by Jade Hart
“Like someone fired a round of bullets in my gut.”
I swallowed more beer. “Well, there you go. That's my reason, too.”
Chapter Ten: Ocean
The car slowed after an hour; the bright lights of the city gave way to dark shadows and emptiness. The only illumination was from a large house with a long, snaking driveway.
The architect probably aimed for English manor house, but failed ridiculously. The symmetry was all wrong, the portico over imposing for the size of the block. It was gaudy to say the least. And the ginormous tacky lions didn’t help either.
The driver opened my door, and offered me his hand.
Ignoring his help, I unfurled from the car and brushed down my skirt. Nerves frolicked over my skin, but I plastered a confident smile and cocked my hip. “Where should I go?”
“Mr. Bazeer is awaiting your arrival in the dining room. You are to join him for dinner.”
Nice of him to feed me. Poison, perhaps? I’d have to watch him carefully.
I climbed the sweeping steps and entered the foyer. Floor-to-ceiling portraits of the man who was now my employer leered down at me. I wanted to shudder as one above the grand staircase caught my eye: Bazeer was dressed in a burgundy robe with girls of every nationality lounging on a bed, draped over him and pouting for the artist. They all looked about twelve and cracked out of their minds.
My hands curled as black passion oozed through my blood. That beast was close to his last breath. Tonight, I’d do the world a favor. I wanted to murder him as much as I wanted to slaughter my family’s killers.
Bazeer sat at the head of a twelve-seat table, set with crystal goblets and midnight blue cloth. “Ah, my latest girl. Please, join me.” He was dressed in a silver suit and crimson shirt; his black skin gleamed and his eyes glinted with smug evil.
“Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Mr. Bazeer.” My voice was low, seductive. I knew how to play this game. Better than him, probably.
I went to pull out a chair to the left, but he tutted under his breath. “Do not sit. I wish to see what I have bought.”
So I couldn't even have dinner without performing for him. I fought the repulsion rippling over my insides.
“Pardon, sir?” I knew damn well what he meant, but demure was good camouflage.
“Take off that dress.” He licked his lips.
My eyes flickered to the steak knife on the tablecloth. Oh, how I wanted to strike. Think of Thembi. Patience.
I giggled, flicking my hair. “It took me hours to get into it. I can hardly take it off now.” I leaned forward, biting my lip like the temptress I pretended to be. “Perhaps I can show you later? After business has been discussed?” My tongue traced my bottom lip, never letting go of eye contact. I knew the second I had him. Something clicked in his eyes and he smiled, accepting my challenge. He was a man who enjoyed the hunt. Good to know.
I sat and fanned my napkin. From nowhere, stewards appeared with an entrée of prawn cocktail.
“Where are you from?” Bazeer asked with his mouth full of food.
“I'm from everywhere and nowhere, sir. I like to think of myself as a daughter of the world.”
“Ah, a poet.” He smirked, running a hand down his chin. “We shall see how worldly you are. I expect to know explicit details.”
My stomach clenched; I had trouble swallowing my prawn.
“Do you know how to bring a man to orgasm with your mouth?”
Oh, gag me now. This was not dinner talk. I batted my eyelashes and nodded. “Of course—very well, sir.” With teeth and a lot of pain.
“Are you a virgin?”
Ah, the difficult question. I studied him. What did he want me to be? A blushing virgin who he could sell for top dollar, or a well-used hussy to teach his girls the art of sex? I saw the answer in his eyes.
Placing my fork down, I wiped my mouth with my napkin and stared at him. “How about we stop playing games?”
His eyes went wide, face darkening; but despite the anger blooming on his cheeks, there was interest there as well.
“I’m well trained in all things pleasurable. I’ve had many masters, and fetch high sums due to my skills, in and out of the bedroom. I’m here before you, Mr. Bazeer, not to pleasure you, but to teach your newest purchases how to please your clients—to ensure optimum satisfaction for your wallet, and to generate repeat business. Do I have your attention?”
