Married for Amari's Heir. Maisey Yates
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demand.
It came one day after he’d made contact for the first time. A call to her cell phone from an untraceable number.
She knew what he looked like. Rocco Amari was famous, the media’s favorite businessman playboy. He had model good looks, shiny cars, shinier girlfriends. Basically, everything you needed to capture the attention of the public.
She had seen him before in print images, but she had never heard his voice. Until yesterday. Until he’d made contact. She’d realized quickly that she couldn’t outrun him, that she couldn’t hide from him.
Not without pulling up stakes and disappearing into the night. Leaving her little apartment, her restaurant job, her small group of friends. Becoming a vapor, as she’d been in her childhood. Invisible. With few enough things to stuff them all into one bag so she and her dad could run quickly if they needed to. Then her dad could drop her at his mother’s for “a while” at a moment’s notice.
No. She hadn’t been able to face becoming that person again. A ghost in the human world, never allowed to touch anything. Never allowed to be a part of anything.
So she’d stayed.
Which meant pulling a much more brazen con than she would like. One that would hopefully end this thing with him, and see her on her way. Free and clear. She had to go to him, convince him of her innocence.
But he hadn’t been playing by her rules. And then he’d finally called.
* * *
“Charity Wyatt?”
“Yes?”
“We’ve never spoken before, but you know who I am. Rocco, Rocco Amari. You have something that belongs to me, my pretty little thief.” His voice was deep, his Italian heritage evident in each syllable. It was the kind of voice that seemed to have a flavor all its own, something smoky, like Scotch and cigars. It curled itself around her, around her throat, made it difficult for her to speak.
“I am not a thief,” she said, injecting a note of ringing conviction into her voice. “My father is a con man and he—”
“And you are his accomplice,” he said, the certainty in his voice squashing the false ring of conviction in hers.
“I need to explain. He lied to me. I didn’t know what I was doing!”
“Yes, yes. Very nice, hysterical cries about your innocence. However, I find myself unmoved.”
She bit her lip, trying to force herself to feel persecuted, to call up everything she’d felt when her father had left. So that he could hear a truth that wasn’t there. “But I didn’t mean to steal anything from you.”
“And yet, I find myself short a million dollars. And your father is nowhere to be found. Things must be made right.”
“If I could get hold of my father, I would see that he returned the money.” Even though she knew it had been put into other assets by now.
“But you can’t get hold of your father, can you?”
No. No she couldn’t. Even if she could, she doubted he’d be on hand to bail her out of trouble by putting his own neck on the chopping block. He’d left her to deal with this on purpose.
“However,” Rocco continued, “I find that I have a suggestion for you...a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Yes, but I do not discuss important business on the phone. You will receive instructions tomorrow. Follow them, or I will change my mind. And I will press charges. And you, Ms. Wyatt, will spend quite a few years in jail for fraud and theft.”
* * *
And that was how she found herself here. With these instructions, with this bag, with the dress that was still sitting in its garment bag, because she was afraid to look at it.
But then, ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away. Ignoring Rocco wouldn’t make him go away. Wouldn’t remove the threat that had been placed on her freedom.
She would have to go to the meeting. She would have to comply with his instructions.
And after that, she had no idea what she would do. Her eyes fell to the lingerie bag again. A shiver of disgust wound down her spine. She didn’t know what his offer would be, but a suspicion was starting to form. One that didn’t sit well at all. One that, now it had entered her mind, would not be removed.
It was silly, of course, because she couldn’t imagine why he would want her in lieu of a million dollars or justice. But there was lingerie. That fact remained.
No matter what her concerns, she had no choice but to comply.
It was either that or jail.
And as terrifying as the bag of lingerie was, an orange jumpsuit was far, far scarier. There were enough courtroom dramas on TV painting law and order as a great equalizer that Charity knew most people must see the justice system as something that protected them.
She never had.
Her father had talked about Robin Hood. Twisting tales where thieves were heroes and anyone in uniform was out to shore up the impossible walls built around the rich and elite. Walls that kept people like them down and out.
Yes. The law was nothing but evil. Jail, the worst fate that could befall someone like them because they could disappear in there. No one on the outside cared about people like them. The ones on the bottom rung of society. They had to take care of themselves, because no one else would.
There was a very large part of her that still clung to those teachings, was still shaped by them.
But she’d talked her way out of worse.
She just had to find her angle.
And once she found it, she would exploit it to the best of her ability. And her abilities on that score were pretty damn good.
Rocco might think he had the upper hand...and she would allow him to continue thinking that.
* * *
The dress was so tight that Charity could barely breathe. Sheer layers of black lace that clung to her curves and revealed hints of skin beneath. There had been shoes in the bag which, somehow, fit her, just like the dress. Just like the lingerie. The heels were tall, and given the brief hemline of the garment, lengthened her legs and showed a whole lot more skin than she was comfortable with.
Which was, in many ways, going to work to her advantage. The fact that she was uncomfortable in these clothes would help. She could use it, and use them.
Charity took a deep breath and walked through the black entryway doors of The Mark, her impractical heels clicking loudly on the black-and-white-striped tile. She walked through the lobby area into the entrance of the restaurant, feeling her face heat when the hostess appraised her.
The woman’s expression remained neutral, and yet, somehow, Charity sensed a hint of disdain beneath it.
She could well imagine that women in tight, tiny dresses only served one purpose in an establishment like this. If Rocco had intended to humiliate her, he was doing a very fine job.
Yet again, not necessarily a bad thing. Because she could embrace that. Go ahead and welcome the heat she could feel spreading in her face, the slight trembling in her legs. All the better to play the part of shivering ingénue.
All the better to appeal to his humanity.
“I’m here to see...Rocco Amari,” she said, placing a slight hesitation before his name. Getting into character already.
This earned her a slight smile. “Of course, miss. Mr. Amari keeps his own private table