Читать книгу Hooked - Jane May - Страница 8

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom bursting with strip malls, luxury high-rises and enough bling to stretch across the Atlantic Ocean and back, Raymond Prince prepared to anoint a royal consort in the backseat of a cobalt blue Mercedes sedan.

With a full moon as his guide, Raymond unhooked the frontloading brassiere of his target market and chuckled to himself. Damn, if those tan-lined double Ds didn’t remind him of the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler!

“Nothing like the feel of genuine nappa leather seats against bare skin,” he said to the redhead whose name he’d forgotten after the second round of drinks. “So luxuriously sensual and soft, eh, babe?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, giggling. “But, Prince, you’re, you’re so, so…”

“Ready to drive a hard bargain, perhaps?”

Raymond sucked in his gut and had just unbuttoned his jeans when the echo of footsteps—specifically, high heels walking in a slow, determined gait—caused his gear shift to malfunction and his heart to sputter like a waterlogged engine.

The cause for his alarm was well founded. At this hour, the dealership had long since been locked and blocked. Nobody was permitted on the lot except for his security guard, Jorge, and he sure as hell didn’t own any stilettos.

“What was that?” whispered the redhead, failing miserably to cover her breasts with the palms of her hands.

“Probably nothing, babe, but let the Prince here check it out.”

Raymond slowly opened the car door, slinked out the side and peeked over the hood.

The news was not good. In fact, when he discovered the identity of the mystery guest, he clenched his perfectly veneered teeth with such force he nearly cracked his left bicuspid. He tried to duck for cover, but alas, it was too late.

“RAYMOND!” shrieked Sandy, his wife of twenty years.

Despite her petite stature, Sandy possessed the demeanor of a heavy-weight wrestler with the vocal chords to match.

“YOU LOUSY SON OF A BITCH BASTARD!”

“It’s not what you think, honey. I was closing a deal here.”

“With your fly open? Who the hell do you think you’re kidding?”

And just like that, Raymond Prince, the successful owner/ operator of a string of used car dealerships throughout Broward and Miami–Dade counties, saw his bank accounts go up in flames.

No more private lap dances at five hundred bucks a pop. Ka-ching!

No more custom-made suits from Milan. Ka-ching!

No more gambling junkets to Paradise Island and penthouse suites at the Atlantis. Ka-ching!

No more fifty-yard-line season tickets to the Dolphins or box seats to the Heat. Ka-ching, Ka-ching…

KERPLUNK!

“It won’t happen again, honey,” he cried, pulling at his salt-and-pepper combover. “I promise I’ll change.”

“You’re damn right you will!” shouted Sandy. “Like you would never, ever, in your wildest dreams imagine…”

Little did Raymond Prince know he was about to take a swim with the fishes.

Literally.