by Rebecca York
“Let’s hope so.”
She gave him a long look. “Do you have some reason to think I can play that role?”
“Because of your father?”
“What?” She heard the shock ring in her voice. “What about my father?” she managed to add. “You don’t think he and I ever . . .”
“No. It wouldn’t have fit into his moral code. But he’s a very dominating man.”
“How the hell do you know anything about him?”
He signed. “I wouldn’t work with someone if I didn’t have a handle on their background.”
“Pull over,” she ordered.
“What?”
“I said pull over.”
He eased to the shoulder of the road, set the emergency brake, and turned to her. “What—are you backing out.”
“No,” she said between gritted teeth. “But I want you to know that I don’t appreciate your digging into my private life.”
“Noted.”
“Too bad I didn’t check you out, too. What is it that you’re hiding about yourself?”
“Nothing!”
“That’s a lie.” She dragged in a breath and let it out before asking. “And what did Frank Decorah say to you that he didn’t want me to hear.”
He waited a beat before answering. “That he was counting on my expertise to get Karen out.”
“What expertise do you have that I don’t?”
He kept his gaze steady. “An over-developed sense of smell.”
“Jesus. If I even believe that—how is it going to help.”
“I picked up her scent in her apartment. And in Temptation. I’ll know if she’s on the boat. And where to find her.”
She glared at him, wondering if he was spinning her a line.
When he covered her hand with his, she jumped.
“This is a bad time to get into an argument,” he said in a low voice.
She nodded.
His hand tightened on hers. “We’re both tense. Under a lot of pressure. Feeling like we don’t have enough preparation. At least, that’s true for me.”
“Agreed.”
“We need to settle down. Be comfortable with each other. Our lives could depend on it.”
“I know.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re right. There’s stuff in my background that I don’t talk about. I’m from a very dysfunctional family. And when we get back to Maryland, I’ll tell you about it.”
“You will?” she asked, genuinely shocked.
“Yeah.”
“Why not now?”
“Because it would be a distraction, and we have to focus on rescuing Karen Hopewell.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
“So are we as ready as we’re going to be.”
“Yes.”
He released the brake, and started off again.
When she stole a glance at his face, it was set in a grim line. What the hell was his background, anyway? Too bad she hadn’t done the kind of prying that he’d indulged in. Or was it something so well hidden that she wouldn’t have found it anyway.
Leaning back she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, struggling for calm—and for the character she was playing.
Still, when she felt the car slow, her stomach tightened.
Opening her eyes, she saw a sign that said “Windward Dock. Authorized persons only.”
As Cole pulled into a parking space, his cell phone rang. He glanced at Emma, then clicked it on.
“Glad I caught you,” Frank Decorah said, speaking loud enough for both of them to hear. “There’s been a development. A lock of Karen’s hair was just delivered to her father, along with some of her pubic hair.”
Emma dragged in a breath. “With a note?” I assume.
“No. Only the hair.”
“You’re sure it’s hers?” Cole asked.
“As you saw in the photo, it’s a very unusual shade.”
“Better than chopping off her ear,” Cole said, referring to the J. Paul Getty grandson who’d been kidnapped years ago—and finally returned to his family after they paid a sizable ransom.
“Was the pubic hair pulled out or shaved?” Emma asked.
“Shaved.”
“Thanks for the information,” Cole said before clicking off.
“They shaved her pubic hair,” Emma murmured. “That’s pretty nasty. I mean if it was against her will.”
“Another indication of what we’re getting into.”
“We’ve got to assume he did it so he can display her.”
Emma nodded, struggling to stay objective. “It sounds like I need to check out the beauty salon when we get on board. There’s some chance that she’s not on the Windward, but maybe I can confirm it in the beauty shop.”
“Yeah.” Cole’s voice had turned thoughtful as he looked at the phone he was still holding, then pressed some buttons, erasing the record of the call. “They’d take this away from me on the ship, and I don’t want them checking my contact list. Instead of slipping the phone back into his pocket, he shoved it into the crevice between the console and the driver’s seat, where it slipped down out of sight.
“Will they search for it?” Emma asked.
“If they do, they’ll have a devil of a time finding it.” He looked at Emma. “Get rid of yours, too.” She sent her phone to meet his, then swallowed hard and opened the passenger door.
She swallowed hard and opened the passenger door.
Before they could take the luggage out of the trunk, a muscular man in his thirties wearing a dark suit and captain’s type hat came rushing over. His name tag identified him as Greg.
“Mr. Mason? Ms. Ray?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to the Windward. Let me get your luggage.”
Cole opened the trunk, and the man picked up both their bags.
“You’re traveling light,” he said.
“I was hoping to buy some new outfits on board,” Emma murmured. “There’s a women’s shop—right?”
“Yes. Several. You can buy anything from a formal gown to a peasant outfit. There’s also a lingerie boutique. And if you want to buy costumes for special occasions, we have them, too.”
“Costumes?” Emma asked.
