Mastiff Security: The Complete 5 Books Series

by Glenna Sinclair

  He lifted off his shirt, giving her access to that hard, well-defined chest, with its tattoos and small scars. She’d finally seen him shirtless the night after the team change and spent a long time tracing her fingers over his scars, wanting to ask what had caused each one, but knowing he’d lie because they were all associated with his work. His real work, not the bullshit he’d told the housemates and, by default, the viewers of this game. But she hoped there would eventually be a day when she could ask, and he’d answer.

  There was only one other tattoo hidden under his shirt. She’d imagined dozens, based on the few she could see, but there was only one more. It was curved around one nipple, a set of initials she already knew belonged to his sister. Gretchen Rene Pratt. She found it funny that he’d done that. She wondered if he’d done it the day of her funeral the way she had. The way Zola had her mother’s initials tattooed on her wrist.

  Wasn’t it funny how someone’s suicide could inspire a person to put themselves through a self-mutilating act like that? Was it really an honor to the one who died, or a punishment to the one who’d survived?

  Zola wondered that every time she looked at her tattoos.

  She nibbled at his nipple, her tongue brushing against Gretchen’s initials. Was that disrespectful? Gunner didn’t seem to mind.

  His hands finally came around her, his palms pressed against her back. His hands slipped upward as she slid down, digging under the loose braid she’d twisted her hair into as she rested her ass against the cold toilet lid. She wanted to taste him. Everywhere. And she could see the heat in his eyes, the need to be tasted. But when she began tugging at his jeans, tearing the button from its little nest, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her to her feet.

  “We can’t do this. Not like this.”

  Confusion burst through her overheated mind. “What do you mean?”

  “I wanted you to prove something to me. But this . . . You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know.”

  “Zola . . .”

  He ran his hand over her face, and she turned, pressing her lips to his palm. He smelled like her, and she smelled like him, and it made her ache so deep in her core that it almost hurt. She reached for his jeans again, and he didn’t stop her this time, pulling her to him, his lips possessing hers. There was no other word for it than possess. His kiss was more than a kiss, more than just two people swapping a little affection. This was a kiss that told her she was his, that no one else would ever touch her again. And it made her soul soar as she slipped her hand inside his jeans and grasped him in her fist.

  There wasn’t enough room in the narrow water closet. They couldn’t move back; they couldn’t move forward. They could only stand face to face, their need ready to explode but impossible to satisfy. Gunner grunted, holding her hand still as he sucked in a couple of deep breaths.

  “I want you,” he groaned.

  “I want you, too.”

  She glanced behind her and realized using the toilet was the only way they were going to get this done. Her entire bank account for a damn bed without cameras trained on it twenty-four/seven! She was almost ready to burst out the door and take him back to bed when she realized if she balanced on the toilet lid on her knees . . .

  He got the idea as she turned away from him. He held her hips, and a second later she was on a ride to heaven. He slipped inside of her easily, her body more than ready for his invasion. But he kept coming and coming, and she had to whisper a few commands, ask him to be still for a second while her body adjusted to his deeply satisfying girth. He leaned down over her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his breathing already heavy. And then he slowly began to move, holding tight to her, his lips brushing her shoulder before he bit down, pleasure and pain rushing through her with equal intensity.

  They fell into a slow, awkward rhythm that was okay for the moment. But then he needed more. He stood and pressed a hand to the wall above her head, his movements growing more confident, more commanding. She had to press a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out, aware of the many cameras just outside this teeny closet, just waiting with sensitive microphones to record proof of their debauchery.

  Even in passion, she couldn’t forget the game they were playing.

  But it was so worth it, the secrets of his touch. His movements were just right, touching her in all those places that begged for it, that needed it more than anything else. And when he swelled, he touched that one button that sent her over the edge. That button that no one else had ever touched, the one that delivered to her an orgasm like none other.

  He held her mouth this time, her body too lost in this sea of sensation to respond to common sense. And then he was holding his screams back as he filled her with his heat, with his living legacy.

  “Fuck,” he whispered in her ear and the ridiculousness of it sent her into a gale of laughter.

  “Stop,” he groaned, a little laughter lacing his voice. “That feels . . . oh, God!”

  And that just made her laugh that much more.

  It felt damn good!

  Chapter 16

  Chicago, Illinois

  The Set of Stranger’s Retreat

  Durango leaned back and rubbed his hands over his face. He felt like he’d been up for several days straight, and that wasn’t too far from the truth. The competitions had begun again two days ago, and he was watching like a hawk while it was happening and then reviewing the tapes afterward, trying to see something that might clue him into who was sabotaging the set. There hadn’t been any more incidents, but that didn’t mean the saboteur was done. It just meant they needed to be more vigilant.

  “Hey. How about a five-minute break?”

  Gracie touched his shoulder, her voice like nectar to his ears. He leaned back and looked up at her, more grateful to see her familiar features than he dared admit.

