“She’s gonna be the one doing the hard labor. It’s up to her,” the man says.
I force myself to meet his dark gaze. “I need a million dollars for a month. Up front,” I make myself say.
“That’s a lot of money, even for a sweet little thing like you.”
“You said it was up to me. That’s what I need.”
His gaze holds mine, and I’m sure he’s about to say no. Laugh at me.
One million dollars would get my dad totally in the clear. We could start over. I could go back to school. And if he ever gets involved with the goddamn Mafia again, I’ll kill him myself.
The man is still looking at me, unblinking, still with that calculating, hard look in his eyes.
“Everybody out for a minute,” he says in a quiet voice that makes it clear he expects to be obeyed.
And he is. Everyone—the dancers, the suits, even Harry—file out without a complaint. Harry closes the door behind him, and then it’s just him and me.
“Samantha, huh?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m Dante.” I nod. The name suits him, elegant and edgy all at once. “Stage name or real name?”
“Real name. I’m too new for a stage name.”
“What do you mean?”
“This was my first night.”
He studies me for a while. “Why do you think you’re worth a million dollars, Samantha?”
I glance down. “Because it’s a month. And because I’ll do whatever you want without complaining.”
“You sound desperate.”
“I kind of am.”
He stands up and takes a few strides toward me. It takes everything in me not to back up a step. He walks around me.
“Is this how you usually dress, Samantha? Is this how you’ll dress for me?”
“I’ll dress however you want me to.”
“Do you usually dress like a whore?”
I close my eyes. “No,” I whisper.
He reaches out and runs a big, calloused hand down the side of my waist, and I tremble. Not all of it is from fear. I’ve never had a man even touch that much bare skin before, and it’s a shock.
Not entirely an unpleasant one, and that’s sick, because what kind of girl wants a strange man touching her?
“Why are you so desperate?” he asks, standing in front of me, hands off me now. “Look at me.”
I force my gaze up to his.
“Why?” he repeats.
“My father owes someone money. He’s running out of time.”