Mick squinted, searching out the low tables he knew were arrayed along the edges of the seraglio, and seeking to locate the hidden doors leading to a couple of other, similar rooms. He took Caro's hand and moved toward a set of empty pillows on the other side.
A soft female voice behind him stopped him dead in his tracks. “Hello, Mick.”
He whirled, unable to believe his ears. Blood rushed blindly to his head. He fought to regain his composure, praying the darkness hid his shock.
“Hello, Lauren. What are you doing here?” His first coherent thought was that he'd kill Jeff Cody if this was his idea of a joke. Then his brain cells re-aligned and he remembered Lauren Adams had left the LAPD, and L.A., right after he did. “I thought you moved to Oakland.”
“Among other places, but I'm back,” she said. “For almost two months.”
“I heard about what happened after—” He decided not to go there. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. Not you, of all people.” She sized him up and down in the murky light. “You're looking good.”
His gaze sought out the contours of her face. The face that nearly ended his career before it had begun. Same round lines, same pretty brown doe-eyes, same soft, pale cheeks that had regularly bloomed black and blue back when she'd worked as his partner, now pristine peach.
Imagine, seeing her here where they’d started out, after all this time. Lauren was the one who had talked him into coming when the club first opened, on a lark. Neither of them had anticipated how much they’d enjoy the dark sexual lifestyle of the place. Seemed she couldn't shake the past any more than he could.
It suddenly occurred to him he should be real careful what he said, for many reasons.
“Who's your friend?” Lauren asked, her gaze straying to Caro, who had been strangely quiet, leaning against his arm. He was holding her hand in a death grip, and consciously loosened it, fearing he might be crushing her fingers.
“This is Caro,” he said, slipping his arm around her. He decided to forestall any awkwardness by adding, “We're living together.” To his relief, Caro snugged up closer to his side, playing along. “Baby, this is Lauren.”
Caro smiled but remained submissively silent.
Lauren tipped her head, taking in every detail of the two of them. “You've changed, sugar snap.”
He had no choice but to agree. A whole lot of things had changed since they'd last seen each other. And more were on the way.
He eyed her hour-glass figure arrayed in a tight spandex outfit. “You haven't.”
“I hope he treats you well,” she said, turning to Caro.
Caro gave her a little smile in return. “Oh, yes. He only beats me when I'm very naughty.”
Horrified, he stared at her, and Lauren went white as a ghost.
“Did he like to tie you up, too?” Caro asked in a breathy, innocent voice, startling him out of one shock and right into another.
Lauren hesitated a second before replying, “He was more into handcuffs when I knew him.”
“Really? Maybe we could—”
Jesus H. Christ.
Mick grabbed Caro's arms and pointed her toward the door to the next room before she could do any more damage. “Look, we have to go.” Holy shit, what did she think she was doing?
Lauren laid a hand on his arm. “Mick, we need to talk. Are you still—”
He cut her off before she could blow their cover any higher out of the water. “Call me tomorrow. You know where to find me.”
***
Caro let Mick hustle her through a beaded curtain into the next cave-like area of the seraglio. It was obvious Mick's mind was still on the woman they'd just left behind. Who the hell was she, and why did his eyes suddenly look so haunted?
“Lauren was nice,” she remarked, trying desperately not to think about how the woman was probably some former lover of his. Or maybe not so former. He'd asked her to call him tomorrow.
“Yeah.” Mick's mouth clamped shut.
“Well,” Caro said, eyeing him coolly. “So much for your lofty promises, sugar snap.”
“I need a fucking drink.” He dug in his pocket for a twenty, held out the bill to her and glanced around. “Go get us something at the bar, would you, baby? I'll find a tabl—” Her words must have finally sunk in because suddenly his brow creased. “What promises?”
She plucked the twenty from his fingers, already regretting her irrational statement. “Not important.”
He gripped her wrist before she could escape, all attention. “What are you talking about?”
She shot him her most quelling female glare. “Your promise never to look at another woman while we're sleeping together.” She lifted her chin. “But then, it's a moot point because we're not sleeping together. Now, if you'll just release me—”
They were attracting attention, so he pulled her stiff body into his arms and murmured, “Jesus, Caro. She's my ex-partner. I didn't have sex with her then, and I don't intend to start now. We'll talk about this later.”
“Nothing to talk about.” She extricated herself from his embrace and waited patiently for him to unclip her leash, which he reluctantly did—at his end. “None of my business, anyway.”
“Of course it's your business, but we'll talk about it later. Right now I want that drink.”
She might have forgiven him, so great was her annoying relief that he and the petite, auburn-haired beauty weren't lovers, but he smacked her butt as she headed for the bar in the corner of the room. She barely resisted whirling to smack him back. Damn, she hated that.
Helpless to retaliate on either score, she swallowed her temper and went for drinks, twisting the end of her leash in her fingers. Fucking bastard. He had her completely tied in knots. What was it about the Iceman that made her think there was anything at all under that infuriatingly frozen exterior worth the bother of melting through it?
She shivered. Yeah, there was something under there, all right. Those haunted eyes had confirmed it. The question was, did she really want to find out what?
