The Pawn (Endgame #1)(13)

He wouldn’t do that, would he?

I glance back down the stairs as if I have a chance to escape. “The photographer’s already setting up? How did you know I would come?”

“Desperate times.”

The men of the Den control this city with wealth, influence. Power. “Familiar with desperate measures, are you?”

“They’re my bread and butter.”

“Drugs,” I say, accusatory. “Guns?”

“Sex,” he says, his voice mocking.

No, my hands aren’t clean. But I still feel out of my depth. I may have benefited from my father’s secret criminal deals, but I never knew about them. “Yes,” I whisper.

“So innocent,” he murmurs. “This is a whole new world for you, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t sound sympathetic. I’m a curiosity to him, something to bat around like a mouse between his claws. “You don’t have to make me cooperate. I’m going through with it.”

His smile is almost sad. “I know, little virgin. You don’t have a choice.”

With that he turns from me and leads the way down a hall.

Dread clenches my stomach, but he’s right. I don’t have a choice.

Part of me wonders why they wouldn’t take the pictures downstairs, with the beautiful crown molding and elaborate furniture. I find my answer as soon as I enter the small room. It might have been a bedroom for servants, two thin beds on either side, the ceiling slanted above us. The window is old enough to be made from warbled glass, lending a dreamy look to the light, almost as if we’re underwater.

There are white photographer screens placed around the room that only seem to amplify the effect. On one side a man fiddles with a large camera on a tripod. He looks up when we come in, his bushy eyebrows rising. “This is the subject?”

I swallow hard, thrown by the lack of hello. I’m already an object to be photographed for auction, a chair or a rug. Not a person anymore.

“She’ll take the dress off,” Gabriel says.

My breath catches. “Do I really need to do that? I thought the sundress might be…”

“Provocative?” Gabriel offers blandly. “Perverse? Yes, but some of the men on the invite list can be rather…obvious. They would prefer to see skin.”

“Right.” I swallow hard. “It’s just that I didn’t have any…any sexy lingerie. Just my regular stuff.”

“Your regular stuff?” Gabriel asks with a lift of his eyebrow. “Show me.”

Only then do I realize I’ll have to undress in front of two men, one I’ve just met. Only then do I realize that showing my regular underwear and bra is somehow more intimate than a matching lace set.

This is something I thought only my husband would ever see.

Shaking hands reach behind me to unzip the dress. The straps slide off my shoulders with the simple movement. I stand like that for a breathless, frozen moment, knowing there’s no going back.

I don’t even have to push the dress away from me. I let my hands fall to my sides, and the soft material falls down my body, a caress as solid as Gabriel’s golden gaze.

“Jesus,” the photographer mutters, staring at my plain white bra, the white panties.

I manage not to cringe. This isn’t what a sexy woman would wear. This isn’t going to earn anything at auction. “I’m sorry,” I whisper miserably.

I’ve only just started this and I’m already failing.

“It’s perfect,” Gabriel says, sounding almost reverent. “You’re perfect.”

Goose bumps rise across my skin. It takes everything in me not to snatch my dress, not to run from the room. Maybe he does need to ensure my cooperation. I’m already trembling, and all they’re doing is looking. How will I stand it when a strange man climbs on top of me?

I look away, at a point on the plain whitewashed walls. “How should I stand?”

My voice is stiff, betraying my nerves.

Footsteps come closer, and I know without looking that it’s Gabriel. It might be something about his gait, graceful and confident. More likely it’s the way my body electrifies whenever he’s near.

He touches my chin and turns my face to him. “I’ll show you.”

There’s something almost encouraging in his eyes, a strange infusion of strength. I shouldn’t trust it, shouldn’t trust him, but I find myself standing straighter anyway. “Okay.”

“We’ll start with some shots from the front.” He moves to stand behind me, brushing my hair over the tops of my breasts, arranging the heavy locks over my face. “The advance pictures will hide your face.”

“They won’t know who I am?” It’s a small relief that there won’t be half-naked pictures of me—identifiable pictures, including my face—circulating in the city.

“If they want to know who you are, they’ll have to pay ten grand.”

“Ten grand,” I gasp, shame and elation warring within me. If enough people show up, I can pay the real estate tax bill. “How many men do you think will come?”

“Damon will keep the attendance fees.”

Of course he will. He isn’t hosting the auction out of the goodness of his heart. A perverse amusement rises in me, imagining this as a charity auction—my family’s tattered dignity the cause. We could set up little cardboard boxes for quarters at gas stations. Maybe organize a bake sale. “And I’ll get the amount that’s bid?”