Blind-sided

by Monette Michaels

  “So, cher, where is all the money in the off-shore accounts coming from?” Scott placed the question gently. “The company netted only a half million or so dollars last year. Even if they lied about the expenses of donated organs — and I bet they did — the company would only have made around four and a half million, most of which they would plow back into the overhead of the company. Drug companies eat cash.”

  “I need to go to the ladies’ room.” Jeanette pulled her hands from Scott’s and immediately felt bereft at the loss of the gentle touch. But she had to get away. She needed to think. To berate herself for her stupid naivete. She’d trusted an evil man, admired him even. How could she have been so blind? How could she trust her feelings for anyone ever again?

  When Charles started to get up and follow Jeannie, Scott said, “Leave her alone.”

  Charles sat back down with a thud. “What’s going on here, Fontenot? Are you horning in on my girl?”

  “Your girl?” Scott raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? You haven’t even gotten to second base. And you never will, you know.”

  Charles sputtered, leaned forward, then pushed back away from the table and sputtered some more. Finally, face blazing red, he ground out between thinned lips, “She told you that?”

  “Nah, she didn’t have to.”

  Little Bits had been feeding him enough information. He’d deduced it. Charles had confirmed it.

  “I know her better than you ever will. I saw her with Paul. I know what she looks like when she’s in love, and when she’s been made love to.” Scott shrugged. “Hell, boy, you aren’t even a blip on the radar screen. You’re just a temporary port.”

  I’m the home port. Scott smiled.

  Charles wiped his hand over his eyes. “Damn, I knew she was losing interest in me when she wouldn’t move in with me.”

  Scott could see the legal mind at work. Charles needed a cause for the effect, a way to rationalize the outcome. He knew he was right when Charles said, “It was the kid, wasn’t it?”

  “The kid?”

  The ignoramus blamed Little Bits for his failure? What a jerk.

  “Yeah, I told Jeanette that she paid more attention to her kid and her job than me.”

  “You didn’t!”

  Scott shook his head. He couldn’t believe Charles had been so stupid. He almost felt sorry for the bastard — almost. Curious, he asked, “What did Jeannie do?”

  “She told me we wouldn’t suit. So I stalked out of the restaurant. I called later — apologized — and asked for a second chance. Figured I blew it, even though she kept seeing me.”

  “Yeah, well, Brigitte is her child, man. What did you expect her to do? Throw the kid away?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I’m not ready to be a daddy, especially to another man’s kid. I have a career to get established.”

  “Then, it’s a good thing I am, because that’s what Jeannie needs — a man who will take care of her and her child.”

  Charles nodded. “Okay, I can see that — now.” Hesitantly, he asked, “Is it okay with you if I still see Jeanette, so I can work on this case? It could make my law career to nail an asshole like Rutherford.”

  Scott managed to hide his dislike for Charles’s expressed self-interest in maintaining a relationship with Jeannie. His mama always told him not to count his shrimp before the net was fully in the boat. “Sure. We can use all the help we can get. You dig up the legal dirt. I’ll protect Jeannie and Little Bits, and work the medical angle.”

  “It’s a deal.” Charles offered his hand.

  Scott took it and shook. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday night — Lady Marmalade’s in the Quarter

  Walter sat back and allowed the Flower look-alike to work on resurrecting his spent member. He wanted to get his money’s worth. For what he was paying, the whore should get him off at least two more times. God knows, he could have picked up some little secretary or tourist looking for a good time in a Bourbon street bar and gotten basic sex acts for free — except Lady Marmalade’s was one of the few houses in New Orleans that catered to kink.

  And kinky sex was the only thing he and Alex Randolph had in common.

  His dick hardened under the combined stimulation of his whore’s unique talents and the sight of Randolph putting the restrained submissive he’d hired for the evening through her paces.

  By Walter’s count, Randolph had come twice already in two different orifices and was going for the sexual version of a tri-fecta. Randolph’s stamina was legendary in this part of town, and he was nowhere near done. He hadn’t used all the implements laid out on the bed, yet.

