Freefall (The Indigo Lounge Series, #5) (9 page)

“I had the last addition flown in this morning.”

“Which one is it?”

“This one.” I lead her to a black and velvet indigo free-standing cubicle. Inside there are two horizontal bars at the top with restraints dangling from them. I watch her face as she examines everything.

“How is this different from the bench and the bed?” she asks.

I smile. “It won’t make sense until you witness it for yourself. Wanna be my guinea pig?”

She rolls her eyes. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Despite her reply, the interest in her eyes is clear to see, as is the unsettled pulse at her throat that hasn’t quite returned to normal.

I decide to test the true level of her interest. “I’m testing it out tomorrow. Swing by and see for yourself.”

Her gaze connects with mine. “You’re testing it out? Who with?”

I hide a smile at the ticked off note in her voice I’m sure she thinks is nothing but curiosity. I recognize it for what it is. Keely Benson is territorial. She’s deeply possessive to a depth I’m sure even she isn’t aware of.

“Stop by after lunch. See for yourself.”

Leaving it at that, we finish the tour of the deck. We bypass the middle deck where the construction crew are putting the finishing touches to the restaurant, bar and pool areas and head for the deck below.

“So, why the need to own a sex boat?” she asks, again in that offhanded way, which gives the false implication that she doesn’t care about my answer.

“Why does any red-blooded male need one?”

“Two things spring to mind. Either you’re a sex maniac or you need a penis extender?”

I smile. “If I were a sex maniac I’d hardly confess to it, would I? As for this being a penis extender, if you want to see the size of mine to judge for yourself, you need only ask.”

Her eyes drop to my crotch instantaneously, almost a reflex action. My body responds to the flash of hunger in her expression and I grit my teeth against the powerful arousal moving through me.

Being around her is worse now than it’d been in Montauk, and it’d been pretty fucked up then. My phone’s presence in my pocket reminds me that I have a way out of this. One phone call to Hani and all will be well again. She is sending me two girls tomorrow, but that is different. They are just test subjects for the various additions I’ve made to a few sex implements on the yachts. Like everything I create, I need to make sure it’s fully tested before I release it to the public.

My blood rushes a little faster through my veins at the thought of taking them through the routines. It would alleviate some of my pent-up frustrations, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near the usual twelve-hour sessions I need to place my edge back under control.

My hand itches to take out my phone, but like every other time I want to take that final step toward numbing myself, I hesitate. The part of my brain that’d worked out my problem a long time ago knows this is yet another form of punishment, another form of self-flagellation for my sins.

I’d continue to live in this hell, if I didn’t know that my rage and pain would spill to an innocent bystander.

Someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Someone like Keely.

I focus to find her answering her own phone. “About time you called back,” she snaps, but I catch a note of affection in her voice.

Affection, an now alien feeling that makes me cock my head and listen, the sound of it a concept punished out of my system a long time ago.

She flicks a glance at me. “Yeah, too late, B. He’s already sicced himself on me.” She stops and listens. “Fine. Whatever. Tell your husband that the next time he hires one of his friends to work on a project with me, he should give me a heads up. I don’t like surprises.” She rolls her eyes at whatever Bethany says. “No, sister, flattery will get you both nowhere. Now leave me to work, and don’t forget to feed Jeigerhamster,” she snaps, then her gaze softens. “Yeah, me too. Bye.”

She joins me in the hallway, and we walk for a minute before I say, “You named your pet Jeigerhamster.”

A smile plays on her lips before she bites it away. “Watch it. You mock, you die.”

“And you think I sicced myself on you?”

She glares at me. “Didn’t you? You knew I was working on this project, right?

“Yes.”

“After what happened in Montauk, I’d have thought you’d excuse yourself or at least make sure our schedules didn’t clash?”

I shrug. “Why would I?”

“You don’t care that I saw you freak out and try to kill us both in that car?”

“I don’t really care what you think. And there are more effective ways to end one’s life. Driving headlong into a tree offers no guarantee that you’ll be killed instantly. You could end up with nothing but a scratch or two. Or partial paralysis. If you want death to be certain and irreversible there are more efficient ways.”

