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his arm around Cassie’s waist as they joined Harlan’s small group of fun-seekers. On the deepest level of his being, two emotions stirred to life—revulsion and anticipation. The moment Bouchard’s hand touched him, Rafe had cringed, wanting nothing more than to kill the man on the spot. The last time Bouchard had touched him ... But anticipation outweighed the revulsion. After over a decade and a half of searching for the elusive billionaire, he had found him. It was only a matter of time until he sent the son of a bitch to meet his maker.
    Patience.
    Over the years, he had cultivated the invaluable qualities of perseverance, patience, and self-control.
    Rafe was one of six who entered the elevator with Harlan. Cassie and a bone-thin, middle-aged brunette were the only two women in the group. And the way the older woman kept eyeing Cassie, made Rafe suspect she was a lesbian. He knew for a fact that Cassandra Wilder swung both ways and proudly boasted to the press about her sexual exploits as a bisexual woman. Bouchard, though cordial with the others, seemed disinterested in the two women, in Rafe, and in the other three men.
    Once ensconced in Harlan’s limo, the group of seven settled back as their host popped a fresh bottle of champagne and filled their glasses to overflowing. Rafe sipped the sparkling wine while the others devoured theirs. He occasionally nuzzled Cassie’s neck and laid a possessive hand on her knee, all the while subtly observing the others.
    Twenty minutes later, the limo pulled up at the back of a dark warehouse near the Thames. A slightly inebriated Harlan exited first. His guests followed his lead like ducklings waddling behind their mama. After removing a key from his pocket and unlocking a heavy metal door, their host entered the building and led them down a dimly lit corridor to a service elevator. As the clanking elevator ascended, the sound of music and laughter drifted downward from the loft area.
    When they reached the top level, two naked, muscular black guards opened a set of double doors to reveal the private club.
    Heavy, room-darkening drapes covered all the windows, cocooning the massive loft in shadowy warmth. The diffused lighting, soft pinks and vivid reds, created a mysteriously wanton atmosphere. Small stages set up at ten foot intervals around the outskirts of the huge room surrounded the crowds of onlookers, men and women of various ages and races. On eight of the twelve separate podiums, one or more performers participated in some type of sex act for the entertainment of the club’s patrons.
    Rafe had seen this type of club before and knew that for the right price any of the performers could be bought—for the night, the week or indefinitely.
    Around the world, people were bought and sold as if they were livestock, some sold into servitude, some into sexual bondage, and others as prey in hunting games for bored sadists who no longer found hunting wild animals a challenge.
    He knew only too well the nightmarish hell in which these boys and girls, who ranged in age from preteens to young adults in their early twenties, existed. That world was populated by rich and powerful perverts such as Harlan Benecroft and Yves Bouchard, a world created and perpetuated by men such as Malcolm York. A world from which he had barely escaped with his life. A world that had robbed him of his innocence, his dreams, and his very soul.
    This time when he entered the dark underbelly of society, Rafe Byrne entered as a predator, not as the prey. He would keep up the ruse for one purpose and one purpose only—to lure Yves Bouchard into a trap from which he could not escape.

    After their brief conversation, Anthony Linden had escorted Nic back into the sleeping quarters of the private jet, instructed her to sit on the bed, and once she was seated, had taken her photo using his mobile phone.
    “Your husband will want proof that you’re alive and well.”
    Alive maybe. And for now, she was as