by Pam Godwin
He could tell her everything—Matias’ surveillance of her, his plan to decimate the Austin slave ring, his desire to eventually lure her to Colombia where she could help him fight against the worst slavery in the world, and the biggest shocker of it all, his refusal to reunite with her until the unrest in his cartel was controlled.
Matias calculated every detail because he didn’t want to endanger her.
Because he loved her.
Tate could tell her all of this. Declare his own love. Make her choose. But it would benefit no one. She would run headlong toward Matias, straight into the kind of danger Tate wouldn’t be able to protect her from.
“I’m going to bed.” He cupped the back of her head and pulled her into a hug, relishing the warm softness of her petite body.
The kitchen window felt like a spotlight on his back. Was Matias watching from the street? Were there cameras in the house? During the meeting at the bar, the cartel boss had described—in vivid, gory detail—all the ways he would remove limbs and organs if Tate touched Camila in a sexual way.
Tate didn’t scare easily, but a man in love wasn’t a force to be taken lightly. Especially when that man was the king of a cartel.
“Why don’t you call it a night?” He released her and stepped back.
“I will…soon.” She stared longingly at the scatter of papers on the table.
With an aching hunger, he left her with her outlined maps of revenge and climbed the stairs to his room.
He hadn’t agreed to help Matias with his insane plan to win Camila, but they’d exchanged phone numbers before parting ways.
A month later, curiosity led him to Colombia at Matias’ request. He wanted to learn more about the dangerous capo and the anti-slavery raids he supposedly operated. It was on one of these raids, in a dilapidated barn, where Tate saw the horrifying goodness in Matias Restrepo.
He watched from the safety of a barn window as children—naked, beaten, and bloody—were auctioned off, one by one, for the wretched pleasures of men. Then he watched Matias save them all, leaving a bloodbath of wrath in his wake.
It was on that night that he knew he would do anything for the man who held Camila’s heart.
After spending weeks with Matias in the slums of South America raiding slave operations, he gained a friend and lost all hope of requited love from Camila.
He might’ve been her closest friend, but Matias… He was the counterpart to her passion, the mate to her vengeful soul. They shared a spirit Tate couldn’t begin to understand.
So he consented to Matias’ plan. He would watch over her, protect her, and call Matias every day with every detail of her life.
But he wouldn’t, couldn’t stop loving her.
“You need to return to her.” Matias eyed him from across the table at his Colombian estate. “Her safety is my number one priority.”
“I’ll head home tomorrow,” Tate said, distracted.
He scanned the floor of Matias’ veranda, every inch of it covered with piles of papers, maps, and photos of warehouses and slave traders.
When he left Camila in Texas three weeks ago, he told her he was going on a soul-searching journey across the States. Now he found himself in the luxury of Matias’ home, poring over an unsolved mystery.
“There’s nothing there.” Matias rose from the table and stepped toward the interior door. “I searched for Camila’s sister for two years. She’s dead, Tate.”
“She’s missing.”
“For six years.”
“You don’t know she’s dead.” Tate stared at a photo of Lucia Dias, hypnotized by the huge brown eyes of a girl who looked so much like her sister.
“I know she was inside a transport of trafficked slaves that crashed in Peru. No one survived. That’s where the investigation ends.”
“You gave up.”
“I prioritized.” Matias gripped the door jamb and straightened his spine. “My priority is—”
“Camila.” Tate swiped a hand down his face. “Mine, too. But there’s no harm in digging further, to see if there’s something you missed.”
“Camila can’t know. If you get her hopes up, I’ll cut your—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I won’t tell her.” Tate lifted a photo of Lucia and Camila embracing each other in an orange grove.
In their teens, their likeness was uncanny—long black hair, delicate bones, stubborn chins. Yet there were notable differences. Lucia was two years older, her features sharper with maturity, her smile more relaxed, carefree. She was even more beautiful than her sister, if that were possible.
“I’ll make copies of the documents.” Matias blew out a breath. “I can digitalize everything and send it to you.”
Tate nodded, his gaze glued to the image of the lost girl.
He might not hold Camila’s heart, but could find her sister—dead or alive. He could bring her closure. It would give him purpose, a distraction from the persistent ache inside him. He desperately wanted to do this for her.
Because he loved her.
CHAPTER 1
Present day…
The electronic beats of Ke$ha’s “Take It Off” followed Tate through the dimly lit halls of The Velvet Den. The worn wallpaper, creaking wood floors, and faint scent of perfume evoked a tantalizing nostalgia for his old stomping grounds. But beneath the swell of sentimentality lay a prickle of unease. Not all his memories of this place were pleasurable.
Stepping out of the final corridor, he lingered at the entrance of the main room. Settees and lounge chairs surrounded an empty stage. The rich textures and dark decor was designed to make club members feel relaxed and safe, and the exceptional service catered to their upscale tastes. Then, of course, there were the girls. Scantily dressed and easy on the eyes, they served drinks and sex with alluring smiles.
Nestled in a suburban border town in southern Texas, the invite-only establishment was older than his twenty-five years. It hadn’t always been a swinger’s club, but as laws cracked down on prostitution, The Velvet Den evolved. Money still exchanged hands after a sweaty fuckfest in a private room, but no one spoke of those transactions. A narc would lose more than his membership.
