by Rebecca York
She canceled that thought. It wasn’t fair to second guess him. He couldn’t keep barging in here just because she wanted to see him.
Just because she was dependent on him. As soon as that idea leaped into her head, she tried to banish it, too. Lord, had she ever been so off balance?
She was isolated in this house, and he was her contact point with the world—with law and order. Sometimes, after she was finished with her duties, she lay in bed and pretended that he was there—next to her. All she’d have to do was stretch out her hand and she could touch him. Like when she’d been a kid. She’d shared a bed with her sister, Ginny. Sometimes she’d resented not having a bed to herself. And sometimes she’d been glad to have a friend and confidante next to her. With Alex, it was all a fantasy. And if he wasn’t in her bedroom, maybe he wasn’t really out there listening.
Grimly, she pulled out the piece of equipment that looked like a compact and held it up, pretending to check her appearance in the small mirror. In actuality, she was checking on the hidden camera that she’d disabled when she’d arrived. Several times a day she checked to make sure it still failed to function.
She knew that Frank had been in here more than once, on the pretext of changing light bulbs and doing other routine maintenance. Once or twice he’d fixed the camera, but she’d always disabled it again after a few hours. Since it was off now, she risked a direct comment about the night’s visitors.
“So what do you think?” she murmured as she took the dress off the rack and laid it on the bed. “Who are these mysterious guys who speak Spanish? Too bad you can’t go upstairs in the building across the street and hold up a sign in the window, so we can pass messages.”
That image triggered a laugh that sounded on the edge of hysteria. Immediately, she clapped her hand over her mouth. She didn’t want him to think she was scared or off balance or anything. She wanted him to think she was fine—even if it was a lie. And she wanted to know how the investigation was going.
With a grimace, she marched into the bathroom and took her special vitamin, the antidote to the drug that she’d be giving to her customer.
IN THE VAN, Alex sat with his full attention on the speaker.
He didn’t like that laugh Gillian had tried to bite back. Not at all. The situation was getting to her. Which was normal, he told himself. Especially with the announcement that a bunch of Spanish-speaking johns were about to arrive.
Especially when he could very easily imagine the working conditions. He’d seen Gillian’s wardrobe, and he knew what blue dress she and Pam had been talking about. An indecent little number that somebody should have thrown in the trash.
“McMullin?”
He turned his head, realizing that Rich had been speaking to him.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think those special guests are our friends from Nilia?” the former navy SEAL asked.
Alex ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Yeah. It’s too bad we can’t make her cue card idea work.”
“Mmm, hmm,” Rich agreed.
“This whole gig would have been easier if she could have left the house—like to go shopping or something.”
“Yeah,” Alex growled. That was an unexpected problem. Because when he’d first seen the prostitutes in Bourbon Street Libations, he’d assumed that they could go out. Apparently that was only true for certain women—those who were trusted in the Category Five distribution part of the operation.
Gillian hadn’t been included in that. And much as he hated to admit it, the arrival of these special visitors might be their big chance to get some information. She had more than one drug with her. In combination with her amnesiac cream, she had something that would encourage a guy to talk. But it was more dangerous to use the combination, and he didn’t know whether she should do it or not. There was no way to discuss it with her. But if she did get one of those guys to sing, maybe they could call a halt to this whole miserable charade.
WILMA, THE MAID, was in the hall ringing a small, tinkly bell. It might be a subtle signal, but Gillian knew that she must obey the summons.
“Time to meet the special company,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too breathless.
Pulling open the door, she stepped into the hall. Other women were already there, heading for the stairs, and she hurried to join them, almost colliding with Babs, who shouldered her out of the way. She gave the redhead a startled look but stepped back, anxious not to make waves.
Because she’d moved out of the way, she now had to hurry to catch up, feeling like a high school freshman late to class.
But they weren’t going to any class. Not dressed in a assortment of outfits that would make a stripper proud. Apparently everybody had gotten the word to dress in their skimpiest outfits tonight.
The women at the front reached the bottom of the stairs and slowed their pace as they headed into the parlor. Gillian was one of the last to enter.
In a heartbeat, she took in the scene. Madam Dupré was at one side of the room. But she was in the background. Standing by the door, inspecting each woman who came in, was Gaspard.
Gillian wanted to cast her eyes down. But she kept her gaze steady as she focused on the other occupants of the parlor.
Lounging around the room was an assortment of short, dark, muscular men, avidly inspecting each woman as she stepped into the room. The men were all dressed in dark, short-sleeved shirts and dark slacks, as though the outfits were some kind of uniform. And, in fact, they looked like they could be part of somebody’s private army.
That might simply be her own fanciful interpretation. But she wanted to pass the observation by Alex.
As she glanced at the men, one thing was obvious: they were primed for the evening’s entertainment.
“Our guests want a good look at you. Line up,” Gaspard said in a low voice that was chilling precisely because it assumed obedience.
The other women instantly followed directions, and Gillian joined them as they arranged themselves along the far wall like mannequins in a showroom.
