Anna Leigh Keaton & Madison Layle - Incognito 04 - Healing Heather

by Anna Leigh Keaton

  “You.”

  Shit.

  “She’s not... I can’t...” Carl huffed through gritted teeth. “I’m not...gonna make it.”

  Paul ripped his jeans open, pulled out his own flaccid cock and pumped it until it was semi-erect.

  “Please...” Her head was up, her mouth opened, as Carl held onto her golden hair. Her eyes were wide and pleading.

  Paul stepped in front of her. “Hurt me, and we stop regardless of whether you reach orgasm. Understood?”

  “Yes...”

  He entered her mouth in a single thrust to the back of her throat, timed perfectly with Carl’s movements. Her hot lips and tongue closed around him like a glove, her suction damn near sending him over the edge on the first draw. He turned the vibrator to its highest setting and felt the vibrations of her scream around his cock as he moved inside her mouth.

  He fucked her mouth in direct opposition to Carl, whose forehead beaded with sweat from trying to hold back his own climax as long as possible. Unsure whether what they did would be enough for Connie, and nearing his own release thanks to her talented mouth, he reached beneath her and pinched her nipples hard.

  Her orgasm exploded through her. Grateful, Paul closed his eyes. The vision hiding behind his lids was not that of a busty blonde, but of a small woman with fiery red hair. The shock of the image sent him over the edge to join the slave opposite him, who had already found his release.

  After they all caught their breaths, Paul cleaned up, restored his clothing, and unbound Connie. She reached up and gave him a brief kiss on the lips, then knelt at his feet.

  “Thank you, Master Paul.”

  Carl handed him a robe before kneeling beside her.

  “Stand up, Connie.” When she obeyed, he helped her slip into the robe. “You’re dismissed. If you require an escort, Carl can take you—”

  “That won’t be necessary, but thank you again just the same. And thank you, Carl.” She bowed and left.

  Most pets and slaves required escorts when inside the club because lone subs were viewed as available. So the dominant members protected what was theirs. With strays like Connie however...

  Paul sighed. At least in Carl’s case, he was protected through his association with the owner.

  “Carl, go get your Mistress. I wish to speak with her in private.”

  Without looking up, Carl rose to his feet and approached the small sofa against one wall of the room. From beneath a cushion, he pulled out a piece of paper. Holding it out to him, he said, “His name is Harold Stevenson, a solo Dom who joined Incognito less than two months ago.”

  Paul took the paper, realizing he held the club application Harold had signed.

  “He paired up with Heather about two weeks ago and had met with her several times before they moved from the public rooms to the private one. The attack happened in one of the voyeur rooms.” Carl didn’t look at him as he spoke. “A triad saw the attack and reported it. The Dom in that triad arranged for a one-on-one after Harold insulted one of his subs.”

  “Kat agreed to let the two Doms fight?” Paul asked.

  “Yes, but the Dom said Harold had betrayed the trust of one sub, insulted another, and didn’t deserve the right to face punishment from him.” Carl’s lips curled into a smile as he continued the story. “So the Dom’s other sub beat the shit out of Harold.”

  Remembering the bruises on Heather’s face, Paul felt his lip curl a bit after hearing that some form of justice was meted out. That the Dom lost face at the hands of a sub was poetic icing on the cake. He pocketed the application, pulled out his wallet, and handed several bills to Carl who gave him a look of confusion.

  “Tell your mistress, thank you. And the next time you see that triad in here...their first round of drinks are on me.”

  Chapter Two

  Heather raised her hands over her head, stretching her back and flexing her fingers. Her gaze flicked from the computer screen to the digital clock on the corner of the desk. Bloody hell. It was after two in the morning, and she had a meeting with the executives at eight.

  She swiveled her chair to check the paper in the printer feed, then turned back to the monitor. She hit print and waited to make sure it started.

  After clicking off the desk lamp, she padded barefoot through the living room of her oceanside bungalow and looked out at the foamy waves lapping the shore. Ahh, a swim would feel so good, but she had to get to sleep.

