He selected a cheese-stuffed mushroom, appreciating the effort someone had put into making the food, although it tasted like straw right now. He ate another, then held a piece of melon in front of the slave’s mouth. “Eat, chica.”
Her eyes lowered, but not before he spotted the icy flash. She took the morsel, her soft lips grazing his fingers. He fed her several more, alternating with his own meal, then held his fingers for her to lick clean. He noted the pause before she obeyed. Although she subdued her body language skillfully, the tiny muscles around the eyes and mouth were difficult to control, and her eyes were an open window to her emotions. He could see she’d hated taking food from his hand. Hated him.
He needed to get with the program. “Behave as if you’re interviewing her for a job,” Special Agent Kouros had coached, obviously doubtful Raoul could manage.
“What talents do you possess?” Raoul asked, taking the plate and setting it on the end table.
She shifted her weight on her knees. “I don’t have any skills, Master,” she murmured, almost inaudibly, as if she didn’t want the Overseer to hear.
No talents? Doubtful. Perhaps she hoped he wouldn’t buy her? Was it him she disliked or all the buyers? Did she hope to remain here? “What happens if you’re not bought tonight?”
She couldn’t control her flinch. So her aim wasn’t to remain with the Overseer. She preferred one of the other two buyers? Raoul glanced over. Perhaps she hoped she might escape more easily from a fat or an old master? Clever girl.
But both buyers were sadists. Not good. And he could tell from her flinch, something bad happened to girls who didn’t get sold.
How could he leave this young woman here to suffer? Gabi’s friend. He couldn’t.
Some of the foul taste left his mouth. At least he could save one girl. The agents would go ballistic, but they’d find an alternative plan.
And if they couldn’t?
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. In buying Kimberly, he might doom the others. His gut tightened. There were no easy solutions to this nightmare.
“Can you cook?” he asked.
“Yes, Master R.”
Not going to expand on the answer, was she? He chuckled. “Must I drag the information from you?”
She went white with fear. “No, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”
His anger at the slavers rose so hard and hot that his hands clamped on the chair arms. He forced himself to lean back. “Bring me a fresh drink.” And let me get past wanting to strangle every bastard in this place. He damn well wanted this evening over with, but no chance of that. No buyer would spend this much money without a test-drive first, and if he offered for the girl too soon, Dahmer would make him for a fraud. Play the part, Sandoval. Even if you terrify her.
She returned, knelt silently, and held the glass up.
As he sipped his drink, he studied her, learning how she breathed, how she shifted her weight as her anxiety grew. In her late twenties or early thirties. Average height, skin slack rather than taut, so she was normally rounder. Softer. Her nipples a pinkish brown and large. A long, almost-healed red scar wound along her left rib cage, reminding him of his gang-member days. Knife scar.
Tracing a finger over her scarred remnant of violence, he saw the momentary vulnerable quiver of her lips before her mouth flattened. Gabi had described her friend as exuberant, and he could see lines of past laughter bracketing her mouth and veeing out from the corners of her eyes.
She was joyful no longer. Grief at the loss was a smudge on his soul.
“She dances, you know,” the Overseer said, stopping at Raoul’s chair. “Intelligent. An excellent cook. Not a particularly good singing voice, but you forget that when she dances.”
Raoul glanced down at her. “Dance for me then, slave. Something seductive.”
She rose gracefully. As she hurried away, he noticed whip scars on her back. “Tell me more.”
“A marine biologist from Georgia, middle-class background. Healthy, single, no children. A lightweight in the lifestyle before.”
“Whip marks. A recent knife cut. Was she sold before?” Raoul asked.
“Well.” Dahmer cleared his throat, smoothed his black suit. “She was picked up for the ‘rebellious slave’ auction.”
Raoul raised his eyebrows as if confused, although he knew exactly what Dahmer was talking about. His best friend’s submissive, Gabi, had been one of those kidnapped to be sold.
“Ah, each sale event has a theme. The last one featured feisty slaves with prior BDSM experience. Sassy. Bratty. Designed to give a master a challenge. I’m afraid she didn’t live up to her promise. The owner was displeased and requested a refund.”
