by Joanne Rock
But he had a job to do. Somehow Lacey Sutherland had an in with a drug smuggler, a connection he needed to keep tabs on in order to protect her and—on a practical note—to help keep tabs on Castine. That job hadn’t driven him in search of fresh air though. Nor had the steamy atmosphere.
Watching her work, however, was killing him. Interview subjects came and went, and he’d weathered every conversation she had with them from toe fetishes to voyeurism. What got under his skin were the relationship questions.
Lacey was relentless but subtle with each interview subject as she turned every conversation back to deeper intimacy. How did they feel about long-term relationships? Were they really looking for quick sexual fulfillment or were they open to real love?
At first the guys especially tended to toss off some disposable answer to the more meaningful questions. Damon could have scripted their predictable responses himself.
Yet Lacey had been as dogged as Barbara Walters in pursuit of tears and truth. She’d persisted with questions about past broken hearts or their first loves, and suddenly she’d turn the slickest of Casanovas into sensitive guys who’d been burned and really wanted to find someone who loved and accepted them.
And that had Damon sprinting to the exit.
He’d gotten over Kelly, but he didn’t want to think about how much the aftermath had cost him. He’d thought she was special because she’d practically followed him to the ends of the earth by tagging along on his Alaskan stint. They’d met in Seattle on one of his weekends off, fallen into bed together and were never apart again. At least not until she’d pulled the same stunt with another guy.
He stood at the back exit now, propping the door open for partyers who came out to smoke or dance in the alley where a night breeze off the ocean made it cooler. Lacey remained well within his sights, her straight posture and scholarly scribbling setting her apart from a club full of people who just wanted to get busy for the night.
Or, Lacey had revealed, people who thought they just wanted to get busy. Apparently even the most jaded of sex-club-goers wanted to find true love one day. If not with the horny set of twins he or she brought home from the disco, then with someone else sometime in the future.
The whole thing hit a little too close to home.
“You need a cigarette?” someone asked him in Spanish, a skinny brunette covered in tatts with hair down to her butt. She wore a dark blazer in spite of the heat and she parted it now to show him a breast pocket full of joints.
Professional interest stirred. Was this chick a bottom feeder who only sold for enough cash to support her own habit? Or could she be higher up the food chain?
“Do you have anything stronger? My girl and I want to have a good time tonight.” He grinned at her, hoping to score a lead on the sex drugs infiltrating U.S. waters.
“Don’t we all?” She winked at him as she brushed past him into the club. “But I hear you have to know someone to find that kind of stuff. Good luck, guapo.”
Crap. How come he had to know someone while his ex had had no trouble morphing from a law-abiding, sweet girl into a druggie in a matter of weeks?
His cell phone rang and he flipped it open, expecting to see Enrique’s number or someone from work. The area code didn’t help—a 520 number was listed along with a phone company.
“Craig here.” He had to shout over the music since even out here, the reggaeton thumped with a bass line to make a man go deaf.
“Damon?”
The soft feminine voice on the other end was no louder than a whisper, but something about the tone and accent of the word, an indefinable speed and pitch, clued him in to the caller’s ID.
“Kelly?” Straightening, he stared back into the club to see Lacey tipping her soda to her lips while her interview subject spoke. Something about the phone call felt disloyal to Lacey even though they’d only just met.
And what the hell did his former girlfriend want with him after all this time?
“Do you have a minute?” she asked while he thumbed the volume switch on the phone so he had a chance of hearing her. “I’ve got some information your group might be interested in.”
Instantly alert, he wondered if she’d gotten clean. She knew about his affiliation with the drug op, a specially coordinated mission that he’d started preparing for last year.
“What kind of information?” He wouldn’t play games with her just because she wanted to talk.
“Can I reach you on a landline?” She sounded nervous, her words rushed. “It’s important.”
What the hell could she know that would be relevant to his job? Possibilities spun around his head. If she was clean, there was a chance she had learned something. She was sharp, her work in research and development for a plastics manufacturer the kind of job that required brains. Maybe feeding her own drug habit had put her in the path of bigger dealers.
“How about tomorrow?” He needed to focus right now. With Lacey still on the loose in a sex club Castine had directed her to, he had to concentrate on keeping her safe. “I can call you from work.”
“No,” she protested, her connection breaking up so he couldn’t hear what followed.
Barely able to make out half of what she said, Damon assured her he would call her back the next day and then hung up.
Peering back into the club, he saw Lacey’s last interview subject was gone and the brunette with the ink who had attempted to sell him a joint was leaning down to speak to her. Was Lacey trying to interview her, too? Or did the pot-pusher see Lacey as a prospective user?
Irritated at the idea of dealers trying to flip good people, Damon shoved his phone into his pocket and charged through the side door into the club. The scent of sweat and beer mingled with a hundred different perfumes, the heat intensifying all the smells into a ripe mix.
A few yards away, Lacey laughed at something the dealer said, her whole face animated as she tipped sideways in her chair and clutched her sides. Curious, Damon hastened his pace. He didn’t see Lacey as the kind of woman to pick up a recreational joint during a night out, but then again, how well did he know her?