The club owner didn’t just enforce the rules, authorize the contracts, and hire the well-vetted staff. She set the mood, simply through the elegance and grace of her presence.
As he scanned the room for her long blond hair and voluptuous body, her husky voice caressed his back.
“Your guest has arrived, darling.”
“Lela,” he breathed, turning to meet the sharp green eyes of his oldest friend. “It’s good to see you.”
“Is it?” Her plump, red-painted lips pouted her disapproval. “You never visit. I’m under the impression you don’t miss me at all.”
“You know that’s not true.” He wrapped his arms around her and smoothed a hand down the corset’s lacing along her spine. “I’ve missed you more than you know.”
Hard to believe she was in her forties. She didn’t look a day older than thirty. He could still picture her towering over him and pommeling his ass for the mischief he’d stirred up as a boy.
She framed his face and caressed her lips against his. The lingering kiss, the exotic aroma of her shampoo, and the press of her fingers against his jaw—all of it filled him with warm memories.
The Velvet Den was his home, and while Madame Lela Pearl wasn’t his mother, she was the closest thing he ever had to one.
“Thank you for letting me hold my meeting here.” He glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd. “Where’s my guest?”
“I set him up in the Cognac Room.” She trailed a blood-red fingernail down the placket of buttons on his shirt. “Unless you prefer a room with more privacy.”
“It’s not that kind of meeting.”
“No?” Disappointment creased her pretty features. “I hoped you returned to work for me again.”
“Lela—”
“You’re even more handsome than you were as a b
oy. Stronger. More virile.” She petted his bicep. “The ladies would empty their purses to experience your dominant nature.”
His stomach buckled. The clientele tended to be older, with marriage, careers, and kids behind them. Too old for the downtown club scene, they came here with unique proclivities, looking to quench darker appetites.
It didn’t matter. Young or old, male or female, locals or out-of-towners, no one would be paying him for sex. Never again.
“I don’t need money.” He caught her arm and gently set her away. “There’s more to life than getting off.”
Her eyes bugged. “Shut your mouth. I raised you better than that.” She propped her fists on the flare of her hips. “Have you forgotten what it feels like to fuck without commitment or strings—?” She snapped her teeth together, eyes growing wider. “Oh shit. Are you in love?”
That was only part of it. She didn’t know what happened to him when he disappeared from The Velvet Den’s parking lot six years ago. He was nineteen when Van Quiso took him at gunpoint and raped him for ten weeks in a soundproof attic.
She assumed he ran away, and he let her hold onto that belief. The truth would wreck her.
“Yes, there is someone.” He averted his gaze, unable to hide the resentment in his expression.
“But?”
“She’s engaged.”
“So? Win her away from her fiancé.”
“They belong together, and I love her enough to let her have that. To let her go.”
It’d been four years since Matias approached him in that Austin bar. Four of the most miserable years of his life. After going along with Matias’ plan, watching Camila reunite with him, and losing her completely when she moved to Colombia, Tate no longer wanted to stay in the Austin house he’d shared with her.
Visiting her a few times in Colombia hadn’t helped his miserable jealousy.
So he came here.
Home.
But it wasn’t the same.
No, he wasn’t the same.
“My guest is waiting.” He kissed the top of Lela’s head. “I’ll stay a few days, maybe longer, okay? We’ll catch up.”
“Very well.” She fussed with the collar of his shirt. “I’ll have a room prepared for you. Stay as long as you want.”
“Thank you.”
He turned back down the hall, slipped into a stairwell, and exited one floor below. The same dark furnishings adorned the Cognac Room, but the pungent aroma of cigars deterred non-smokers from using this space.
A bald man reclined on a couch, his trousers unzipped beneath the bobbing head of a young woman. Nearby, several other couples engaged in various forms of fornication and sexual orientation. Across the room, a topless dancer writhed on a pole, grinding to the low volume of club music.
An attractive man sat alone at a table a few feet from her. He was the only man in the room who could’ve been Cole Hartman. Tate’s guest.
Black leather jacket, short brown hair, early thirties, he watched the dancer with a strange expression. It wasn’t curiosity. Definitely not desire. His furrowed brow and pinned lips hinted at displeasure.
Maybe it was shock. Especially if he’d never been in a place like this. And fair enough. Swingers were a peculiar breed. They paid outrageous fees for the convenience of ogling, sampling, or boning other people’s partners. There weren’t a lot of life experiences that prepared a person for a room full of naked, oversexed strangers.
Tate had deliberately withheld the nature of The Velvet Den when he suggested it as a location to meet. He wanted to hire Cole to help him find Camila’s sister. But if the big, leather-clad guy couldn’t handle an open display of sex, he wasn’t up for the task.
Since Cole didn’t appear to notice anyone but the dancer, Tate remained in the doorway, studying him, searching for anything that might’ve raised a red flag.
After four years and five private investigators, Tate had made zero progress on locating Lucia Dias. So he did the one thing he thought he’d never do.
He asked Van Quiso for help.