His mouth thinned, but he cocked his head. The hand holding his fork fisted around the dainty metal.
I glared. I was in control now. He was putty in my hands, as much as he would deny it. “I want a bonus of half a million rand, and I’ll personally train your girls. I’d require absolute privacy and the space to teach. Give me that, Mr. Bazeer, and I guarantee you’ll not regret it.” He wouldn't regret it, because by the time the night was over, I would’ve safely delivered the girls away from him, and he would be dead. Minor detail I kept to myself.
“A business woman.” His eyes rested on my breasts. “And if I agree to your demands?”
I arched for him, cringing, as his lips parted, eyes unable to look away from my chest. “You get what I promised. Merchandise that will bring great pleasure to your clients.”
“And what about my pleasure?” he purred.
I couldn't stop my skin from betraying me; shivers of repugnance danced and my stomach quivered. You're so close. Keep going. It's only sex. . . you've done worse. I kept my voice husky and alluring. “Your pleasure, sir?” I rubbed a fingertip over my bottom lip. “Well, I'm not sure business should be mixed with pleasure.”
He actually groaned. I was either acting way too well or he was more of a sex fiend than I thought. What had I unleashed? I wanted to throw up my prawn cocktail. An image of Callan's face, full of disgust, made me despise myself.
“I will pay you one million rand.” He clicked his fingers and a butler scuttled from nowhere. The man placed a silver platter with a chunky envelope on it in front of me. “And I will give you what you need to work in private with my girls. However, I have one condition.” His eyes glittered. “You will be available for my pleasure every night. No excuses. No arguments. The deal is done.”
My throat closed. Would he expect me to sleep with him before I saw the girls? Before I could attempt to get them to safety? Don't think about it. You came prepared to do that.
I fluttered my eyelashes. “You strike a hard bargain, sir, but I accept.” I scooted my chair closer and placed my hand on his thigh, close enough to the obvious hardness in his pants, but not too close that it seemed like a come hither. “However, I must see the merchandise. I must know what I'm working with.” My eyes hooded, and I sucked in a worried breath—it worked in my favor as my corset worked double time on my boobs.
Bazeer stuffed another prawn in his mouth before answering. “Stand up.”
My heart froze, but I unfolded from my chair as soft as smoke. I waited in silence. What would he command?
“Come closer.” His voice was an earthquake, sending my soul shattering into anxiety. My feet were two ton weights, but I did as bid and stood beside him. I hated myself
He pushed his chair away from the table, grabbing my hips to make me stand in the confines of his open thighs. I was trapped. A headache instantly bloomed, power and self-preservation pressuring me to leave immediately.
“You have nice curves.” His hands grasped my breasts, kneading them through my corset. His touch was rough. I bit my lip from crying out. Bazeer noticed my reaction and twisted. “You don't like that?”
I tried to read his body language. Did he want me to say yes or no? My mind was no longer working as skillfully as before. I was too repulsed by his touch. Standing straight, I told the truth. “No. I do not like that.”
He chuckled. “Good. I shall be rough with you. You deserve no pleasure. It is my pleasure I will take from your pain.”
This man was a sadistic prick, and it ate at my soul to nod coyly. “Yes, Mr. Bazeer.”
I gasped as he yanked my corset to make me bend. His fat lips latched onto mine; his foul tongue slobbered in my mouth. I moaned at the grotesqueness.
My hands fumbled in my skirts for the box-cutter I'd hidden on my garter belt. I couldn't do this. I couldn't be so unfaithful to myself. But before I could find my weapon, the rancid kiss was over and he pushed me away so roughly I stumbled.
I wasn't as strong as I thought—tears pressed heavily behind my eyelids. I murmured, “I'm at your command, Mr. Bazeer. Will you allow me to begin my work?” My eyes wouldn’t rise from the black tiled floor. I’d scream like a banshee and attack him if I so much as made eye contact again.
Mr. Bazeer blew his nose, then snapped his fingers, summoning the butler. “Fine. Clark here will take you.”
