by Elise Noble
“Perhaps you’re right. I mean, six weeks since meeting someone in person for the first time isn’t really long, is it? I guess all those phone conversations, the ones that kept us up every night for the last freaking year, they didn’t count.” She gave the tiniest jerk of her head, and the two men stepped forward. “Get rid of her.”
As the two men picked Erin up—literally, one at the head, one at the feet while she writhed like a snake between them—I allowed myself the tiniest smile. But it didn’t last for long because Misty turned to face me instead, and one of my stupid boobs popped out again.
“I’m so sorry,” I said as I tried to tie the torn pieces of spandex together.
“Same.” She sighed, perching on the table. “Archie always said Erin was volatile. Neither of us wanted her here, but his sister’s had some problems recently, and he felt it was important for her to have her friend’s support.” Misty swept her hand over the table, puffing the remains of Erin’s coke into the air, and for a moment, her face twisted in anger. “I hate drugs, and she knows that.” A pause. “My brother died from an overdose.”
I wished mine had. “I… I’m sorry for your loss.”
My entire vocabulary around this lady consisted of apologies. I needed to get a thesaurus. And as the adrenaline began to wear off, emotions got the better of me, and a tear trickled down my cheek.
“Hey, don’t get upset,” Misty said. “It was six years ago now. Time’s helped to heal things. And so has Archie. I know everyone thinks we’re crazy for getting married so soon, but we believe in each other.”
“Sometimes you just know, right?”
Dammit, I didn’t even have a sleeve to wipe my face with. Stay upbeat, Imogen.
“Right.”
“You really met playing a video game?”
Now Misty giggled. “A first-person shooter, and I killed him. But then we got talking in the chat room, and right from the first moment, we just clicked. That was fourteen months ago, but people hear the six-weeks thing and don’t realise that there’s more to a relationship than physicality.”
“So you got to know each other over the phone?”
“We called each other all the time. Some nights, I hardly slept. I’d go into work the next day, and the make-up team would bitch like crazy because of the bags under my eyes. Except I thought we’d only ever be friends because, hello, porn actress, and each time Archie suggested meeting, I kept putting him off.”
“But you changed your mind?”
“He asked for my address to mail me a gift, then flew to Florida to surprise me on my birthday.” She put her hands over her eyes. “I’d only ever sent him photos of me au naturel, so I’m not sure who got the bigger shock when I answered the door in full make-up. Hey, how did you and Malachi meet?”
“Uh, through a mutual friend.”
There, that sounded so much better than admitting he’d saved me from certain arrest by getting me out of my cheating ex’s apartment right before the cops arrived. And I wasn’t entirely lying. Our meeting this week had been via a mutual friend. Well, more of an acquaintance. I wasn’t sure Sofia had friends. Coven sisters, possibly.
“You make a cute couple. Anyone can see how much Malachi cares.”
Exactly how much had Misty drunk so far today?
“He’s one in a million.”
As in, the only one in a million who’d pretend to date me.
“Where is he?”
“Down on the beach. He fell asleep. I was supposed to be getting drinks, but I needed to use the bathroom, and I got lost, and…” I waved at the room with the hand that wasn’t holding the remains of my bikini together. “This happened.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Isn’t that my line?”
Now we both laughed, and I understood why Archie had gone crazy over this girl. She was lovely.
“I have spare bikinis,” she offered. “But they’re all white or cream.”
“I’ve actually got another one with me, but it’s in my bag, and that’s on the beach with Malachi.”
“Could you call him? Ask him to bring it?”
“My phone’s in my bag too, and I don’t know his number by heart.”
“Then let me find you a robe or something. At least that way you’ll be able to walk around without looking like an extra from one of my movies.”
“I’ve never been to a wedding in a bikini before.”
“Me neither. But the wedding was so last-minute, and I felt guilty at the thought of everyone rushing around buying expensive dresses. And we have the beach, and the pool… All I wanted was a relaxed, chilled-out day.” She laid a hand on my arm. “What happened totally wasn’t your fault.”
