AtHerCommand (16 page)

Dalton clasped his fingers together under his head to keep
from grabbing her, plundering her mouth and driving into her. Dominique
Petracelli was killing him. He could imagine
The Washington Post
headlines—
Police Officer Found In Sex Club, Dead From Testosterone Overload.
The tabloids would be less tactful—
Cop Dies of Blue Balls
.

He watched Domino concentrate on the line of drops that
peppered his ribs. For once, Dalton controlled his unbearable ticklishness,
thanks in a great part to his sex-fogged brain. Having her hands on his chest
and trailing down his abdomen was one of the most erotic experiences of his
life. Dalton sucked in his breath as she peeled off the last two spots of wax,
which she’d landed with military precision on his nipples.

Again he met her eyes, dark and glittering in the
candlelight. Was it his imagination or were her pupils dilated, her breathing
quick?
Hell
, she was as turned on as he was and the knowledge made his
pulse race.

Domino started to speak, cleared her throat and tried again.
“Turn over,” she said in a voice even huskier than before. “It’s time to do
your back.”

* * * * *

Domino stepped through the door leading to the employee
parking lot, raised her face to the night sky and let the snow flurries powder
her skin. If anyone spotted her outside without a coat, unprotected against the
sub-freezing weather, they’d have her committed for a psych check. But she had
to cool off.

Maybe she
was
nuts. She’d just spent an hour touching
Dalton, practically making love to the man, and her body was burning up. Dom
was surprised steam wasn’t rising wherever the snowflakes met her feverish
skin. Over the years, her few sexual partners had commented on her lack of fire
in bed, yet running her hands over Dalton had shot her temperature through the
roof. Maybe she was a sexual late bloomer.

Yeah, right.
Dom had never been a coward so she
wouldn’t run from the truth now. She wanted Dalton, wanted to kiss him, explore
that great body, take him inside her. And she was afraid one roll in the hay
wouldn’t nearly cure her of this obsession. Maybe once she wrapped up this
case…

Domino dragged her thoughts back to the investigation. After
Dalton had dressed and departed several minutes before, she’d slipped out of
her room and retrieved her purse with its tracking device from her locker. Now,
while she stood like an idiot in the snowstorm, her thirty-minute break was
ticking by. Dom took a deep breath and blew out the frosty air. It was time to
start acting like a DEA agent.

She turned and pulled open the heavy metal door. Stepping
back into the club, Dom brushed the snowflakes from her hair and clothes with
suddenly chilled hands. A shiver ran through her as her body readjusted to the
warm air in the hallway.

“Joining the Polar Bear Club?”

Dom looked up to see Suzi, one of the club’s masseuses,
smiling at her. “No, just trying to sneak a smoke before my next client,” Dom
lied.

“So lung cancer’s not enough of a risk, you decided to add
hypothermia to it?” Suzi pointed to Dom’s skimpy dress and lack of cold weather
outerwear.

Domino grinned. “I just figured if smoking became unpleasant
enough, I’d give it up.”

Suzi seemed to consider this. “You must be right since I’ve
never seen a polar bear with a cigarette.”

A laugh bubbled out of Domino, releasing some of the tension
tying her insides into knots. She really liked this irreverent woman, who was
just one of the friends Dom had made a club. She’d miss Suzi and the others
when the case was over.

With a wave, Suzi continued down the hall and entered the
employee lounge. Dom took a moment to straighten her mask and push back some
snow-dampened strands of hair before heading in the opposite direction. A
casual glance confirmed she was alone in the hallway so she quickly dodged into
the loading bay area.

The musty-smelling room’s chilly air raised goose bumps on
her now warmed skin. The warehouse-like loading bay had seen little renovation
since the old building had served as a salami factory, and the club wasn’t
pumping a lot of heat into this storage and shipping area. The dust of decades
clung to steel girders while unpleasant droppings suggested four-legged rodents
shared the space with the two-legged drug rats.

The cavernous chamber was filled with crates and the stored
porn sets. From where she stood, Dom could see a French boudoir, an English
classroom and, incongruously, several church pews.

Walking as softly as possible on her stiletto heels, Dom
skirted the majority of the detritus and made her way toward the back of the
room. The carton of drug-filled marital aids was still there, near the loading
bay.