Clark? As if that was his real name. “Thank you, Mr. Bazeer. You won't regret it.” I stood, taking my bulging envelope with me.
Bazeer held out his hand. Repressing my urge to kill him on the spot, I placed mine in his. My skin crawled with a thousand hideous beetles.
He kissed the back of my knuckles, holding me with demonic strength. “You are mine. You belong to me. If you think about another man, I will kill you. If you try to ruin my business dealings, or do not perform as you have been paid to do, I will kill you. Do you understand, little pet?”
I definitely needed to save the girls—and kill him—tonight. He was too lethal to play a long-winded game with. I smiled sweetly. “Of course, Mr. Bazeer. I understand completely.”
“Good.” He let go. “Till tonight, Ocean. I expect to be well served.” This man was all kinds of awful. “I will be anxious to see you again.”
Keeping my face from betraying me, I bowed a little before sashaying after Clark as he led me down the back of the house, over plush rugs and past more ostentatious portraits of the master. A hidden back stairs lurked behind a cupboard door. It led us up to a level which I doubted I’d see if I went up the front staircase. There were doors as far as the eye could see, all locked with swipe key-card and a bar code.
Crap. They treated these girls like livestock. My teleportation power gurgled and a headache pressed against my temples. I’d save them all. No matter if there were girls behind every door. No matter if I killed myself in the process. I’d save them all.
Clark stopped, handing me a master key-card. “This will open all the doors. Your entry and exit will be logged on the computer, and any chance of escape will be met with severe punishment.” His movements were jerky, eyes strained. His body language screamed that he didn't want to do this, but he hid his thoughts well. Could I trust him to help? I filed that thought away. “How do I get in touch with you?”
“I will return at midnight to take you to Mr. Bazeer. Please prepare yourself for a—” He coughed, embarrassment pinking his cheeks. “A lengthy night of usage.”
I didn't like the sound of that. “Does he hurt his lovers?” I allowed a trace of fear to lace my voice. It wasn't an act. I was terrified I might have to go through with this to save these girls. I’d have to lock my mind away while that monster defiled my body.
“There will not be pleasure for you.” He flinched. “I will see you in,” he checked his watch, “five hours.”
My countdown had begun.
Chapter Eleven: Callan
I arrived back in my shoebox after a short morning surf, a call out to domestic disturbance, and a quick debrief with the local team. Captain Gray looked distracted throughout his whole, we-are-winning-the-campaign-against-crime speech. His eyes latched onto mine more than once. I hadn't flinched. If he had a problem with me, he could say it to my face.
It was lunchtime, but I chose to stay in my box and stare at my computer. Nothing interesting came back on Ocean's parents. No link to any of the thirty-nine men. I was pissed off—it was a dead end. As far as I could tell, there was no motive.
I flicked a pen over my knuckles. I thought better when my hands were active. My eyes widened as a possible motive slammed into my brain.
Shit.
Could Ocean teleport before the incident? Did her secret get out? Maybe her parents were killed to kidnap her? But that didn't make sense. They violated her and left her to her fate. They wouldn't do that if they knew what she was capable of.
My mind ran amok with stomach-curdling thoughts. What if living through her family’s murder changed something inside her genetic makeup? Was it possible something shifted in her forever? Do you know how dorky you sound, Callan? No more sci-fi for you.
I needed to man up, scratch my balls, and stop thinking about this bloody woman. Who cared? It was a cold case. There were plenty of active cases I could help on.
Of course I didn’t listen, and hope flared as I chased a new idea. Perhaps I wasn’t as dorky after all. Could someone be so traumatized that they became able to do something as crazy as teleporting? How could I find out?
Gulping back disgust at myself, I opened her private email again. Maurice had written. It was unread so Ocean hadn’t logged on yet. I dared not click on it, but I did read the older ones when they'd had their fight; I was searching for mention of those marks in more correspondence. What were they? I saw no marks on her, and she was practically naked in her hooker outfit.
There were so many emails. All of them cryptic—annoyingly coded. She knew how to cover her footsteps.
