Taken By the Force

by Lyla Sinclair

  “There’s a report that he was seen in Vegas today. You two have had an on-again, off-again thing going for years. You’re in Vegas, which means you’re the most likely person in town to help him hide out.”

  “No, I’m really not—“

  “A Vegas cop thought he spotted him. I’m waiting to hear about a photo taken today by a security camera near your neighborhood. If the I.D. comes back positive, I won’t be nearly so nice.”

  “I don’t know anything. I don’t even have a neighborhood,” I said desperately. “Why don’t you believe me?”

  “I don’t believe anybody, Mistress,” he replied. “I’m a homicide detective. People lie to me every day for every reason under the sun. They lie about witnessing a murder to keep me from knowing they have a warrant out on an unpaid speeding ticket. People lie. I believe in evidence.”

  A homicide detective? Am I—I mean is Anastasya—somehow involved in a murder? “What evidence do you have to prove I’m Anastasya?” I asked.

  “Blue eyes, blonde hair.” –Apparently my bald cap was starting to come off—“You work at the strip club where Anastasya has worked for the past year, portraying the Asad Mistress—”

  “Asaj,” I corrected. His expression told me that I’d just made myself sound guiltier.

  “Your handbag says your initials are ‘A.P.,’ and you conveniently have no identification to prove you’re who you say you are—an accountant from Minneapolis. Besides, I saw your show. You’re no amateur.”

  Was it weird that I was a little flattered by that?

  “Okay, I can see how this looks suspicious, but there’s a crazy but true explanation for everything.”

  He shook his head. Maybe I should have insisted on going to the police station. They would have fingerprinted me and we’d probably be done by now.

  His phone rang. He got up and went to the kitchen. After he answered, he lowered his voice, and I could only hear bits and pieces. Something about “confirmation” and “Victor.” Who was Victor? I thought the guy’s name was Byron?

  Something wasn’t right about this situation. Cops didn’t take you to a safe house just because they thought you knew something. Had I ever seen his badge? Maybe Carl saw it, but I don’t remember him showing any I.D. to Joe and me. What if he wasn’t a cop? What else could he be?

  A bounty hunter? Hmm…maybe I was watching too much reality TV.

  A private investigator?

  But what if he wasn’t any of those things? What if he was one of the bad guys? Some kind of deluded serial killer or mafia enforcer? This was Vegas after all. I strained to hear what he was saying.

  “He is? Wasn’t in the… Where? So he’s a con…”

  His voice became inaudible again and I couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence until the word “killer”…or “kill her.” Which was it? My heart raced. I knew I couldn’t wait around to find out. There was nothing right about this situation. I glanced around and spotted his car keys on the table by the door. As I stood, I looked toward the kitchen and saw his back was to me.

  I ran. I grabbed the keys and, after a brief struggle with the doorknob, I took off outside. Once in the car, I realized how much harder it was to do everything in handcuffs. I got the engine started and was very grateful there was no one parked to my left, because steering was difficult with my hands stuck so close together.

  I backed the car out and breathed a sigh of relief as I put it in gear. But just as I hit the accelerator, the passenger door flew open. Webb was holding onto it, running alongside…or was I dragging him? Shit, what if he was a cop? I slammed on the brakes and his head slammed into the car door.

  “Fuck!” he said as he pulled himself into the car and touched the blood from the scratch on his forehead. Well, it was somewhere between a scratch and a gash, but the blood wasn’t actually running down his face.

  He shut his door. As he tried to catch his breath, he glared at me murderously.

  “Back the fuck up,” he said. He put his hand on his holstered gun.

  The glimpse of the gun I’d gotten under the jacket when I gave him the blow job was one thing. Being threatened by a gun was something else. I backed up until I was even with the two empty parking spaces in front of the apartment.

  “Stop,” he said. I obeyed. “Turn off the engine and give me the keys.”

  “But this isn’t really a parking space,” I argued.

