Wishing Well(4)

“I mean it, Vincent. Perhaps I can make my suggestion more palatable for a man like you. A wager?”

I stripped my eyes from the dirty girl to meet his gaze. “And what is it you’d like to wager?”

Craning his neck from side to side, the muscles stretching as he tipped his gaze up in thought, he answered, “The Castle versus the Wishing Well. I would love to get my hands on your home.”

A bark of laughter burst from my lips. “You’re offering your club? How is that supposed to interest me when I’m not in the business of managing those types of establishments? It would only be more work on my part.”

“Fine,” he grinned, “the profits from each for a full year. We keep ownership. We do the work, but whoever wins the bet keeps the money the businesses make for a year following the end of the agreed upon time period for you to complete your mission.”

Eyes drifting back outside, I saw the rain now pouring in sheets, Dirty Girl turning a corner into an alleyway with a small overhang for cover. Crouching down, she wrapped her arms over her shins and laid her head atop her knees. Her soaked hoodie concealed her face. “And what is my mission?” I asked.

“To create the perfect woman, tailored precisely to your specific tastes.”

Dirty Girl huddled closer to herself, the winds sending the rain sideways. “Not many women are willing to be a slave, Barron. Not for a man like me. My tastes are cruel.”

His laughter flowed across the table. “I never said it would be easy. Especially with the pampered women you date.”

My perception shifted, the reflection of my face in the glass superimposed over the young girl crouched and huddled. Her fear, her obvious lack of class, her narrowed stare on the businessman that whipped past her with their briefcases held over their heads to block the rain, the allure of her je ne sais quoi calling to me. Always up for a challenge, my lips twitched, the muscles in my body tightening as I considered Barron’s bet. “Do I choose the woman?”

“Of course, but I have to meet her before and after to ensure you’ve adequately changed her.”

“Meet her how?”

“An introduction at first, a taste in the end.” He paused. “How else will I know if she’s as well behaved as I’m sure you’ll claim she is?”

When my eyes shot to him, he shrugged. “We’re talking millions here, Vincent. I won’t simply take your word for it.”

“Any adequate businessman wouldn’t, or else I’d tell you now that I’ve completed the task and steal the money from your pocket.” Eyes darting to Dirty Girl, I asked, “What’s my time limit?”

“Three months. By the end, she will crawl if you tell her to. She’ll eat dirt if you demand it. She’ll thank you for letting me taste while you watch. Regardless of how I use her. Those are the terms.”

“Done,” I agreed, tossing the napkin from my lap to the table. I didn’t bother finishing my coffee before standing from my seat. Barron’s eyebrows shot up.

“Where are you going? It’s pouring outside.”

“To begin. I only have three months, might as well make the most of it.” Might as well steal a girl from the streets before she’s out of sight.

“You’ll get soaked,” he argued.

A smile curved my mouth. “That’s precisely the point.” Without bothering to button my jacket, I tossed cash on the table and bolted for the door, but stopped to turn to Barron at the table. “Come by the hotel tomorrow. I’ll let you meet her so you can gauge her behavior prior to my training.”

His expression was one of bemused confusion. “Have fun in the shower, my friend.”

With laughter on my voice, I called, “Au revoir ,” before stepping out into the storm, my steps hurried regardless of the fact I wouldn’t be seeking shelter until I’d secured my catch. I hated to admit that Barron’s wager added a spring to my step, a lightness about my shoulders I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Crossing the street, I winced in response to the dampness of my shoes, my suit sticking to my skin, the fabric drenched and possibly destroyed. However, the suit was a small sacrifice to this mission, a non-issue in contrast to the girl I approached on hurried steps. She flicked a glance at me as I slowed to a walk, my heels barely audible against the concrete beneath the drumbeat of rain.

Reaching her, I glanced down, my expression amused as she peered up at me from beneath her waterlogged hoodie. “Can I help you?” she practically grunted. Perhaps she would be too much of a challenge, her demeanor was sorely lacking.

Stepping beneath the overhang, I rolled my eyes at the sideways rain from which the small top did little to shelter us. “I was wondering if you enjoy sleeping on the streets.”

“Fuck off, old man. I’m not a hooker. Go get your thrills elsewhere.”

Taken aback by the comment, I focused on the one word that struck deep. “I’m not old.”

“The grey hairs say differently,” she retorted, satisfaction gleaming in her glare.

“Mademoiselle , perhaps you-“

Her head tilted up, brown eyes pinning mine. “What did you just call me?”

Stinging rain assaulted my skin, the fierce wind like ice. “I apologize, my native language tends to bleed out when I’m in shock. But, back to what you said to me, I’m not old, Dirty Girl, I’m only-“