by Jordan Dane
Cronan had escorted Ethan to his residence and tucked the guy in for the night like a friggin’ nursemaid. Being on the receiving end of Rachel’s snipes of unprofessionalism didn’t help his mood either. The publicist had already targeted Angel after she met Ethan for drinks. In Rachel’s mind, his partner going AWOL only justified her resentment, and she wasn’t above sharing her thoughts.
Too bad for him. The woman talked nonstop. Good thing he didn’t feel obligated to listen. After getting an earful that could’ve caused a brain bleed, Cronan didn’t feel like going home. He got in his vehicle and drove until the city lights and the interstate were in his rear view mirror. Now his high beams lit a ribbon of asphalt that he followed, unsure where the road would take him. Scrub brush whipped in the breeze as he sped by miles of fence posts, guided only by the light of the moon.
Given the late hour, he hadn’t tried texting his contact for the underground fight club. Whatever they had booked would be over. Although getting his brain hammered might have done the trick to distract him from his misery, he had his doubts that the hurt in Angel’s eyes would go away that easily. She had a way of haunting a man.
So far he hadn’t found an antidote.
After he’d left Chicago suburbs behind, Cronan drove until he saw a familiar sight, one he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for. A single red light glowed ahead, cutting through the darkness with purpose, like a beacon. When barbed wire fences turned into an impressive stone wall, an estate lit by security lights hovered in the dark on the horizon.
He made the turn onto the private drive, and after he pulled up to the guard station, Cronan didn’t hesitate. He gave his business card to the armed man in uniform who eyed him with suspicion.
“I need to see the boss lady,” he said. “Tell her it’s…important.”
He’d come to see Simone Moreau—and until he drove onto her estate, he hadn’t realized why. Cronan had to look at this case with an open mind and not assume anything. He’d been preaching that to Angel, but he could use a good dose of objectivity, too. What if Olivia had never been into ball gags and handcuffs? It made him wonder how she’d crossed paths with Simone. Did Olivia find her own way to Chez Moreau or had Ethan or someone else introduced her? He had a hunch that whoever had a vested interest in painting Olivia as a BDSM player, they’d have a strong connection to Ethan. Someone in his inner circle was either protecting him or they were obsessed with a guy who was a cog in their wheel.
Or maybe Ethan had his own motives.
Angel would argue against his leap to Ethan, but that’s what motivated him to drive to Simone Moreau’s again. He had questions that only Simone could answer. She’d cooperate with him to a point because of their history, but her real loyalty would be to her very private sex club members, many of whom were the wealthy elite of Chicago.
He drove through the gates of Chez Moreau and parked. From the moment he entered the mansion, he had an armed escort dressed in Armani. One of Simone’s security guys ushered him through the Moreau gallery of erotic art and past the parlors where her unreserved clientele indulged their darkest desires. Under normal circumstances he might have pretended he didn’t see the exotic leather and chain crowd or hear the manic rhythms of smacking flesh and the moans of pain and pleasure, but Cronan kept an eye out for any familiar faces linked to the case. The faces he could see, that is. Tonight, many of the guests wore elaborate jeweled masks.
Cronan stopped when he saw a gray-haired woman dressed in an evening gown. Alone she would not have demanded his attention, but the woman had company. She watched two men with a young woman grappling naked on the floor at her feet. The clothed woman was Evelyn Carmichael, the wealthy patron who had attended Ethan Chandler’s performance the other night. She hadn’t bothered to hide her face with a mask. Neither did her boy toy, Joaquin Salazar, who was the aggressor. He followed her orders as she gave them from her wingback chair.
The only light in the room came from a fire in the hearth and candles that surrounded them. Bare skin slick with oil reflected the light and undulated in and out of shadows. Only the young couple doing their bidding wore disguises, glittering eyewear of feathers and gold carved head gear. The girl’s skin was pale and looked luminescent in the flickering light from the fire. Salazar and the other man were darker. Both men were hard. Their stiff cocks bobbed as they moved.
