Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 01]

by The First Sin

  “Maybe tonight will be the night,” I said to myself. Donovan glanced at me and I met his gaze. “Our big break. A bunch of pieces of the puzzle. It’s got to be Cabot, since Tarantino and Strong came up clean.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Donovan suddenly didn’t look like the same man I’d just had sex with. “That bastard Schilling—fine time for RED’s truth serum to cause a reaction.”

  “No kidding.”

  Without the red tape other agencies faced, our med-techs administered RED’s version of a “truth serum” that had been concocted in the agency’s medical lab. Instead of dragging answers from Schilling, he’d had some kind of reaction. That was a first for RED.

  Schilling was now in our underground medical center covered with a full-body rash, head the size of a prize pumpkin, on a ventilator, and oh, yeah, currently in a coma.

  “Friggin’ great,” I said. “We should have let our ‘persuasion artists’ have a couple more rounds with him.” As far as who ran the sex slave auction ring, and how it worked, Schilling wouldn’t say a word. Not even to save himself.

  I gripped the lower part of the seat and dug my fingers into the leather.

  Feel sorry for a man who auctioned off women, a man whose brain was close to exploding? No way. Pissed because that potential source was out of the running to interrogate? Hell yeah.

  But Kristin was in our area. We didn’t have to try to track her down in every city of every state. She was right here.

  Somewhere.

  I adjusted the leather collar I’d had to put back on for tonight. Martinez had added a trigger that would have RED agents all over the nightclub if we needed them. All I had to do was peel off one of the silver studs on the collar. Which stud was it again? The one to the left of the stud that hid the camera. Right?

  Damn. When we went to Martinez, my brains had been scrambled after just having had very, very against-the-rules sex in Donovan’s office. With the blinds closed, of course.

  Stop thinking about earth-shattering sex, Steele.

  Whenever we weren’t working on Operation Cinderella, trying to track down more info on Cabot, Tarantino, and Strong, Donovan and I were searching for his sister in his war room.

  My contacts had gotten us nowhere, Yeager hadn’t come up with anything else, and as much as I wanted to help Donovan find Kristin, most of the time I felt as useful as a wind gauge in a hurricane.

  Right now his attention was directed at multiple surveillance monitors—which included the front and back entrances of the Champagne Slipper, the Glass House, and the Crystal Twilight.

  If they were trafficking girls from those nightclubs it wasn’t showing up on any of our monitors. Of course, Donovan had been monitoring the Diamond Castle, too, the place Kristin had been kidnapped the night she was out with her friends.

  “Anything new?” I asked as I watched.

  More and more fury started to grow in his expression. He didn’t look at me. Oh, crap, by the look on his face something had happened. And it was bad.

  “Watch the monitor stationed at the back of the Diamond Castle,” he said in a voice full of anger. “Last night’s footage.”

  A tipsy young woman with long dark hair stumbled out of the back entrance of the nightclub. She was hanging onto a guy who might have been her boyfriend.

  My scalp tingled as the couple moved toward a maroon van—and the guy shoved the girl through the open side door before slamming the door shut behind her. The guy climbed into the passenger seat and the van took off. Couldn’t catch a visual of the driver or the man who’d thrown the girl in the van.

  When I looked at Donovan, murderous rage darkened his features and the currents in the air told me just how difficult it was for him to contain his fury.

  “The sonsofbitches probably kidnapped Kristin the same way,” he growled.

  “They must have been lying low since then.” I pushed the words out. It was almost hard to talk with the heaviness of his rage filling the room.

  When the van started to drive away, Donovan paused the vid and zeroed in on the license plate.

  “A Massachusetts plate.” My cell wasn’t small enough to fit in my bra or panties, and I’d left my purse in the bedroom, so I grabbed the cordless off the desk for its secure landline. “I’ll phone it in to RED and let them know they’ll have the footage in a few moments. They’ll be on it in rocket time.”

  Donovan slammed his fist on the desk beside the monitor. “A RED agent should have been monitoring this girl’s kidnapping. We’d have had the assholes last night.”