  Walter could almost feel sorry for the sub, but she hadn’t complained and actually seemed to enjoy it.

  Randolph’s third roar of completion echoed throughout the crimson-walled room. “Clean me up, Kitten,” he growled, as he pulled her to him by grabbing her pony tail. He urged her on with four-letter words and promises of painful retribution if she failed to clean him properly.

  Control and punishment were Randolph’s thing. Walter imagined Sally’s last hours had been hell on earth.

  Walter’s own completion took him by surprise. He shivered in orgasmic release.

  Licking her lips, his lady-for-the-evening peered at him through slitted eyelids. To Walter, she looked more dim-witted than sexy.

  “What do you want next, stud?” she cooed.

  “Don’t call me that,” growled Walter.

  The bitch had spoiled his fantasy. Flower would never have called him “stud.” He took the whore’s chin in a firm grip and squeezed. “Call me — darling Master.”

  A small squeak was the only acknowledgment of his bruising grip as the whore attempted to smile through tightened lips. “Okay. What would you like me to do next, darling Master?”

  He didn’t like her tone. Impudent bitch.

  Reining in his first impulse to strike her, Walter leaned down and whispered his wants in her ear. She looked up quickly, then back at the floor. He’d shocked her — he could tell. He waited.

  After a few seconds, she nodded her agreement, signaling the extra amount by holding up four fingers. Greedy slut. She must need the money badly to agree to his terms. Her harsh breathing signaled her fear.

  Good. He needed her to fear him.

  “Four hundred more it is, my little Flower, but you’d better be convincing.” The unspoken “or else” hung in the air between them.

  Even with the delights to come and the obvious fright of the woman kneeling before him, it wasn’t enough. He wanted the real Flower.

  But no — he couldn’t touch her. That would queer the accidental death theory Rutherford wanted. He couldn’t chance it. Roth’s fuck-up could have blown the whole game. Walter had enough control not to mess up a good gig. Just a few more paychecks and he could retire to the South Seas and live like a king on a small island he’d bought.

  Still, having Flower to play with would have been so much better than this pale imitation. Flower was a lady — a petite, dainty morsel. The kind of sex he desired would terrify her. The imitation-Flower had seen and done it all. She would attempt to put on a good show, but in the end it wouldn’t be the same — unless the “or else” came into play.

  “Little Flower, go clean up. You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet. Try for a more feminine look. Got anything lady-like to put on?”

  The whore nodded rapidly, her eyes downcast.

  “Get out of here. I’ll meet you in the dungeon in a few.”

  The woman got up and left the room without asking permission, without crawling like a good slave should. Bingo. The “or else” factor had just come into play.

  He laughed harshly, then turned back to the scene on the other side of the room.

  It was safe to leave Randolph alone for awhile. He had at least another hour of playtime with Kitten. To err on the safe side, Walter had already doctored Randolph’s scotch, now sitting on the tabl
e. If Randolph ran true to form, he’d only drink it after he was done disciplining the sub.

  Walter wanted to watch him die — one, because Randolph had always treated him as a underling and not an equal; two, because Rutherford would want a report on the drug’s effects; and three, because he needed to set up the suicide scene before the cops showed up.

  “Alex.”

  Randolph turned toward him. “You leaving, Walter?”

  “Nah. Just going to the next room. Little Flower and I are going to play some games in the dungeon.”

  Randolph laughed as he slapped the leather-coated metal ruler on the mattress, testing its tensile strength. “Little Flower, huh? LaFleur would die from fright at half the stuff you’ve done to her namesake tonight. I’d love to see you do the real thing.” He walked over to his sub and tested the ruler on her spread thighs. The gag muffled her moans of pain. “Good flex on this. Have to get me one for my own collection.”

  Randolph waved to Walter. “See you later. Have fun. Kitten here hasn’t met her limits yet. Don’t rush your playtime on my account.”