Upstairs, Misty led me into a luxuriously appointed room dominated by a four-poster bed. The floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a balcony overlooking the beach, and I could make out the tiny figure of Malachi, still flat-out on the sand.
“Who does this house belong to? Does somebody actually live here?”
“Joey Sambuco.” She must have seen my blank look. “Uncle Joey?”
“Uh, I don’t know who that is.”
She gave a throaty chuckle, dirtier than her giggles downstairs. “Guess you’re a good girl.”
I nearly choked. “Not many people would describe me that way.”
“Well, you don’t watch a lot of porn. Joey’s, like, a legend.”
Okay, I’d give her that. After years of working in the sex industry, the last thing I wanted to do when I got home was to watch other people having sex. For me, it was a tool. First, I’d sold myself out of need, and then when I quit Rubies, I offered myself up in the forlorn hope that it might lead to more. Now? Now I was on the verge of swapping my panties out for a chastity belt or perhaps investing in a games console.
Unless, of course, my dastardly plan to snag Jean-Luc worked.
“Porn’s never really been my thing. Not that I’ve got anything against it. I mean, it’s totally up to you what you choose to do for work.”
“If only everyone thought that way. I’ve had everything from death threats to old ladies offering up prayers to save my soul from eternal damnation. Yes, there’s a seedy side to the industry, but we’re not all being exploited.” She opened an ornate closet on the far side of the room and held up a cream silk dressing gown for me to slip my arms into. “Here you go. Uh, you might want to take a look at your face too. Erin smeared your mascara.”
Great. “Thanks.”
“There’s a bathroom right over there. Use whatever you want.”
Smeared my mascara? When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I realised I’d turned into a freaking raccoon. Once I’d done what I originally came inside for, I set about fixing the mess. Uncle Joey—and don’t even get me started on how creepy that moniker was—sure kept his bathrooms well-stocked. The drawers of the vanity overflowed with high-end cosmetics and expensive face creams, most of them unopened. We never got perks like that from Rubies.
My heart rate still hadn’t quite calmed down from earlier. How was I supposed to explain to Malachi that I’d been in a catfight with his ex? He’d brought me here because he wanted to avoid drama, not get a hand in creating it. Should I confess all? Pretend nothing happened and that I broke my nail opening a door? What if I kept quiet and Misty told everyone? Or those two guys…the bouncers… What were their names?
By the time I’d decided that telling the truth was the best course of action, Misty had disappeared. Excellent. Now I had to find my way out of this stupid mansion, and all the doors looked the same. Had I already been that way before?
Finally, I managed to find a staircase and get back to the first floor. If all else failed, I could climb out the window now, at least, I could if I found one that didn’t open onto shrubbery. Where was everyone? The house had suddenly turned into the Marie Celeste.
Footsteps approached from behind, soft, the quiet squeak of rubber on tile. Hurrah—I could ask for help.
Exc
ept before I could turn around, I felt the most awful pain in my shoulder, a stinging, pricking sensation as if I’d been punched forward by a monster wearing spiked leather gloves. I tried to scream, but no sound came out, and my knees gave way.
“Wha… What…?”
I wanted to form sentences, but my brain wouldn’t talk nicely to my mouth. What was going on?
A shadow fell over me, long and dark, and I couldn’t see the owner’s face, only the outline of what he carried in his hand. A syringe. I was helpless to resist as he jerked down my robe then stabbed the needle into my shoulder again.
What…? Who…? Why…? I wanted answers, but I couldn’t even keep my eyelids open.
Then everything faded to black.
CHAPTER 11 - MALACHI
MALACHI BANKS HAD a small problem. Well, not that small if the copy of Erin’s Cosmopolitan he’d borrowed to read on the shitter one morning was to be believed. About eight and a half inches. Measuring was normal, okay? Every man did it.
And that eight and a half inches had dug into the sand like an inverse totem pole when Imogen straddled him.