  I gave the info to an agent before pressing the phone’s off button and setting the receiver back on the desk. “Must have been that new agent, but that’s no excuse.” RED hired the best, and this was a major screwup. I looked back at the monitor, and the license plate that was still zoomed in. “No one else in that department would miss something like this.”

  Donovan’s scowl made me feel like thunder was about to shake the building. “It’ll be the last mistake he makes.”

  I stood and watched him weigh his Beretta in his palm as if deciding whether or not he should take it or an AK-47 tonight.

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “That thing stays in the glove compartment while we’re in the club.” He turned to me, his scowl still firmly in place, and I raised my hand. “Don’t go rabid on me, Donovan. We’ve got work to do.”

  After he pulled on a pair of shitkickers, he turned off the dim lighting and shut the door behind us.

  CHAPTER 23

  At least bamboo wasn’t shoved under my fingernails

  April 13

  Saturday night

  I don’t know why, but Donovan and I just sat in the little red Mercedes at the curb in front of the Champagne Slipper instead of driving up to the valet. We just stared at the Slipper, neither of us making a move. Not sure what was going through his mind. In mine, I was wishing this was over.

  Donovan remained silent, and my fingers ached as I fisted my hands in my lap. I felt like I was standing on a fine edge. Any moment I could slide down one side or topple over the other.

  Why I had this feeling, I didn’t know. I’d worked more dangerous undercover operations.

  But something didn’t feel right.

  Donovan finally drove in front of the Slipper and let one of the valets take the car. Again we were checked against a list of exclusive clientele. We were escorted through the nightclub, which was thickly perfumed from the patrons, but still smelled of beer and wine, too.

  We were taken to a pair of tall wooden doors halfway through the nightclub. A bouncer stood to one side. The doors were near the bar.

  My heels click-click-clicked on the marble flooring of the circular foyer as we were ushered into it. The solid mahogany doors shut behind us and cut off every sound from the nightclub.

  I had a major “wow” moment. My gaze roamed a beautiful round chamber that included frescoes on the ceiling. The tall mahogany doors were the only things that broke the complete smoothness of the place. The room smelled like cherry-scented cigars.

  The circular foyer was empty save for a bouncer, or guard, who could give those Special Ops guys a run for their money. He stood beside a flight of marble stairs leading below.

  My stomach tightened when the single door opened. Cabot walked through it. Behind him I caught a glimpse of a mahogany desk with a flat-screen computer monitor on it, a pair of chairs in front of the desk, and shelves lined with treasures and books. Cabot closed the tall mahogany door, withdrew a key from his pocket, and the locks tumbled into place as he turned the key.

  Excellent. That had to be Cabot’s office.

  Now what kind of lock did he use?

  My stomach squeezed harder as I lowered my eyes to avoid Cabot’s. I had the feeling he was a mean SOB when it came to punishments.

  The dimly lit Austrian crystal chandelier threw rainbow glitters onto the marble floors as well as the walls, which were thick enough to block out the pounding beat in the main nigh
tclub. Rachmaninov flowed at an elegant level from speakers that must have been carefully recessed so they couldn’t be seen. There were three cameras, though, meant to be obvious, no doubt.

  Beneath my eyelashes, I glanced to my left, where the bodyguard stood to the side of the sweeping staircase. Must lead to the BDSM part of the club.

  Donovan left me behind as he strode forward and shook Cabot’s hand. “Great to see you, Master Cabot.”

  “What a pleasure it is that you could make it to the Champagne Slipper,” Cabot said in his snotty Boston Brahmin accent and too-formal manner of speech. “I’ll be delighted to show you and your slave my dungeon.”

  Dungeon, huh.

  I kept a “respectful” distance behind Donovan and Cabot. We walked down the marble staircase, crossing the boundary from the elegance of the foyer into what I could only call a raunchy underworld. This place definitely had no class, especially compared to Strong’s and Tarantino’s clubs. But, after taking a look around, maybe that was the intention.

  It was certainly not what I’d expected of the “sophisticated” Cabot.