“If you like a role you’ve played on the ship and want to duplicate it at home. And you can buy the toys to go along with it.”
He laughed. “Of course, you may want those shipped.”
“How come?”
“They might be embarrassing at airport security.”
“Oh—right,” she managed, then glanced at Cole. “You’re not going to mind if I do some shopping are you, sweetie?”
“Just don’t get too carried away, darling,” he answered.
They followed Greg to the hovercraft waiting at the dock. It looked large enough to hold a hundred passengers if the seating had been arranged in rows, but they appeared to be the only ones on board besides Greg, a couple of other similarly dressed attendants, and the working crew dressed in blue and white striped shirts and dark pants.
The seats were comfortable sofas and plush armchairs bolted to the deck, grouped around low coffee tables. The backs of each sofa and chair were high, giving a feeling of privacy. Each seating arrangement had a flat-screen television set on a console, with a privacy screen in back.
Emma let Cole lead her to a grouping in the middle of the cabin. As she pondered where to sit, he gently pulled her onto the couch beside him.
“All set?”
“Yes,” Cole answered.
Greg gave a signal, and the powerful engines revved up. As the hovercraft headed out to sea, the steward said, “It’s about an hour ride. How can I make you comfortable? Champagne? Hors d’oeuvres?” He picked up the remote that was attached by a retractable cord to the coffee table. “We have a variety of entertainment. Just press the power button, and then scroll through the channels.”
“Thank you. Nothing to eat or drink. We just had lunch.” He kept his gaze fixed on t
he steward. “I was hoping we could come in by chopper. That would be faster.”
Emma wouldn’t have been as direct. When she saw Greg stiffen, she tried to slouch comfortably against Cole.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the steward answered. “As you know, that’s not possible at this time.”
“Why not?” Cole asked, his tone confrontational.
“Mr. Del Conte’s orders.”
Cole hesitated, and Emma hoped he wasn’t going to press the hired help for information he shouldn’t be giving out. And also hoped he wasn’t putting them on someone’s watch list. Like—the couple most likely to get tossed into the brig if they made any trouble.
To her relief, he dropped the interrogation and reached into his pocket.
When he pulled out his billfold and started to peel off a five, Greg waved his hand. “The staff doesn’t accept tips. Mr. Del Conte’s orders.”
Cole lowered his voice. “Not even for extra services?”
“No, sir. Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
Emma’s mouth had turned dry, and she moistened her lips as she glanced at Cole. “Sweetie, can I have a soda water with lime?”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “Sure. And I’ll take one, too, to keep my honey company.”
When the man had departed, Emma let out a sigh.
“Just relax, sweet thing,” Cole said. “You’re going to love this vacation.”
She wanted to tell him to stop with the cute endearments. Instead she said, “You know new places make me a little nervous.”
“I’m, sure Mr. Del Conte knows how to make everyone feel at home.”
He clicked the button on the remote, and a scene leaped onto the screen.
It showed an empty stage with the curtain drawn.
“That’s from one of the theaters on the Windward,” Greg said, as he set two drinks down on the table. It’s recorded so you get the whole performance.”
“Thanks,” Cole said as he picked up his drink. “How often are there shows.”
“You can find something almost every hour.”
“That’s amazing.” Emma took a gulp of her own drink to moisten her dry mouth.
“The shows are a highlight for many of our guests. There are several shows you can watch now. Channel one is a dance number,” Greg informed them. “Channel two is a dungeon scene. Channel three is a schoolgirl being punished for not learning her lessons. Channel four is . . .”
“The dance number,” Cole interrupted.
“Oh, I love dancers,” Emma added said.
“I’ll leave you to enjoy the performance.”
The steward disappeared from view as the lights on the screen brightened. A spotlight swung to the side of the stage, and a couple stepped into it. They both looked to be in their twenties, with lean, athletic builds. The woman wore a halter-top sundress that swirled around her legs. The man wore a short-sleeved shirt and dark slacks.
As Stranger in Paradise came softly from the speakers, the man and woman began to dance.
They started with classical ballet moves, but the performance soon became more sexually explicit. When the man lifted his partner up and twirled her above his head, his palm braced itself squarely against her crotch. And when he lowered her, he let her body glide suggestively against his.
Emma tried not to react, but after the emotional strain of the day, she found that the suggestive performance was turning her on.
Cole pulled her close, nuzzling his lips against her ear. “I’m sure they’re watching our reactions.”
She kept her eyes on the screen, trying to stay steady as the male dancer reached for the tie at the back of his partner’s neck. When he undid the knot, she stepped away from him, letting the bodice of the sundress fall to her waist, exposing her high, rounded breasts.
The woman’s hands went to her waist, where she undid another tie and tossed the bodice of the dress away.
The man stepped behind her. As they swayed to the music, his hands cupped her breasts while his fingers began to play with her nipples, teasing them to taut peaks as he pulled and twisted them.
Emma caught her breath, embarrassed that her own nipples had tightened as she watched the couple.