She could see the eager gleam in the eyes of the men. They were all looking over the feminine merchandise as though the women were being exhibited for their personal enjoyment—which was basically true.
Several took a step forward as they made their inspection. One walked up to Dolly and boldly stroked his hand over her breast, making the man on his right laugh appreciatively and follow suit with Lisa.
Another of the men stood with his arms folded across his chest, his gaze traveling rapidly over the line of working girls. He’d barely given the rest of the group a quick look when his attention snapped back to Gillian, and she felt the breath solidify in her lungs, so that it was suddenly difficult to breathe.
She’d thought Charles from two days ago was creepy. He might have been a fuzzy cartoon character compared to the man who was sliding his gaze over her now as though he’d already bought and paid for her body.
She didn’t know whether it was better to meet his eyes or glance away. He looked like he’d come up from the street. Now he had acquired a thin layer of civilization that barely concealed the dark currents below the surface.
When he came striding toward her, she lifted her chin.
“I like your looks, señorita,” he said, his Spanish accent very obvious. “And I like a woman who is bold enough to acknowledge her man’s attention.”
“I like your looks, too,” she lied. “And your take-charge attitude. Can I get you a drink?”
“I think not. I want to go up to your room where we can get naked together.”
Well, that was certainly direct, she thought, noting Gaspard’s smirk. He was apparently listening in and getting some enjoyment from the situation.
Other couples had paired off, and some of the men had escorted their partners to the bar. The noise level in the room was increasing dramatically as men and women got to know each other. Her date wanted to get right to business.
“Of course,” she answere
d.
As she and the guy left the room, she saw that Babs was standing alone with no partner—and looking daggers in her direction.
Swiftly, she turned away, leading her customer toward the stairs that she’d descended so recently, feeling his breath on her neck, and immediately she forgot all about Babs.
She was starting to hate this walk to her room with an eager man breathing down her back. More than that, she hated the moment when the door clanked closed behind them like a jailhouse gate. She and the man would be in here for an hour, and it was up to her to make sure nothing happened that she couldn’t handle. What if this guy wanted to stay longer?
After closing the door, she turned to face her new companion and said, “My name is Gillian. What’s yours?”
“You can call me Pedro.”
“I’m glad you picked me, Pedro,” she managed, although the words threatened to choke her.
“Why?” he asked.
Most men would have taken the compliment at face value. Now she scrambled for an answer. “Because it’s an honor to be selected by a man who is so commanding.”
He chuckled, the sound hardly pleasant. “I’m glad you approve.”
“So where are you from?” she asked casually.
“That’s none of your business.”
“I—I was just trying to make conversation,” she answered quickly.
“I don’t need conversation. I want sex. I haven’t had a woman in months,” he announced, then began to unbutton his shirt.
Oh great, she thought. Was he going to give her time to get the drug onto his skin? Or was he in too much of a hurry to get to the main event? How could she slow him down? A drink? She moved toward the side table that was set up like a small bar.
Since she’d arrived at the McDonough Club, she’d been in some sticky situations in this room. But she knew without doubt that this man was the most dangerous john she’d taken up here, and she couldn’t afford to make any mistake with him.
Before she could offer him a drink, his tongue flicked across his lips, and her attention was drawn to that greedy gesture. Then she raised her gaze to his eyes. He was watching her as he undid the buttons of his shirt, and she saw that his chest was a mass of healed scars, like someone had whipped him repeatedly.
It took all her resolve not to back away. Then she couldn’t contain a strangled noise when more scarred skin was revealed, and she saw something else—an ominous-looking tattoo.
He caught the small noise and his busy hands stopped moving on the buttons. “You don’t like my scars?” he asked, a dangerous edge in his voice, and she knew that he wasn’t a man who was comfortable with his body.
She swallowed. “That’s not for me to judge.”
“I think you are judging, Señorita Gillian, whether you admit it or not. I think you don’t like being in this bedroom with me.”
“That’s not true,” she said weakly, wishing he couldn’t read her quite so well.
He studied her intently. “I could make your face look like my chest,” he said, the words low and cutting, like a knife digging into her flesh.
She couldn’t stop herself from gasping. When she saw his gaze intensify, she knew he enjoyed her reaction.
Gillian went very still. This dark and dangerous hombre was nothing like the other johns she had duped since she’d come to the McDonough Club. He was used to getting what he wanted—with no questions asked.
“I mean no offense, Señor Pedro,” she said. “A scarred body turns me on.”
He gave her a nasty sneer. “So you say. But that’s not what your eyes told me. I caught your look of distaste when you saw the lines on my skin,” he said, his voice low and menacing, his gaze narrowed as he studied her.
A moment ago she’d thought he was dangerous. He’d just turned up the menace meter a hundred degrees.
Gillian knew she could be in serious trouble. The tone of his voice told her she was walking a tightrope. What if she pressed the panic button at the head of the bed? Would anyone come to her rescue? Or were honored guests excluded from safety considerations? Was that why a girl had gotten hurt the last time?