  Hard-pounding rock music blared loudly enough to cover some of the screams of slaves being “punished.” Donovan and I walked with Cabot through fog from smoke machines that gave the huge floor a misty look and lent a bitter smell to the air. Colored lights added to the sense of the surreal.

  The rock music pulsed and throbbed, even more than it had in the nightclub. The nightclub had been elegant—this was so not. This room had the thick smell of too much beer and testosterone, not to mention marijuana.

  We paused long enough for Cabot to let Donovan and me have a chance to take in the layout. Several slaves wearing only their collars, along with bikini underwear, thongs, or miniskirts, were humping poles.

  They moved like exotic dancers in the very center of the room, over squares lit with blinking lights of blue, orange, and purple. At least twenty Doms crowded around the raised floor and crammed bills into whatever bottom parts the slaves were wearing.

  “You’ll certainly enjoy watching your slave turn on other Doms,” Cabot said with a smile. “After you get a chance to visit the other parts of the club she can start there.”

  Oh no. Absolutely not.

  Donovan didn’t glance at me, didn’t say a word as he walked beside Cabot.

  We learned there were twenty rooms in the Champagne Slipper’s lower level as we passed a full bar at one end of the room.

  Donovan and I stopped with Cabot and looked into one of the rooms, where a man was screwing a bound and hooded woman in front of a large picture window. “As you can see, two of our twenty rooms are for voyeurs.”

  “The rooms each have a theme and plenty of ‘toys,’ ” Cabot said with a satisfied smile. “Of course spanking and whipping, multiple partners, shock treatments, wax play, caging, pony-and puppygirls, and any other number of fetishes.”

  A wicked gleam was in his eyes that scared me more than anything. Especially when he said, “I even have two Irish wolfhounds, the tallest breed of dog, in one room. Moose and Duke have a taste for pussy.” Intense fear pounded my heart against my rib cage. I know my expression was beyond stunned at Cabot’s last sick statement, and I raised my head and stared at Cabot.

  “You allow your slave free rein, Sire Dunning?” Cabot’s eyes met mine, and for a second I forgot my role and locked gazes with him. “Your slave has failed to lower her eyes, and she has moved herself in front of you,” Cabot said with a scowl and a bite to his tone.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Immediately I looked down. No fucking dogs. No fucking way.

  His Gucci loafers, which coordinated perfectly with his beige Armani suit, would be great for stuffing up his—

  Donovan grabbed me by my hair, and I cried out in surprise as he jerked my head back. He said in a rough tone, “Looks like I’ll need one of those spanking rooms to punish slave Alexi.”

  My heart jumped and my scalp stung where Donovan had grabbed it. Oh, jeez. Better than Moose and Duke. Yeah, bring on the whip.

  “I’ll be glad to show you a room with plenty of implements for punishment, Dunning.” Cabot’s words grew harder. “And since it affects her so much, she most definitely needs to meet my Irish wolfhounds.”

  I started shaking.

  Oh. My. God.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  Anger rushed through me and I wanted to drive my heel into his balls. And fear that we’d blow this whole operation burned through me because I would be saying “fastball” in a hurry. My safe word was all that stood between me and those wolfhounds.

  Donovan damned well better come up with something.

  Cabot walked on like he had a stick up his ass.

  Sick sonofabitch.

  Cabot led us by the two voyeur rooms, and I prayed he wasn’t going to insist that Donovan use one of those rooms to punish me while crowds enjoyed the show.

  When we reached the back end and got to the last of the rooms along one side of the club, Cabot entered a large room that had a St. Andrew’s cross.

  “Over here in these cabinets we have almost every toy imaginable.” He gestured toward one of the cabinets. “Nipple clamps, candles for ‘wax play,’ strap-on penises, violet wands, butt plugs . . .”

  I swallowed. Those were really, really big butt plugs. Huge butt plugs.

  Cabot seemed particularly attracted to a wall with every kind of whip, flogger, paddle, or cane one could imagine. Cane. They caned people here. I’d come across it in my research. It was one of the things I hadn’t seen in action. I just couldn’t picture people really inflicting that amount of pain on someone else, or the sub enjoying it.