The buyer had obviously taken his displeasure out on Kimberly. “So she’s used merchandise. What’s wrong with the other two?”
“The blonde is…awkward. She would do well in a comfortable environment, but she exhibits poorly.” The Overseer turned, and the young woman cringed at his frown. “The redhead is older. She wasn’t on our list, but since she witnessed a pickup being made, the deliveryman Tasered her and brought her along as well. She has a few sellable talents, but her age puts her in a lower price range.”
The bargain basement for slaves. Exactly as advertised. Since he hadn’t known if the slavers investigated a buyer’s financial status, Raoul hadn’t tried to fake extreme wealth. Instead during the interview, he’d asked about lower-priced slaves, figuring it would consolidate his story.
“Well, Blackie has possibilities,” Raoul said.
“Excellent.” Satisfaction oozed from Dahmer’s voice. “But test her out thoroughly this evening. We’ve found that buyers make better choices and are more satisfied if they take their time and put the merchandise through their paces.”
“Makes sense.” He thought about playing with a nonwilling participant, and his gut tightened.
Raoul looked up as Kimberly reentered the room, now covered in veils. “Well…” he let himself say with an appreciative murmur.
Dahmer laughed. “She belonged to a modern dance group that put on shows for charity. I had an experienced slave give her lessons in erotic dancing and… You’ll see.”
The music started.
Concentrating only on the Middle Eastern music, Kim walked in a slow circle as the chiffon material trailed behind her. The other veils covering her body fluttered delicately against her skin. Barefoot, she turned slowly, presented a hip, rotated, letting her hair swing. Slow turns. Arms moving to emphasize her body’s curves. She let the scarf in her hand float away and replaced it with the one covering her face.
Knowing her stamina was poor, she’d chosen a short tune. To heck with Hollywood’s Dance of the Seven Veils—she was doing four, and that was that.
As the beat picked up, she began the undulating movements, ignoring the painful pulling of the barely healed muscles over her ribs. She concentrated on the dance, trying to ignore the men watching. All of them. The Overseer’s face had flushed with lust, and she concealed a shudder. Music. Think of the music.
One more veil and her breasts were bare. She shimmied as her teacher had taught. The middle-aged buyer swallowed and leaned forward. She turned her gaze away. Her body wanted to dance; her soul needed to flee. Her brain knew better and took control, forcing her feet closer to the darkly tanned buyer. Eyes down, she managed to smile appealingly and not grimace. Another spin. Move closer.
She lifted her head finally. Her eyes met his, and he trapped her gaze as tightly as he’d gripped her hair earlier. Yet his look was warm, so warm, and when he released her, he seemed to have taken off all the chains binding her muscles.
The music poured around her, rocking her in its embrace. She floated through the dance, the beat of the dumbek ruling her hips, the song of the mizmar moving her arms and shoulders. Each foot came down exactly right, the feeling indescribable.
Removing the last veil bared her completely, but the sound increased, pulling her after until it slowed and stopped.
She realized she’d knelt in front of Master R instead of in the center of the room. As if he’d keep her safe from the others. The murmur of conversation came from the other two buyers and the Overseer.
Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. Out of shape. She hadn’t danced since before Lord Greville had… Since before. A film of moisture dampened her body, and the breeze was cool against her skin. Naked. She hated the feeling of being unclothed in front of men. Why hadn’t it seemed a problem in the clubs she’d visited in the past?
Because it had been her choice then. And she’d stripped to please and arouse whoever she was playing with. Right now, the thought of arousing anyone wasn’t at all appealing. Yet if she didn’t, the consequences…
She’d still been recovering during the last private sale—thank you, God—but after the buyers had left, one slave had remained, unwanted and unsold. The Overseer had given her to the staff. The woman’s shrill screams had eventually died, sometime late in the night, and the next day, she’d returned to the locked room. Not a person anymore; nothing lived behind her blank eyes. The Overseer had fined his staff a week’s wages for ruining the merchandise. And the slave had…disappeared.