The Master (The Game Maker #2)(4)

I took another sip. “Did you add crack sprinkles to this vintage?”

“I was fresh out of crack,” he said in a derisive tone. “What do you think of the view?”

I grinned over the rim of my glass. “I suppose it’s adequate. If you like this kind of thing.”

At my attempt at humor, he tilted his head. “I looked you up on your agency’s site.” Only a couple of the items Ivanna had listed about me were true—two-thirds of my measurements and my status as a CAN, certified all natural, with no surgical enhancements.

I recalled the fake bio she’d read to me: I like dancing (I hated dancing) and yoga (jogger here). In my spare time (as if I had any!), I enjoy performance art (no, gracias) and shopping (a form of torture).

“Your photo’s unusual,” he said.

“Is it?” Ivanna had taken pics of me on an out-of-the-way beach. I’d worn black boy-short bottoms that rode up my cheeks, no top, mascara only, and my hair piled up on my head. She’d chosen one taken from the back that I hadn’t posed for.

My head had been turned to the side as I gazed off at something. My eyes had been distant, because I’d been deep in thought—second thoughts—about this entire idea. Oh, and cursing Edward as usual.

The blood arcing across our bedroom . . . those ugly sounds . . .

Shake it off, Cat.

The Russian said, “It’s not your typical boudoir shot with flattering lighting and risqué lingerie.”

“A hobbyist like you would know, huh?” I drank more wine, frowning when I reached the bottom of my glass. “I’m not really a simulated boudoir kind of girl.”

Without a word, he refilled me. “What kind of a girl are you?”

A dogged survivor who believed in living to fight another day. But I told him, “A girl who believes in topless beaches for everyone. Viva la revolución!” I thought that was funny, but he just tilted his head again.

“Your photo makes a man wonder what you’re thinking about. That was by design, no?”

“I didn’t choose the one that was uploaded.” I’d only allowed Ivanna to use it because I’d looked a world away from the last pictures taken of me, when I was still a teenager.

“You’re twenty-six?”

Ivanna had inflated the number. “Old enough to know better.”

Máxim peered at my breasts. “Measurements: thirty-five, twenty-three, thirty-six?”

“Thirty-four and a half on a good day. I didn’t put that up either. I like my size.” I could go braless if I wanted to, but could still produce cleavage when necessary.

His brows drew together. I got the impression he was trying to fit me into a box, and having unexpected difficulties.

I could’ve told him, My ass won’t fit, yo.

“You have a marked accent. Not native to the States?”

“I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household.” With una madre loca, Catholic to the core. Despite her refusal to learn English, she’d homeschooled me until high school and kept most people away from our secluded beach. I didn’t like thinking about my childhood, much less talking about it.

“In Miami?”

I shrugged. Questions like this made me nervous. The less anyone knew about me the better. Connections to others were breadcrumbs. That was why I didn’t date, didn’t socialize. Not that I had time between scrubbing toilets and going to school.

“You don’t care to talk about yourself?” He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s a first.”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about my boring life. I have an idea: let’s institute a no-personal-questions rule.”

“And you think you can keep yourself from digging about me?”

If it kept him from doing the same? “Sí.”

“Very well, then let’s get down to business. I believe this is the part where you upsell me.”

Busted.

“I’ll only need you for an hour or so,” he continued, “but I don’t like to be mindful of such things, so I booked half the night. How much will it cost to let me do anything I desire to you?”

What would a guy like this—gorgeous, rich, condescending—want? “Some things aren’t on the table.”

A flash of anger. “Everything is on my table, little girl.”

This was turning into an issue. No, no, remember your mantra. When faced with a difficulty, good businesswomen said, “It’s not a problem,” then went to work fixing it.

“Though I’d love to get to know your body better”—I gave him a brazen once-over that seemed to surprise him—“I can’t provide some of the services you might desire. There’s not enough money in the world.”

“Such as?”

“BBBJ. In fact, bareback anything is out.”

“I have no interest in that. You replaced another tonight—I’ll expect you to do what she would have. What I ordered from your agency.”

I recalled Ivanna’s kink specialization: bondage, discipline, submission, and the like. She had gear all over her apartment. Had this guy requested her for more than her looks?

As a vetted hobbyist, he couldn’t be too dangerous. If he offered me enough money, could I trust a strange man to tie me up? To make me helpless?