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

for auction. Two agents in the same operation would put the entire mission at risk, but a gun-for-hire like Ibiza could get in and out like smoke. The bounty on Collette is an added complication.
    I sigh. “Her daddy didn’t trust the CIA to handle it?”
    She smirks. “He bet two million against you. I intend to collect.”
    “We’ll see, merc.” I trace my fingers from her collar bone down to her hardened nipple. “You’re here for clean-up, nothing else. When shit goes down, grab the rest of the girls and get out.”
    I pinch her stiff peak, and she gasps.
    “Cash!” she hisses, the thin fabric in front of her mouth billowing.
    “What?” I squeeze harder. Then I twist the bud between my thumb and forefinger until her smile is gone and an entirely different look glazes her eyes. One I know well.
    “Stop.” It’s a breathy whisper.
    I let go and rub my thumb across her nipple. “Try to take my girl and we’re going to have a repeat of Algiers.”
    “I kicked your ass in Algiers.” She leans away from my touch.
    “You tried.” I snort and glance around. One of the Kalashnikov guards is eyeing me.
    I’d paused too long. Time to move. “But if memory serves, you ended up pinned beneath me, taking every inch and loving it.”
    I stroll to the next girl before Ibiza can retort. Snagging a glass of wine and passing up a tray littered with opium candies, I leave the merc stewing behind me.
    The line of wealthy bastards moves through the open, airy center of the palace toward a set of heavy double doors. The wide stairs beyond curve down and to the right, the way dimly lit. After all, what is a palace without a dungeon?
    I clock four guards on each end of the expansive inner courtyard. Two massive stone columns support the entire structure. In the very center, a skylight is open to the night, and a fountain on the floor matches the opening above to catch rainwater.
    More nude women stand around the edges of the room, offering more than just refreshments. An orgy of moans and slapping skin rises through the lofty room. I pass a threesome, the woman trapped between two hairy Russians. Turning at the last moment, I graze my hand along the round support column, affixing explosives painted to match the very same white of the stone.
    I continue my circuit of the flesh carnival. Several of the women look at me with desirous eyes. The depraved assholes line up in front of the gorgeous girls, looking for a taste or a fuck. The guards take no notice of me. Instead, they give all their attention to the debauchery. Once I reach the other column, I lean back against it and watch two of the women kiss and grind on each other. Smoothing a hand behind my back, I set the explosives. One of the women motions for me to join, her dark eyes promising pleasure. I shake my head, though their luscious bodies test my resolve.
    On a balcony to the right, a short, round man dressed in a brown robe with red stripes speaks to an assistant.
    Arnan, the warlord who rules this little corner of the world and runs the slave auction. He nods and rises, surveying all his guests below. His voice, thin and strained, wafts over the steady stream of almost a hundred men.
    “Friends! Welcome. Downstairs, you will find the most beautiful, most pure, and choicest of all women in the world. Spend coin and leave with one on your arm, on your face, or on your cock.” He laughs and disappears from the balcony, likely to meet us downstairs and start the bidding. I want to snap his neck. Instead, I crack my knuckles. Everything in due time.
    I make it to the stairs and follow the crowd of men, their conversations growing louder the closer they get to the bottom, their anticipation cresting. A wide room opens out ahead of me, the walls made of compressed brown sand and the floor made of the same.
    Metal chairs are set in a circle, surrounding a platform with a crooked wooden post at the center. A single iron loop is situated waist-high in the wood. The room