Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length)

by Black, Nikita

  “No, no, no! It's okay, I let him do it. It was even kind of my idea, in a way.”

  Tim's expression was riddled with doubt. “Your idea.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed deeply. “What you said yesterday, about being tied up by someone you trusted. Being able to let go and have all the decisions made for you. It was kind of like that.”

  “Tell me how, exactly.”

  “Honest to God, Tim, from the beginning I didn't want to be involved with Mick. I didn't want to be on this case with him, I didn't want to sleep with him, I didn't even want to be in the same room with him. He's totally out of control, sexually. But he's the Iceman—doesn't show his emotions and definitely doesn't want a relationship. He's wrong for me. Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  “But...?”

  “But I can't keep my hands off him. I crave him like a bad addiction. Every time he touches me, my body melts at his feet. Along with my willpower. I want him.”

  “So you can't say no when he wants you, even though you know you should.”

  “Exactly. Last night it was a real rush to be able to fight him as hard as I could and still know he'd win. Took away the guilt.” She felt her cheeks grow hot and glanced away. “Jeez, I can't believe I'm telling you this.”

  Tim smiled. “I'm a psychologist. It's my job to pry secrets out of people. Did he hurt you?”

  Not a chance she'd tell him about being spanked. “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “No.”

  “Emotionally?”

  She looked away. “We agreed from the beginning to keep emotions out of it.”

  “I see. So you feel safe with him?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “No. I don’t know.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  An old, familiar sick feeling suddenly knotted the pit of her stomach, an ancient tenseness she hadn't felt in ages. Not since she'd banished it by walking out of her father’s house ten long years ago. She didn't like it.

  A childhood of being bullied and controlled was more than plenty to endure for one lifetime.

  “Tell me,” she said aloud. “A man who likes to dominate a woman sexually...does it stop at that? Or will he eventually demand more and more control over her life, emotionally and intellectually?”

  Tim gazed at her consideringly. “Sometimes. Certainly not always. It depends on his reasons for dominating her, and his psychological pay-off, as it were. Some men are just plain abusive. They get off on hurting people, women in particular. They are sick individuals and don’t think or give a damn about the other person’s feelings. They’re on a power trip. Out to boost their own self-worth by subjugating others’.”

  “Like Mick’s father,” she said. And her own.

  “Not much doubt about that. But for others, dominance comes from a whole other place. That kind of man is what’s called a conscious dominant. His pay-off is the gratification he gets from fulfilling his partner, and by revealing her true nature to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In our culture, we are taught to value independence and self-sufficiency. If a person enjoys, or even needs, to be connected to and directed by another, she is called weak and needy. But if she finds a man whose satisfaction and fulfillment come from doing those things for her, who’s to say it’s wrong? For that couple, dominance and submission is a conscious choice. A way of life that is happy and symbiotic.”

  She thought about the woman last night on the St. Andrew’s cross, and realized she’d been right about her. “And so sexually,” she said, “bondage isn’t about subjugation either, but about fulfilling the needs of the submissive.”

  “Exactly,” Tim said. “And by doing so, the needs of the dominant as well.”

  Mick obviously had a fierce need to control her—sexually at any rate. A thing, if she were painfully honest, she found inexplicable pleasure in. It was one of the most disconcerting aspects of their relationship. She was a smart, normally assertive woman, and found this deep inner satisfaction at complete sexual surrender to a man hard to reconcile with her unrelenting independence in all else.

  Of course, there was only one man who made her feel that way. Anyone else, she'd tell exactly where to get off.

  The problem was, would it stop there?

  “So, how can you tell where it will all end?” she asked. “How far he’ll go in his control?”

  Tim gave her a wry smile. “There’s no way of telling. Unless he’s very self-aware, or has been trained in the lifestyle as a Master, a man will likely have no idea how much control he truly craves over a woman until he sees the chance to take it.”

  That sounded dangerous. Mick didn’t strike her as the type of man who’d want less than total control of everything around him. Including her.

  “Be very careful, Caroline,” Tim said, echoing her own thoughts. “It sounds like you’re being sucked into something you could easily lose control over. Given Mick’s intelligence and background, he could be very adept at hiding his true self, and manipulating you into his influence. What he is underneath may not be what he appears to be.”

  “A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  Tim scowled. “More like a monster in wolf’s clothing.”

  But for some reason that image didn’t ring true, either.

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised. And she would be, too. All this stuff was very uncomfortable. Some of it was downright scary. Trained as a Master? Good grief. The thought actually gave her chills.

  Was a transfer to Homicide worth dealing with all this? On the other hand, what Tim was talking about sounded like long-term problems. With Mick, she was only talking short-term—maybe only as long as the case lasted.

  “If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to call me,” Tim said, putting his hand over hers.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a half smile. “But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Mick might want my body, but he doesn't want that kind of commitment. And he sure as hell doesn't need me, as his slave or anything else,” she stated flatly. “He never will. He doesn't need anyone.”

  “So what you're really afraid of is, if you continue to see him, you'll grow to need him.”

  She stood, brushing off her skirt, reaching for the door.

