The Master Read Free Page A

“Okay.” As I strolled past the pool, steam rose from the heated water. In
fact, the entire pool deck was heated. I crossed to the balcony rail and sampled the wine, sighing at the taste. I could see the appeal of drinking with this on tap.
    A warm gust blew, and I inhaled the salty air. My eyes went half-mast at the sound of the ocean. I could almost imagine I was on Martinez Beach. Nearly a century ago, my father’s family
had bought a long tract of oceanfront property near Jacksonville, putting it into a trust, never imagining the fortune it’d be worth today.
    Short of returning there, I would have loved to remain in this city. Unfortunately the only Miami in my future was M.I.A.M.I.: Money Is A Major Issue.
    If I made bank tonight, I could reboot somewhere as exciting, maybe LA or San Diego. I’d leave right after my last college exam, then get on with phase two of my reclaim-my-life plan:
Disappear Forever
. I’d buy a real fake ID (oxymoron?) and a social security number that would hold up under scrutiny.
    Here I was dreaming about bank, when I hadn’t gotten my donation, much less upsold him for more. I knew my hard limits, but other than that, I wasn’t sure what I would do.
    As I drank, I recalled the article Ivanna had made me read to help with my first date: The Top Ten Ways to Wow a Client. Suggestions included feigning breathless absorption when he talked,
pretending affection, faking orgasms, and always telling him he was right.
    Seriously?
    Máxim joined me outside, with the wine bottle in one hand and his drink in the other. He set the bottle on a nearby table, then stood beside me. The moon bathed his face, lovingly
highlighting all his chiseled features.
    Though unpaid, I began to relax. Regardless of what else happened, I was presently in the Seltane penthouse with a client who might just give me the FOTC. Fuck of the century.
    I took another sip. “Did you add crack sprinkles to this vintage?”
    “I was fresh out of crack,” he said in a derisive tone. “What do you think of the view?”
    I grinned over the rim of my glass. “I suppose it’s
adequate
. If you like this kind of thing.”
    At my attempt at humor, he tilted his head. “I looked you up on your agency’s site.” Only a couple of the items Ivanna had listed about me were true—two-thirds of my
measurements and my status as a CAN, certified all natural, with no surgical enhancements.
    I recalled the fake bio she’d read to me:
I like dancing
(I hated dancing)
and yoga
(jogger here).
In my spare time
(as if I had any!)
, I enjoy performance art
(no,
gracias
)
and shopping
(a form of torture).
    “Your photo’s unusual,” he said.
    “Is it?” Ivanna had taken pics of me on an out-of-the-way beach. I’d worn black boy-short bottoms that rode up my cheeks, no top, mascara only, and my hair piled up on my head.
She’d chosen one taken from the back that I hadn’t posed for.
    My head had been turned to the side as I gazed off at something. My eyes had been distant, because I’d been deep in thought—
second
thoughts—about this entire idea. Oh,
and cursing Edward as usual.
    The blood arcing across our bedroom . . . those ugly sounds . . .
    Shake it off, Cat.
    The Russian said, “It’s not your typical boudoir shot with flattering lighting and risqué lingerie.”
    “A hobbyist like you would know, huh?” I drank more wine, frowning when I reached the bottom of my glass. “I’m not really a simulated boudoir kind of girl.”
    Without a word, he refilled me. “What kind of a girl are you?”
    A dogged survivor who believed in living to fight another day. But I told him, “A girl who believes in topless beaches for everyone.
Viva la revolución!
” I thought that
was funny, but he just tilted his head again.
    “Your photo makes a man wonder what you’re thinking about. That was by design, no?”
    “I didn’t choose the one that was uploaded.” I’d only allowed Ivanna to use it because I’d looked a