The guy in the mask got to his knees and mounted her from behind. With his hands on her hips, he thrust into her hard. The smack of flesh on flesh and the girl’s breathy moans echoed in the room as he shoved harder.
Cronan turned to leave, but stopped when he saw that Evelyn Carmichael had other intentions. She had her boy Joaquin crawl up behind the guy with something in his hand.
“Stick it in deep. Don’t rush it, Joaquin.” The older woman leaned to the edge of her chair, but when the guy reacted to the intrusion by flinching and slowing down, she yelled, “No! Don’t stop fucking her.”
The guy winced and cried out as Joaquin shoved a slick, dark-colored device into him, but that didn’t bother the old woman. She cocked her head to get a better look as her boy worked. When Joaquin was done, she smiled and spoke to the guy in the mask, who grimaced through the pain as he kept up his end of the bargain.
“Indulge us, dear boy. Do as you’re told, and you’ll be paid extra as promised.” To her consort, she raised her voice. “Improvise, Joaquin. You know what I like.”
Repulsed, Cronan turned to go, but he stopped when he saw Evelyn Carmichael look up. She caught him standing in the hall, but recognizing him didn’t stop her. In fact, it inspired her to demand more of her companion.
“She has a lovely mouth, Joaquin. Give her something to remember you,” the woman said in a low voice. To Cronan, she said, “I see you’re a voyeur like me. Care to join us? Joaquin will do whatever you ask. To them…or you.”
“My place could use a fresh coat of paint. When can he start?”
The smug satisfaction on the older woman’s face vanished. She didn’t look pleased, and Cronan had nothing more to say to her. Evelyn Carmichael might have started the party, but her escort got to finish it with his own enthusiasm on the girl. No guy did that on orders to please someone else. The old woman and her money provided the private setting of consenting adults where she turned loose her dog and got off on the aftermath of his carnage.
Cronan left, wishing there was a way he could ‘unsee’ something.
The old woman had a twisted and cruel side to her nature that made Cronan wonder even more about Ethan. Given Evelyn Carmichael’s link to Simone, her avid interest in the violinist had to come from more than her love of the arts. Joaquin Salazar knew how to follow orders and didn’t question them, even when those orders inflicted pain on someone else. How far would Salazar go to keep his generous mistress happy?
Mired in thought, Cronan had been distracted by the odd pair and didn’t realize he’d been led to Simone’s private quarters. An elaborate wood carved four-poster bed with lush bed linens dominated the expansive room. A crackling fire shined its light onto the crystal chandelier and with erotic art in oils adorning the walls, her room felt like a cross between a fine museum and the Playboy mansion.
“Hey, I didn’t come here for—”
Before Cronan finished, his escort smiled and said, “Ms. Moreau will be with you shortly. She invited you to enjoy a beverage at her private bar while you wait.”
Cronan heaved a sigh as the guy left, then took his suggestion. He poured a snifter of Cognac and downed it in one gulp. The potent liquor burned his throat and mellowed him to cruising speed. He poured another, but after a door closed behind him, he heard the soft rustle of fabric.
“I knew you’d be back.” Simone’s low voice and French accent always got to him. “It is good to see you, Gabriel.”
He turned to catch his first glimpse of her. It took all his willpower not to react to the way Simone entered the room.
“I can…see that.” He swallowed an
other gulp of Cognac.
As Simone walked into the room naked, Cronan stared at her tight nipples and flushed skin, trying to hide his reaction. Epic fail. The woman knew how to make an entrance that could get a rise out of any man. Her robe lay on the floor near the door. She’d done it to shock him and keep him off balance.
It worked.
“I have cleared my evening for you.” Simone shoved him onto a sofa and straddled his lap. She nuzzled his ear as she tugged at his tie and whispered, “Tell me your fantasy, and I will make it happen, whatever you want.”