Keeping an eye out for Benny and the other workmen, Domino
slipped her hand into her leather purse. She ran her fingers through the
contents, feeling the cool steel of her switchblade before continuing the
search. After several seconds, she located the small lump under the purse’s
silk lining and worked the tracking device free through a tear in the seam.

The sound of male voices had her jumping behind a set of
curtains that formed the wall of a doctor’s office porn set. Dom’s elbow
collided with something hard and warm, and a grunt told her she wasn’t alone in
her hidey-hole. Before she could react, a hand slammed over her mouth and a
husky voice whispered, “Wanna play doctor?”

Dalton!
Dom’s stomach clenched with an emotion that
wasn’t fear. Slowly, he removed his hand and she turned to face the man who
seemed determined to undermine her assignment. He stood a good half foot above
her since he wasn’t assuming a submissive cower. His deep blue eyes stared
directly into hers, arrogance and confidence gleaming under the cold
fluorescent lights. And the smile curving his lips was all predatory male.

She had to regain control. In one deft move, she brought her
only weapon out of her purse. Dom flashed open the switchblade in Dalton’s
face. To his credit, he didn’t step back although his smile wavered. The time
for games was over. She had to persuade him to leave before they both ended up
at the bottom of the Potomac.

“I’m Dominique Petracelli, and I’m DEA. Unless you want to
be Bobbitized, I suggest you get the hell out of here and never come back.” Dom
spoke in a menacing whisper to avoid attracting the attention of Salvi’s
lackeys.

Shock and disbelief passed over Dalton’s face to be replaced
with something resembling suppressed amusement. For one terrified second, Dom
thought he might throw back his head and roar with laughter. Instead the
maddening man held his hands up in front of his chest in a placating fashion.
Kicking off one boat shoe, he leaned over to retrieve something under the insole.
Straightening, he held up the item for her to read.

Dalton Cutter, Detective, Metro PD.
She silently read
then reread the card as her mind refused to accept the words. “You’re a cop?”
she whispered.

He nodded. “I’m undercover,” he explained, his voice barely
audible as he replaced his ID and slipped on his shoe. As he straightened and
again met her shocked gaze, Dalton added, “What? You think I come here for my
health?”

Dom recalled appalling details of her sessions with
Dalton—vivid memories of the things she’d said and done to this man, this
police
officer
—and a blush suffused her cheeks. Something flickered in his eyes
and she felt a shift in the atmosphere as a bolt of sexual awareness arced
between them.

“This shipment is out of here tonight.” The voice of Clyde
Salvi sounded too close for comfort.

Dom jumped, the moment shattered. She gazed through a slit
in the curtains to see the menacing club manager supervising the loading of a
truck. If she didn’t act now, she’d lose her chance to attach the tracking
device to the crate. All business, she retracted the switchblade and returned
it to her purse.

“Stay out of my way, Cutter,” she hissed as she tried to
ease past him to approach the drug-filled carton from a more sheltered
direction. Dalton’s hand shot out and caught her arm before she could take two
steps.

“This bust is mine, lady.” He matched her hushed tone but
his glare added weight to the words.

Teeth gritted, she shoved her face near his. “Like hell.”

“They killed Jason Walters…my partner.” The simple words
were a whisper but the flash of anguish in his eyes spoke volumes. This bust
was personal.

With the empathy of a fellow law enforcer, Dom felt a surge
of compassion and raised her hand to Dalton’s face. He closed his eyes when her
palm brushed his cheek, as though her touch were painful. She’d never had a
close partner but knew such a loss would be like the death of a brother.

Growling barks had them both turning to look through the
curtains. One of the club’s bouncers, a nasty piece of work named Hobart, had
entered the loading bay, leading Salvi’s snarling Doberman. The dog was
straining on the leash, tugging toward the doctor’s office set, obviously
scenting them. Dom heard Dalton curse under his breath and she realized they
had seconds before they were discovered.

Determined, she turned to him. “I can get us out of this, if
you trust me and follow my lead.” Dom implored him silently and after several
tense seconds, he nodded. “Just go along,” she whispered. “I promise the plan
will work.”

Then giving Dalton an impulsive, quick kiss on his mouth for
luck, Dom made her way around the back of the porn set to intercept Hobart.

