by J. Kenner
With her assurance ringing in his ear, he'd headed downtown to The Firehouse and his meeting with Zac.
"We only have security in this area," Zac said, a sweep of his arm encompassing the reception area, where members checked in before being admitted through to the bar. "And it's not as if we require them to look straight into a camera before entering," he says.
"Do you scan membership cards upon entry?"
"No," Zac said. "Our members appreciate the fact of membership, but once they're in the club, they don't want to feel like they're flashing a bus pass. And, to be honest, some of our members are well-known celebrities. Without an entrance scan, they have deniability."
"Sure, I joined," Riley said. "But it was just as a joke. I never actually went there."
"Exactly," Zac nodded "And if there's no entrance scan, who's to say otherwise?"
"That camera." Riley pointed to the two high-mounted--but camouflaged--security cameras.
"Good eye, but you see the problem. If a client keeps his head down or wears a mask or sunglasses, any identification will be a problem."
Riley nodded. The man was right. "Gotta give it a shot."
"Tag said you're looking for a stalker."
"Someone's been harassing my girlfriend." And, dammit, she was his girlfriend whether she knew it yet or not. "I intend to put a stop to it."
"You think she picked up the stalker here." He nodded, not waiting for Riley's answer. "I like to think that kind of element isn't among our membership, but I also can't deny that it's possible." He met Riley's eyes. "She's the one who came with Holt on that research walk-through, you said?" He flipped through a calendar open on the main desk. "Let's take a look at the security feed and see who we see."
"Appreciate it," Riley said, though he was feeling significantly less appreciative four hours later after reviewing the tapes from the first night and then comparing it to the previous night, looking for overlap since the stalker seemed to know she'd been at the club last night. Though even that wasn't certain. It may have simply been coincidence that the stalker had accused her of cheating.
Riley didn't think so. More likely the stalker saw her with Riley--and was angry for her infidelity.
No one, however, stood out as having come twice. He did clearly see a gray-haired man with a cane on the arm of a masked woman with a mole on her upper lip. Not likely that a man who brought his own sub would be a stalker, but anything was possible, and he asked Zac to find out the man's name. He saw five other men whom he believed showed up again on the second day, but the images weren't sufficient to be certain.
"Sorry not to be more help," Zac said. "But I'll make you some prints and see what I can find out about our gray-haired friend. And I'll try to get you some names on those five. I think you're right. They each came on the second night, too. Especially this one." He backed up the footage, then focused on a man with broad shoulders and dark hair that curled just past his ears. "See that?" He pointed to a shadow on the back of the man's neck. "I don't think it's a shadow."
"A tattoo?"
"On his shoulder," Zac said. "I think the shadow is the edge of the ink work."
"You may be right," Riley said. "Good eye."
"Gives us a little more to go on," Zac said, and Riley nodded, though he thought Zac's optimism might be misplaced. And he told as much to Natasha when he arrived at the condo that afternoon.
She greeted him at the door with a bright smile, then slid into his arms the moment he shut the door behind him. He drew her close, then lost himself in a slow, lingering kiss. A simple greeting, maybe, but it meant so much, including revealing just how far Tasha had come.
And, damn, but he could get used to this.
"Did you learn anything?" she asked, but he only shook his head. "A few leads, maybe. I'll give you the rundown when we get to your house. I dropped a few things off earlier."
Her brows rose. "Did you? Like what?"
He thought of the items he'd picked up from both the grocery store and the hardware store. But all he did was smile. "That," he said, "is my little surprise."
Chapter Ten
"I don't think I've noticed any of these people," I say, flipping through the printouts that Riley handed me as soon as we got into his rented BMW. He'd insisted we take my car in to have the hood repainted. And, frankly, I was fine with erasing that particular memory. "You really think one of these men is my stalker?"
"I think the odds are good, but honestly the position of the security camera makes it hard to compare guests across the course of days. Zac agrees that the setup is lame--he didn't install the system and only started working there a few months ago."