Her dark hair smelled of coconut, and her pale skin felt warm and soft. A shudder ran through Cronan as she pressed her body against him. When she kissed him and forced her tongue into his mouth, he didn’t resist. He couldn’t. But as her fingers undid the buttons of his shirt, and she slid her hand over his bare skin to tease the tight nub of his nipple, he grabbed her wrist.
“I came to talk.”
“Always you talk, Gabriel. I offer you what any man would want and you…talk. There are better ways to use your mouth.” She pouted, but that didn’t last long. When she reached for his arm to restrain him, she said, “Perhaps you like a woman to be…strong with you. This, I can do.”
“Do I look like a guy who plays games?” He glared at her until she let go.
“You drive me crazy, mon amour. You are the only man I know who would refuse me.” Her pout vanished, replaced by a wicked smile. “Except in my dreams. There, you do exactly as I say.”
Cronan knew about Simone and dreams. She hadn’t exactly been a stranger to his nights.
“When your baby sister was murdered, you appreciated my resolving her case with discretion. Olivia has a family, people who still love her and need closure. Her murder has connections to this place, Simone. I need you to be honest with me. No games. Can you do that?”
She stared at him and for an instant he saw a familiar hurt glistening in her eyes. Simone knew what it meant to lose someone to violence. She took a deep breath and got off his lap to sit next to him. She made no attempt to retrieve her robe.
“What do you need to know?” She crossed her legs and leaned toward him, playing with his collar. “I make no promises, but I understand.”
“The first time I told you about Olivia Davenport and showed you a picture of her, you recognized her face. You said she wasn’t a regular, but that she’d been into fantasies. Were you telling me the truth?”
Simone flinched and smiled with a shrug as if she’d been caught in a harmless fib.
“I protect my clients, Gabriel. I am sad for this girl’s family, but she was not one of my regulars. I told you that.”
“Not good enough.”
“What do you want from me?” she demanded. “She has no connection to my private club. She was not a member.”
“But maybe her killer was.”
“You push me, Gabriel. This is my business, and it demands discretion. It does not work otherwise. I could lose everything if you insist on linking me to the death of this unfortunate girl.” This time she looked angry. “If you force me to choose between my clients and you, you will lose. I will not betray my people. Not even for you.”
Cronan remembered that the first time he’d come to Chez Moreau for answers about Olivia, he had believed the girl was the main link to Simone’s and had been into the kinky stuff. He’d asked Simone about Ethan Chandler, only referring to him as ‘a blind guy’ in an attempt to respect his reputation and privacy. Now that he had his doubts about the dark side to Olivia, he had other questions—and other names to ask of Simone.
“Is Ethan Chandler one of your people?”
Simone narrowed her eyes and said, “Like I told you, I do not betray my people. N’est-ce pas?”
Gabriel didn’t have to speak French to understand what she meant about Chandler, but the beautiful Simone was done talking to a cop. Her actual words weren’t what had intrigued him. It was more what he saw in her eyes and what she didn’t say that made him wonder what she still held back.
***
Downtown Chicago
2:20 AM
Tim McFarland knew he hadn’t been clever at all. Thanks to Ethan Chandler and his brainless sycophants, his evening had ended in complete humiliation. They probably got a laugh at how things turned out. For all he knew, they could’ve set him up by slipping a pass under his door and left his name off the master list to embarrass him. The jerk that made the scene had a grudge against him. Good neighbor policy, my ass. That had to come from Ethan.
Stupid! Stupid!
Sitting in the dark, in the room he’d made special for his obsession, Tim gave up drinking from a glass and flung the fine crystal across the room, targeting his favorite black and white poster of the violinist. The glass shattered and sprayed shards in all directions, bleeding liquor down the image like tears. From every wall, the beautiful young man stared back at Tim.
Only now it felt as if he were being mocked.