Chapter Sixteen

Dalton watched her go, stunned by his reaction to her swift
kiss. At least if he had to be hot for her, she was a DEA agent and not a
dominatrix.

He shook his head to clear it. In the next few minutes he
could very well die and yet he’d just put his life into this woman’s hands.
Well, he’d put just about everything else into her hands these last few weeks.
But he only had Domino’s word she was DEA.
Shit.
He had a terrible track
record when it came to judging women. Between his mother’s abandonment and his
fiancée’s betrayal, Dalton carried a mountain of trust issues. He had a sick
feeling he was about to be played for a chump.

Still, Dalton had no alternative but to trust her. Trapped
in the porn set, he pressed his eye against the slight gap in the curtains and
watched Salvi signal to his thug to search the room with the dog. This was it.
His time had run out.

“Hello, Mr. Salvi…Hobart.” Domino’s clear, calm voice called
out as she stepped from behind the boudoir set.

“Well, if it isn’t our newest counselor.” Salvi strode
toward her with the menacing arrogance of a dictator. The men loading the truck
stopped to watch as Salvi continued. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing
hide-and-seek?”

The Doberman lunged at her and Dalton’s heart flew into his
throat as he watched in tense silence. Domino only smiled and moved closer to
the straining animal.

“Hi, Spike.” Patting the dog’s sleek head and getting licked
in return, she asked it, “Hunting for bad guys?”

Salvi frowned as his dog whined in an effort to get closer
to her.

“If so, the man you’re looking for is behind the doctor
set.” She stopped talking to Spike and spoke directly to Salvi. “I followed him
here after he left my last session.”

A red-hot rage swept through Dalton as he witnessed her
treachery. He should have guessed, should have seen it coming. She was selling
him out to save her own skin.

Hobart tightened the dog’s leash, pulled out his gun and
stepped closer to the club manager.

“One of your clients came snooping in here?” Salvi asked.

With her dominatrix persona firmly in place, Domino nodded
and raised her voice. “The jig’s up. Get your ass out here.”

Dalton wished like hell he had his gun so he could take out
Salvi and that lying bitch at the same time. But he was unarmed and out of
options so he stepped between the curtain to stand in front of his likely
executioners. Spike snarled at him and Salvi took the leash along with the gun
his henchman held.

“Search him.” The order was quiet but the bouncer jumped to
do his boss’s bidding.

Dalton stood stock-still as Hobart roughly ran his hands
over every inch of his body, checking for hidden weapons and wires. Only
Dalton’s eyes moved as he glared first at Salvi and the gun he held steady in
his hand, and then at the woman who’d asked for his trust.

For a brief moment, Domino’s eyes seemed to plead with him
to believe in her. But his anger was too raw and it squashed the flicker of
hope that fought to survive despite the evidence of her betrayal. Dalton stared
back, letting her see his fury. Her arrogant smile faltered and then firmed as
her expression took on a hard determination.

“Nothin, boss.” Hobart stepped away from Dalton and looked
at the club manager for further instructions.

“Check his shoes.” Salvi noticed Dalton’s brief start. He
smiled like the cold-blooded predator he was and directed his next command to
his captive. “Kick off the shoes. Now.”

Dalton did and Hobart retrieved the shoes, soon locating the
card under the insole. He handed the ID to Salvi. “Dalton Cutter, Detective,
Metro PD,” the club manager read aloud.

“A
cop
.” Domino, looking outraged, screeched the
words. “I thought he was just some nosy john. Is he here to entrap me?”

Salvi smiled. “I think D.C.’s finest is here for something
bigger than busting a dominatrix. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

Dalton remained silent, the tension in the room ratcheting
up a few notches. The only sound was Spike’s low growling.

“Tie him up and take him for a swim,” the club manager
instructed Hobart. “Use one of the company cars.”

Salvi gestured to a worker who was standing nearby. The man,
a swarthy, muscle-bound thug, jogged over. “Joey, go with Hobart while he
handles a little disposal job for me.” He handed his gun to the man.

“Sure, Mr. Salvi,” Joey answered, feral anticipation on his
face. He held the gun pointed unwaveringly at Dalton’s chest.