Liv and Camila had both been enslaved by Van, yet they’d found something redeemable in him. Something they trusted.
Van had connections with unsavory people—slavers, drug and weapon dealers, assassins, and bounty hunters. People with specialized skills in shady situations.
People like Cole Hartman.
Tate didn’t know how Van was connected to Cole or if that was even his real name. All he had was Van’s unwavering conviction: If Cole Hartman can’t locate Camila’s sister, no one can.
On the far side of the room, Cole shrugged off his jacket, tossed it in a nearby chair, and crooked a finger at Tate without removing his eyes from the dancer.
Evidently, he was more attuned to his surroundings than he let on. Good.
As Tate crossed the room, Cole lifted a beer from the table. Heavy ink tattooed his forearm, but the lighting was too low to make out the artwork.
He didn’t move or meet his eyes until Tate reached the table.
“You’re drinking Bud Light in the Cognac Room,” Tate said in greeting.
“Am I breaking a rule?”
“No. But the cognac’s free.”
“So is the beer.” Cole tipped the neck of the bottle in the direction of the dancer. “Tell her to leave.”
“You have a problem with dancers?” Tate pointedly looked at Cole’s tattoo.
From wrist to elbow was an inked silhouette of a woman swinging on a dance pole.
“I’ve seen better.” Cole brought the beer to his lips for a hardy swallow. “Much better.”
On the surface, Cole seemed relaxed. But with each rotation the dancer made on the pole, his jaw grew harder, the cords in his neck pulling tighter. For whatever reason, the dancing put him on edge, and it undoubtedly had something to do with the woman tattooed on his arm.
While Tate didn’t know the dancer, all of Lela’s employees knew him. His history at The Velvet Den gave him the authority to send her away, but how did Cole Hartman know that? Maybe he’d done his homework?
Approaching the dance pole, Tate touched the girl’s shoulder, his voice low. “Take a break, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vades.” With a small smile, she sashayed toward the exit.
Christ, she had a great ass. Big and round, it jiggled in her thong, sending provocative messages to his cock.
With an inward groan, he returned to the table, lowered into a chair, and caught Cole’s eyes. “How do you know Van Quiso?”
“Client confidentiality, pal. He’s your friend. Why don’t you ask him?”
Van wasn’t his friend and had been annoyingly cryptic on the subject of Cole Hartman.
“I requested this meeting because I need you to find someone.” Tate clasped his hands together on his lap. “A woman.”
“How long has she been missing?”
The answer tried to stick in his throat, but he forced it out. “Eleven years.”
Cole didn’t grimace or flinch like the other investigators Tate had hired. He simply nodded and sipped the beer.
“Aren’t you going to ask her name, age, last place she was seen, all the usual shit?”
“Nope.” Cole leveled him with an incisive look. “We’re going to discuss you, the reason you’re looking for her, and the price you’re willing to pay.”
“Money isn’t an issue.”
“I’m not talking about money.”
Tate rubbed his head, losing patience. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Why did you choose this place to meet?”
“If you were good at your job, you’d be able to tell me.”
“All right.” Cole leaned forward, keeping his voice soft. “Let’s start with your childhood.”
This should be interesting. Tate had never told anyone about his past, not even Camila. “Go on.”
“Tate Anthony Vades. Son of a prostitute. Father unknown. After your mother died from a drug overdose, you became a war
d of the state, all before your second birthday. But her friend, Lela Pearl, took you in, kept you hidden and out of the system.” He took a swig of beer and lowered it without looking away. “You were raised by whores in a brothel, this brothel, until you were old enough to turn tricks and earn your keep.”
Jesus. Tate didn’t know whether to be pissed or freaked out that he’d dug up so many buried secrets. But Cole’s ability to elicit a vulnerable reaction was a good thing. If he could arouse fear in people, taunt them with personal information and provoke them to talk, maybe he really could make headway on Lucia’s case. Because somewhere, someone knew what happened to her.
“I’m impressed.” Tate tilted his chin down, measuring his words. “So I was raised among whores and earned a living as one for a while. What of it? You going to turn me in?”
“Rumor is, generations of sheriffs, judges, and mayors have kept this place in operation in exchange for VIP treatment.” He glanced around the room, watching topless women serve cigars and cognac. “To be honest, I’m waiting for the girls to break out in song, a la The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.” A smirk stole across Cole’s face. “I work outside of the law, Tate. Your secrets are safe with me.”
“I appreciate that.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not sure how any of this helps you find the woman I’m searching for.”
“I’ll find her, but it won’t bring you any closer to the woman you want.”
He stopped breathing, and his heart flew against his ribcage. He didn’t care if Cole knew he lost his virginity to a man at age fourteen or that he’d sold his body to female clients for a few years. Hell, he didn’t even care if Cole had gleaned what happened to him in Van’s attic.
But Camila was off-limits. In her crusade against slavery, she committed the kind of felonies—kidnapping, torturing, and murdering criminals—that would earn her a death sentence if caught. He didn’t want Cole near her, asking about her, or investigating her in any way.
“This was a mistake.” Tate moved to stand.
“Camila Dias is safe.” Cole gripped his wrist, holding him in the chair with a cutting glare.
