Skin Deep (13 page)

Kellan froze. He took a swift step back, his body sending up a primal and thoroughly pissed
what the fuck?
to his brain. But as much as the kiss had shredded every last ounce of his control, he couldn’t blow their cover, which meant he damn sure couldn’t look at Isabella.

Jam these feelings into a box, Walker. Right. Now
.

Shifting forward to remove her from his line of sight, Kellan reached up to swipe his thumb over his bottom lip, lifting his eyes to level Rampage with an emotionless stare.

“Good enough for you?” he asked, the smudge of Isabella’s coppery lipstick glittering on his hand in the soft light.

Rampage lifted his chin just once, but it was enough. “Never seen a pair of undercover cops do that.” After scanning all three of them with a handheld metal detector and checking the contents of Isabella’s purse, he added, “Enjoy the party.”

He entered a code on the keypad set discretely on the wall beside the double doors, fitting an electronic card identical to the one Marcus had used for elevator access into the adjacent slot. The locks sounded off in a heavy click that sent relief spiraling through Kellan’s veins, and he waited until both Isabella and Marcus had crossed the threshold before moving past Rampage to step into the penthouse.

The music that had only been indistinct sound in the alcove became clearer, albeit not overwhelmingly loud, filling the space of the foyer and two living rooms in front of them with a background of seductive suggestion. Lavish didn’t begin to cover the décor—twelve-foot ceilings with inlaid crown molding, marble pillars delineating the rooms while keeping the space wide open, soft lighting focused on the gilt-framed art and the expertly placed sculpture throughout. Well-dressed couples and small groups of guests dotted the shadowed corners and lushly upholstered furniture, and Kellan realized with a start that the man in the leather armchair less than ten paces away was cutting cocaine over a small mirror just as easily as he might channel surf, while the man across from him received an overly enthusiastic blow job from a woman in a gold-sequined dress.

They were definitely
not
in Kansas anymore, Toto.

“Danny Marcus made good on his end,” Marcus said quietly, his eyes nowhere near Kellan or Isabella, and she nodded in reply.

“You did. The two of us can find a friend from here. Just remember not to do anything stupid.”

Marcus’s laugh carried zero humor. “You either, sweet cheeks. I’m not looking to leave this party in a body bag. Have a nice life.”

Turning on his heel, Marcus made a beeline for the farthest spot from where Kellan and Moreno stood by the entryway, and finally, Kellan chanced a full glance in her direction. Her expression was impassive, as if she stood smack in the middle of illegal sex parties all the time, but a provocative flush still rode her cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips betraying her ease by just a fraction. The careful sweep of her eyes told him she was taking in ten times more than her face let on, though, just as he’d done the second they’d stepped into the room. While he didn’t want to blow his focus—or hers—he wanted her pissed off even less, so yeah. Time to bite the bullet.

He leaned toward her, dialing his voice to a low murmur that only she could hear. “Are we good?”

Isabella tilted her head. The scent of coconuts hit him with an unexpected punch that damn near answered his side of the question with a big, fat, fucking negative.

But then she said, “Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Her answer held no drama, no anger or passion or anything other than straight-up nothing much. But just as he’d seen the authentic version of her smile last week versus the almost-there version she’d been handing out tonight, Kellan had seen the pared-down desire on Isabella’s face when he’d kissed her. Her want had been the real deal, just like his.

“Because I kissed you,” Kellan said, and Moreno shocked the hell out of him by replying with a soft laugh.

“Actually, if you want to get technical about things, I kissed you and you kissed me back.”

Only this woman would argue semantics in order to claim the upper hand at a sex party. “You’re splitting hairs, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” she said, pressing up to bring her lips level with his ear and getting as close as possible without actually touching him, and even though it made him a top-shelf bastard, Kellan enjoyed every second of the game.

Moreno continued, her teasing smile curving right below his jawline. “But there’s no sense in making a big deal where there isn’t one. We did what we had to in order to get in the door, and I don’t regret that for a second. Do you?”

Kellan blinked back round two of his surprise—Christ, her tenacity knew no bounds—but he answered in truth. “No. I don’t.”