Hobart grabbed a packing tape dispenser and wrapped the
reinforced tape around his prisoner’s wrists. Dalton’s heart sank at the use of
the tape. There’d be no way to loosen the binding. At least the bouncer had
secured his hands in front of him and not behind his back. Hobart finished the
job and moved to Dalton’s right, roughly taking his arm to drag him over to the
loading dock.

“Hobart, call me on my cell phone when you’re done,” Salvi
directed. “I’ve got some business to handle at my house.”

“Okay, boss,” the bouncer answered.

“Wait!” Dom’s angry command stopped all four men. “I’d like
to say goodbye to my
cop
client,” she snapped.

At Salvi’s amused nod, Hobart let go of Dalton’s arm and
stepped back. Joey however, kept his gun trained on his chest. Dom strutted to
Dalton, her purse bumping against her swaying hip. He watched her approach,
wondering what else she could do after her double-cross. Spit in his face?
Gloat as he was led away to die?

Domino leaned close, her exotic perfume triggering a
response he didn’t welcome. Suddenly, she reached out and grasped his balls in
her left hand. Dalton grunted before gritting his teeth against the hate
welling inside. She squeezed her fist, the sensation almost painful while the
long nails grazed the sensitive skin of his groin. Dom stuck her face close to
his, her body effectively shielding her right hand from Salvi and his thugs.

“If I had a knife,” Dom began, and Dalton felt her right
hand slip something cool and heavy into his pants pocket, “I would cut off your
balls and feed them to Spike.”

Had she given him her switchblade or was this some cruel
joke, a parting shot from a calculating bitch? Dalton wouldn’t give her the
satisfaction of reacting to her words or actions.

“But I’m afraid Spike’s palate is too discerning to enjoy
pig nuts.” Dom’s lips formed a cruel smile and she gave his balls one last
squeeze before letting go. She turned to the club manager. “Time for my next
client, Mr. Salvi. You know where to find me if you want to see my files on
this cop.” Then without looking back, she headed through the door.

Dalton glared after her until he was jerked around by Hobart
and hustled to the loading dock. Thanks to Joey’s gun, making a run for it
wasn’t an option. Several white Cadillacs were parked near the open bay, which
was sheltered by a tall fence. The bouncer stopped next to a Cadillac sporting
the personalized license plate
X Branch 1
and popped the trunk.

Once she was out of sight, Dom abandoned her strut for a
brisk walk. She felt chilled to the bone by Dalton’s hate-filled eyes. He
hadn’t trusted her and the extent of his anger shook her. She prayed she could
get him out of this fix before they hurt him or worse.

Domino was sure Salvi and his men hadn’t seen her slip her
switchblade and the tracking device into their captive’s pocket. But had Dalton
understood her message? Did he realize she’d given him a knife? And what if
Salvi discovered the weapon or Dalton couldn’t reach it to cut the tape?

Dom hurried into S&M Room Five and closed the door.
Alone but very aware of the room’s hidden microphone, she assumed her Mistress
Bella persona and an air of unconcern. Without haste, she took her cell phone
from her purse and dialed Meyer’s pager. She didn’t dare hold a DEA
conversation within the walls of the sex club so she inputted the emergency code
followed by a short text message—
Follow tracker. Cop in trunk. Stop murder.

Domino sent the message with another prayer for Dalton’s
safety. Without her gun, she’d been unable to stop the thugs. But it was
torture remaining at the club while Dalton was in danger. For now, she could
help him more by protecting her cover and working from within the club. After
several interminable moments, she received a text answer—
10-4. Meyers to the
rescue
.

She had to rely on her DEA partner to save the day. He could
be a sexist jerk but Meyers was a good agent. He’d reach Dalton in time.
He
had to.
Forcing back her fear, Dom began to prep the room for her next
client.

* * * * *

The interior of the Cadillac’s trunk was pitch black and
filled with exhaust fumes. Yet Dalton could smell the oil and grime on the rag
they’d used to gag him. He breathed shallowly through his nose. Would he die of
carbon monoxide poisoning before they got him to the river? No, the heat would
kill him first. The trunk was like an oven and sweat was stinging his eyes.

