Cash Remington and the Missing Heiress (Sexy Dreadfuls Book 1) by Celia Aaron Page A

contenders, but the McLaren is low hanging fruit and will certainly do in a pinch.
    I climb the stairs to the palace portico and join the group of depraved fucks who came here to buy slaves. Vines, heavy with night-blooming jasmine, snake overhead, giving the place a pleasant scent despite the assholes milling about on the steps. Waiting my turn, I overhear several conversations about the anticipation surrounding the finest female to be auctioned off yet. They’re speaking of Collette. My Collette.
    I glare at the older Egyptian in the white turban. He has the worst plans for her, including “destroying” her “American pussy” the first chance he gets. His swarthy moustache is filled with flecks of food, and his protruding gut begs for my knife.
    He catches my eye, and I don’t look away. “Problem?” he asks in a thick accent.
    I smile, imagining his blood on my hands. “Not yet.” I answer in perfect Arabic.
    A taller man steps forward, the Egyptian’s security. “I suggest you back away, my friend.” His blond hair and brown eyes are familiar. An operator, likely a mercenary. British.
    “I suggest your boss mind his manners.”
    The blond’s eyes darken, and he reaches toward what I know is a holster under his jacket. Starting trouble here isn’t part of the plan, but the threats against Collette have my blood boiling.
    “Boys, boys. There’s plenty for everyone.” An attendant waves the Egyptian into the palace. The blond follows after giving me one more glare. I‘ll remember his face. He’s on my radar now, which is unfortunate news for him.
    Once the Egyptian is gone, I approach the attendant holding a tablet. Two burly guards stand at his back. They hold Kalashnikovs, the gunmetal gray so familiar to me it’s almost comforting. The attendant swipes across the screen, his bushy eyebrows hiding him from my gaze.
    “Name?” His nasal voice is almost as bad as the Egyptian’s.
    “Cash Remington.” I hand him my invitation, expertly recreated by the geeks at the agency lab.
    He examines it, then glances at my blue eyes with his beady brown ones before swiping through some more screens. “I don’t see your name on the guest list.”
    One of the guards shifts slightly, freeing up his range of motion to pop me should the need arise. It won’t. I’ll kill him and his friend before they can raise their guns. But it won’t come to that.
    “Check again.” I affect an impatient tone. The men who come to things like this believe they are the most important in the world, no matter how tiny their dicks are, or how useless they’d be without a little blue pill. Being an asshole is the way to fit in, so I add an impatient sigh.
    He swipes down a list. “Ah. I see you here. My apologies, Mr. Remington.”
    The boys at the lab must have finally hacked through and got my name uploaded. Late fuckers. One of the guards waves me through, and I join the steady stream of men. None of them have any idea there’s a wolf in their midst. I intend to keep it that way until the last possible moment.
    The marble floors gleam white, like the rest of the palace, and topless women stand on all sides, offering dates, wine, and local delicacies.
    I approach one. Her tear-shaped tits are perfect, the nipples upturned and a shade of deep brown. Plucking a date from her tray, I pop it into my mouth. The bottom half of her face is covered with a black gauzy veil, and her eye makeup is overdone in peacock shades.
    “Ibiza.” I whisper as I swirl the sweet date around my tongue and then down my throat.
    “Cash.”
    “The girl is mine.” I stare down into her light brown eyes.
    Her too-red lips curl beneath the patch of fabric. “The bounty on her is more than you earn in a year. I’ll have her whisked away from here before you get the chance.” Her accent has a decidedly Arabic lilt. For now. Ibiza is a chameleon, fitting whatever role necessary to get her bounty.
    We hired her to take care of the additional girls up