She inhales sharply. “Are you joking?”

“No.”

Wariness creeps into her eyes. “You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot,” she says.

I wonder whether to bludgeon her with the truth. Is this tough girl from Brooklyn equipped to handle the evil that stains my heart and plagues my nightmares? “I’m an inventor and an architect, amongst other things. In order to innovate I have to know how to take degenerate.”

“And that includes learning how to kill?” Her voice quivers with a sick curiosity she doesn’t want to admit—a curiosity I understand all too well.

“Are you sure you want to know the answer to that, Keely?” I taunt.

She stares at me for a moment before she collects herself. “If you’re trying to increase your air of intrigue and mystery, save it. I’m not on the market for freaks and weirdos.”

“What are you on the market for?” I parry. “A quick fuck to alleviate that ache ripping you apart inside?”

A flush rises from her neck. “Don’t be an asshole. My sexual needs are none of your concern.”

“So you haven’t done anything about it?”

“Have you done something about yours?” she throws back at me.

“Not yet.” I meet her gaze, give her a glimpse of my monstrous hunger, and am rewarded by a light shudder that accompanies her next breath.

“Damn it,” she mutters before she turns away.

Her gaze lands on the sign on the double doors in front of her and she slams to a stop.

Indigo Swinger.

She glances over her shoulder at me and I’m even more convinced that despite her dirty mouth and aggressive exterior, Keely Benson isn’t the siren she purports to be. Granted, she’s still a sex bomb. One that could detonate in my hands if I’m not careful. All the same, I feel the thrill escalate, and race through my blood.

“Is this a new addition?” she asks, indicating the sign.

“No.”

Her swift intake of breath makes her nostrils flutter and all I want to do in that moment is take possession of her.

“Wow. Okay.” She seems lost for a moment before she straightens her shoulders. “I think I’ve seen all I need to see here. I’d like to see the upper deck now.”

We continue the tour, pretending the charged atmosphere between us doesn’t exist. With each minute that passes, with each inhalation of that sexy scent, which clings to her skin, I want to flatten her to the nearest surface and take the edge off the insane need pounding through me.

By the time we finish the tour, I’ve made up my mind.

Fuck the consequences.

Fuck the voice of reason telling me to take the safe option and call Hani.

I’ve never known a hunger like this for any other woman.

Regardless of whether I risk exposing her to the monster that lives within me, by the time I escort her to the launch that will take her back to her hotel, I succumb to the inevitable.

Keely Benson will be mine.

Keely

I
feel too much on edge to settle when I return to my hotel suite.

Fucking Mason Sinclair has imbedded himself in my mind. I’m not sure why I’m so fascination with him. He’s part freak, part genius, part possible sociopath. The last part I’m not entirely certain of, but something in his eyes scares the crap out of me. Not enough for me to walk away from this project. Or even think about avoiding him.

On the contrary. I’m drawn to him with a singular morbid allure, which spells nothing but trouble with a capital T.

The only thing that comes fractionally close to describing what I feel for Mason is what I’d felt for another guy six years ago. And look how that had ended?

I shiver in the cool evening air as I stand on my balcony and stare at the exquisite, unmistakable lines of the Indigo Lounge yacht. Is he on there? Had he said where he was staying? I barely remember our conversation after that charged exchange about death and killing. Something in the way he’d said that had made every nerve in my body want to recoil. But at the same time, I’d been fascinated beyond belief, the urge to dive beneath Mason Sinclair’s skin and discover all his dark secrets a living thing between us.

He’d wanted to do the same to me. I could tell.

Just like I could tell he wants to fuck me. And not just in a quickie-get-our-rocks-off-and-be-done-with-it way either. That also excites me in ways I can’t explain. I shouldn’t be excited. I should hate the idea of anyone dominating me. But all I can think about is the feeling he evoked when he had me recite the constellation on top of his car in Montauk. The release he gave me then had been out of this world.