After placing her drink order with the wait-slave behind the bar, she leaned her back against the leather-padded counter and concentrated on calming her stormy emotions.
The room was similar to the last one in that it was done up in faux-harem decor, complete with low tables, Turkish pillows, incense, and a light, artificial fog creeping along the plushly carpeted floor. On the raised stage in the center of this room, a woman was chained by the wrists to a Saint Andrew's cross, face to the wood, her clothing in a careless pile on the floor.
She was being flogged. With an implement that looked identical to the whip hanging at Mick’s side. So that’s what it was.
Caro blinked, wincing when the multiple strands of the leather flogger snapped against the woman's near-naked back. She writhed, moaning in apparent ecstasy. Yikes. What was with that? Surely, the woman couldn't be enjoying such treatment?
Banking her distaste and curiosity for a time when she could quiz Mick or Tim about what made these people tick, Caro continued her survey of the room.
It had atmosphere, she had to give it that. Between the fog, the music and the costumed, languishing spectators, she could easily imagine herself a real slave in some time warp or parallel universe where decadent sultans still reigned and held private parties where guests were free to indulge their taste for the subjugation of women.
No, that wasn't fair. She'd seen nearly as many male as female “sacrifices” at the club, and therefore it wasn't something specifically directed at women. It merely disturbed her more when it was her own sex. Probably because for most of recorded history it had been women forced into subservience to men, and still was in many parts of the world. As a modern woman struggling for equality in her own life, she was probably over-sensitive to the issue.
Caro turned to observe the woman on the cross again, watching her wriggle and undulate in apparent pleasure with each crack of the thin leather strands against her back. Every melodic sigh and moan
bespoke that the woman truly liked what was happening to her.
And with a start Caro suddenly realized she'd gotten it totally wrong.
It wasn't the man getting off on whipping the woman, at all. It was the woman getting off.
Caro fiddled with her leash, feeling nothing but a vague queasiness at the thought of being whipped for her own pleasure. Yet, the woman bound to the St. Andrews cross was obviously deep in the throes of a very powerful fantasy being played out up there on stage. Just as the man shackled to the wall out front had been.
A purely sexual fantasy.
Nothing to do with violence or abuse.
Caro jumped when the wait-slave tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. “Beer, tequila and red wine, right?”
She nodded, willing her heart to slow its racing. She didn't know why the revelation had her so panicked. It wasn't as if she was the one up there acting out her most secret fantasies for all to see. Not that they'd involve flogging, even if she were.
So, what would they involve?
Licking her parched lips, her eyes sought out Mick, who was comfortably settled on the floor next to one of the small, stubby tables. Leaning back on a fat pillow, he was watching her while he talked to a man reclining on the other side of the table.
It was the security man from the entrance.
Her elbows almost slipped off the bar.
Stay calm.
Her mind whirled, fantasies forgotten. Had Mick pegged the security man as a suspect? Or... Or had the security man sought them out, hoping Mick would make good on his threat to give her to him....
He wouldn't dare.
Not if there was a chance the man could be the killer.
She swallowed down another lump of irrational panic. No, not under any circumstances. Mick couldn't give her to anyone. She wasn't his to give. This whole situation was just a performance. A masquerade. She wasn't really his pleasure slave and didn't have to do anything she didn't want to do. And being given to anyone but Mick was definitely not one of her secret fantasies.
She wiped an unsteady hand over her eyes. Of course, after the incident with the beautiful Lauren, maybe she shouldn't mind being given away.
Oh, hell. This was ridiculous. She had to get her focus back on the job, not her own personal relationships and hang-ups. Obviously the security man must be a suspect.
She motioned to the wait-slave. “Do you have Coeur de Diable champagne?” she asked him, recalling the M.E.’s note that the victim women had it poured over their bodies.
“Sorry, no.”
Disappointed, she added another beer to the tray of drinks he was finishing up for her.
And shook her head over the sadly declining state of her sanity.
***
Neither Mick nor the security man lifted a finger to help when she approached. They remained where they were, sprawled on their respective pillows, watching her juggle the tray as she knelt to place it on the table without tripping on her leash, running her stockings or spilling the drinks all over the place in the process. Not that she wouldn't dearly love to accidentally aim that shot of tequila at some appropriate bit of male anatomy.
She was proud of how she kept her eyes respectfully lowered as befitted her slave status. She would not be irritated with Mick, even knowing he was enjoying himself to no end at her discomfort. No doubt he saw it as sweet revenge for all the attitude she'd given him today. Cosmic justice sucked.
“Thought you went to Mexico for that tequila,” he commented after she managed to unload the tray without mishap.
“No, Sir,” she said, striving for just the right note of reverence in her tone, “but I did make the bartender go fetch the kind with the worm in the bottle. I know how much you like that earthy taste.” She smiled demurely.
His lips didn't even twitch when he answered, “And you will be appropriately rewarded for your diligence.”
“I brought a beer for your friend, too,” she added, and waited for Mick's permission to hand it to him.
He nodded. “This is Rick.”
