“Why would you want to put on a suit? That dress by the way is kickass. You look fantastic. The heels are a great touch. So why would you need to wear a suit?”
“Because that’s what people expect of someone who runs a foundation…”
“I’m the owner of my own company, Skye, and I’m rarely forced to wear a suit.”
“We’ll probably have difficulty getting donors.”
Josh grinned, realizing the white flag of surrender from the other side signifying he’d won the skirmish. “I disagree. There are parents out there who’ve discovered a nasty side to Seattle. I think they’ll want to do something about it.”
She tapped the steering wheel as she drove. “Were you aware when you got this going that our state was the first in the nation to criminalize sex trafficking?”
“I didn’t know that. See, you’re the right person to do this, Skye. I know you don’t like publicity or recognition but this needs to be dealt with by someone…”
“Who’s lived it?” Skye finished his thought. “I suppose you’re right, although I’m uncomfortable in the spotlight. The focus needs to be on finding the victims, saving as many of these kids as possible from the sex trade, putting an end to the trafficking aspect.”
“There you go.”
“By the way, how the hell did you get out to the Prescott’s house in Phinney Ridge anyway? I didn’t see your car when I pulled up. You’re on foot.”
“There’s this thing called public transportation.”
Skye snorted. “Come on get real. I’m serious. How’d you get out to their place?”
“I took a cab hoping you’d be in a better frame of mind after we ganged up on you and I lowered the boom with the news when they told you about the foundation idea. But hey, I’ve used public transportation before.”
“Sure you have.”
“Of course I have. I didn’t always have my brilliant mind to fall back on. I had to develop a highly popular game before I made a dime. I lived in a friend’s basement for six months tweaking the graphics. Why is it you give me such a hard time about my…success, my loft?”
Skye snickered. “Wait until you see my tiny cracker box and then we’ll talk.”
“Okay, let’s stop by now. I’ve wanted to see your place since that Saturday morning I dropped in and you were so pissed off at me. We’ll pick up a few of your things while we’re there, toothbrush, a change of clothes. We could even spend the night there.”
Skye sighed. “Sure, why not? You might as well see how the other half lives. Just don’t expect too much.”
She found a place to park the Subaru on the street and walked a block to the front door of her four-story building. Caught up in the give and take of the conversation about the foundation, neither one noticed someone had followed them.
Skye unlocked the door of her walk-up and stepped inside. Flicking the wall switch, light flooded the one room.
She watched self-consciously as Josh looked around, considered her things, cringing a little at the way he studied the shabby chic furniture that wasn’t fit to occupy the sidewalk outside his building let alone his posh loft.
Or the way he looked at her slice of kitchen that wasn’t really a kitchen at all but more like the tiny galley on a boat. It didn’t even have a window over the sink to gaze out of while doing dishes.
Or the way his eyes landed on her books and the few items she considered her treasures, like her colorful Fiestaware displayed on the open shelves for all to see because she didn’t have regular cabinets.
Or her mother’s stained-glass work that her aunt Ginny had somehow managed to save and pass on to her without too much of a fuss.
Each of these bits and pieces of her life Skye felt reflected the links to the past, her childhood. Her mementos revealed her quirky persona, her wide-ranging tastes in color, which she’d inherited from her mother. Each of her cherished possessions was its own little memory. They represented a special event or celebration she’d had with her mom and dad. Or times when she’d shopped and enjoyed the outing, searching for that terrific bargain or that perfect piece, the joy of selecting and adding knick-knacks here and there to what she already owned.
Despite that, she chewed on her thumb, the whole time watching as Josh continued to study and judge her things. Why wasn’t he saying anything?
Josh took in the tiny five-hundred-square-foot studio. Not an inch of the room remained available. The pathway from the front door looped its way around the small sofa and bed like a rallying point.
She’d stuffed everything she could into the space. In fact, it was wall–to-wall furniture. Although the condo was crammed, it was also colorful, charming, and eclectic. A couple of homemade quilts covered the old iron bed. More than a dozen intricate stained-glass designs decorated three of the four walls.
And then there were plants of all kinds that blocked part of a sliding glass door so they could get whatever light came through the vertical blinds. He assumed the door led outside to her balcony, and a place designated to hold whatever leftover plants she couldn’t get to grow inside. Along with all of her other talents, it seemed Skye had a green thumb.
When he heard what he thought were bells tinkling together, he cocked his head to listen and realized the sound came from beyond that glass door. Wind chimes, he realized—and smiled at the whimsical touch. This was the side of the woman he’d been trying to pinpoint, the side that told him she was anything but tough as nails twenty-four-seven.
After he took a little too long to comment though, Skye was just about ready to rip into him and tell him what exactly he could do with his opinion, when Josh finally spoke up.
“Is there anything you don’t grow? What is this?” he asked, rubbing a leaf between his finger and thumb. It looked like some sort of gigantic ivy, spreading out everywhere; at least he thought that’s what it was. The plant came up to his chest. Did household ivy even grow to such heights?