  IreTech Systems was going through a major overhaul in personnel. She didn’t dare do anything to jeopardize her job, like showing up late for a meeting. It wasn’t as if she was the only systems analyst around. She was easily replaceable. If she lost her job, that would mean going home to Dublin and starting all over again.

  With a heavy heart she moved through the darkened house to the kitchen where she fished out a bottle of red wine from the back of the fridge. She didn’t want to go back to Ireland. There was nothing left for her there. Her family was gone. Her husband was gone. The move to America had seemed like a new start.

  Now, two years later, she just felt...stuck. She didn’t want to go back, but she couldn’t seem to move forward, either. She loved her job, but she was at the top of that ladder with no room to grow. Living in the States on a work visa didn’t give her many options to seek other employment. The paperwork alone was enough to cross her eyes and give her chest pains.

  She poured a half glass of wine and put the bottle back in the fridge. Picking up the glass to take to bed with her, she flipped off the light over the sink and glanced out the window.

  The glass slipped from her fingers as panic seared through her like a lightening bolt. She ducked down behind the counter. Her heart pounded in her throat.

  Harold was here.

  She crawled to the opposite counter and fumbled for the cordless phone. She started to press the emergency numbers, but she’d called the police three times in the last month. They came, took a statement, and left. There was nothing they could do about a man parked on a public thoroughfare. And he was always gone before the police arrived. She had no proof he was stalking her, but he was.

  If he was outside her place at three in the morning, how many other nights had he been here? A cold shiver shot up her spine at the thought. Crouching below the level of the windows, she moved through the house, extinguishing the rest of the lights. If he couldn’t see in, maybe he’d leave. She could watch from the shadows until he left.

  Clutching the phone to her chest, she sat on the sofa, tucked her feet under her, and stared at the old white Dodge pickup through the window. He’d parked far enough from the streetlight that she couldn’t see his face, but she saw his silhouette in the driver’s seat, occasionally lit by a hellish orange glow from the tip of his burning cigarette.

  Willing him to leave, she stared at the truck until her eyes stung. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, then resumed her vigil. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there when the cigarette sailed out the truck window and the driver’s door opened. She dove to the floor.

  The house was locked up. She’d checked the doors and windows before she went to work in her office. Maybe she was overacting. Maybe it wasn’t Harold at all. She crawled to the window and peaked out the corner. Her stomach lurched. It was Harold. Barrel-chested and dressed in black, he moved up the walkway toward her house with his lumbering gate.

  She had one last option. If the local police weren’t going to do anything, maybe that Detective Baxter would. She’d thought about calling him a few days ago when she’d filed her last report with uniformed cops and they’d looked at her as if she were a nutcase.

  Gravel crunched outside. She flattened herself to the floor. Harold was walking through the rock garden beneath the living room window. When he passed, she got to her feet. Crouching, she scrambled through the living room into the kitchen and grabbed her purse from the countertop before huddling in the corner between the stove and the refrigerator.

  Her heavy breaths sounded thu
nderous in the silent house, and her heartbeat echoed in her ears. She turned her purse over and dumped the contents. Pens and loose change, old receipts and lip-gloss rolled across the floor. In the dark it was nearly impossible to find, but she finally located the white business card among the receipts.

  She lifted it just high enough to see the numbers scribbled on the back in the dim orange light spilling through the window from the streetlamp outside.

  She punched in the numbers and held her breath to hear the ring on the other end of the line. After only two rings she was near tears, thinking he wouldn’t answer. On the third, she heard a raspy, sleep-deepened drawl.

  “Baxter. This better be important.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Hello?”

  The air burst from her lungs as tears flooded her eyes. “Detective Baxter?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Heather Gilpatrick. From the hospital.” She cursed her weakness, her tears, her fear. The shakiness of her voice. God, she hated feeling so helpless.