Shit. Maybe he should have taken one of Lacey’s damn compatibility tests to see how they matched up. He sure hadn’t called it right with Kelly.
“Almost ready, Lace?” he asked as he reached her table. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, he put his arm around her. Claimed her in front of the drug dealer, the waitress delivering Lacey’s next soda and the DJ in a booth right behind them.
“Sure,” she agreed, rising to her feet as she dumped her pad of paper and pen back into her purse. “Tatiana, this is Damon. Damon, Tatiana.”
“You two know each other?” He tried to hide his surprise.
Had Lacey trod deeper into Nick Castine’s world than she’d let on? Clearly Castine wasn’t the only person she knew around town with connections in the drug community. Suspicions doused his hunger for her with a cold splash of caution.
“Tatiana was selling necklaces at Playa del Vega Baja when I went to the beach earlier this week.” Lacey turned to the woman and smiled. “She sells beautiful things.”
“Only the best.” Tatiana winked at him. “I’m sorry I could not provide what you wanted this evening.”
The petite dealer melted into the crowd, the mermaid tattoo on the back of her shoulder blowing them a kiss before she disappeared completely.
“I’d ask what she wanted to provide for you, but I really need to get out of here.” Lacey’s voice held a worried note he’d never heard before.
“Are you okay?” He scanned the people around her, seeking out anyone who might have upset her without him noticing. He wanted to get out of here. Now.
“No.” She wavered on sky-high heels that laced up her ankles with big silk roses centered on the buckles. “I feel strange. Kind of buzzed, but I haven’t been drinking.”
His instincts tingled a warning along the back of his neck as he reached out to steady her.
“How so?” H
e picked up the glass of soda a waitress had delivered to her a few moments before. Sniffing the contents, he studied the liquid for cloudiness. “Describe exactly what you’re feeling.”
The Coast Guard’s frequent drug-interdiction missions had given him plenty of training in recognizing the signs of a wide variety of substance abuses. The LSD users went ape shit when they couldn’t handle the hallucinations, the pot smokers turned red-eyed and mellow, and the coke sniffers attempted to conquer the world in their manic marathons of no sleep.
Lacey’s glass didn’t reveal any hints of a drug, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It could have easily been slipped into a previous glass in a moment when neither of them had been watching. He’d been keeping an eye out for Nick Castine to show up tonight, wary of his involvement in steering Lacey toward this particular club, so Damon’s vigilance at watching over her had suffered from his divided attention.
And, damn it, why had Kelly called him tonight of all times?
Lacey leaned more heavily on him, her slender body molding to his with an abandon he’d bet she’d never demonstrate in public if not for the effects of some kind of drug.
Crap. He tried to nudge her toward an exit, but in the crush, he didn’t make much headway. Stopping, he tried to do a quick evaluation of her symptoms so he knew what they were dealing with.
“I’m kind of dizzy. But really sensitive, like my skin is prickly.” She rubbed her thigh against his in an overt request that brought his sex drive raging back to life in spite of all circumstances that should have made him careful. Wary. “Really sensitive.”
Apparently the sight of her wrapped around him appealed to the voyeurs in the club because they were quickly attracting an audience. A handful of single men turned to watch the hemline of Lacey’s short skirt as she wound her leg around his, tilting her hips into him. A guy nearby groaned at the sight while a tall transvestite shouted encouraging catcalls.
Damon scouted the perimeter for the nearest place to go for privacy since the closest exit out to the main street seemed worlds away. There was no way this hole-in-the-wall place would meet a building inspector’s code.
“That’s it, honey. Work it for your man!” The shemale dressed in a green-sequined gown and rhinestone tiara put two fingers in her mouth and whistled.
Damon, in the meantime, tried to juggle Lacey and the drink that needed to be tested at a lab. No easy feat when Lacey was hell-bent on kissing him, her fingers walking up his chest to tunnel between the buttons on his shirt.
More whistles.
Damn.
“Lacey.” He pulled back from her just enough to break contact at the lips since he guessed she might fall over if he let go of her completely. “We need to go someplace private for this, okay?”
He looked into her eyes and saw her pupils dilated as wide as a doll’s. She blinked without comprehension and her gaze dipped back to his mouth. Lingered.
“I want you,” she whispered, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips.
He felt the swirl of her pink tongue as keenly as if it had connected with his skin. He throbbed in time with the incessant club music, his blood hammering with needs he had to suppress. He had no idea how much of the drug she’d been given or even what kind of drug it had been, although his early guess would have to be a stimulant.
“Did you take any drugs, Lacey?” He had to ask, had to know. If there was any chance she did this to herself or if—his jaw clenched—she was somehow involved with this ring of drug importers, after all, he would be furious.
“Drugs?” The very idea seemed to confound her, her brow wrinkling in slow motion since her reaction times were way off. “I’ve never touched a medication that wasn’t prescribed for me.”
As he felt for her pulse at her wrist, she trailed her hand lower down the front of his shirt, hooking on his belt buckle for a moment before smoothing over the clasp with a deliberate, teasing motion.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice intruded before he finished out his count of heartbeats per minute, although he already knew the number was elevated.