She slid the beer over to Rick, who had been studying her the whole time with what seemed like x-ray vision. Their fingers accidentally touched and she yanked her hand back, setting it in her lap with the other one. What if she'd just touched a man who had killed six people? His dark features lent an air of calm dignity to his expression, and his long black hair and broad shoulders made him the image of many a woman's fantasy, she was sure. But from what she could see of them, his dark eyes seemed...remote. Cold. Calculating. And there was something else—
“Rick's been telling me the guy with the bloodletting act isn't here tonight.”
She gave herself a mental shake. “That's too bad, I know you were looking forward to it.” She remained motionless, waiting his command.
“You've trained her well,” Rick remarked. “I'm impressed.”
Casually, Mick picked up the end of her leash and clipped it back onto his harness, subtly reclaiming his property. A sense of relief rolled over her at the connection. Completely absurd, but she felt safe now.
“Thanks. She still has a long way to go, but I'm fairly satisfied.” Mick lifted the tequila to his lips.
Again, Rick's gaze slithered over her. “Her body is hot. You're a lucky man.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” Mick threw back the tequila. “I go after what I want.”
Caro stared at her hands, her cheeks growing warm. This talk was just part of his undercover role, she reminded herself. No way had he stalked her, or even singled her out. If anything, she’d come on to him. Before she knew better.
Right?
“May I touch her?”
Her gaze jerked to Mick, who cocked his head and looked as though he might actually be considering the outrageous request. For an endless moment they stared at each other.
“I don't think she's ready for that, yet,” Mick finally said.
He crooked a finger, beckoning her. On hands and knees she crawled the few feet and dutifully sat on her heels between him and the low table. He still reclined on his side, elbow resting on a huge satin pillow. He toyed with the silver links of her collar as he regarded her.
“Would you like him to touch you?” he asked.
Fighting like crazy not to react, she carefully considered her answer. This was not some crazy sex game he was playing, she told herself, this was part of the job. The case. What did he want her to say? What would the killer want her to do? From the corner of her eye she noticed several groups of people seated around them watching her. She started to sweat. She had to come up with something. And fast.
“I'd like you to touch me,” she meekly replied, hoping like hell she'd picked the right answer.
He smiled, and sat up. “Then Rick can watch.”
Her eyes went wide. Not exactly what she'd had in mind. “As you wish, Sir.”
“Come closer. Sit here.” He patted the space between his legs as he arranged them in an open Indian style. “Put your thighs over mine and lean back on your hands.”
Trust what I do in there, he'd said.
Ah, hell.
She did as she was told, trying desperately not to think about what would come next, or the fact that her skirt rode up nearly to her panties, showing about a mile of skin between its hem and the tops of her stockings. Or that they'd both thoroughly enjoyed this position last night....
The single men lounging against the walls of the seraglio eased in for a better view. Her face flamed. Oh, God.
Up on stage, the woman moaned as the dungeon master plied his craft on her flesh, the confining chains jingling against the wood of the X-shaped cross as she grasped it for support.
The whole thing was surreal. Caro's heart pounded in her throat. She took a deep, calming breath. The musky smell of sexual excitement permeated the air. Her own?
No, impossible.
Mick leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. “Relax,” he murmured.
Yeah, right.<
br />
He put his hands on her waist and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Trust me, his eyes signaled.
Caught.
Like the girl on the flying trapeze who suddenly found her net had vanished. And he was asking her to trust him. Should she take the chance? Or should she stand up and shout “Detective!” and blow the whole damned circus?
Rick took a sip of the beer she'd bought him, watching her with black predator eyes. The corner of his lip curled mockingly, daring her to turn tail and run.
If she did, it would make Mick look like a fool in front of him and everyone else watching.
She couldn't do that to Mick. Regardless of whether she'd make him sleep on the couch tonight, or whether this operation succeeded or not, she wouldn't hang him out to dry. However misguided, she'd go through whatever public humiliation she had to bear, rather than betray him like that. And, amazingly, she trusted him not to take things too far.
She had to be out of her mind.
She took a deep breath and willed her body to stop its trembling. Then looked deep into his eyes, and delivered her dignity into his hands.
Chapter 9
Mick felt a bone-deep satisfaction when Caro closed her eyes and her body relaxed under his hands. He wouldn't have bet his life on her reaction to present circumstances. In fact, he had been fully prepared to play the Angry Master when she refused to obey him. Frankly, he was pretty damned surprised she was going along with this. His admiration for her went up several notches. And so did his excitement.
“You're being very obedient tonight,” he praised.
“Sir’s wish is my command,” she replied, her hushed murmur wavering slightly under its cloak of acquiescence. “As always.”
Despite her protestations to the contrary, he knew then with exhilarating certainty she still wanted him. Her resistance was just part of their ongoing game of cat and mouse, not a genuine roadblock. It was a game he'd come to enjoy thoroughly over the past year, with secret looks and hidden moves. Now that it was real, it had suddenly become even more intriguing. The hunt was always a far bigger thrill when the mouse being stalked knew it, and had a mind of her own.
Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length) Page 12
