Scorching Desire (The Trinity Masters)

by Lila Dubois

  “That is the last thing I’m worried about. Please return the phone to Tasha.”

  She listened for a moment after he passed it back and then said, “I will make it clear that this door is closed and render these pieces and players too expensive to keep in the game.”

  She hung up the phone, tucked it back into the hidden space and replaced the ice bucket.

  “Tasha,” Marco said. “What’s going on? What’s really going on?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not my place to tell you. But I do need something from you.” She looked at Damon.

  “What?”

  “Do you have any friends in the police force here?”

  “Not really. A few in the DA’s office. Why?”

  “Jennie should be on her way to the hospital right now. I reported her for trying to sell drugs. We need to make sure she stays alive.”

  Damon processed that and then nodded. “You think that someone put her and Sandra up to this. That it’s not just about money.”

  Tasha didn’t respond.

  Marco was leaning forward, his dark hair falling over his head. “And if that’s true, and they realize we know who Sandra and Jennie are, they may want to get rid of them.”

  Tasha shrugged. “I think we were intended to find them—this was too easy. The best we can do is to do the unexpected. That means involving the police, which we have been avoiding.”

  “I’ll call the DA’s office,” Damon said. “Tell them she’s a friend’s sister. They’ll pass that on to the cops. And I’ll push my flight back another few days. I need to be back in L.A. by next Sunday. I have court on Tuesday.”

  Tasha nodded as the limo glided to a stop outside the condo.

  “Are you coming up with us?” Marco asked her.

  “Yes. It’s safer.”

  Damon wondered who she thought it was safer for—them or herself.

  Together they made their way across the elegant lobby. The security agent looked alarmed until Marco waved and said, “Costume party.”

  “Of course, Mr. Corzo. There was a food delivery while you were out. Per your standing instructions, we used a master key and placed it in your refrigerator.”

  “Good man. Food is exactly what we need.”

  Once in the suite, Damon went to the spare bedroom to gather his things. He’d keep them in Marco’s room and sleep on the couch, giving Tasha the bed.

  He heard Marco unpacking their forgotten Persian food delivery.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Damon took a minute to think, looking down at his right hand. He was a big guy, always had been. As a teenager, he’d been so awkward his mother had put away the breakables since he was prone to falling over for no apparent reason. As an adult, he’d learned to control his body, learned to be still and to move slowly—and, when the situation called for it, to use his size to his advantage.

  He’d never hit a woman before—outside of sparring in the gym he’d only a hit few people, and only when he was drunk while in college. For the most part, he and his adversaries ended up taking shots together later.

  The back of his hand tingled, and he could still feel the blow—the hard bone of her cheek and jaw as he made contact. Part of him was angry at her for asking him to do it, and at himself because he hadn’t come up with a better solution.

  He stripped off the vest and threw it aside. His self-loathing was made worse by the fact he’d been aroused most of the night. Having Tasha kneeling before him mostly naked, combined with her devotion and obedience, fake though they were, had played on some very base sexual desires. It had been too easy to play her Master, too easy to enjoy spanking her with his belt.

  *****

  Tasha stood in the doorway, looking at the blond man’s bowed shoulders. “Damon.”

  “Tasha.” He stood. Seemingly unsure what to do with his hands, he crossed his arms. “How is your face and your back and your…” He gestured vaguely.

  She’d taken off the coat and her shoes, leaving her once more in nothing but the leather bra and tiny shorts. It covered as much as bathing suits, but standing in this bedroom, so close to him, she felt naked—hyperaware of her bare skin. She’d taken off the cuffs but still wore the collar, the leash dangling over her shoulder.

  “My ass? All are fine. You were perfect.” She came into the room, and without her heels she was almost a head shorter than him. He had a look she’d seen before—guilt over what he’d done in the op. It was the mark of a novice, and it was unexpectedly attractive coming from Damon, who’d been cold and hard before tonight. “Exactly what we needed.”

  “I wish there’d been a way to do it without me having to hurt you.”

  “I’m glad it was you and that I didn’t have to goad a stranger into doing it.”

  “Is that what you would have done?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you would have been in real danger—what if the person had choked you or had a knife or—”

  “Damon. Stop.” Tasha laid a hand on his bare chest. “I was safer tonight with you than I have been in a long time.”

  His gaze searched her face, then he cupped her head and kissed her.

  Tasha froze as his lips covered hers. It was half post-op guilt and half post-op emotional high—it didn’t mean anything.

  But she didn’t care. She wanted him to touch her. Wanted it to mean something.

  Tasha clung to his shoulders and let him kiss her. She didn’t try to take control, didn’t try to goad him into doing something else, something more. For the first time in her life, Tasha let herself be kissed.

  Damon pulled back and rested his head on hers.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Tasha closed her eyes. His words weren’t unexpected, but they hurt. Rather than say anything, she turned her back and lifted her hair away from her neck. “You have the key,” she said quietly.

  “Of course.”

  He unlocked the collar and slipped it off. Tasha rubbed her neck. “Thank you,” she said. “I think Marco has food prepared for you.”