  “I remember you. What’s wrong?”

  “He’s here,” she whispered.

  “Where? Where are you?”

  “Home. 1209 Panorama Crescent. He’s outside.”

  “I’m on my way, Heather. I want you to hang up and call 9-1-1.”

  “No. No please. I’ve tried that before. The police don’t care. They think I’m crazy.”

  “Hold on then. Don’t hang up. I’m going to radio it in.” From his end of the phone she heard rustling sounds, doors slam, and a vehicle engine roar to life.

  “Heather?”

  “I’m here.” She heard a tapping at a window somewhere on the other side of the house, and she stifled a scream with her hand.

  “The police are coming, and I’m not far away. Stay with me, okay?”

  She nodded, not even realizing at first that he couldn’t see her. She heard more noises. Something rattled. Harold was closer. Her stomach hurt, and tears poured down her face.

  “P-please hurry.” She crawled to the other side of the kitchen, reached up to the butcher block on the counter, and pulled out the ten inch long, lethally sharp boning knife.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Outside.” She moved back to her corner, ready to run if she needed. A banging sound came from the living room area, and she yelped. “Hurry!” she cried in a hoarse whisper, gripping the knife so hard her fingers hurt.

  “I’m about five minutes out, honey, just stay calm. Are you hidden?”

  “I’m on the floor in the kitchen. He’s by the patio doors in the living room. I can’t go anywhere else. My house is too small.”

  “Shh. Don’t cry. Panicking isn’t going to help.” His voice was so calm she wanted to scream.

  Don’t panic? Harold would have beaten her to death the last time he had a chance if he hadn’t been physically dragged off of her. Now she was alone, and the man was so bloody big.

  “Talk to me, honey. You said the police think you’re crazy. Tell me why.”

  She jumped at a sound outside the patio doors and stifled a whimper. “I called them three times this past month, because I’ve seen him parked on the street outside my house. But he always leaves before they arrive.” Brushing the errant tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she sucked in deep breaths, willing herself to calm, if only a little.

  She thought she heard sirens in the distance, but then came the terrifying sound of the patio door as it slid open. “Ohgod, ohgod. He’s in the house,” she whispered.

  “Hello, bitch.”

  * * * * *

  The ear splitting scream nearly deafened Paul. His adrenaline surged as he floored the gas pedal. “Heather!” he shouted into his cell phone, but the line had gone dead. “Fuck!” He swerved through the light traffic and nearly put the SUV up on two wheels as he turned onto Panorama Crescent.

  As he sped down the straight stretch of road, he searched for house numbers. He heard sirens blaring somewhere up ahead as he blew through one stop sign after another. A white pickup sped away just as he pulled to a tire-screeching halt outside 1209. A patrol car with lights flashing turned the corner from the opposite direction. Paul jumped from his SUV and flashed his badge.

  “Get that truck,” he shouted, pointing at the white crew cab that was already a block down the road. Then he ran for the front door, which stood open.

  “Heather!” He barged through the door, gun drawn. He found the light switch right inside the door and flooded the quaint living room in soft lamplight.

  A patio door directly across from him stood open. And there she was, sprawled across the kitchen floor on her stomach.

  He made a quick check of the other rooms in the house to make sure they were empty, then holstered his nine-millimeter and knelt next to her still form.

  “Damn it.”

  She held a knife clutched in her right hand. There was no blood anywhere that he could see, only broken glass and what smelled like wine. When he felt her neck, a strong pulse beat against his fingers. Thank God.

  He pulled his cell from his shirt pocket and flipped it open, punching the speed dial number for police dispatch. “Detective Baxter, badge number eight-oh-four-seven. I need an ambulance at 1209 Panoramic Crescent. We have a female...unconscious. She is breathing and has a pulse.”

  He listened to the operator call in the EMS crew. Then she returned to him. “The ambulance is on its way, Detective.”

  “Thanks. I sent a patrol unit after a suspect in a white pickup. Any word whether they caught it, yet?”