“Good.” Isabella paused, her mouth remaining close enough that he could feel the warmth of her exhale before she shifted back to slide her arm through his and led him farther into the room. “Now do me a favor and tell me what you see.”

Damn. Kellan couldn’t tell if he should be a little impressed or a lot turned on by her fierce dedication, but since neither feeling would get them what they’d come for, he leaned in toward her while surreptitiously re-scanning the room.

“Well, Marcus wasn’t kidding about security,” he said, sliding the words quietly under his breath as he poured a glass of scotch from the self-serve bar that he had no intention of drinking. “I have eyes on two video cameras here in the foyer, two more in each living room, which means there are probably twice as many I don’t see yet.”

Mirror cams and similar garden variety “hidden” surveillance devices were easy enough to spot with a quick glance if you knew what you were looking for. The higher tech stuff…well, that was a whole different ball game. But Kellan had tagged along on enough here-and-there jobs with Devon lately to be able to pick up on the surveillance devices most people couldn’t.

Spinning another slow gaze over the lush settees, the crystal tumblers glinting from the corners of the low, sleek tables, and the men dressed in suits that probably cost more than he earned fighting a month’s worth of fires, Kellan continued in hushed tones. “Between the music and the size of these rooms, general audio’s got to be a no-go, unless this DuPree guy has got access to some high-level tech I haven’t heard of yet.”

“Mmm. Whoever he is, he definitely likes to watch. You see anybody you like as being him?” Moreno leaned in on the guise of nuzzling Kellan’s neck, and he reminded himself—and his dick—that in order to pull this off, they not only had to look like a couple, but they had to be convincing. Especially if someone had the ability to put a visual on them from one of at least six angles.

“Nope. Everyone I’ve got eyes on looks like a guest or a woman.” He channeled his want into a dark smile that would look like a proposition to anyone monitoring the feed from the camera on his left, dropping his mouth just low enough toward Isabella to draw cover on the off chance one of the security staff could read lips. “So how do you want to play this?”

“As quickly as possible without rushing.” Moreno’s glance lingered on the ten scantily clad women in the room, two of whom were on their knees and another two who appeared so strung out, they were barely standing upright on their five-inch heels.
Jesus
.

Isabella’s breath grew shaky against his skin, but both her expression and her tone betrayed nothing as she continued. “We have to choose the right girl. If we pick someone too skittish, or worse yet, too far gone, she might tell DuPree someone’s sniffing around. That’ll make him more cautious and a lot harder to catch, not to mention burning the only chance we have to get the proof of what’s going on here.”

“Copy that.” Kellan fought the anger starting to churn in his belly, focusing instead on the feel of Isabella’s arm folded closely in the crook of his elbow. “How about the one in the blue dress over there by the piano?”

Moreno led him a handful of steps farther into the main room, perching on the armrest of a richly upholstered wingback chair that gave her a better vantage point to study the blond. “Looks like she’s already got company,” Isabella said, her expression tightening as a dark-haired man with a nasty scar on his forehead walked over to the woman and passed over a syringe before placing a sharp slap on her ass.

Kellan’s fingers curled into fists. Damn it, they couldn’t help these women fast enough. “The redhead at four o’clock looks pretty unsteady on her feet, but we might be able to try our luck with her.”

All at once, Moreno’s body went bowstring tight, her spine unfolding against the gold brocade of the armchair. “That girl,” she whispered, her eyes unmoving. “In the white dress, with the feathers tattooed on her shoulder. She’s the one.”

He waited six painfully long heartbeats before letting his gaze follow hers. The dark-haired woman—Christ, even in her low-cut dress and heavy makeup, she didn’t look more than seventeen—stood by herself by a tall potted palm, clearly trying to use the leafy fronds as cover. Turned in profile, Kellan could see the edges of an intricate tattoo scrolling over the back of her thin, bare shoulder, cascading out of view beneath the strap of her dress. Her lower lip seemed to have found a permanent home between her teeth, giving away her hesitation despite the openness of nearly everyone else in the room.

Of all the women at the party, she looked the most out of place, both scared and comparatively sober. Still, if she was
too
scared, she’d never talk to them. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Absolutely. That’s her. That’s our girl.”

