Chapter 2

The first ray of sunlight hit Chloe directly in the eye, slicing through the haze of sleep like a laser. She groaned, rolling over, and her hand hit warm skin.

Her eyes flew open. She was staring at a broad, muscular back. The sheets were tangled around his waist. The events of the previous night crashed over her like a bucket of ice water. The parking garage. Kate. Brennen. The whiskey. The check.

Oh God. The check.

She had paid a man for sex. A stranger. A hooker.

Panic, sharp and acidic, rose in her throat. She had to get out of here. Now. She slipped out of bed, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold marble floor. She scavenged the room for her clothes, finding her skirt draped over a chair and her blouse crumpled near the door. She dressed with trembling hands, not even bothering to button her blouse properly.

She glanced at the bed. He was still asleep, one arm flung over his face. He looked even better in the daylight. It wasn't fair.

She needed to leave a note. Something. She couldn't just ghost him after paying him fifty grand. That was weird, even for her. She dug into her purse, looking for a pen. She found her wallet. No cash. Of course not.

Her fingers brushed against the plastic edge of her airline ID. She pulled it out. It had her photo, her name, the Aura Airlines logo. It was the only thing she had that felt remotely real. She placed it on the nightstand, right next to the empty space where the check had been. It felt like a joke. A business card from a one-night stand.

She grabbed her purse and fled, pulling the door shut with a soft click. She didn't breathe until she was in the elevator, and even then, the air felt too thick.

An hour later, she was standing in the employee line at JFK, her head pounding, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. She clutched her boarding pass, desperate to get on the plane and hide in the galley for eight hours.

"ID, please," the security guard said.

Chloe reached for her lanyard. Her hand patted her chest. Nothing. She opened her purse and dug through it. Lipstick, wallet, phone, aspirin. No ID.

Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. She checked again, pulling the bag open wider, her fingers scraping the bottom. It was gone.

She remembered; she had put it on her bedside table, right next to the male prostitute.

"Ma'am?" the guard prompted. "I need your airline ID to clear you through this checkpoint."

"I... I lost it," Chloe stammered, her face flushing hot. "I must have left it at home."

"I can't let you through without it," the guard said, his face impassive. "You'll have to go to the admin office and get a temporary badge. It's going to take a while."

Chloe's stomach sank. This was a nightmare. She was going to miss her flight. She was going to get a mark on her record. She pulled out her phone, ready to call her supervisor and beg for mercy, when a young man in an airport uniform jogged up to the checkpoint.

"Excuse me," he panted, holding out a small plastic card. "Are you Chloe Carr?"

Chloe stared at him, then at the card. It was her ID. "Yes. I mean, yes, that's me."

"A gentleman found this," the young man said, handing it over. "He saw the Aura Airlines logo and asked me to bring it to the staff check-in for the next Paris flight, guessing you might be on it. He said you'd be looking for it."

Chloe took the ID, her fingers closing around the familiar plastic. It was warm, like it had been held in a hand. "Which gentleman? Where is he?"

The kid shrugged. "He just said he was a concerned citizen. Have a good flight." He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Chloe stood there, the ID clutched in her hand. She looked down at her own face staring back at her from the plastic. The male prostitute got it.. He knew who she was. Where she worked. And instead of blackmailing her, or ignoring it, he had gone out of his way to return it.

It made no sense. A man who sold his body for fifty thousand dollars a night didn't do favors. He did transactions. She slid the ID around her neck and walked through the checkpoint, her mind racing. Who was he, really?