Thinking she’d be better off handling him on her own, she tried another tack. “It wasn’t the scars,” she said carefully. “I was wondering about that scorpion tattoo on your chest.”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew from the way his eyes narrowed that she’d made a major mistake.
Chapter Eleven
In the van both Alex and Rich sat with their attention riveted to the dialogue from Gillian’s room.
“Well, I guess that confirms it,” Alex muttered. “The scumbags from Nilia are the special group Madam Dupré was expecting.”
“Yeah.”
Alex clenched and unclenched his fist. “We could call in the cops to arrest the whole bunch of them right now!”
“For what? Patronizing a house of prostitution? Their lawyer would have them out in hours. They’d be mad as a river full of piranhas. And they’d know that something’s up. We’d have to pull Gillian out of there and put her in a safe house.”
Alex answered with a curse, even when his brain knew that Rich was right.
His attention snapped back to the conversation as the man asked in a deadly calm voice, “What about the scorpion?”
“It’s an unusual choice for a tattoo,” Gillian said, obviously speaking carefully. “How did you happen to get it?”
Almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth, the sound of a hand striking flesh rang out.
Gillian whimpered, and Alex cursed again. The bastard had slapped her just for asking about the damn tattoo. It felt like the blow had landed on his own face, and he struggled to catch his breath.
The man’s angry voice was the next thing they heard. “Puta, you do not question me about my private business. The only thing you need to know is how to pleasure me.”
Alex shifted in his seat. His stomach was tied in knots and his chest was so tight that he could hardly breathe.
“Yes,” Gillian answered in a voice that she couldn’t quite hold steady.
“When you answer me, you say, ‘Sí, señor.’”
“Sí, señor,” she echoed, the quaver still in her voice.
Somehow that quaver was the last straw for Alex. He was already out of his chair and halfway across the van before the words were out of her mouth.
“Wait,” Rich called. “You can’t just go charging in there. What are you going to do?”
“I did it before. I can do it again.” He flung the words over his shoulder as he yanked open the door of the van and charged up the street toward the McDonough Club.
THE DOOR OF THE BEDROOM opened with a snap. Gillian felt a mixture of relief and astonishment as Alex stepped inside. He was wearing a white dress shirt and dark slacks. Turning carefully, he closed the barrier behind him.
At the sound of the interruption, the man named Pedro whirled and before Gillian could blink, had reached toward his ankle and pulled a small pistol from under his pant leg.
Gillian had been frightened for herself. When she saw that gun pointed at Alex’s chest, her mouth went dry as baked mud. It was a small caliber revolver, but at close range she knew it could do considerable damage. Somehow she managed to speak. “Don’t do anything foolish, señor.”
She might as well have been inaudible and invisible, because all of the man’s considerable attention was focused on Alex.
“Who are you?” the thug demanded.
“A satisfied customer,” Alex answered, sounding surprisingly calm considering the deadly circumstances. Spreading his hands to show that they were empty, he continued in the same even tone. “The woman is right. You don’t want to get arrested for murder.” As he spoke, his gaze flicked from the gun to Gillian and back again.
The thug raised his chin. “Nobody would dare arrest me here,” he said, but his voice was one beat less sure than it had been a moment ago when he’d pulled the weapon.
“I think there’s been a small mistake,” Alex said. “But we can easily fix it.”
“What mistake?” the bad hombre asked.
“I had an appointment with this woman. I’ve been with her before, and I’ve been looking forward all week to being with her again. I didn’t expect to find someone else in her room. I’m sorry I interrupted your pleasure,” he added in a consolatory voice.
There was a charged moment when both men stood tensely facing each other. Then Pedro apparently realized the wisdom of ratcheting the tension down a notch, because he shoved his gun into the waistband of his slacks. “I’m here now,” he said. “You can find someone else.”
“I selected this woman,” Alex said.
“So did I.”
“But I have the first priority,” Alex said, keeping his voice even but firm. “I’m sorry that she was asked to come downstairs.”
Gillian wanted to speak but kept her lips pressed together because she knew that Pedro didn’t give a damn about her opinion.
“This house is full of beautiful and talented women who would love to perform any act that your very imaginative mind can conjure up. You can easily find another willing partner,” Alex said.
It appeared that Pedro was considering the words. Probably he was weighing what it was worth to make a stink about one particular prostitute. She wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t lose face by finding another bed partner, but she was pretty sure that if she made the observation, he’d do just the opposite. So she kept silent.
Her heart banged around inside her chest as she waited for Pedro to make his decision. Finally he buttoned up his shirt, then gave Gillian one last malevolent look.
“The bitch talks too much. You’re welcome to her. But you may have to teach her better manners,” he growled as he brushed past Alex. Exiting the room, he slammed the door behind him.
Alex swiftly crossed the carpet and caught Gillian in his arms. With a little sob, she melted against him.
Just one, sharp sob. She’d managed to cope with the men who came to this room with her. But with Pedro, she’d known she was over her head.