"So now that he knows, he'll fix it." I lift a shoulder. "Too late for me, but that should help someone else."
"Not necessarily too late for you," Riley says. "Zac's going to try to get me names, and we'll see what we see. Oh, I do know that we can rule our gray-haired suspect out. The one with the younger woman on his arm."
"Yeah? How do you know that?"
"Zac texted as I was setting up the house earlier. He visits the club at least four times each week, often brings a guest, and left yesterday about an hour after he arrived because he got a call that his daughter was in labor. The girl who works the door said he was positively beaming when he left, and I checked with the hospital. He went straight to Cedars and was there through the night until his grandson was born this morning."
"A happy ending, at least," I say, my mind shifting to Aly as I make a mental note to call and update her. After all, a lot's happened in a short time.
I lean back in the leather seat, then frown as I recall our conversation. "What do you mean by setting up the house? My house?" I turn to face him. "What did you do?"
"Hopefully something you'll like. Don't worry. Nothing too invasive. Just one trip to Home Depot and I was good to go."
I narrow my eyes. He's teasing me, of course. I'm guessing he either installed an alarm system or he bought me flowers. Either way, I'm good.
As it turns out, though, I'm not good enough. Because when we get home, I realize I'm completely off the mark. There is no alarm system--although he tells me that he did talk to Ryan Hunter about finding someone to install one at cost--and my living and dining areas are entirely lacking in flowers.
"You were just pulling my chain," I say. "You haven't done a thing to my house. Unless..." I trail off, looking toward the kitchen. "Are you cooking me dinner?"
"Not exactly," he says.
"Hmmm." I'm still trying to get it out of him when he grabs me from behind and spins me around, catching me in the circle of his arms. "Is this the surprise?" I murmur. "Because I like this very much."
"Kissing you shouldn't be a surprise," he says. "It should be an everyday occurrence."
As if to prove it, he presses me against the wall, cages me in his arms, and kisses me so thoroughly my legs barely manage to keep me upright.
"No, the surprise has more to do with something you saw at the club. Something that intrigued you."
"Oh." My body fires simply from the mention of the club, but the truth is that I still haven't got a clue. Because, frankly, the whole damn place intrigued me. "So are we going back tonight?"
He shakes his head. "I think one day away is a good policy. We'll see if there's any incidents tonight or tomorrow. If not, that only helps establish the connection to the club."
"I get that," I say. "But you said--"
He cuts me off with a chuckle. "I never said we were going to the club. Doesn't mean the club can't come to you."
Now I'm more confused than ever, but I decide to just give up and let him lead.
"So you trust me," he says, and I nod. Because I do. I trust this man with all of me. My heart. My body. Hell, I'd even trust him with my life.
"Good," he says, then looks me up and down. When his eyes meet mine again, I see the change in him. As if he's taking on a persona and is gathering power around him. There's command in his posture and cont
rol in his eyes, and just looking at him makes me weak with desire and wet with longing.
"Take off your clothes, Natasha."
We're still in the entrance hall, but I don't even hesitate. I step out of my shoes, then strip off my blouse and bra, then my slacks and underwear. Then I stand naked in front of him, not shy this time, but aroused and curious, my entire body humming with anticipation.
"Oh, baby," he says, his eyes dipping to my nipples, already painfully tight from my arousal. "You want me. More than that, you want whatever I have planned for you."
"Yes," I say.
"Even without knowing what it is."
"Yes."
He steps in front of me, then takes my hand and presses it over his erection, straining against his jeans. "Do you have any idea how hard that makes me?"
I meet his eyes, then glance down to my hand. "I do now."
He chuckles, then leads me to the far side of the living room where there is a sliding glass door that looks out over my lush, plant-filled backyard.
The curtains are open, but I know that the odds are slim that someone is looking in. Still, it's a possibility, and I have to force myself not to ask him to close the drapes.
