Don't Trust A Killer(4)

By: Cynthia Eden

His eyes narrowed.


He didn’t smile at her, but she could have sworn his eyes gleamed. “The guard outside of my door is named Remy St. Clair. He’ll take you to see the floor manager and get you squared away with the uniforms. I’m sure there’s some paperwork somewhere for you.” His voice sounded disinterested, and he was already turning toward his computer.

“Thank you.”

She waited. He didn’t reply. So, Bree cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said again, louder.

He let out a little sigh as he finally looked up at her. Kace seemed confused about why she was still there.

“It’s polite to thank someone,” she told him in a very calm voice, “when the person does something nice for you.”

A furrow appeared between his brows. “What on earth makes you think I did anything nice for you? Didn’t we cover this already? I don’t—”

“Do nice, right. It just seems nice.”

Now he leaned back in his leather chair. Kace seemed to like leather. Or maybe he just enjoyed expensive things. Judging by the paintings on the walls—she was ninety percent certain the one to the left was a Jackson Pollack—Bree was going with option B.

“Ms. Harlow, I haven’t done anything nice. You’re hired on a temporary basis. Let’s call it probation, shall we? It’s the same for all my employees. If you want something permanent, you’ll have to make it through the night.”

Why did he make it sound as if surviving the night was some incredible feat? She could do a night of waitressing, no problem. She’d done it before. Over and over again. “I’ve got this.”

“We’ll see.” He motioned to the door. “Good-bye.”

The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, not even waiting for her to leave the room.

But that was fine. She’d gotten the job, and she’d gotten a one-on-one interview with the big boss himself. Talk about a stroke of luck. Sure, he might act like an asshole, but she’d known exactly what he was before she’d strolled into his club.

Bree opened the door and found a tall, muscled, dark-haired man waiting for her. Had to be Remy St. Clair. Unlike Kace, this fellow was dressed in a fancy suit, a gray one with a white shirt tucked underneath. He stared at her from unblinking, chocolate eyes.

“You’re hired.” He didn’t seem overly surprised.

She glanced back at Kace’s office. “You could hear us?”

“No, but you’ve got a great ass, and he doesn’t usually say no to blondes with good asses. The customers will like you, and that’s good enough for Kace.” He turned on his heel. “Follow me.”

She’d happily follow him, despite the ass comment, because when he led her through the corridors, she got to see all sorts of things in the club. The VIP area was on the second floor, filled with dark, one-way glass. There were dressing rooms, storage areas, and— “Um, I’m sorry, is that a trapeze?” She’d stopped in the middle of Fantasy’s main floor, her gaze darting to the ceiling.

Remy stopped, too. He looked up. “Yep.” He sounded absolutely bored out of his mind.

“Why is there a trapeze here?”

He sighed. “You’re not going to be on it, so why worry?”


Remy turned toward her. “That’s the big reveal. The surprise. The club is called Fantasy for a reason. Kace is going to have performers out here doing one of those crazy Cirque-type shows. Flying through the air. Contorting. The show will start at midnight, and, according to Kace, it will be absolutely killer.”

Bree glanced around the area. “Will there be a net?”

“Hell, no. That’s not exactly exciting, is it? Where’s the danger if a net is involved?” He started walking again. “Come on. This way.”

“So, this place is—”

“A high end, very high-priced fantasy environment. Kace will have performers walking through the crowd. Performers who will be wearing very distinctive attire so they won’t be confused with regular staff.” He stopped before a door marked “Management.” His gaze pinned her. “Something you should know. Kace doesn’t tolerate anyone messing with his staff. There will always be bouncers on the floor. Guards close at every moment. If something goes wrong, someone scares you, then all you have to do is signal.”