Isabella looked up at him, her pretty brown eyes brimming with so much certainty that Kellan trusted his gut by trusting hers.

“Okay,” he said. “Do what you need to. I’ll follow your lead.”

J
ulian had seen
the woman in the red dress the second she’d stepped off the elevator outside the main doors of the penthouse. He’d been sitting in his private quarters in the security room, in the exact spot he occupied still, when he’d caught sight of her and her companions on the surveillance monitor for the main entrance. Under normal circumstances, Julian would have punished Charles severely for allowing in two guests who hadn’t been vetted. The word of that degenerate drug dealer with the penchant for the cheapest and most strung out whores on Julian’s payroll was less than worthless, the man’s tendency to lie back like a lazy pig while these women serviced him—usually in seven minutes or less, start to finish—equally so. These women were meant to be used, to be violated until they begged for an end and then fucked even harder for their weakness. Yet Danny Marcus was one of Julian’s few clients too soft to show these repulsive females what they deserved.

Julian swallowed hard, straightening his French silk tie over the disgust in his throat. Like everyone else, Marcus served a purpose. He was a somewhat reliable source for bringing in new, albeit low-end, merchandise, and for supplying the girls with the heroin that kept them so dependent, they’d do anything for their next fix. That was the sole reason that Julian allowed the wretched man to attend his exclusive gatherings.

And it was definitely why he didn’t have Marcus beaten into a bloody carpet stain for arrogantly bringing not one, but two guests with him tonight.

The woman in the red dress was striking.

She had a fire about her—the defiant lift of that chin, the quiet strength in the way she carried herself. She’d manipulated Charles easily, and hadn’t been ashamed to show her base desire for her companion in public, just as the rest of his guests did. She had spirit, this woman.

And that made Julian want to break her.

“The woman in the red dress who accompanied Mr. Marcus,” he said, the glow of the sixteen monitors in the main security office illuminating the space as he turned to raise an eyebrow at Vaughn. “Who is she?”

“No idea, Mr. DuPree. I’ve never seen her at a party before.” Vaughn straightened from where he sat hunched over his keyboard, shoving at the sleeves of his oversized hooded sweatshirt. Pulling up the video of the woman in the alcove, he watched her shamelessly kiss her goateed companion for a full minute before adding, “Pretty hot, though. From the look of the feed, she came to play.”

Much to Julian’s dismay, the ability to obtain clear audio to accompany the live feeds from the dozen or so video cameras strategically placed throughout the main rooms of the penthouse was still a work in progress. The private rooms were easier to accommodate with their smaller space and lack of background noise, and of course, Julian did. Perhaps he’d have a stroke of luck with his lady in red.

“Mmm.” Julian smoothed a hand over his suit jacket, admiring the feel of the hand-tailored wool for just a moment before pushing back from the surveillance desk to find his feet. “If she and our other mystery guest take a partner into a private room, be sure to record the feed. Audio and video.”

“It’s a little unusual for a woman to sign on for your brand of fun. No offense,” Vaughn added, a sheepish smile splitting the untamed stubble trying so valiantly to become a beard. “But hey, she looks eager enough. Maybe the guy with her will share her when he’s done.”

Julian’s heart pumped with the dark thrill of anticipation at the thought. To see such a woman dominated, fucked and then shared with one of his guests, or better yet, two at the same time.

Yes. Now
that
would be a sight. But first, he needed a safeguard.

“Run facial recognition on both her and her companion, if you would,” he said, buttoning his suit jacket and straightening the cuffs of his dress shirt until they were just so.

Vaughn lifted his dark head in a nod. “Might take a while to hit some of the bigger databases. Gotta keep our tracks covered, you know.”

Ah, but Julian appreciated meticulous work. As well as honesty. The wait was an annoyance, but overall, the spent time was inconsequential in the face of what he wanted. “Understood. Do it as quickly as possible and report back to me as soon as you get the results.”

“Roger that. You headed out to the floor, boss?”

Vaughn’s brows shot up toward his unkempt hairline. Julian could understand the man’s surprise. Much of the time he enjoyed the parties from his private viewing room, where he would no doubt retire soon enough.

But not yet. Not tonight.