  “When did you get here?”

  “Just now.” She gestured with a plastic container. “I brought you some food.”

  “Much appreciated. But you do know they provide twenty-four-hour catering around here, right?”

  “This is better for you. Hormone free chicken and rice.”

  He wanted to laugh. She was so concerned with his health despite the fact the threat of jail still loomed over his head. If she had any idea what was going through his mind, she would probably encourage him to eat all the junk he wanted.

  He got up and led the way to a quiet, dark corner of the busy studio. The feeds from inside the house were playing on a dozen screens, some of them focused on Brian and Jessica, who were constantly bickering, and some were focused on Zola and Gunner. Their relationship was quieter. Sweeter. But it worried Durango that they were so often caught kissing on each other.

  He hoped Zola knew what she was doing.

  “She looks happy,” Gracie commented.

  “She looks like an operative who’s gotten in over her head.” He dragged his hands over his face again, wiping the sleepy gunk out of his eyes. “She’s insisting that we leave her in until we catch the saboteur, but I’m a little afraid she’s taken the whole thing too seriously. I think she wants to stick around until she and Gunner win.”

  “Everyone’s convinced that’s how it’ll end up.”

  “It probably will, too, if we can’t find this guy.”

  “What makes you think it’s a guy. It could be a woman.”

  “Yeah? You think little Jessica’s capable of slicing a woman’s arm open with a box cutter?”

  Gracie glanced at the screens. “I think anyone’s capable of something like that when they want something bad enough.”

  Durango shook his head, slipping the container out of Gracie’s hands to redirect her attention, but realizing just how hungry he was the moment the smell hit him. He dug in with the little plastic fork that was stuck in the lid of the container, moaning with pleasure as the flavors popped on his tongue.

  “Now I wish I was the chef.”

  He winked at Gracie. “I’m sure you
rs is better.”

  A slight blush touched her cheeks before she turned back to the monitors. “There’s something I’ve been wondering since Zola got hurt.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How did the culprit cut her without slashing the jacket she was wearing? Or without her feeling it?”

  “It was cold that night. The doctor was a little concerned about how cold her hands were when she first came in. I think her arm was numb, and that’s why she didn’t feel it when it happened. Probably why the bleeding wasn’t that bad until she stopped sticking her hands in the water.”

  “But what about the jacket?”

  Durango sat back. He hadn’t thought of that.

  Gracie took a seat beside him, still watching the live feeds. “She had a light jacket over her arms, remember?”

  “Yeah. Except when she was washing the puzzle pieces. She pulled them up then.”

  “But she would have noticed.”

  It was something about the way Gracie said that last part that reminded Durango of something he’d seen in the footage from that night. It was right on the tip of his memory, and he was about to grasp it when one of the assistants—assistant to who or what, he had no clue—came over.

  “Mr. Masters? One of the former contestants is here. She asked to speak to Felicity or Cillian, but since neither of them is here, someone told me to get you.”

  “It’s late. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, sir. She says it’s urgent.”

  “Maybe you should see her,” Gracie said. “Maybe it has something to do with this thing . . .”

  He nodded, understanding Gracie’s attempt at subtlety. He got up, shoving one more bite of the chicken in his mouth, and followed the assistant across the studio. The place was fairly empty, just the night crew hanging around. A few camera men watching the feeds, moving the focus of the automatic cameras whenever it seemed necessary. But it was a skeleton crew tonight because the comp for the day was finished, and the contestants were sleeping.

  He was led to a small dressing room off the main stage. A woman, her back to him as he stepped through the door, stood at the makeup counter, her fingers playing over the smooth, white surface.

  “I’m Durango Masters. I’m a production supervisor here.”

  She turned, and her eyes widened as she recognized him. “You’re her friend.” There was hesitation in her voice, but then she seemed to warm to the idea. She came toward him a few steps, pausing just inches from his toes, her eyes moving almost frantically over his face. “You’re the one she was always talking to out in the backyard.”

  “You’re Lesley, right?”

  She nodded. “I wanted to talk to Felicity Meeks, but I guess you’ll do.”

  “How can I help you, Lesley?”

  She looked pointedly at the door, refusing to speak again until he reached over and pushed it closed. She had her arms crossed over her chest when he turned back to her.

  “People are going to think I did this just because I was eliminated from the competition. But that’s not why.”

  “What are you here to do, Lesley?”

  She tilted her head slightly. “You know all the accidents that happened in the house during the comps? I know who caused them.”

  Surprise washed over Durango like a splash of cold water. “You think the comps were sabotaged?” Felicity and Cillian both had insisted that no one knew, or even suspected, but them.

  “I saw him do it.”

  “Him, who?”

  She glanced at the door, then turned and surveyed the corners of the room.

  “There are no cameras in here,” he assured her.

  “It’s hard to get used to them, but now that they’re gone, it’s kind of weird to get used to that, too.”