  “No,” she said. “That’s not going to happen.” She took a deep breath and gave Tim a confident smile. “Because I won’t let it.”

  ***

  Mick walked into the conference room, took his usual spot at the head of the table and spread out his papers. Around the room, veiled grins and amused glances were aimed at him from the task force members who, for some strange reason, all seemed to have arrived on time for once. All except Caro, of course.

  He looked up. “What?”

  A staccato burst of “Nothings” accompanied a raft of overly innocent faces.

  Something was definitely up.

  “Good. Let's get started. Officer Reed, can you take notes until Officer Palmer gets here?”

  Someone snickered.

  “Sure, boss,” Eddie Reed answered, pulling out a yellow legal pad.

  Mick fired a warning glare around the table when there were more snickers. “Let's start with you, Benedict.”

  As the various reports were given, he discovered his mind wasn't totally on what was being said. Not that there was anything of value being imparted—just the usual lack of news. Instead, his thoughts kept veering off onto Caro. Or rather, her absence. For which he was getting more aggravated by the second.

  Finally, forty-seven minutes into the meeting, she walked in. He didn't have to turn. He knew her scent.

  “You're late, Palmer. Again.”

  There was a pregnant silence, during which eighteen pairs of eyes bounced from his face, over his shoulder and back.

  “Yes, well, as you may recall, sir, I was up till practically dawn this morning.”

  “So was I, and I managed to show up on time. In fact, I was early.”

  “What can I say, you're a
paragon, Detective McGraw,” she said with an edge of impertinence, and tossed her stuff down at a vacant chair. The other task force members held their collective breath in visible shock.

  “No, I just take my responsibilities seriously.”

  Caro halted as she pulled out the chair. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, and you're saying I don't?”

  What was she so ticked about? She was the one in the wrong, here. “Being late to an important meeting two days in a row shows a lack of commitment. If you expect to work with me in Homicide, you'll have to follow the rules.”

  Her eyes flared at the word “commitment.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Your rules, I assume.”

  “You catch on quick.”

  Bobby cleared his throat loudly. Mick ignored him, adding, “And my rules say be on time.”

  “Or what?”

  He tilted his head, meeting the challenge in her eyes without qualm. He was in charge here, and nobody sassed him. Nobody.

  He shrugged. “You're the one who wants to be in Homicide.”

  She gazed at him for a taut moment, then straightened the stack of files she'd put on the conference table. He caught a glint of her silver slave necklace under her high collar and felt a prurient spurt of power.

  She was his. She would submit to him. She had no choice.

  “So fire me,” she said calmly.

  He stared at her in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. I need you,” he heard himself say.

  Her mouth dropped open for a nanosecond, but she quickly recovered. “Well, then. I guess you’ll have to put up with me being late. If I’m going to do you any good undercover, I’ll need more than five minutes of sleep. Or maybe you want me yawning at Brimstone?” She gave him a pointed look.

  He knew exactly what she was saying between the lines, the little witch. And he’d actually told her he needed her. The woman was worse than a menace. She was so going to pay for this insubordination.

  Mick slowly leaned back in his chair. Too bad there were too many witnesses at the moment. Meanwhile, the better part of valor was retreat. “All right, Palmer, you can come in an hour late.”

  He looked up and saw the surprise on her face. He also saw the entire task force hanging on their every word, all of them grinning like idiots.

  Fucking hell.

  “Can we get back to work here by any chance?” Mick muttered.

  “Sure, boss,” Denny said. “Anything you say, boss.”

  He scanned each person at the table, one by one. The fact that Caro had so easily bent him to her will—something no one else had ever done on the job—was far too revealing He had to be careful.

  Mick drummed his fingers on the table. “Obviously I need to say something about the rumors circulating about myself and Officer Palmer.”

  And not let the true nature of their relationship come out. Or they’d be fucked.

  “Remember, this undercover thing isn't fun and games for either of us. It's a job. A hell of an important job. Just please bear in mind that whatever Officer Palmer and I are doing together, however unorthodox our methods, whatever you hear, it's all for one reason and one reason only. To catch the psycho killer who is terrorizing our community.”

  Not exactly the truth, but his words had the desired effect. Everyone looked suitably sheepish and chastised. The Iceman strikes again.

  Mick pointed firmly to the next person up to continue the reports and the meeting was resumed.

  Unfortunately, the rest were as meaningless as those before the interruption. That was, until they came around to the Chief of Forensics.

  “We may have something,” Maria Rawlings announced.

  Every head at the table snapped to, including Mick's. “What, Maria?”

  “Orange silk fibers,” she said. “Two, to be exact. The M.E. discovered one in Wendy Tailor’s eyebrow and sent it to me for analysis.”

  “Her eyebrow? Think it was from a blindfold?” someone asked.

  “Very likely. Wendy Tailor is a blonde, so the orange color popped. The M.E. then went back and rechecked the other victims. Sure enough, there was also a tiny one on the Connors woman.”

  “Orange silk?” Mick said neutrally. A sudden prickle of tension shot down his spine. This was it, then. “He uses an orange silk blindfold on the women?”

