Doren
They were three of the most gorgeous women he’d ever seen in his life. Ursula: tall, blonde and leggy; Glenda: slim, dark and sexy; and finally, Medea, a petite redhead with the pout and round eyes of a child. It was them, he figured, that he’d heard in the hotel room—beckoning like Sirens through the phone line, whispering promises of interesting games as though they had been standing in the room alongside him and August.
Anton’s smile was about as feral as anything Doren had ever seen before, including the weasels they used to chase out of the chicken barns.
“Hello, Doren,” Anton drawled. “Have you met my secretaries?”
Doren smiled at the ladies, swiveling the chair to get a better view. “Why, yes, I have indeed. And let me say again that you have lovely taste in associates, An
