Page 75 of A Treacherous Trade

“I-I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

I flinched when he turned around, but let out a relieved breath when I noted that he held only a smaller version of the camera he’d mounted and not a pistol.

Thank God.

“But we haven’t come to any agreement,” I argued, standing abruptly.

“And we won’t until you’re naked.”

“I don’t disrobe unless I’m paid.”

“Spoken like a true whore,” he sneered. “But I don’t think you are one. And I don’t think you know what really happens here.” He marched toward me, baring his too many teeth. “I think this is a fishing expedition, and that I’m not a trawl you want to catch.”

My heartbeat accelerated and sweat bloomed on my palms.

He was cleverer than I expected, and still it seemed that he might incriminate himself if I pushed him.

“I’m not fishing for anything, Mr. Hartigan, but I do wonderwhyJane’s photograph is hanging among your wall of youths.”

He put his face close to mine, his breath reeking of pickled eggs. It turned my stomach. “If you were here for the reason you claimed to be, you wouldn’t have to wonder. Now either take off this dress or get out.”

“I will not—”

He grabbed me by my wrist, and I winced as the blade strapped there bit into my skin. I struggled against his grip, but Charles Hartigan was deceptively strong as he jerked my sleeve up and extracted the weapon.

I should have hidden it in my boot.

Gripping the handle of the knife, he held it to my jaw as he dragged me toward the black curtain. “You tell those tarts at The Orchard—”

His words died as he bounced off the wall of muscle and wrath that was Grayson Croft.

With swift motions and hardly any expended energy, Croft had his arm around Hartigan’s throat. He pushed at a soft point of the man’s wrist with his thumb, and Hartigan’s fingers popped open, sending the knife clattering to the floor.

I snatched it up and brandished it at Hartigan. “You couldn’t have waited one more minute?” I asked Croft. “He was about to say something important.”

Hartigan clawed at Croft’s arm with panicked fingers, his face turning an alarming shade of red as veins began to bulge.

Croft let him wriggle and squirm for a moment too long as he speared me with a look so dark, I clamped my mouth shut.

“You were supposed to scream if he touched you,” he growled.

“I wasgoingto. I just needed him to finish his sentence first.”

He closed his eyes and took a breath, holding on to Hartigan as if he were an afterthought when what he truly grappled with was his frustration with me.

Eventually, he rumbled into the struggling man’s ear, “When I let go, you’re going to sing like a canary. And then you’ll hand over whatever photographs you have in your possession that even hint at impropriety, do you understand?”

The mere effort of nodding seemed to make Hartigan’s head likely to pop like a grape, and Croft released him with a rough shove.

Scrambling to the couch I’d only just vacated, Hartigan crawled into it like a toddler would his mother’s lap, clutching at his throat. “Y-you’re police?”

“Detective Grayson Croft. H Division.” Croft reached into his coat pocket to produce his badge.

“D-didhesend you?” The red drained from Hartigan’s face until he’d turned a sickening shade of puce. “Because I gave him everything he asked for. Honest.”

“Who?” I demanded. “Davies?”