  When Cabot selected a natural rattan cane that was about four feet long, I kept my head down and gritted my teeth. Rattan, the most painful, of course. Donovan better get me out of this, or I’d be partnerless because I’d kill him.

  Trying not to ball my hands into fists and keeping my expression stone solid was so hard as I waited to see what would happen next.

  “Remove your clothing,” Cabot said, slapping the cane against his palm. “I would like to see what you’re wearing beneath it for your Sire.”

  I didn’t hesitate because I wanted to make sure Cabot didn’t have any additional excuses to punish me. “Yes, Master Cabot,” I said.

  The pounding of my heart increased and I found I had a hard time breathing. Caned? Caned?

  My fingers shook and I fumbled with the fasteners. It seemed to take so long before the sparkly red dress and its halter top fell away, and I was left in my red stilettos and nothing else but my leather thong and minuscule leather bra.

  Cabot took the handle of the cane and hooked the opposite end along the edge of the material barely covering my breasts. He scraped my skin with the hard edge of the rattan, and I almost winced as he gave a fierce tug and dragged the material down so that both of my breasts spilled out.

  Donovan! I shouted in my mind.

  From the corner of my eye I saw Donovan’s jaw tighten as Cabot palmed each of my breasts. “Nice size. Good shape. Perky.” Cabot pinched one of my nipples, then the other, forcing them to harden. “Responds well.”

  Cabot extended the cane to Donovan. “You have an appealing slave.”

  Donovan took the cane and dragged it across my nipples, making them harder, no matter that I wanted to take the cane and shove it up Cabot’s ass.

  “It would be my pleasure to watch,” Cabot said with lust in his tone. “And then a little play with Moose and Duke.”

  I couldn’t help it. My head shot up and I met Cabot’s olive green eyes. “No!”

  He met my gaze for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “I believe I should teach your slave a lesson,” Cabot said, his voice now hard as a two by four. “Her rudeness is unacceptable, especially to an owner of this establishment.”

  Oh, shit.

  “Good idea.” Jason Strong, the Vin Diesel lookalike, walked in, smelling like testosterone and sex, his smooth, bare
chest covered with a sheen of sweat. He grinned and punched Donovan’s shoulder. “All the better to watch.”

  Donovan better get me out of this. He’d better get me out of—

  “Tarantino, Cabot and I—like I said, we get a private show from everyone now and then.” Strong slapped Donovan on the back. “A little extra payment for being allowed to join the club.”

  Blood drained from my face. I could feel the blood drop straight to my toes. Tarantino had walked into the room just as Strong said his name. Great.

  Instead of wearing a suit, this time Tarantino was bare-chested, his muscular body tanned. He wore black leather pants with what looked like a “hatch” he could pop open so his cock would be free to do whatever he wanted with it.

  Not with me. Not with me.

  Right now there was a really big bulge behind that hatch. Cabot and Strong had obvious hard-ons, too, as Cabot said, “I’ll do the honors, Sire Dunning, as she insulted me.”

  If there was ever a time for crying and begging, this was it.

  Donovan’s chest rose as he sucked in his breath. From beneath my eyelashes, I saw him looking at me, his eyes asking me if I wanted to go through with this or say my safe word.

  Fastball. That’s all I’d have to say.

  But the women. The auctions. Kristin. Randolph. I had to remember why I was here. I couldn’t blow it now.

  I bowed my head.

  “Strip, slave,” Cabot said, his tone harsh. “Including your shoes.”

  “Yes, Master Cabot.” Oh, God.

  Again I found myself naked in front of virtual strangers.

  “This’ll be good,” Strong was saying. “Just fucked two slaves and I could take on another right now.”

  Tarantino gave a low laugh. “Slave Alexi has nice assets.”

  “We should take her before Cabot gets through with her,” Strong said. “She won’t be much good afterward.”

  I said a little prayer of thanks that Cabot at least wasn’t stopping to let those two men have me. But I also came up with a lot of creative curse words in my mind, especially after what Strong said about me not being much good afterward.