  “Apparently. Nothing was found on the men.”

  Mick stared at his colleague, drowning in a powerful visual of Caro running from him, a slash of bright orange silk across her eyes. Along with other, less pleasant memories.

  With a monumental effort, Mick kept his gaze steady on Maria and banished the images. “What about the Atkins woman?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. But the good news is, that same type of silk would also be consistent with the ligature marks we found on all the women. Including the strangulation marks.”

  “That’s huge,” said Reed eagerly.

  “I’ll say. Can you trace the fibers?” Bobby asked.

  “The dye is pretty distinctive. From India. Get me a sample and I can tell you if it's a match or not.”

  There was a murmur of excitement through the group.

  This was exactly what he’d been waiting for, Mick reminded himself. Where he’d worked so hard to get.

  He pointed to the sergeant in charge of the two-stripers leading the investigative team. “Find every retail source of orange silk within a five mile radius of the crime scenes and get samples. Then go out to seven miles. Keep going until we find a match.

  “You got it, Mick.”

  It was a needle in a haystack for them, he knew. But it was the only needle he had at the moment to send them after.

  Caro looked at him, then quickly away.

  So she remembered. He'd hoped she wouldn't. Last night had been his first and only mistake.

  Before he could decide what to do about that particular complication, the conference door swung open and Tim Woodruff walked through carrying a short computer printout.

  With a flourish, Woodruff handed him the printout and announced, “Houston, we have a suspect."

  Chapter 13

  The room erupted in questions as Mick gestured for Agent Woodruff to take the chair to his right. Motioning for quiet, Mick swiftly scanned the ID and photo on the printout. Then slowly let out the breath he was holding. He didn't recognize the man. Or the name. Although...there was something vaguely familiar about the man's photo....

  He frowned. That unknown something that had bothered him at the last crime scene returned to niggle at the back of his mind now. What was it?

  Nothing, that’s what. He should be elated. He’d needed a suspect, and Woodruff had just handed him one on a golden platter.

  “Give us the details,” he said.

  “Suspect's name is Rodney Smythe,” Woodruff said. “Got out of Corcoran prison about six months back, where he was doing twenty for aggravated sexual assault and intent with a deadly weapon.”

  Mick came to full alert. “Corcoran prison?” What the hell...?

  “Yes, he was released after ten by going through an intensive psychological and behavioral rehab program. The prison psych pronounced him cured.” Woodruff tisked.

  Mick forced himself to pay attention. “I take it you don't agree.”

  “Smythe was a suspect in two other sexual assaults besides the one he was convicted of. Guys like that don't reform. They repeat. And escalate.”

  Mick couldn’t agree more. “He wasn't convicted on the other cases?”

  “Never charged. No evidence. He's careful about leaving traces. The only reason they got him the last time was because a boyfriend walked in on the assault in progress and could ID him later.”

  “So, why do you think he's our man?” Mick asked.

  “I think he could be our man,” Woodruff corrected. “Because of the nature of the assaults. He tied the women to the bed at knifepoint, but didn't rape them physically. He stripped them, blindfolded them, and proceeded to interrogate them about the particulars o
f how they had sex with their boyfriends, while he touched their bodies—wearing some kind of leather gloves.”

  There was a general murmur of disgust around the table. Mick had heard a lot worse. “Go on.”

  “Then he recited for the women exactly what he intended to do to them—which according to the victims was some pretty kinky stuff. But he never followed through. Apparently talking was enough. If he got off, he took everything with him. He left the victims on the bed, tied up.”

  “Unharmed?”

  “Not a scratch. He even covered their bodies with a sheet.”

  “Except for the last one.”

  “That's right. The boyfriend walked in while Smythe was still at the touching stage. Jumped him, but was no match for Smythe's knife. Got cut up pretty badly and barely made it.”

  Mick closed his eyes briefly, wondering how two killers could possibly have such similar MOs.

  “This guy sounds exactly right,” Mick said. “Most of the elements are there and those that aren't could be explained by a dime behind bars.”

  “True. He didn't fare well in prison. He must have offended someone early on, because he was singled out for repeated sexual assault. Then one of the gang leaders was brutally knifed in the stomach and died. Smythe was never accused, but after that they left him alone.”

  Strangely lightheaded, Mick rose, along with the entire cop portion of the team. “Let's pick him up.”

  Woodruff lifted a hand. “Unfortunately, it won't be that simple. He seems to have disappeared. Hasn't checked in with his parole officer in two months, and his last known address doesn't exist.”

  Why did that not surprise him? Mick let out a succinct curse and sat back down. “Any leads at all?”

  “A few. This guy's smart, though. We have to be very careful how we approach him.”

  “Then it's a good thing we have Detective Staunton. He's the very definition of subtlety.”

  Bobby smiled sinisterly. “You know it.”

  Mick recognized the ominous gleam in his partner's eye. Bobby wanted lead on this suspect in the worst way. Which was good. Mick shouldn’t get close to him. Not until he figured things out.

  “We need to have Smythe in the bag before the press gets wind of this,” he said.