  Before he could say anything, she left, going to the bathroom. Bracing her hands on the counter, she stared at herself in the mirror. In the bright lights her heavy eye makeup seemed garish. Stripping off the last of her clothes, she looked at her back. There was a faint pink line across her shoulder blades, but her ass was unmarked—it had been well protected by the leather shorts. Part of her wished there was more evidence of what Damon had done. It had taken more concentration than it should have to stay focused on the goal and not let herself give in and enjoy his mastery of her.

  She’d never been as attracted to anyone as she was to Damon and Marco. Something about them was different. Or maybe she was just so tired of being alone that she was imagining a connection when there wasn’t one. She washed her face, careful of her cheek.

  Damon had been right—he was strong, and though she’d pulled away, he’d managed to hit her hard enough that it still hurt—and would bruise. She’d keep it covered so he wouldn’t feel any guiltier than he already did.

  She jumped into the shower, and when she got out she found her bag outside the bathroom door. By the time she emerged, Damon was asleep on the couch. A plate waited for her on the kitchen counter.

  Tasha slid onto a stool and put the plate on her lap. They’d saved her some food, made sure she had her clothes. They’d taken care of her.

  Smiling despite herself, Tasha ate quietly while looking at Damon’s sleeping form and the lights of the Chicago skyline.

  ~~~~

  Chapter Seven

  Marco couldn’t stay asleep. He’d closed his eyes at three am only to wake up at four thirty. He finally fell asleep again at six but was awake by eight.

  Disgusted that he was up before ten for the second day in a row, he tiptoed to the living room where Damon was sleeping.

  Except he wasn’t. The couch was empty, the blankets neatly folded. Instead, Tasha sat at the dining room table, a variety of
electronic equipment spread out in front of her.

  At least, Marco assumed the blonde was Tasha.

  He ground some beans and turned on the espresso machine, and then leaned his elbows on the counter and examined the woman in his dining room.

  She wore basketball shorts, fuzzy socks and a gray T-shirt. Her hair was up in a messy ponytail and there were thick-frame glasses perched on her nose.

  “I smell coffee,” Damon said as he wandered in.

  “Look.” Marco motioned to Tasha.

  Damon frowned and then filled the espresso machine and set it brewing. “I thought I dreamed that. At five she came and got me, told me to go sleep in the bed.”

  “You know I can hear you,” Tasha said, not looking up from the screen.

  “Do you want coffee?” Damon asked.

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Why not?” Marco accepted the espresso cup Damon handed him. He took a sip and a feeling of rightness settled over him. This was good—Damon in his kitchen, both of them bantering with Tasha.

  “Caffeine is the most addictive drug in the world,” she said.

  “I don’t care,” Marco declared.

  Tasha smiled and then pulled one leg up and braced her heel on the seat.

  “What are you doing?” Damon asked.

  “Ignore that,” Marco said. “What are you wearing?”

  At that she looked over. “I hadn’t planned to stay with you, otherwise I would have brought casual clothes more fitting with your perception of me.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Marco said. “I like it. Those glasses…” He looked at Damon. “It’s not just me, is it?”

  Damon was examining her with a look of longing that was painful to see. Marco nudged him and Damon snapped out of it, opening the fridge door. “It’s not just you.”

  “I hate to disappoint you.” Tasha pouted and fluttered her lashes. “Actually, I don’t care. I need glasses for computer work. And you didn’t think I dressed like a call girl all the time, did you?”

  “Marco, there is nothing to make breakfast with.” Damon closed the fridge. “I’m ordering groceries.”

  “There’s cereal.”

  Damon just groaned and grabbed the grocery delivery menu.

  “You two have been friends a long time, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “Is it that obvious?” Content to make Damon deal with breakfast, Marco took his espresso over to the table.

  “It’s nice.” She shrugged and went back to her computer.

  “So what are you doing?” Marco asked.

  Damon finished placing an order and came over to the table, cups in hand. “I made you some herbal tea. If it’s disgusting, blame Marco. I have no idea how old the tea is.”

  Tasha accepted the cup with a little smile. “Thank you. I didn’t think either of you would be up so soon. Especially you.” She pointed at Marco.

  “I can’t sleep.” Marco finished his coffee. “I need to play.”

  “It’s too early for the piano,” Damon said.

  “I wasn’t going to play piano.”

  ****

  Tasha watched Marco, who wore PJ pants and nothing more, walk away.

  “So what are you doing?” Damon asked again.

  Tasha focused on her screen, careful not to look at him. She was still raw from their kiss, and she shouldn’t have been. The feelings he’d stirred should’ve been locked away deep inside, where they couldn’t influence her, but right now she couldn’t do it.

  It had been a deliberate move to wear her lounging clothes. When Tasha was by herself comfort was king, and she didn’t care how she looked. She’d brought these things to wear in the hotel, but right now she was using them like armor, distancing herself from the sexy persona she’d been using around them.

  “I’m putting up nets for the video and the photos from Marco’s phone.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “How much do you know about how the internet works?”

  “I know a bit.”