  “I won’t. Knock yourself out, Alex.”

  ———

  Walter paid off the Flower-look-alike. He opened the door to signal one of the dungeon attendants to help carry the woman out of the room. She hadn’t taken her punishment well.

  Pulling on a black velvet robe provided by the management, he strolled the dimly lit hallway, past doors closed on all sorts of depravity, until he reached the bedroom where Randolph had just finished his scene.

  Kitten was made of sterner stuff than his imitation Flower, because she walked out of the room under her own power, pausing only to blow Randolph a kiss from the doorway. “See ya, Alex. Don’t stay away so long. You’re the best dom I’ve ever had the pleasure to serve.”

  Randolph laughed, then returned the kissing gesture. “I know.”

  Walter entered the room and shut the door. He ambled to the bar and picked up an unopened beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Randolph pick up the doctored Scotch. Randolph squeezed a lemon rind then dropped it into the drink. He stirred the pale golden liquid with a swizzle stick topped off with a pair of boobs. The penis-shaped ice cubes clinked loudly against the sides of the glass.

  Walter’s stomach cramped with anticipation. He didn’t know what to expect of the drug. He took a large swig of beer. It barely made it past a constriction in his esophagus. Nerves. He needed to calm down or he’d choke. He stifled a laugh, wondering what the police would think about finding two men’s bodies, dead in a whorehouse, after a night of S&M?

  He breathed deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he took a sip of beer and found that it went down smoothly. Much better.

  Randolph turned toward Walter as he took a sip of the scotch. “Ahh, that is so good. Being a master is hard work. Right?”

  Walter held up his beer in a toast and said, “Yep.”

  Randolph sat on the edge of the bed. “Want to get a massage while we’re here? I pulled a muscle when I used the flogger on Kitten.”

  Walter sat in a leather chair still reeking of his seed from his earlier pleasure and stared at the bottle in his hands. How long would it take for the damn stuff to work? Rutherford said the alcohol would speed it up. He’d put two capsules worth of powder in the drink to be on the safe side — he wanted Alex dead, not revivable.

  The sound of a glass hitting the floor shook Walter. Less than thirty seconds. Damn, that was fast.

  “Alex?” Walter called out in what he hoped was a concerned tone. “You okay, buddy?”

  Randolph slid off the edge of the bed, settling hard on the floor with his back against the frame. “I feel… uh, strange. Like the flu… or…”

  His words ended, replaced by an unearthly, garbled scream. The sound-proofed walls would keep the curious out, although screams in Lady Marmalade’s didn’t often attract attention. Randolph clutched his chest as his respiration turned choppy and harsh. He looked toward Walter and attempted to form words, but nothing intelligible came out, only inhuman sounds of pain. His eyes filled with fear for what was happening to him. He reached out with a hand, trying to seek help in the only way left to him.

  “Like the drug, Alex?” Walter asked in a conversational tone. “Rutherford sent it with his compliments. By the way, he’s picking up the tab for the evening — felt your last night on earth should be a memorable one. You’re committing suicide, you know. Guilt over killing Sally.”

  Randolph’s eyes reflected the knowledge that he was dying. As he fell to the floor, he managed to gasp, “W-why?”

  “You’re too greedy and careless, a loose end.” Walter got up, then sauntered over to stand over Randolph’s trembling, and increasingly weakened, body. “The boss doesn’t like loose ends.”

  No response. A few last gasps of breath, then silence.

  Walter checked first for a pulse — none — then glanced at his watch. From drink to death, less than three minutes. The boss would be pleased.

  Quickly, he retrieved the latex gloves he’d put in his jacket pocket. After putting them on, he took the bottle of pills and Alex’s suicide note out of another pocket. He placed the opened bottle on the bedside table. The note he arranged on the bed. A whip anchored it in place.

  God, the press would eat this up.

  After scanning the room once more to confirm the scene was complete, he walked to the door.