He turned to see the busty redhead in charge of condom sales. Her tray full of prophylactics and sex toys glittered like a forbidden treasure trove to a man who couldn’t possibly indulge himself right now. He prayed Lacey wouldn’t notice the bedroom bounty or she might help herself and start undressing.
“We’re all set, but thanks.” Damon hoped she would disappear so he could make it to the bathrooms and splash some cold water on Lacey’s face, but the saucy condom wench jammed a foil packet in his shirt.
“This one’s on the house for putting on such a good show for my customers. Your theatrics are turning on the whole place.” She gestured to the gallery above where another crop of onlookers watched Lacey’s antics in rapt interest.
Only now did Damon notice the strap of her tank top had fallen and the cotton fabric of her shirt had slid down to her breast, exposing a hot-pink bra studded with crystals that spelled out “Sexy.” He’d been so focused on her pulse, he hadn’t noticed that she was falling out of her clothes.
Of course, the voyeurs on the upper deck probably had a prime view of the taut nipple ready to emerge from the bra at any second. Could he suck as a protector any more than he already did?
Wrenching the tank top back into place, Damon turned Lacey away from him so that they stood side by side with her pressed tight against him. Enough was enough.
“We’re leaving now.” Damon brushed past the condom saleslady with Lacey in tow, the drink sloshing over the sides of the cheap bar glass as he edged around dancers and waitresses, sex-crazed patrons and leatherclad S & M fans.
“But we have rooms available,” the condom girl called, her throaty voice penetrating the noise of reggaeton and shouted conversations. “You don’t have to leave to put that protection to use.”
Damon paused for a moment, half considering the idea since he didn’t know how he’d make it all the way back to the El San Juan Hotel with Lacey wrapped around him like a wet suit. Besides, if this was truly her first trip, the effects would be stronger. Harder. All the more difficult to ignore in public.
Then reason kicked him squarely in the ass. The only place he was going right now was the E.R. That condom in his pocket would damn well wait until Lacey was under a doctor’s care and the glass she’d drunk from was in a lab being tested for every possible drug.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” He steeled himself against Lacey’s bump and grind against him, knowing he’d have to make a scene to get her out of here. “We’re leaving.”
Lifting her off her feet, he kissed her because he couldn’t fight her advances while juggling her and the tainted glass as he plowed through the crowd. The hail of whistles from half-dressed club-goers made him angry when the woman in his arms was suffering from a drug trip that could go bad at any moment. Reaching the street, he was halfway to his car when he saw two souped-up black Hummers parked on either side of his ride.
A coincidence?
Not in a million years.
This was Puerto Rico, not Manhattan or Miami where plenty of average Joes drove the same make and model, tacky gold mag wheels and all.
Taking a step back toward the club, he hid in the shadows while Lacey moaned in his arms.
“Shh.” He hushed her with a kiss, all the while keeping his eyes on those two ominous vehicles.
If they’d been in San Juan, he would have simply taken her somewhere else. He could have dashed into any public restaurant or bodega and called for a cab.
But this was Loiza, a small beach community that prided itself on its undeveloped shoreline and the lack of tourist traps. It sprawled over a stretch of rocky coast accessible by a tiny road over a one-lane bridge on the east side of the island. There were no streetlamps here, let alone paved streets. The sex club sat on a property that wasn’t much better than an ancient beach shack, despite its two floors. People parked their cars on nearby hilly sand dunes to attend.
&nb
sp; Damon had nowhere to run except back inside.
“Aren’t you going to take me somewhere?” Lacey asked, her voice a warm, breathy sigh against his ear.
“Sure I am.” He would have to call for reinforcements, but until the cavalry arrived, he planned to stay in the thick of things, planting them firmly inside a building packed to the gills with people. Potential witnesses if Castine was stupid enough to try anything here. “We’re going to get ourselves a private room.”
Chapter 8
TWO HOURS LATER Lacey was going out of her mind in a private back room at the sex club.
Restless, edgy and needing Damon so badly it hurt, she tried to tell herself this was all the effects of whatever drug had been put in her drink and that Damon was only looking out for her by not touching her. But every wisp of air blowing in from an antiquated air conditioner tickled her skin like a lover wielding a teasing feather.
Her whereabouts were hazy. The passage of time even hazier. But her actual, physical senses were acute and she knew what was going on. Damon thought Nick Castine was following them. He’d carried her back into the club, back to some private hotel room available for customers of the place, so that he could avoid Castine.
Not for his benefit, she knew. But for hers.
Which was all well and good if Damon had at least put this bonus private time to good use. The room was a tacky, Gothic affair complete with red walls and silk sheets, which she now lay on, plagued by too much lust. But Damon hadn’t touched her other than to feel her forehead and to keep her as cool as possible.
Didn’t he know there was only one way to stop her from burning up inside? Wave after wave of unanswered hunger squeezed her womb, making it impossible to be still. Not even her most uptight impulses were enough to keep her from writhing around the bed like a cat in heat.
After the first hour and a half in the room with Damon, he had imported some doctor friend who was apparently a fellow Coastie. The guy—Tejal Desai, who didn’t sound the least bit foreign with his Brooklyn accent—had taken her vitals and given her a cursory exam.