The performance could have been crude. But it was all done with extreme sensuality.
The male dancer unfastened his partner’s skirt. When she stepped out of it, she was totally naked.
Beside Emma, Cole made a low sound.
Seeing a nude woman didn’t excite her, but she couldn’t say the same for Cole.
oOo
Bruno Del Conte took a sip from the iced latte that a very attractive young woman had brought him.
Leaning back in his comfortable desk chair, he picked up a pile of papers on his desk. It was always fascinating to see how much rich men would pay to visit the Windward. And he hadn’t done a bit of paid advertising. It was all word of mouth from satisfied customers—many of whom came back every few months to enjoy the unique opportunities he provided.
Of course, most of those guys were rich old perverts who appreciated the liberal policies on Bruno Del Conte’s private ocean liner. And the special drug cocktails that helped them get it up. Maybe he was chopping a few years off their lives, but they’d die happy.
He laughed.
The point was, he’d found an excellent way to indulge his own unusual tastes while making money off the men—and a few women—who were glad to pay for his special services.
Which brought him to Cole Mason, who’d booked one of his medium-priced suites at the last minute.
Fairly young, good looking guy. Not the usual kind of man who came to the Windward.
He stroked his chin as he read the information his chief of security had printed out for him., then checked his video surveillance equipment, which gave him a direct feed from the lounge on the hovercraft currently bringing Mason to the Windward.
Bruno clicked through the screens until he got a view of the sitting area where Mason and his girlfriend were watching a video.
The guy seemed to be enjoying the dance number he was watching. But still, he warranted some further investigation.
As he switched off the video feed, contingencies ran through his mind.
He’d captured the daughter of an enemy. He’d planned to have some fun displaying her to an exclusive group of men this evening, letting them touch her, but nothing more, but maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.
Despite its seemingly open appearance, the Tropical Lounge was very secure. There was only one public entrance, and you didn’t get in without a special key card. Perhaps it was better to keep her there for the moment. And dig for some more information on Mason.
Meanwhile, he had another problem to deal with. Specifically, a mutiny. Apparently some of his slaves thought they could escape from the ship.
He’d caught and tortured one of the troublemakers, but the man had died before revealing the names of any of his fellows.
CHAPTER SIX
The couple began to dance again, more classical ballet moves, with the woman completely naked, and the man completely dressed—adding to the eroticism of the performance. She came back into his arms and began unbuttoning his shirt. When it was open, she lowered her face to his chest, eagerly licking and sucking at his nipples while her fingers worked the button at the top of his pants, then the zipper.
Emma couldn’t drag her eyes from the explicit scene.
Every muscle in her body tightened as the man pressed on the woman’s shoulders so that she went down on her knees in front of him. He sank his fingers into her hair, guiding her face to his crotch.
Because of the pants he still wore, Emma couldn’t see exactly what she was doing. But it seemed like she was giving him a blow job. He threw his head back, thrusting his hips forward, his face contorted with pleasure.
Lord, how was this going to end?
Next to her, she could hear Cole’s harsh breathing. Looking down at his lap, she saw
an erection straining against his pants.
She wanted to press her hand over him. She wanted him to cup her breasts. Stroke his fingers against her clit.
But that was only going to make her hotter. She made a small frustrated sound.
“Christ!”
Cole’s exclamation broke the spell. Emma looked up, startled to see that their seating area was now completely walled off by a filmy curtain. She’d been so focused on the screen that she hadn’t even seen when the curtains had drawn closed.
She looked at Cole, then back at the television. The stage was dark. The man and woman were gone, and she couldn’t hold back a laugh.
“What?” Cole demanded.
“We didn’t find out whether she made him come.”
Cole laughed too. “Yeah. Right.”
They stared at each other, and she knew the erotic video had brought them both to the boiling point. Well, not just the video. Eroticism mixed with danger seemed to be a powerful aphrodisiac.
“Emma.” He dragged in a breath and let it out before lowering his mouth to hers, taking her startled gasp into his mouth. As his lips moved against hers, one of his hands went to her breast, rubbing back and forth against the tightened peak stabbing against the fabric of her halter top. When she moaned, he worked the other hand into the crotch of her shorts.
“What are you doing,” she managed.
“No reason both of us have to suffer.”
When she took his meaning, she tried to jerk away, but he held her where she was so that he could slide his hand under her top, teasing her tightened nipple while his other hand began to stroke her intimately.
“Don’t,” she protested, but not as strongly as she should have. She was hot and wet, and he glided his finger through her sex, up and down, working his way toward her clit and away.
She should make him stop, but she couldn’t do it. And when he focused on her clit, she raised her hips to increase the pressure.
You’re going to . . .”
“Yeah,” he answered, keeping up the maddening stroking, bringing her to a rocketing climax. When she cried out, he drank in her passion.
She lay panting in his arms, shocked to the core by what he had done and what she had let him do when they were on assignment. They had just crossed another line into forbidden territory. Assignment or no.