The thought sends my eyes darting to the track, and that's when I notice the hardware on the ceiling. Two giant hooks. And when I look down, I see more on the ground.
I look to Riley in confusion.
"The cross," he said. "You wanted to try it. But not where everyone could see you."
I gasp as a wave of red hot desire crashes over me, making me so wet I feel the slickness on my thighs. And it's not just the thought of being bound like that, teased like that. It's the realization that he remembered--and that he took the time to bring me this experience in a way that stayed inside my comfort zone.
"Riley..."
He presses a finger over my lips, then leads me to the glass door. It takes some machinations, but soon I'm standing with my arms and legs spread, as if forming an X. He has soft cuffs on my ankles and wrists and they are each attached to the hooks with a mechanism that he assures me provides for a quick release. My back is to the glass, and the drapes are open. And though I really, really don't think anyone is looking, some small part of me has to acknowledge that the possibility adds to the excitement.
When he comes forward, he has a single ostrich feather in his hand. "Close your eyes," he orders, and when I comply, he strokes my body with the feather, paying special attention to my nipples, my neck, my inner thighs, and my sex.
The teasing is merciless, the sensations as wild as he is relentless, and without thinking about it, I realize that I'm gyrating in my bindings, my hips moving as if that will provide some release.
"Christ, that's hot, baby. Do you know what you're doing to me?"
A memory rolls over me. The first time I saw him in the FBI office when I'd come to visit my dad. My certainty that one day he'd be mine. And then later--the morning of that horrible day--when he'd asked me out with those words. Tasha, he'd said. Do you know what you do to me?
I didn't then, but I do now. It's fire between us. It's heat and fire and life. It's passion.
And right now, it's driving me crazy.
When I hear the low thrum of the vibrator, I know it's about to get even crazier, and though I don't mean to, I actually whimper.
"You are so fucking sexy, Nat," he says, his palm caressing my ass. And before I even realize I've spoken, I say, "Call me Tasha."
His hand stills. "Are you sure?"
"It's who I am," I say. "Please, Riley. Call me Tasha, and make me come."
"Tasha." My name is like a prayer. A curse. An incantation, and as if the name has conjured it, he brushes the vibrator lightly over my clit, playing me expertly until I'm bucking and begging, unable to truly escape this brutal, beautiful torment.
He doesn't, however, give me release. Just takes me to the edge and then pulls me back, so that by the time he releases me from the bindings and carries me to bed, I'm so wet, ready, and desperate that I don't even let him finish undressing. Instead, I take his hand and tug him onto the bed with me. Then I shove his jeans down just enough to free his beautiful cock, straddle him, and take him so fast and so deep that I not only forget my own name, I swear I glimpse heaven.
He clutches my hips, and I ride him hard, a second orgasm rolling through me when he comes hard and fast inside me. I cry out his name, then collapse, sated and satisfied, beside him.
"Dear God, Tasha." He's breathing hard, his voice raspy with passion. "You break me like no other woman."
I turn in his arms, my own breath ragged as I look deep into his eyes, wanting to see his soul. His secrets. "No," I say. "Not broken. I think we make each other whole."
Chapter Eleven
Matthew Holt frowned at the photos that Riley handed him. "Considering I spend half my life looking at casting photos, you'd think I'd be better with faces, but honestly, none of these look familiar. You say they were all at the club the night we went on the research visit?"
"They were. These are from that night's security feed."
"I'm sorry," Matthew said. He passed them back across his desk to Riley, accidentally shifting the placement of a framed photo in the process.
From where Riley was sitting, he could see that it was a group shot, and though he only got a quick glance, something about it set his senses tingling.
"Do you mind?" he asked, though the question was for form only. He already had the photo in his hand. Now that he was looking directly at it, though, nobody jumped out at him.
"Is something wrong?" Matthew asked.
"I'm not sure. There's something so..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Where was this taken?"
"A company picnic," Matthew told him. "The woman in white is my ex-wife, but it's one of the few photos I have of my whole staff." He frowned. "I keep thinking I should Photoshop her out of the image."