“I…I like to grow things. That was my mother’s marble queen ivy. She got it as a wedding present. It was one of the few things of hers my Aunt Ginny let me keep.” Skye looked around the packed room and had to admit how stuffed to the gills the place was. “I know it’s silly and ridiculous to try and grow plants in such a tiny space…but…both my parents loved to garden. And this is all I’ve got.”
Unbelievably moved at knowing she’d had such a difficult time holding on to the simple things such as a plant belonging to her mother, his heart felt like it turned over in his chest. “It isn’t…ridiculous…at all. Your plants are thriving. Like so many other things, you’re obviously good at it. What else do you grow?”
“Herbs mostly, for cooking. Things like rosemary, sage, basil, some oregano for sauces, I grow outside on the balcony. You know the usual.”
He chuckled. “Sure, the usual. The Fiestaware brightens up your kitchen. Did you make those slipcovers?” he asked, running his hands over the fabric on the sofa.
“I did. Lena lets me use her sewing machine.”
“You’ve got a domestic side to you, Skye.” And he never would’ve believed that if he hadn’t seen it for himself. “Who did the stained glass?”
“They belonged to my mother. A friend of the family salvaged them for me before they could be tossed out. My mother was an artist.”
“A good one, it seems. What was her name?” He suddenly wanted to know everything about the mystery that was Skye Cree. The woman’s depth of talents simply fascinated him.
“Jodi. Jodi Cree. For a while she owned her own ceramics shop in an old brick building over on Fairfax.”
“So that’s where you get your artistic side.”
“I don’t have an artistic side.”
“Sure you do. Making slipcovers, growing things, an eye for color. Someone loves their antiques. Nice Wheatland.”
“Wheatland?”
“That bed isn’t a replica. I’d say circa 1910. It’s worth about a grand, Skye.”
“You’re kidding? It
cost me twenty bucks.”
He ran his hand over the little table where she ate. “This cherrywood drop-leaf is in mint condition. You have excellent taste in furniture.”
“I was about to tell you to stuff it.”
His arms went around her waist. “You really need to drop the attitude.” He backed her up against the bed and flopped down on top of her when she collapsed on the mattress. “I’ve always wanted to make love on a Wheatland.”
“You have not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know.”
“Skye Cree doesn’t know everything,” he pointed out as he nibbled her throat.
“I don’t?”
“You didn’t know I purposefully got you up here so I could get you out of that dress, did you? Your place had the nearest bed where I could get you out of your clothes.” He started working the outfit off her shoulders, little nips and bites with tongue and teeth.
She giggled and tilted her head down to meet his eyes. “You know I’m still upset with you and you’re trying to distract me.”
“I’m trying to seduce you. How’m I doing?”
“Mmm, you need to try harder. After all, I’m not a woman to be trifled with.”
“I would never trifle. I might cavort. On second thought, we should both cavort.”
When he heard her giggle again, he pressed his lips to hers. He rolled to reverse their positions so he could lower the zipper in the back. He pushed the dress the rest of the way down, and the strapless bra came with it, exposing her breasts.
He rolled again so his body covered hers, dragged her arms above her head and started a slow deliberate assault of senses. There was the soft stroking along skin, the savoring of each tender spot he found where she responded the most. He used lips and tongue to feast on each nipple and curve before moving lower where the flare of her hips enticed him all the way in. Sampling and teasing, he felt her tremors as they built into aftershocks, felt the quiver in her belly when she came again.
Toeing off his shoes and socks, he shed pants and shirt as clothing littered the small space of floor. He pushed her back into pillows and plundered again until she was breathless. Arching her back, she rose up and met him, slide for glorious slide. She wrapped around him while nails dug into his back, urging him on. In rippling need, he took them both up and over—and together they dropped off the cliff to soar higher—and higher still.
Chapter 17 Book 1
Since his release six years earlier from Walla Walla, Ronny Wayne Whitfield had gotten a whole lot smarter. Just because he’d been caught in the trap once didn’t mean he was stupid. Because he had to consider how much more he’d gotten away with that no one knew about, he slept just fine at night knowing his hands were clean. He’d never get caught in the act ever again. He couldn’t. They couldn’t touch him as long as he wasn’t the one who did the dirty work. So far, he’d kept that pledge and made it his mantra. He’d found a way, a clever way, to get others to do his bidding. Not only that but he had a lucrative business that said he’d been successful at it. Ronny had perfected his network so much from Vancouver to Tijuana that he pretty much ruled the West Coast.
No one offered a better product than ol’ Ronny Wayne. He concentrated on the very young, those girls between the ages of eleven and fifteen were his meat and potatoes. He kept ten like-minded individuals on his payroll at all times, people he’d met during his prison stint, people he could trust personally or those that came highly recommended to him by close associates. For five years now they’d been able to maintain a “professional” organization that others envied.
It was a simple operation really.
Ronny received online orders from all over the world. He sent his associates out to fill those orders. In the meantime, he and his friends got to have their fun and when they were done, the product albeit slightly used, was then shipped out to their destinations, some as far away as Bosnia and Thailand. But since South America was a hot spot right now for trade, business was booming.