  He didn’t respond. He just put his hand out and I did as he asked. He opened his car door, grabbed me by the tops of my arms and dragged me across the bucket seats.

  Once I was out, he pulled me along as fast as I could walk in my platform boots. There was something much scarier about being dragged into an apartment in handcuffs than walking in willingly as I had the first time. I could feel the anger radiating off of him. I started to shiver.

  When we made it inside, he slammed the door behind us and locked it three different ways. “What the hell were you thinking, Anastasya? You could have gotten us both killed. If you were a man, I’d knock—“

  “It’s not Anastasya. It’s Andrea,” I said firmly.

  Before I understood what was happening, he sat down on the couch and jerked me face down across his lap. “What are you doing?” I squealed.

  “You want to act like a crazy brat?” he said, as he tore the snap open and tossed my skirt away. “I’ll treat you like one.” My bare ass was suddenly chilly and I was sure I had gooseflesh there, which I hoped didn’t resemble cellulite in this lighting.

  I felt a slap. Then another.

  WTF? He’s spanking me?

  My wrists were on the arm of the couch, still shackled together, but I wiggled my body around, struggling to get up. His sizzling palm pressed hard into the middle of my back, holding me down. A strange mixture of emotions passed through me. Maybe fear. Definitely arousal.

  His spanking hand hit its mark again and the combination of the heat of the palm on my back and the sting of the other one on my ass caused a rush of excitement throughout my body.

  I was really getting turned on by this. Talk about inappropriate reactions from being abducted by a stranger and smacked. But had I ever heard of a serial killer or Mafioso who spanked his captives to death?

  After another swat, I felt a liquid release and wondered how long it would take me to cream through my G-string and onto his lap. And why was my clit wiggling around, making itself known?

  Sexual deprivation. If this was a turn-on for me, I’d gone way too long without getting any.

  Whack! Whack! Whack! The spanking continued until my bottom felt like it had been stung by a hundred bees. It was too much. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes.

  “Detective?” I said plaintively.

  His hand stilled. Weighty and warm, it rested on my bottom for one, two, three glorious seconds. When he moved, I tensed for another swat, but none came. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

  He rolled me over and I found myself staring up into his accusing brown eyes. Strange how he didn’t seem one bit less sexy to me this way. I saw that muscle in his jaw ticking and knew he was still angry.

  He pulled at my bald cap until it came off. My blonde hair fell in waves around me. “How do we get this stuff off your face?” he asked.

  “I have something in my bag.” But the thought of being completely unmasked in this getup was terrifying for me.

  He took me into the bathroom and, with shaky hands, I used the prosthetics adhesive remover, as Mimi had shown me the night before. Once my disguise was off, I rinsed my face and dried it, then stared down at the sink, feeling completely vulnerable.

  I was just me, now, but dressed in a scandalously skimpy costume—a tiny top, a G-string, and boots. “Clothes” I’d never wear in real life.

  Webb reached up and lifted my chin gently until we were eye to eye. I watched as recognition dawned on him.

  “You were in the office…at the strip club,” he said.

  He recognized me? I should h
ave taken my disguise off hours ago. Joe had already told him I was the new accountant.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You were right under my nose this afternoon. What did you do to get the manager to cover for you? Promise him a blow job?”

  “No, I’m really the accountant, like he told you.”

  “And I’m the queen of the fucking Macy’s Parade.” He shut the bathroom door to reveal a full length mirror on the inside of it.

  I’d never seen myself like this—in a G-string and very revealing top without the makeup and bald cap. I was ready to die of embarrassment. I looked away, but he grasped the hair at the back of my scalp and forced me to look at myself.

  “You really expect me to believe I’m looking at an accountant?” He was angry, but I began to feel another kind of tension as he watched my reflection in the mirror.

  Heat sparked from his intense gaze, and for the first time, I saw myself through new eyes. My blonde hair fell in fluffy waves past my shoulders. My large breasts no longer seemed obnoxious to me as I let my eyes wander down to where my waist curved in and my voluptuous hips curved back out again.