  She checked. “No, Detective. They lost the truck outside Oceanview. They’re searching for it now.”

  “Sonofabitch. Okay, take this down.” He wracked his brain trying to remember the address that had been on Harold’s Incognito membership application, and then rattled it off. When he was sure she had it down, he said, “Send a car over there. That’s the last known address we have on the suspect. When you have something, get back to me. I want to know first thing when this guy’s in custody.”

  He closed the phone and pocketed it. “Heather. Come on, honey. Can you hear me?” He brushed flame-red hair away from her face and felt the lump on her temple, just inside her hairline.

  She groaned.

  “That’s it, Heather. Wake up. Can you hear me?”

  She moved then, faster than anyone with a head wound should be able to. She shot to her knees and lifted the knife over her head. He caught her wrist on her downswing, the knife a scant inch from his left shoulder.

  “Heather, stop.”

  He twisted her arm to the side, and the knife fell from her fingers. She took a swing at him with her left fist, but he grabbed that wrist, too, then spun her around and trapped her with her back against his chest, her arms crossed and pinned in front of her, her legs stretched out straight. She hissed like a wet cat but couldn’t move other than to slam the back of her head against his breastbone, which had to hurt her injured head like a bitch.

  “It’s me. Paul Baxter. You’re safe.”

  She wiggled for a second or two more, then went still. Her head fell forward, as if in defeat.

  “You’re safe,” he said again, his voice gentle.

  Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. His heart wrenched, and he released her hands to wrap his arms around her. “Shh, honey. You’re okay.”

  When she turned and buried her face against his neck, he thought he might choke on the intense emotions flowing through him. He was a cop who dealt with battered women on a daily basis, but this one... She did something to him.

  Running his hand lightly over her hair, he asked, “You said he’s been here before?”

  She wiped her face, but her head remained against his shoulder. “Yes, I saw him a few times.”

  “When? Daytime or night?”

  “Night.”

  “When you saw him before, did he try to break in?”

  She shook her head. “He just sat smoking cigarettes in his tr
uck across the street.”

  “What about phone calls?”

  “No. Well, I’ve had some hang-ups, but nothing that I can be sure was from him.”

  Paul’s cell phone went off, so he answered it. “Baxter.”

  “Sir, Dispatch, the address you gave me is an invalid location.”

  “What do you mean?” He was sure he’d remembered it correctly.

  “The address is not residential, sir. It belongs to a branch of the U.S. Postal Service.”

  He thanked the man and hung up, silently cursing himself for not checking it out earlier. He’d let it go after learning the Dom had gotten a taste of his own medicine, and because Heather had made it clear she didn’t want the exposure.

  Of course, that was before he knew the asshole had started terrorizing her.

  His arms wound around her in a hug that offered security as much as it asked for forgiveness.

  * * * * *

  Heather breathed in the scent of spicy cologne and male. In his arms she felt safe and protected. His chest was so wide and hard and warm. And oh, God, she hurt.

  “What happened exactly?” His voice was deep and rich as it reverberated through his chest and into her. “Did he hit you?”

  “I fell.” How embarrassing was that? “He came at me,” she said, trying to remember exactly how it happened. “I lunged at him with the knife and slipped on...” She looked at the floor and saw the mess from her purse, broken glass, and spilled wine. “I slipped on that stuff and fell. I think I hit my head on the counter.”

  She raised her hand to feel the lump on her head. A sharp, throbbing ache thudded behind her eyes. And her side hurt like hell. Pulling away from him, she lifted her sweatshirt to examine her left side. A dinner plate-sized bruise was already forming.

  “How did that happen?”

  She looked up at the detective, and then glanced around the room. There was absolutely nothing she could have hit. “I...I think that arsehole kicked me while I was down.”

  “Goddamned bastard.” His words were harsh, but his fingers were gentle as he touched her side. She sucked in her breath, and he jerked his hand away. “Sorry.”