Yeah, pretending to be asleep was a cowardly thing to do, but if he rolled over in a pair of swim shorts, his loss of control would be all too evident, not least to Imogen herself. And this was supposed to be a business arrangement.
“There, all done,” Imogen said.
The lady had magic fucking hands. Hands that rightfully belonged to another man. Some French chef who made desserts for a living as opposed to getting shot at and breaking into buildings deemed as secure as Fort Knox.
But damn, Imogen was beautiful. The first time Mal met her, he’d still been dating Erin, and he may have been an asshole in many ways, but he wasn’t a cheat. So he’d taken Imogen back to her apartment, checked the place over, then walked away. But he’d never forgotten her.
Back then, she’d been bubbly, vivacious, and by reputation—he’d asked around—a man-eater. The kind of girl guys viewed either as a challenge to be conquered or as a difficulty to be avoided altogether. And now? Now that Mal had spent more time with her, he detected a hint of something else lurking under the confident exterior. Sadness? Fear? A little bit of both? One thing was certain—the combination meant trouble.
Don’t think about the hands, asshole.
“I’m gonna go and get a drink,” she said. “Do you want anything?”
Other than a jug of iced water to pour over his dick?
“Malachi?”
He stayed silent. Sensed rather than saw her walk away
By feigning sleep, Mal hoped Erin would steer clear of him too. Getting tangled up with that banshee had been the biggest mistake of his life. She’d seemed so normal when they met at one of Archie’s parties, a statuesque redhead who wasn’t afraid to make the first move.
Pre-Erin, Mal had been more of a one-night stand kind of a guy. With the unpredictable hours he worked, finding a long-term girlfriend had been the last thing on his mind, but when she’d called him and put in the effort he didn’t have time to make, falling into a relationship with her had been easy. Too bad she turned out to be a head case, as Emmy put it.
Five minutes passed. Ten, and Mal ran through his schedule for the week in his mind. Monday morning—go to the gym, then attend a strategy meeting for a new project. He’d spend an hour after lunch on the shooting range, and his colleague Logan had come up with a new hostage rescue simulation that everybody on the Special Projects team had to run through at least once. Tuesday, he had a defensive driving refresher session, and Wednesday they were supposed to be jumping out of an airplane. The Special Projects team trained a lot. Being a special-ops commando in what was essentially a small, elite private army took work. The more they bled in training, the less they’d bleed in battle, that was Emmy’s philosophy. Although on Thursday, he was signed up for another first aid course, just in case.
He flexed his hips a little, testing progress with his dick. Still semi-hard. What was he meant to be doing on Friday?
Fifteen minutes passed. Or was it twenty? Where was Imogen? Mal propped himself up on his elbows and scanned the grounds, but she was nowhere in sight. And he’d spot her anywhere.
Had she stopped to talk to the bartender? Mal felt a stab of jealousy at the thought, completely irrational, but that didn’t prevent him from rising to his feet, brushing the sand off himself, and heading in that direction.
“Keep an eye on my girl’s bag, would ya?” he called to a nearby security guard.
“Sure thing.”
Imogen had already made one mistake in the last week from getting too friendly with a stranger, and Mal didn’t want to see her make another. Except as he approached the table, the bartender waved at him. If Mal had to put money on it, he’d guess the guy was a colleague of Misty’s, moonlighting for extra cash.
“Hey! Your girlfriend forgot to pick up her drink. It’s getting warm. Should I add more ice?”
“Did you see where she went?”
“Up to the main house to use the bathroom.”
Casa di Amore was a lemon-yellow eyesore belonging to Joseph Smithson, AKA Joey Sambuco, owner of one of the world’s best-known porn networks. Mal had gotten curious and looked the man up after Archie told him where the wedding was being held. He may also have been familiar with some of Sambuco’s movies, but that was perfectly normal, okay? Every guy watched porn, and those that said they didn’t were lying.
What the house lacked in taste, it made up for in size, an observation that could equally be applied to Joey’s business empire. Had Imogen gotten lost inside the monstrosity?