  And something changed inside me. It wasn’t that I’d never known what parts were there before, but in my mind I’d always seen my body as garish, overblown, practically misshapen…

  I swallowed hard and glanced at Webb’s face in the mirror again. He looked at me as if drinking me in with his eyes. And his chest was heaving right along with mine. I felt powerful…and still incredibly aroused.

  He blinked like he was coming out of a dream, then suddenly slammed the side of his fist into the doorframe. I jumped, startled at the change of mood in the room.

  Opening the bathroom door, he pulled me by my hair into a bedroom.

  “Wait! Ow!” I complained, but he didn’t seem interested in my discomfort.

  When he released me, I noticed this room was nicer than the rest of the place, and had the feel of a guest room that was never used. The four-poster bed looked like it could be an antique.

  “Lie down,” he said.

  I obeyed, frightened. Was he some sort of split personality? “Look, Detective Webb…Rick…” I said, hoping his given name would help me get through to him.

  He looked into my eyes as if surprised to hear it, and I saw something there I hadn’t seen before—vulnerability maybe? His shoulders dropped and he sat down on the bed next to me. He sucked in air, then breathed it out in a silent sigh. Was he sad? Exhausted?

  But a moment later, the set of his jaw changed. I could see him mentally pulling himself back together as he took a key out of his pocket and unlocked one side of the handcuffs. I lay still, not wanting to do anything that might change his mind about freeing me. He pulled my hands above my head and shackled me to the bed post.

  “No!” I screamed.

  “You’ll be fine. I made a promise to a friend and I have to see it through. I’m going to check out a lead, but I’ll be back soon.”

  I was beside myself at the idea of being left there alone, nearly naked, chained to a bedpost. “Please!” I pleaded. “Please don’t leave me like this!” Tears spilled out of the corners of my eyes.

  His expression softened and he reached out to me, smoothing my hair back from my face. His gaze dropped to my lips. Slowly, his hand moved from my hair and slid down my cheek. He watched his own thumb intently as it pressed softly across my bottom lip.

  He pulled away as if he’d touched a hot plate.

  “Fuck,” he said, rubbing his palms up his face. “I guess this is what happens when you don’t sleep for a week or so.” He stood and walked out of the room. I saw him grab his suit jacket from the couch and heard the keys jingle. And he was gone.

  Chapter Four

  Rick

  When I got back in the car, I sat there for a minute, wondering if I was losing my mind. I’d known what I was doing—or thought I did—when I’d taken Anastasya from the club.

  I was so torn up about Danny, I didn’t care about losing my badge if it would bring his shooters in. And this was the only way to get the girlfriend alone so I could pry some information out of her…except she wasn’t giving any.

  And I should never have unmasked her. The combination of that stripper body and the big blue eyes in that innocent face knocked me for a loop. I needed to force some information out of her, but all I wanted to do was fuck her mouth with my tongue while I tore off that G-string and—

  Tired—and horny—or not, I had to keep it together.

  Fulsom had told me the I.D. on Byron Ivanov was positive. A patrolman thought he’d spotted him near a convenience store a few blocks from Anastasya’s apartment, but the asshole had lost him. At least the cop was smart enough to get the security footage from the cash machine.

  Fulsom had also learned that Byron’s brother Viktar Ivanov had served time for a murder he’d pleaded down to a man slaughter. With time off for good behavior, he’d only served three years.

  Although I hadn’t spelled out what I was doing, Fulsom had no doubt I was in Vegas. He warned me that all indications were the Ivanovs had ties to the Russian mafia and would probably hook up with some other mafia types once they got here.

  Damn. Had I kidnapped Anastasya for nothing? Maybe she really hadn’t seen him. What if they’d gone straight to meet up with some other connections?

  Once I made it to the Jiffee Stop, I thought I’d lucked out. The clerk on duty, Jerome Johnson, was the same one who was there the day the picture was taken. I introduced myself without making my jurisdiction clear, noticing he had a good-sized 1970’s retro-fro going on.