Since he’d left Walla Walla in his rearview mirror, he’d learned to make the best use of the Internet. Chat rooms as well as all the social media outlets were his best tools. In fact, he was almost a guru when it came to establishing phony online personas that were adept at luring young girls into innocent conversation. Pretending to be their own age, he could usually lend a sympathetic ear about the pressures of turning in homework, or how putting up with so many parental rules was unfair. He’d get them to talk about a boyfriend if they had one or if they didn’t glean information he could use for later. That method led to find out whether or not they were happy at home, and if they were willing to meet with him. Ronny seemed to possess an innate charm that translated well to attracting young girls. But then his associates weren’t bad either. As good as they were though they didn’t have Ronny Wayne’s style or his motivation. That’s why it was left to him to oversee the entire operation. He usually found plenty of girls online who were unhappy at home about some stupid little teenage girl thing. He’d play on that, play it up, and then once he got her to trust him, he’d start talking about meeting her face-to-face in order to offer an even better shoulder to cry on. Of course, that was only one lure he used. There were others depending on the circumstances. He also had contacts that liked to find their own favorite commodity, a certain type of product, and stick to it.
Ronny had his hands in marketing, sales, and advertising, but he had to admit his favorite was the testing, testing the product before shipping and delivery was the icing on the cake.
Expenses weren’t a problem. His aunt and uncle let him live in a cabin at the edge of a wooded area that backed up to his own stream. He had his own satellite dish, and his own network for distributing the videos that were necessary to solicit business. His remote location worked because he’d been left alone by the authorities. His last known address was on file in some state database that indicated he lived in a rundown trailer. He chuckled at that. If you were clever enough you could fool even the cops.
When his second-in-command came through the door, he alone could see the irony. If being clever didn’t get the job done, then enough cash surely did.
“Talbot.”
“Whitfield. You have my money?”
“Right here.” Ronny pushed a fat, zippered bank bag across the desk. “But I want assurance that the docks will be clear and the manifest will pass customs.”
“Yeah, yeah. You got it. Have I ever let you down?”
Whitfield stared at the cop, who was starting to go gray at the temples. Four years earlier Ronny had discovered Talbot’s fondness for little girls in a chat room. From there, he had been blackmailing the fifteen-year veteran detective to make sure the cargo ships they used for transporting the girls could be loaded and sent on their way without a hitch from the authorities. So far it had worked like a charm. “There’s always a first time.”
“You just keep a tight rein on that loose cannon Hiller. The grapevine tells me the crime scene investigator in Seattle found the guy’s fingerprints all over the warehouse where Skye Cree managed to free the Prescott girl. That makes three she’s managed to steal from you. Having Hiller directly involved in an active case isn’t part of the deal. And there’s nothing I can do about keeping this one low key, so don’t even ask. It’s a different jurisdiction. You keep a watch on that sick bastard, Whitfield, or I’ll have to—”
“To what?” Ronny pulled open a desk drawer. “That cash in your hand isn’t the only perk you’re getting out of this deal.” Ronny threw a stack of photos on the desk and cautioned, “Unless you want your wife to see these in her mailbox tomorrow morning, or your chief to get an email with several attachments from an anonymous source, I’d stuff the threats if I were you.”
“Fine, fine, but Hiller is a problem. If you don’t take care of him, he’s going to blow this thing wide open. I’m telling you, he’s a hot item right now. That’s all I’m saying.”
Ronny had
already decided that Hiller was a good bet for the missing Donofrio girl, too. But he said nothing to Talbot about that. He didn’t tolerate any of his associates holding out. Ever. Especially someone so new to his operation. That’s exactly what he thought Hiller had done. The man hadn’t been able to account for his whereabouts or his time with any believability. Ronny knew a liar when he saw one. And because of that Ronny Wayne readily agreed to deal with the matter, personally.
After all, Ronny Wayne Whitfield wasn’t the same man who’d picked up a twelve-year-old Skye Cree that day in the park. Now, he was a businessman who ran his own multi-million-dollar enterprise that regularly brought a crapload of money into the local economy. He wasn’t about to let the likes of Hiller put a kink in his well-oiled machine.
They always met up at the warehouse district near the port, mainly because that’s where most of the action took place. Over the course of the last several months though, Brandon had discovered something about himself. He didn’t really like sharing the bounty.
He’d originally met Whitfield in an online chat room. Once the two men had established a trust that only comes from having served time in prison, once they’d checked out each other’s history and could rely on that information as solid, they moved on to their shared interest and ultimately their mutual goal. Whitfield had offered him the job of a lifetime. Hiller would be on the lookout and solicit “new girls” to fill the “product” pipeline, all the while getting to sample the wares and Whitfield would give him a cut of the take when the product sold and shipped.
For five months it had worked. But now as Hiller pulled his van into the bumpy asphalt parking lot a few minutes early for his meeting with the others, Hiller was more than a little jumpy. He’d known for several days that Whitfield hadn’t believed his story about where and how he’d spent his time the night Jenna Donofrio went missing.
Skye Cree Boxed Set Books 1 - 3 Page 19