  “I’m sure it is. Now, can you tell me what you know?”

  She nodded. “He told me everything after he cut her arm. I saw him do it, saw the blade flash out, saw the line of blood on her arm. He told me he didn’t mean to cut so deep, but her arm is thin, you know?”

  “Who, Lesley?”

  She shook her head. “First, you need to promise me that if this gets out, if the press finds out, it won’t affect the payment they said they’d give me. And it won’t change the competition in six months. The game has to finish.”

  He nodded, not sure he wanted to see the game finish, but willing to promise just about anything if it’d get this woman to tell him what he should have been able to figure out on his own, preferably weeks ago.

  “I promise.”

  * * *

  Durango rushed back to the control room and grabbed the tapes of the night of the 3D puzzle comp. He shoved one into the machine and leaned close to the screen to watch. Gracie came up behind him and rested her hand on his back.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Just watch.” He pushed a button that would move the film forward or backward, preferring forward at this point. When the moment came, Gracie gasped.

  “How did we not see that before?”

  “Because we were distracted by that.” He touched his finger to the screen and a little commotion that took place at the center of the frame. Cillian, dressed in slacks and expensive Italian shoes, slipped in a muddy puddle and nearly toppled the trough the girls had been using to clean the puzzle pieces. “It never occurred to me, but the eye is drawn to the bigger motions, right.”

  “I guess so.”

  He played it again and used the editing tools to focus the frame on the action to the left of center. It was Zola, her hands full of the last of her puzzle pieces, rushing back to where Gunner was putting together the puzzle. She passed another player who was rushing to finish his own puzzle. They touched, just so very briefly, and continued on their opposite paths, neither seeming aware of that touch. But then the male player looked back with a little smile as Zola pulled down her jacket sleeves just before reaching Gunner and handing him the final pieces.

  “That’s why there was no mark on her sleeve.”

  “And why she didn’t feel it. It was just a quick pass, a lucky hit. If her arms hadn’t been numb, or if her sleeves had already been pulled down, it might not have happened at all.”

  Gracie shook her head. “Now we know the who.”

  “We know the why, too.”

  “We do?”

  “That former contestant? He told her everything.”

  “And she told you.”

  He nodded, watching the pass just one more time. “We have our proof now, too. We just need one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We need him to implicate his accomplice.”

  “He has an accomplice?”

  “Yeah. And that person is a much bigger fish.” He studied the film, his eyes moving away from the assault and back to the commotion going on in the center of the frame. “And we need to find a way to get word to Zola without it being me meeting her in the backyard. Apparently, those meetings weren’t as clandestine as I assumed.”

  “Let me go in.”

  He glanced at her. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to get you in the middle of this. These people . . . They cut her in the open. You see this, don’t you?”

  “Are you afraid he’ll come after me, too?”

  “I just don’t want you in harm’s way, Gracie. Is that such a big thing to ask?”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek lightly. “You hired me to work at a security firm. Don’t you think I understood the risks that might entail when I accepted? I’ll go in and talk to her. You just let her know when and where.”

  In her mind, the subject was closed. Durango stared at her, wondering when she’d become such a stubborn woman, and what he’d done to deserve that attitude.

  But, again, without that attitude, he’d be lying on his living room floor, passed out drunk right about now.

  Can’t live with them, can’t live without ’em.


  He was beginning to believe that was incredibly true in this case.

  Chapter 17

  Chicago, Illinois

  The Set of Stranger’s Retreat

  Zola hadn’t heard from Durango in several days. She was hoping that was a good sign, but she couldn’t see how. It was day thirty-eight in the house. There would be another comp tonight and one tomorrow morning, a big one tomorrow, and then the live show. She and Gunner had enough points to win the whole thing right now, but the last comp was worth enough points that if Brian and Jessica were to win it, they could pull themselves far enough ahead that they’d be required to play a tie breaker comp.

  She wasn’t afraid to admit she was nervous. If the saboteur was still in the house, today’s comp would be an ideal one to sabotage. But, then again, tomorrow’s comp was more important. She just wasn’t sure the person behind this would be willing to wait until the last minute to end this. Today would make more sense.

  And that made her nervous. Her arm now had a thin scar running from midway to her elbow. That made her nervous. If someone could do that, what else would they be willing to do to win this stupid game? And who would they be willing to do it too?

  Zola wasn’t so much afraid for herself. She was afraid for Gunner. He’d been a target since before she came into the game. He hadn’t been hurt until her arrival, but several people he was connected to had been. That meant the saboteur was trying to make it appear that it was him, making him a target from the first accident. And it had worked. Cillian and Felicity had both pointed a finger to him when they first came to Mastiff.

  She didn’t want to see Gunner hurt.

  “What’s the matter, babe?”

  She was shifting too much. He must have thought she was having a nightmare.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re restless. Are you worried about the comps?”