  “I thought I’d already talked to you guys,” he said, when I asked about Byron.

  “Not to me,” I replied. “This man came in here yesterday and got money from the cash machine.” I laid the picture on the counter. “Have you seen him any other time? Maybe with a blonde woman or with another man that looks a lot like him?”

  “Like I told the other cops,” Jerome said. “I don’t inspect people when they come through here, and most of the white ones look alike to me.”

  “This is too important to fuck with me about, Johnson.”

  “I’m not fucking with you, officer. You know, studies show that a person of a different race from the criminal makes the worst witness—“

  “Yeah, I know.” I waved my hands to stop him, since I felt a lecture coming on.

  “For all I know, you could have come in with him. Black people have the same problems telling white people apart as—”

  “I’ve read the studies,” I said, disgusted that I was getting nowhere on the most important case of my life. “If you know so much, how come you’re working at a convenience store in the middle of the night?”

  “Pays the bills and gives me time to read,” Jerome replied. He held up a large textbook. “Criminal justice major. Goin’ to law school next year.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “You’ll make lots of money getting killers three-year jail sentences, so they can get out and shoot cops.”

  “Is that what happened?” he asked with renewed interest.

  “Yeah. My partner.”

  “Damn, man. I’m sorry.”

  His sincere sympathy caught me off guard. I was so physically and mentally burnt out from the last few days, I felt tears gathering behind my eyes. “Well, thanks for your time,” I replied, planning a quick exit.

  “Listen man,” Jerome said as he picked the picture up and looked at it more carefully. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled. For real.” He offered his hand, and I shook it, my faith in mankind renewed, at least temporarily. I pulled out a card and handed it to him.

  “L.A.P.D., huh?”

  “Yeah, use the cell number. They don’t know I’m here.” I turned to leave.

  “Sure,” he said as he watched me walk to the door. “Oh, and I’m planning on being a prosecutor, if that makes you feel any better.”

  It didn’t. Once lawyers got into the courtroom, they seemed to care
about nothing but winning the case, whether they put a killer away for three years or some pot-smoking grandma away for twenty. I liked Jerome, though. Maybe he’d be different.

  After I got on the road, my cell phone rang.

  “What do you have for me, Fulsom?” I said.

  “I checked the bank records. That money Byron withdrew didn’t come from his account or his brother’s.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. It came from Anastasya Petrova’s checking account.”

  “Thanks.” I pressed “end,” hit the accelerator and hightailed it toward the safe house, trying to figure out my options.

  Anastasya had given Byron her ATM card…or he’d taken it. Either way, she’d seen him. Anger rushed through me at the image of them together. Anger that felt more like jealousy. What the hell was wrong with me?

  Oh yeah. Sleep deprivation. It could make you do crazy things. I needed to get some shut-eye, but I also needed some answers.

  I thought about my own bank account. I had some money saved. What would it take to make Anastasya talk?

  But if she was that greedy, she probably wouldn’t be giving Byron money…unless she didn’t know he was taking it.

  What were my other options? I couldn’t imagine slapping a woman around until she talked, especially this one. A spanking was about as far as I could go in the torture department.

  The thought crept into my mind that she’d seemed hot for me a couple of times. Hell, she’d gone down on me and gotten herself off in the process. Was she some kind of nympho sex-addict type? And could I use that to get information from her?

  I remembered how she’d looked after the spanking. I thought I’d smacked her ass pretty good, but when I rolled her over, her hard nipples practically poked holes through the top of her costume…and she was looking at me like it was a turn-on.

  Damn. My dick was getting hard, obviously missing the point. She was the one who needed to be hot and bothered. Then maybe I could get some answers.

  *

  Andrea

  The clock claimed only a couple of hours had passed, but it seemed like forever. Because I’d been handcuffed to a bedpost, I’d had to work my way into a diagonal position to keep from falling off the bed. He hadn’t even had the decency to cover me up and I was starting to get pretty chilly, with the ceiling fan on.