Page 143 of The Enslaved Duet
“Wouldn’t that mean the moors of the Peak District?” I asked, because I knew just how atmospheric those rolling hills of purple and red heather could be.
Pearl Manor was there, nestled in the landscape like the setting for every great British literary classic.
“The cliffs are more cinematic. Honestly, Cosi, I wouldn’t have called you if you were not my last resort. The shoot is in two days, and we’ll be going to Hell in a hand-basket if we can’t make this work for the next fall catalogue.” A long pause then he said, “Do I have to make Willa call you?”
I worried my bottom lip as my chest went to war with conflicting emotions. Jensen and Willa had been my mentors for so long. I didn’t need the additional guilt from Willa to know that I was beholden to them eternally for their generosity.
If lack of desire to return to the birthplace of so much of my misery was the only thing keeping me from accepting the contract, I would have caved in immediately. I didn’t like saying no to the people I loved. In fact, I abhorred it.
Still, this was my safety on the line, and that was something I had learned the hard way not to take for granted.
“I can’t. I’m sorry, Jen, I really am. If things were different, if it wasn’t in England, I would do it in a heartbeat. I hope you know that.”
He sighed heavily, but when he spoke there was a smile in his voice. “What if I told you Xavier Scott was doing the shoot?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Xavier Scott was a household name, and as a photographer, that was saying something. He did everything from the royal family’s photos toVanity Fairspreads andNational Geographiccovers. He wastheman behind the lens.
And he had never, not once, consented to work with me.
He was that famous. He chose his own models.
“He wants me?” I breathed like a child being told they could meet Santa Claus for the first time.
Jensen chuckled like the cat who ate the canary, knowing I was locked in. “He did.”
“Cazzo,” I swore under my breath, then said, “Fine. I’ll be there, but Jensen? I want a flight at the latest possible time and the first one out of there when we wrap.”
“Cosi, are you in some kind of danger if you go to England?” he ventured, suddenly somber.
“No,” I countered immediately, infusing my voice with a smile. “Only in danger of bringing up a past I would rather keep buried. Do not worry,bello, I’ll be fine.”
I hung up after exchanging more information about the particulars and let my head drop between my shoulders in defeat.
I was an egotistical maniac for going back into the den of my monsters.
More than that, I was a masochistic, fatalistic lamb willingly walking to my slaughter because a small, dark sordid part of me hoped one of those monsterswouldfind me.
“You look fancy,” Giselle said, appearing in the mirror behind me as she leaned against the doorframe and took in my black lingerie and dramatic makeup. “Big plans tonight?”
I slid vermillion red lipstick over the thick curve of my bottom lip and then carefully painted it into the exaggerated bow of my top one. “Nothing too exciting. I’m going out with a friend.”
My sister hesitated, then moved deeper into the room to sit on the edge of my bathtub. “Would that friend happen to betheMason Matlock?”
I sighed heavily, turning to face her worried expression. “What have you heard about Mason?”
“Just the rumors that he wants to marry you. I didn’t even know you were dating anyone, Cosi,” she said, hurt softening her voice like a bruise.
“I’m not dating Mason. When I first came to the city, he was a good friend to me, and occasionally, when he needs a date to a function, I go with him. As hisfriend.”
She blinked her huge pale grey eyes at me eloquently, obviously not believing me.
“I know you have your secrets,” she said before pausing for a pregnant moment. “We all do. I’m just saying, if you like this Mason or if he helped you out through our…leaner years, I won’t judge you for having a sugar daddy or whatever.”
Laughter erupted past my lips like champagne, frothing through my fingers as I tried to hold it in. How I wished my secret was as simple as trading my time and some sexual favours for patronage like some muse from the 1800s.
What would my sweet, innocent sister say if she knew I had sold myself through the broker of my father and the mafia we all hated so dearly into sexual slavery?
“Diosanto, Gigi, you have a brilliant imagination,” I told her when I recovered enough to speak.