I froze. If I wanted to know who Ocean was, why didn't I profile her?
My mobile rang. “Callan speaking.”
“Honey, it’s Mum.”
I smiled, opening the latest version of the profiling software that would allow me access into the inner thoughts of Ocean Breeze. “What’s up, Strawberry?” I asked, using her age-old nickname because of her strawberry blonde hair.
“You haven’t popped by in a few weeks. I expect you to come to dinner.” Her tone was fake-annoyed and she giggled. “You have to congratulate her eventually you know.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Excuse me if I can’t tolerate the thought of some man boning my little sister and getting her pregnant.”
“Callan!” she snorted. “That man will be your brother-in-law. Come to dinner. Next Sunday. We’ll have a barbeque in the beautiful Korean garden you designed us.”
Memories of toiling in the heat, lugging large slabs of slate and waterfall features, made me grin.
“Only if I’m in control of the barbeque. Trevor believes it isn’t cooked unless it’s charred black.” I smirked, remembering how my dad grumbled when I started calling him Trevor at nine years of age. I never stopped, mainly because the nickname he called me was beyond embarrassing. It was payback.
Focusing on my screen, I used my mouse to access a profiling program.
She giggled again. “Lay off your father. He does his best. Okay, I know you’re at work. You sound distracted. I’ll talk to you later.”
Crap. I was distracted, figuring out the system and inputting code for the profiling questionnaire. “Sorry, Strawberry. Yep. Sunday. I’ll be there. See ya.”
The instant I hung up, my mind was full of Ocean again. What was wrong with me? I had no boundaries when it came to that woman.
Sighing, unable to believe I was doing this, I completed the profile report and pressed ENTER.
Slowly files appeared. I wanted to hit myself. What if I found something that ruined my idea of her?
I snorted. I already knew she killed—by her own admission and proof of a corpse found in Kings Cross—and she could do something no other human could: teleport. The knowledge of both should’ve halted me, but they only fuelled me onward. I doubted anything could stop me at this point. Even a good shag with a pretty sheila wouldn’t stop my compulsion.
I allowed my computer to work and went to find Wade. I needed to help him fill out the domestic disturbance report we attended earlier.
An hour later I was back, eagerly scooting my chair toward my desk, clicking on the completed profile for Ocean.
Holy hell in a wombat, this woman was nuts.
Profile for: Ocean Breeze / Age: Twenty-four / Nationality: Unknown / Current Address: Unknown.
Based on history and input of Subject, she shows extreme tendencies toward over protectiveness and violence. The brutality in her childhood contributes to these factors and it is advisable to keep Subject away from situations of extreme stress. The knowledge of three languages—or at least that’s what she said in the sushi restaurant—shows aptitude of great intelligence, and Subject is highly likely to use that intelligence in all manner of loyalty.
I didn't put in my profile that Ocean could teleport—I wasn't stupid enough to broadcast it on a police database—but I did include a strange unknown factor in her upbringing.
The report continued:
Subject is most likely unable to hold a full-time job, and unable to take orders from others she does not respect. However, subject would die for anyone who she feels deserves her loyalty and help. Based on information provided, Subject is likely to be of small build, changes appearances often, and has no set style of dress, adopting other personas as necessary.
A word of caution. Subject understands rights and wrongs, but that does not stop Subject’s unruly behavior and occasional breaking of the law. It is concluded that, although Subject does feel emotion, love is too closely related to the death of relatives at young age and she will continue to run from any form of family commitment.
In conclusion: Subject is likely to live alone, and based on current input, life expectancy is approximately late thirties.
Now, I wish I'd never conjured the bloody report. Incapable of love and will die young? Shit!
One thing was for sure: I wouldn't let any of that come true.
Chapter Twelve: Ocean
The key-card was slippery in my hand. My heart raced in my ribcage and the harsh lights tripled my anxiety. The first two rooms were empty. I couldn't stop the stab of panic at the sight of rumpled beds; an abandoned, desolate aura hovered in the small prisons. Was I too late for them?