  “DNS servers, IP calls?”

  “Uh…”

  Tasha nodded. “There are lots of things that happen when you do anything online—lots of places the information has to go. There’s no way for us to erase the video or photos from existence. Even if I eliminated all online copies, there may be one on a hard drive or other offline location.”

  Damon sighed. “That’s what I’ve been afraid of.”

  “We can’t delete them, but we can try to stop it from being sent to anyone.”

  “Using a net?”

  “Yes. Every file has some identifying information, some metadata. What I’m doing is setting up alerts so that when a file with that metadata tries to go through any server, it will be flagged. If its point of origin is outside the US the file will have a virus added to it, which will cause most recipients’ servers to reject it. If it originates in the US, I can not only attach a virus but also add a back trace.”

  “That’s…wow. You’re a very skilled hacker.”

  “You may not believe it, based on what I’ve been doing the past few days, but most situations can’t be solved with bare skin and sex appeal.”

  Damon’s lips twitched. “Don’t tell Marco. He thinks you were a spy. He’ll be disappointed when he finds out I was right.”

  “You were right?”

  “You’re a corporate securities specialist.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but actually Marco was right. I was a spy.”

  Damon blinked. “You worked for the CIA?”

  “Not exactly. I was a CIA asset.” Tasha wasn’t sure why she was telling him this. Her background was hardly a secret—she’d been something of a legend within the intelligence community—but she rarely divulged personal information. “My biological parents were Russian agents. I was conceived and raised to be a spy for Russia.”

  Damon sat back. “Holy shit.”

  Tasha shrugged.

  “What happened?”

  “My parents were agents who did not love either each other or me. Even as a child I knew it, and therefore I didn’t connect with them. I liked reading.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “Especially spy novels. When I was twelve I figured out who my parents were. I turned myself in to the CIA.”

  “When you were twelve?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they do? What did you do?”

  “I was a double agent—informing on my parents to my CIA handler. When I started high school I had trouble keeping the secret, and the CIA had them arrested. They were traded back to Moscow.”

  “All this while you were a teenager?”

  “Yes. The CIA pulled me out of school and trained me as an agent, though my background meant I couldn’t be formally hired.”

  Marco, now wearing jeans and a ratty old T-shirt, emerged from the hall, rolling his hard-sided cello case.

  Damon was shaking his head. “Let me get this straight. When you were a kid you went to the government and told them you thought your parents were Russian spies. You were right, and they asked you to turn on them, and then when it got too hard they essentially orphaned you by arresting your parents.”

  “And then they trained me.”

  Damon’s jaw clenched. “That is so deeply fucked up. I’m sorry, Tasha.”

  She shrugged. “It’s done.”

  The first strains of cello music drew Tasha’s attention to the living room. Marco sat with his back to them, facing the wall of windows. His cello cradled in his legs. Tasha bit her lip, thrilled. Abandoning her computer, she padded over and hovered just out of Marco’s line of sight so she wouldn’t disturb him.

  Damon came up behind her. “Have you heard him play before?”

  “Once, in London.”

  “You’re a fan.”

  Tasha felt herself blush and was glad for the thick makeup she was wearing. “I enjoy classical music.”

  “But Marco doesn’t just play music.”

  “N
o,” she breathed. “He makes it live.”

  “Come on.” Damon grabbed pillows off the couch and drew her to the windows. He tossed the pillows down, sat on the floor facing Marco with his back against the glass and drew Tasha to sit beside him.

  She curled up on the pillow. When Damon put his arm around her she leaned into him without thinking about it, her focus wholly on Marco.

  He played with his eyes closed and his whole body communicated the emotion he drew from the notes. The low registers were haunting, almost eerie, rising in long, slow swoops to quick, light sounds. Marco tipped his head back as the piece crescendoed, dipped his head and grimaced as his bow powered through the aggressive codas.

  When he dropped his arm, the last note lingering in the air, Tasha jumped onto her knees and started clapping.

  “Bravo!” she shouted.

  Marco looked up. A grin slowly transformed his face. “You enjoyed that?”

  “So much.” Tasha knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  Propping his elbow on his cello, Marco cocked his head. “Any requests?”

  “Springtime,” she said.

  “From my last album?” Marco looked shocked. “That’s an original piece of mine and didn’t get great reviews.”

  “I love it. I love that whole album.”

  “Come here.” Marco rose and pushed the chair he’d been sitting on away. Holding the cello with one hand, he dragged the piano bench over and turned it so the short end was against the cello.

  He straddled the bench, leaving room between him and the instrument. “Sit here.”

  Tasha licked her lips. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Giving in, she sat on the end of the bench, her back against Marco’s chest, her legs inside the cradle of his.

  “Spread your legs,” he whispered, scooting them closer to the end.

  Arousal washed over her, so sudden and sharp that Tasha was trembling. She cradled the cello between her knees. Marco’s arms caged her in and she could feel his breath on her neck.

  “Feel the music,” he whispered, setting bow to string.