I want that release again.

Along with insight into what lurks beneath his surface.

“For fuck’s sake, Keely,” I mutter under my breath.

Sometimes I hate my curious mind. It’s gained me a well-paid job and a better than average living I’m satisfied with. But at times like these, when I know I should leave well enough alone but my brain keeps urging me to explore, I wonder whether I’ll ever learn my lesson.

Because obviously those three harrowing days six years ago didn’t do a good enough job.

I veer away from the view, clutching my wrap tighter around me and return to the suite. I order room service, eat and channel surf before settling on a game I have zero interest in on ESPN. I balance my laptop on my thighs and think of working for a few hours.

Instead, I find myself googling Mason again. This time, I take my time to read his background, and I frown. Blocks of his life have been missed. Like the ages between his twenty-second and twenty-fourth birthdays, and again his twenty-seventh birthday. From twenty-seven, the details of his life grow even sketchier. Pages and pages are dedicated to his philanthropic deeds and innovative inventions. But it’s easy to donate to charities if you have a company vehicle taking care of it on your behalf. Of Mason himself, there is next to nothing in the past few years although his company, S3, continues its staggering growth in the business sector and employs over five thousand people in the US and overseas.

My frown intensifies. Mason isn’t a recluse at least not from what I saw of him at Bethany and Zach’s engagement party. So whatever has made him suppress his past has nothing to do with a forced withdrawal from society.

How would you know?

I realize I’m trying to rationalize and humanize the man, and I impatiently shut the laptop. I know deep in my bones that he hides a dark secret. I have the dark, dominating Neanderthal freak and the sexy genius bit squared away. But if he’s also a sociopath, I won’t find out until I get to know him better.

The idea that that is exactly what I’m contemplating sends me to my feet and into the bedroom. Rifling through the clothes the butler has hung in the walk-in closet, I take out a slinky black sequined dress and my favorite silver platform shoes, which always lift my mood.

It’s Friday night, and I’m in one of the sexiest, most affluent cities on earth. I may not be in the market to get laid by the first guy I come across—somehow the idea of ending my months-long dry spell as quickly as possible no longer compels my every thought—but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have a good time.

I squash the voice mocking me that my need is no longer urgent because now it’s found the true source of alleviation—Mason Sinclair—it’s search was over.

Whatever.

Until I decide where my comfort compass intends to settle when it comes to the man, I’ll be keeping my thighs firmly closed and my super dirty thoughts firmly in my head.

Hell, I’m even willing to stop dropping f-bombs around him if that’s what it takes to remain remotely sane when we are in the same room together.

I sigh as I realize how much I’m thinking of giving in. How much my actions seem to be swayed by him even when he isn’t around.

Impatient that I can’t stop thinking about him, I drop my robe and slip the black dress on. Immediately, I feel a little more in control of my destiny.

Cut the fanciful crap, Keely. You’ve always been in control of your destiny
.

Not always
...

I freeze as my mind veers to the email waiting on my laptop. The first email had only held eight numbers. Eight simple numbers that form a date.

02. 21. 2009.

It was one part of three dates that are forever seared in my memory. I’d convinced myself that the email was spam and deleted it.

The second email had convinced me it wasn’t.

02. 22. 2009.

But this time it hadn’t been just that date. The second email had come with a picture. To the casual reader the date and picture of a dungeon-like room would mean nothing. Together, I’m in no doubt it’s someone from my past.

That mansion, and its labyrinth of underground rooms, have featured large and menacing in my nightmares for the past six years. Why the sender wants to torture me about it is something I haven’t yet worked out. But I know the threat is real. Just as I know I’ll receive another email with the third and final date soon.

My heart thumps wildly, and I force myself to breathe through the terror threatening to seize me. As much as my mind screams at me to confront the danger, I know I can’t do anything until I have a clear demand. Only then can I form a plan of action. One that doesn’t involve the police. Because to involve them would mean divulging the whole sickening truth of what I’d done. And there is no way I’m about to do that.