  It was show time. He jerked the door open and yelled for help.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tuesday morning.

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “You’ve mentioned that several times already.” Jeanette turned in the passenger seat. Scott’s jaw was clenched and his hands gripped the steering wheel so hard she was afraid he would crack it — or damage his hands. She had to give him credit. He hadn’t yelled — yet.

  But, he had explained in laborious detail why he felt she should quit her job. He’d started last night, after they’d put Brigitte to bed, and he hadn’t budged one iota off his position this morning.

  At least he was smart enough not to order her around. She was sure Paul had probably mentioned to him how stubborn she was.

  As for quitting, she was afraid he was probably right. It wasn’t smart to go back, but she had obligations. To Sally. To the patients. Someone had to try to keep things running in an ethical manner until the proof was laid in front of the proper authorities and someone else took over the study.

  Scott didn’t speak again until he pulled the car into the parking lot outside the Clinical Building at the Medical Center.

  “If you aren’t going to think about your own safety, why don’t you think about Little Bits?”

  Uh-oh, he’s pulling out the big guns now, Bootsie.

  “What will happen to your daughter if Rutherford or whomever manages to kill you?”

  “Scott, I…” Jeanette sniffed, trying to avoid tears. “Don’t you think I thought about that? But I can’t imagine it will be much longer, and besides what can he — or they — do to me at work in broad daylight with all the patients and staff around? That’s probably where I’m the safest. And, I have you and Charles to get me there and back home.”

  Jeanette pleaded with her eyes. “It’s just for a few more days. Okay? Please? I have a moral responsibility to back up Sally. It really worries me that she hasn’t answered her phone. I want to make sure she’s okay. Plus there are the patients. I need to make sure no more are endangered..”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.” Scott pounded the much-abused steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “My head tells me you’re probably right about your safety at work. And I love you even more than ever because of your moral values. But, my heart and gut want you the hell out of there.”

  Jeanette reached over and took Scott’s hand, caressing the area reddened by the pounding. “I know. I appreciate that you’re scared. I’m scared, too. I know I couldn’t do this without you.�
�� Bringing his hand to her lips, she brushed a kiss on the palm. “Besides I trust you to keep me and Brigitte safe. And… and… I, uh, promise never to be alone with Monnier, Randolph or Rutherford.”

  “Okay. I give.” Scott leaned over and cupped her face. “I love you, Jeannie. I will do anything necessary to get this threat out of your life.” Then, he kissed her, gently at first, then passionately.

  After ending the kiss, he brushed some hair off her hot face. “I’m walking you in. Remember to wait for me after work. I’ll come in to get you. Charles is picking up Little Bits, right?”

  Jeanette nodded. She was afraid to speak, because she knew she would stammer. Scott’s kisses were too new and had a way of disconcerting her.

  The clinic reception area was abnormally quiet. Usually by this time of the morning, there would be a waiting room full of patients scheduled for surgical procedures along with their families. Today, there was no one.

  Hurrying to the desk, she found no hint of activity. Leaning over the counter, she checked the phone system. All calls were being forwarded.

  She turned to Scott who was right on her heels. “Something’s wrong.”

  Scott looked around. His body posture stiff, like that of a hunting dog, indicated he was ready to deal with any hidden danger. “It’s not a holiday, is it? I didn’t see a note on the door.”

  “No. And there are other people in the building, so it can’t be a fire emergency.” She skirted the desk and headed back to the offices.

  “I hear voices,” Scott said.

  “They’re coming from the break room.” Jeanette sped down the hall, stopping at an opened doorway.

  Missy Rayburn, the surgical tech and Randolph’s latest conquest, sat at one of the small round tables. She was sobbing. Loudly.

  Walter Monnier sat across from her, handing her tissues with one hand and holding one of her hands with his other. Walter had the frazzled look men tend to get when women cry all over them. Jeanette would have laughed at his predicament, but the atmosphere in the employee break room was as ominous as the rest of the clinic. Something bad had happened.