Riley didn't respond. He was too busy looking at the woman with long dark hair and full red lips. Familiar lips.
He passed the photo to Matthew. "Who is this?" he asked as he stood and crossed to the giant dry erase board that covered the far wall of Matthew's office.
"Joanna Stein," he said. "She's one of my assistants."
"She a member of the club?"
Matthew's eyes widened. "Not as far as I know, but she went a few times with me."
"Interesting extracurricular to share with an employee."
"We went out socially a few times," Matthew admitted. "But after a while, I thought better of it. Told her that I couldn't date someone on my staff. But honestly, that was just an excuse. The truth is we didn't connect. She was too..."
He trailed off, obviously searching for a word.
"What?"
"I'm not sure how to describe it. I just felt that she focused on me--on us--too quickly. That she'd be clingy, except that's not right either. I guess I just had a bad feeling. Why? Surely you don't think Joanna knows who's stalking Natasha."
"She knows all right," Riley said, using the dry erase marker to draw a small mole above Joanna's lip. Then he passed the image back to Matthew. "She is the stalker. And I think you're the reason."
"Me?"
"You went to the club with Tasha. She saw you. And now she's pissed that you have a new girlfriend."
"Dear God."
"Is she here today? Can you call her into your office?"
"Of course." He pressed the intercom button. "Lisa, can you ask Joanna to step into my office?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holt. She's already left with your delivery."
"Delivery?" He met Riley's eyes. "What delivery?"
"The one for Mr. Tarpin. The additional research material for the erotic thriller. She's on her way to his office right now."
I'm sitting on the floor with the laptop on the coffee table in front of the window and three boxes' worth of backlogged filing spread out around me. I'm determined to get through all of this before Lyle comes back, mostly because once he
does return, all of this non-priority work will get pushed to the background.
But Lyle insists on keeping old call sheets, fan mail, reviews, articles, interviews, the whole nine yards. Some of it I can save directly into our digital filing system. But some of it--like the stuff in these boxes--has to be sorted and filed. Do I scan it? Or is it cool enough that years from now, Lyle might want the actual magazine? Like the first time he made the cover of People. That's a no-brainer. But what about the other two times? Scan or keep a hard copy?
I sit back, scowling, and am rescued from the whole decision-making conundrum by the chime on my phone that signals someone requesting access to the lobby and the elevator banks. I check the image on the app, then use the intercom feature to confirm that the arrival is the woman from Matthew Holt's office. Joanna, one of his assistants, had called earlier to say she wanted to run by some material for Lyle to review upon his return--a sheath of research material for the new project and a revised outline.
I'd mentioned the material in my morning call with Lyle, just to be sure that he didn't want me to have her send the stuff straight to him in Europe, but he'd said to go ahead and review it myself. "You're sure it's Joanna?"
"Pretty sure, why?"
"The last time I was in, he'd mentioned that he was considering letting her go. He either changed his mind or I'm thinking about a different assistant."
I remember the conversation as I wait for the elevator to bring her up to the thirtieth floor. If she is the woman that Matthew's thinking about firing, I can't help but feel sorry for her. It would suck to be on the chopping block and not even know it.
Moments later, there's a soft knock, and I climb to my feet and open the door to reveal a woman with short dark hair and bright red lipstick. "Hey, you must be Joanna. I'm Natasha. Come on in."
"Thanks." She glances around. "Great office."
I explain how it used to be Lyle's apartment. "Thus the awesome security."
"Yeah, I wish Matthew had that. It's a crazy world these days."
"Tell me about it," I say, though I don't elaborate. "Come on. I have a pot of coffee in the sitting area if you want some. Cream, sugar, these cool little chocolate stir sticks. It's my afternoon treat. Just ignore all the papers on the floor."
She follows me in, and I pour us both coffee while she explains what she brought over. "The BDSM research is really pretty interesting. We can go over it if you want."