Slouched on a sofa still wearing his disheveled suit—the one he’d meticulously cleaned and pressed to wear for the evening—Tim raised the bottle to his lips and sucked down the pricey Scotch that Ethan Chandler had rejected. It had been his gift, the one he’d been so clever in buying for his famous neighbor. As he drank, he queued up the last recording he’d made of Ethan in the shower, the only surveillance video he had at his residence. He’d been very careful to keep his full collection hidden at his lake house.
He liked watching Ethan to the strains of the soloist’s violin music, but not tonight. The surveillance footage had no sound. Light from the TV screen flickered over Tim as he sat in the shadows and raised the bottle to his mouth.
I swear to God, I thought you were better. That mantra repeated in Tim’s head as he slugged down another gulp of Scotch.
Ethan Chandler deserved the best. That included being surrounded with an entourage of people who exemplified the image he should cultivate with more care. Instead, he had barbaric thugs and arrogant stupid bitches near him. Being young and inexperienced shouldn’t be an excuse for allowing social atrocities to happen under his nose.
This wasn’t over. No matter how much he drank, Tim couldn’t let it go. Ethan would be dead wrong if he thought he could dismiss him that easily.
You have no idea what you’ve done, but you will.
Tim let his anger fester. When he couldn’t look at Ethan’s face without his heart breaking, he threw the bottle of Scotch and smashed it against the nearest wall. The expensive liquor splattered across the many photos of Ethan.
Tim thought of his treasure trove of digital recordings of Ethan that he had stored at his lake house. He made up his mind to spend the weekend searching through his favorite recordings, the ones that Ethan would hate to go public. He had enough to ruin the young man, but perhaps with a little persuasion, Ethan might realize how important it would be to keep him as a close and very satisfied friend. Until now he’d been discreet in savoring the digital recordings and keeping them to himself, but if Ethan kept him at a distance, things could change.
From the recordings he’d seen that the young man had given his body to others. Why not to him, too? That wouldn’t be blackmail, would it? Not between consenting adults.
With a headache coming on, Tim had had enough misery for one night. When he stood too fast, he got dizzy and had to steady himself. His stomach felt queasy when he looked at the mess. Screw it! He’d clean up later. He left everything as it was before he closed the door on his private room. Tomorrow he’d figure out what to do to make Ethan regret everything he’d done to mortify him.
Getting ready for bed, he stumbled toward his front entry to turn out the light and noticed something white on the floor. A note had been slipped under his door. The envelope had a typed message on the outside—two words that changed everything.
I’m sorry
Tim’s breath caught in his throat, and his hands trembled as he read the letter inside.
My solo performan
ce on the rooftop is meant for only you
Tears came to his eyes when he realized who must have sent the note. Ethan hadn’t signed it, but who else could it be from? He’d seen the boy use a computer in his home, speaking into a headset. Although his surveillance gear didn’t record sound, he suspected Ethan had technology to overcome his handicap through voice recognition software. He’d looked it up on the Internet once when he wanted to understand the challenges the boy had in his life. It made him admire the musician more.
After only a quick glance in the foyer mirror to wipe his face, Tim stuffed the note in his pocket and locked the door behind him. His mind filled with images of Ethan in the shower, and when he pictured what the boy would look like under the moonlight on the roof, he got hard.
Chapter 12
Downtown Chicago
2:40 AM
Tim took the elevator to the rooftop level. Once he got past the lights at the bank of elevators, only dim security beacons were on this time of night and glowed down the corridor that led to the roof exit. He had to enter a pass code for residents to open the secured door, but once he got outside he heard the sweet sounds of Ethan’s music wafting on the night air. It came from a dark patio to his right that was discreetly around the corner and secluded.
Perfect.
His body reacted to the music. That particular song had been a personal favorite of his, one that he’d paired with his preferred recordings of Ethan. He would time his ejaculation with the crescendo. It felt as if Ethan knew his darkest secret and wanted to be a part of it now.
As Tim rounded the corner, he saw a single rose on a patio table. Ethan’s music came from an iPod with an open bottle of wine and two glasses next to the long-stemmed flower. When he got closer, he noticed another note under the bottle.
