Members Only. Later, when I got home, I looked it up. The club was for people of “considerable social standing” worth ten or more. Billion, that was. I’d thought it sounded pretentious—perfect for a man like King—but what struck me as odd was the lack of any further information. One would think such a club might have some philanthropy kudos, really nice ads, or fancy pamphlets. Something. But the club was just as mysterious as King. Who, by the way, didn’t even show up in a Google search (“king detective,” “king agency,” “king 10 club”). Nothing. The man had to be living under an alias.

After thirty minutes of waiting, my humming ceased working its magic, so I got out my phone and answered emails as a distraction. One hour later, still no sign of King. There were no signs of any clients, either. No one came in. The phone didn’t ring. The place felt like a ghost town.

“Just missing the tumbleweed,” I mumbled. And that’s when I got to thinking. He probably worked out of some other office. Maybe he had a day job—sadistic investment banker?—and kept this office for his side business or hooker rendezvous. And he probably had no intention of showing up early. Perhaps he would make me wait the entire day just to prove a point.

Fine. If that’s what it took, I could wait. In fact, I’d go out at noon for lunch, grab my laptop and come back here to get some work done. Which is what I did. I didn’t see the point of being bored or unproductive. Not when I had five hundred emails to answer, including four from Sean asking why I hadn’t come to New York lately and why I hadn’t answered any of his emails. I responded by saying that I was sorry, but I’d been tied up on a special project. He’d probably think I was finally seeing someone seriously.

I managed to get through another one hundred emails of extreme distress from my team at work. The holiday fragrance campaign was going to hell because of an unforeseen supply issue with the packager. Great. Now the rest of my life was falling apart. And King was nowhere to be found. I needed to talk to him about his real “price” because I couldn’t just sit around here all day. And while thinking it over this last week, no way had he been serious that he wanted to “own me.” How ridiculous. But as five o’clock rolled around, I began to wonder if he’d ever show. I’d give him another hour; then I was out of there.

A minute before six, I shut down my computer and slid it into my case. When I looked up, King’s masculine figure filled the doorway. I hadn’t even heard the door open or close.

I stood up and stared at the man. He stared back. I was about to say something such as, “Nice of you to show up,” but then he walked right past me as if I wasn’t even there. He entered his office and closed the door.

What in the world?

“I can’t do this,” I muttered. There was no way he was going to be of any help finding Justin. That woman who’d referred him had to be off her rocker or getting some kind of kickback. Yes, maybe this was a scam targeted at desperate people with missing loved ones.

Of course! I bet they wandered into that center for missing persons all the time. It would explain why the woman had been so nervous, how King had known about Palenque, and why he acted like a depraved sleazeball. Because he was.

I’m such an idiot. I grabbed my stuff to leave, but then the phone on the desk rang. At first, I wasn’t going to pick it up; however, something urged me to do it. “He-hello?”

“When your brother called you the other day, did you believe him?” It was King’s deep, unforgettable voice.

“Sorry?” Was the guy really calling me from the other room? I couldn’t decide if that was eccentric or just rude and creepy.

“It’s a simple question, Miss Turner. Did you believe him? Did you believe that he didn’t want you to come looking for him?”

How did King know that? I hadn’t told anyone the details of our conversation, not even the lady at the Center for Missing Persons.

“I don’t—ummm…I don’t know,” I replied, shocked as hell.

“And did you believe Jamie Henshaw when she said your brother got on a plane to London?”

“How do you know about that?” I asked.

“It’s a simple question, Miss Turner. Yes or no?”

“No.”

“That will be all. Good night. Oh—and, Miss Turner, you work for me now. You will call your office and resign your other job immediately. You can also tell your lover you won’t be seeing him anymore. You’ll have no time for trips to New York.”

What? He knew about Sean, too? And he couldn’t possibly be serious about me quitting.

“So you want to hire me? To do what?” I asked.

“Hiring implies I will pay you. However, may I remind you that you are the one who is paying me. With your life.”

He was serious? “How do you expect me to live?”

He laughed. “You no longer have a life. You are mine—a term you’ve already agreed to. Just as I have agreed to find your brother, which I will. As for the ‘what’ you will do? The answer is simple: as you are told, Miss Turner. Anything I ask.”

“But I—”

“I am not the sort of man who deals kindly with welshers, Miss Turner. Are you a welsher?”

“No.”

“Good. Because I would hate for you to find out what I do to people who displease me.”

What the f…?

“Have a good evening.” He hung up, and my jaw dropped.

I barely pulled myself back from charging to his door and pounding it down.

Instead, I left. I needed to get out of there, to breathe. All of my assumptions about King were wrong. He wasn’t just an eccentric, wealthy bastard. He was the devil. Downright evil. And how had he known the details about the call from my brother or the embassy?