Dalton twisted, the packing tape Hobart had wrapped around
his ankles making the movement difficult. Struggling to use his bound,
sweat-slick hands, he managed to push the objects in his pocket out onto the
trunk’s floor. His fingers located a small, circular object that might be some
type of bug or tracking device. Could Dom really have been trying to help him?
Dalton couldn’t wait to be rescued. If he were getting out of this alive, it
was up to him to make it happen.

Dropping the device, he slid his restrained hands over the
rough carpet lining the trunk.
Where the hell was it?
There’d been
something larger than the bug in his pocket. His right palm brushed a metal
object. Her knife? Again Dalton fought a rush of hope and concentrated on
saving himself.

Performing an acrobatic sleight of hand, his fingers grasped
the object, found a button and pushed. The switchblade flashed open, slicing
his palm. Dalton cursed behind his gag, instinctively dropping the blade. His
warm blood mingled with the sweat, making his fingers slippery and
uncooperative.

The Cadillac slowed and turned onto what felt like a gravel
road. The tires spewed stones that pinged against the underside of the car.
Every pothole and rock in the road seemed to conspire to jostle the switchblade
farther from his searching fingers. After an agonizing eternity, Dalton picked
up the knife again. Twisting his hands into an unnatural position, he sawed at
the strapping tape securing his wrists.

It was a slow, awkward process but Dalton freed his hands.
Ignoring the pain from his sliced palm, he slashed through the tape around his
ankles and rubbed his feet to return a little circulation to his cramped
muscles. Then he untied the gag and spit the oily cloth from his mouth.

The car turned again and inched its way down a second
unpaved track. They must be close to their destination—some isolated spot along
the Potomac River. He shifted and tugged at the trunk’s carpet. If he could
just pull it up, he could reach underneath to the tire iron secured with the
Cadillac’s spare tire. Dalton had the switchblade but the tool would make a
longer-reaching weapon. Although both were a joke against Hobart’s and Joey’s
handguns.

Dalton wanted to believe there’d be an army of DEA agents
coming to his aid but he couldn’t count on it. That might not even be a
tracking device she’d slipped into his pocket along with the knife.
Domino.
He wanted to savor the fact she hadn’t betrayed him but he forced himself to
focus on the task at hand. He was unbound but he wasn’t out of danger yet.

The car came to hard stop, rocking and throwing Dalton
against the back of the trunk. He struggled around and continued to work on the
tire iron. The sound of the Cadillac’s doors opening and slamming shut reached
his ears. Joey and Hobart were coming for him. Would they shoot him full of
drugs as they’d done to Jason or just knock him out before throwing him into
the Potomac?

Dalton freed the tire iron and held it in his left hand
while his right gripped the switchblade. He braced himself for what might be
the last fight of his life.

“
Freeze!
Hands in the air!”

Dalton heard the bullhorn-magnified orders and let out a
harsh breath. The next few moments were a blur. The trunk opened and he blinked
into a spotlight illuminating the entire clearing. Several men in DEA uniforms
helped him out of the trunk. The audible rush of the snow-chilled Potomac
River—almost his watery grave—had him glancing to his left. The clearing ended
in a rocky river bank. Dalton stood on numb legs watching the handcuffed Joey
and Hobart being read their rights.

“You must be Dom’s cop.”

Dalton turned at the deep voice and spotted a red-haired man
he’d first seen eating with Domino in a Taco Bell. What had he said?
Dom’s
cop?
There was something nice about the words that Dalton didn’t want to
examine at that moment.

“Name’s Meyers. We’d like you to accompany us to answer a
few questions. We’re taking these SOBs to Metro PD, since it’s your
jurisdiction.” The large man’s eyes lowered to Dalton’s hands, which were red
with blood. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car. Or we can drop you off at the
hospital.”

“The kit will be fine,” Dalton answered. “And I’d like to
borrow your cell phone and call my captain. He’ll want to have Clyde Salvi, the
club’s manager, picked up as well.”

Meyers nodded and led the way to his car. Quickly, Dalton
used alcohol pads to clean his cut palm as he thought about the upcoming hours.
He’d answer the DEA’s questions. He owed them that much. And he’d convince
Captain Bennett to let him take part in the questioning of Salvi and his
hitmen. But he doubted anyone as street-smart and connected as Salvi would talk
without a lawyer present. The Metro PD had the club manager dead to rights on
Dalton’s kidnapping but would they be able to prove he’d killed Jason?