He was about to try navigating the maze himself when Misty walked out of a door onto the terrace. She’d swapped out the veil for a tiara, but her smile sparkled more.
“Hey, did Imogen find you?” she asked.
“Was she looking? I fell asleep on the beach.”
“Oh. I… She… Uh…”
“Did something happen?”
“Um…”
“Tell me.”
“There was an altercation with Erin. Imogen wasn’t really hurt, I don’t think, just a broken nail and some scratches on her back, but Erin pulled her bikini apart. I lent her a robe, and she borrowed my bathroom to freshen up, but I stepped outside for a second to speak to the band, and when I got back, she was gone. She didn’t go to find you?”
“They got into a fight?”
“Only a small one.”
“Where’s Erin now?”
“Gone. I had her thrown out. I don’t know what I’m gonna tell Archie, but she was snorting coke in the freaking dining room, so I couldn't let her stay.”
Ah, fuck. Drugs were just one of Erin’s many, many issues. Mal had tried to convince her to quit, even offered to pay for rehab, but Erin had refused to accept she had a problem. Finally, he’d admitted defeat. He couldn’t take the substance abuse or the unreasonable demands or the mood swings any longer. He’d got sick of walking around on eggshells in his own damn home.
But she’d ditched him, believe it or not. In the middle of a stand-up row in her kitchen, she’d threatened him with a knife then screamed bloody murder when he’d disarmed her.
“Get off! Get off! It’s over, do you understand? Don’t you dare touch me! Get out of my apartment.”
As he left, all he felt was a sense of relief. Why had he put up with her insanity for so long? At first, it was the sex, then he thought he could help her, but in the end… It just became normal.
She’d called a day later and tried to apologise, but by then, he’d had a night to sleep on things and stuck to his guns. They were done. He should have dumped her ass after she screwed a colleague of hers in New York, an incident he found out about when the guy tagged her on fucking Facebook and Archie noticed, but she’d promised she’d change. She didn’t. Nor did her indiscretions stop her from telling everyone she knew that Mal had hurt her in the struggle, bruised her wrists, and that now he was begging her to give him a second chanc
e.
This was what he’d walked Imogen into, using her as a human shield, and now he regretted ever agreeing to Sofia’s stupid plan.
“I’ll talk to Archie, but I need to look for Imogen first. Any idea where she went?”
“Sorry. I thought she’d wait for me and we’d walk out together. She’s nice. Must be a breath of fresh air after Erin, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“No, I don’t mind, but I need to find her.” Mal pulled his phone out of his pocket, but before he could dial, Misty shook her head.
“Imogen didn’t have her phone. She said it was in her bag on the beach with her spare bikini. Probably she went to get it.”
That made sense. Except when Mal walked back down to the beach, Imogen’s pink-and-white striped bag was still there, and there was no sign of her. He spent an hour walking around the house and grounds, speaking to everyone from the waiting staff to the other guests to the band, but nobody else had seen her either. Where the hell had she gone? Could she have snuck off the property? The security guards swore she hadn’t walked past, but they didn’t seem all that switched-on. Although where would she have gone wearing a silk robe with her wallet and phone still in the bag in Mal’s hand?
He’d messaged Oliver to ask Stefanie if Imogen had been in touch, just in case she’d borrowed a phone, but the answer came back negative. How could a girl just vanish from a wedding reception full of people?
Misty waved to get Mal’s attention. “Any sign of her?”
The band had struck up out on the terrace, and she was dancing, but she asked the same question every time he walked past.
“Nothing. How upset was she?”
“Honestly, she looked okay. A few tears, but that seemed to be shock more than anything else. I’d never have left her alone if I was worried. Could she have fallen down somewhere, do you think?”
An older man with a hairline too perfect to be natural sauntered over to join them. He had to be at least sixty, but he wore swim shorts and still had a faint six-pack. Joey Sambuco, if Mal wasn’t mistaken.
“Is there a problem here?”
“Malachi’s date’s gone missing,” Misty said.