Julian smiled, the gesture cold and cunning on his mouth. “We do have new guests this evening, Mr. Vaughn. It would be quite rude of me not to welcome them to the party personally, don’t you think?”

With that, he turned toward the door.

I
sabella set
her sights on the woman in the white dress, one million percent certain that she was the key to breaking this case wide fucking open. Although girl might be a more accurate description—God, she couldn’t be old enough to vote, let alone old enough to legally drink—her eyes told a story Isabella knew all too well.

This girl had seen things. Done things. Knew things. And if Isabella and Kellan played their cards exactly right, she just might be able to get her to talk about them.

She just might be able to keep this girl safe.

“This is going to be a tightrope walk,” Isabella whispered, but Kellan surprised her with a nod.

“Understood. I’ll keep eyes on the room while you talk to her. Looks like her current location is out of earshot of any other guests.”

“Copy that.” Setting her shoulders beneath the spaghetti straps of her halter dress, Isabella pressed her stilettos into the ornate and very expensive-looking area rug at the feet of the armchair she’d been perched on. She linked her arm through Walker’s, trying like hell to blank out the steel of his muscles beneath his shirt and suit jacket as she took slow, precise steps across the penthouse’s main room.

“Hi there.” Isabella stopped four paces shy of the woman, wanting to give her enough space to feel comfortable, but not enough to run. “My name is Isabella.”

The woman looked up, her black-coffee eyes darting from Isabella to Kellan and then back again before lowering back to the white marble floor tiles. “I’m Angel.”

“That’s a very pretty name.”

“Oh. Thank you,” she said, speaking more to her patent leather platform pumps than to anyone else.

Isabella tried again. “I suppose that explains your tattoo.”

Now that she was closer, she realized the ink on the woman’s shoulder depicted a curved line of feathers shaped into an angel’s wing. Not a small victory, since it likely meant Angel was her real name.

The woman nodded, chancing the slightest glance in Isabella’s direction. “Yes.”

Background chatter and pleasured moans from other party-goers filled the quiet between them as Angel fiddled with the silver chain at her throat, and damn, getting this girl to come out of her shell was going to take some doing. Not an easy task in front of all these people, one of whom had to be the man forcing her to be here.

Time to get more private.

Isabella smiled. “Well, Angel, my friend and I were wondering if you’d like to spend a little time with us tonight.”

Angel’s head sprang up. “With both of you? Like, together?”

Shit
. “We were just hoping we could get to know you better,” Isabella said. As if to underline her no-pressure request, Kellan let go of her arm to take a step back on the marble floor, putting a nice-and-easy smile on his face.

Thankfully, it seemed to do the trick. At least for now. “I’ve just never done it with a woman before. Not yet, anyway,” Angel said.

Isabella’s heart pumped faster with hope, but she waited out a few beats of the music before taking the opening. “So you’re new to parties like this?”

Please, please, let her not be too far in to try for a way out
.

Again, Angel’s eyes went wide, and she swung a look at the man over by the piano before stiffly moving toward Isabella and running an awkward hand over her shoulder. “Yes, but you don’t have to worry. I like to try new things, and I’ll do whatever you want. You wanna get high first? We could shoot a little H before I make you happy. I’m up for anything.”

Isabella shook her head, catching Angel’s hand with her own. The words were intended to be sexy, she knew. But they fell short of their mark like an overly rehearsed line from a B-grade porno, and Isabella felt Walker’s body go tense beside her.

She reached back with her free hand and squeezed his forearm to keep him—and maybe herself—steady. She couldn’t reject Angel outright. With all the cameras in this place, someone was bound to notice.

Isabella moved her hand to the girl’s shoulder, trying to make her touch as comforting as possible while keeping up pretenses. “You don’t look too happy to be here, Angel.”

“I could look happy for you, if that’s what you want.” Panic streaked over Angel’s face, and Isabella scrambled to regain what little ground she’d gained.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.” Angel chewed her lower lip, leaving streaks of dark red lipstick on her teeth. “I could…I could cry instead.” Again, her gaze darted toward the piano. “Some people like that. It turns them on when I cry. Or I can do whatever you and your man want me to. You’re the guests. I’m here to serve you.”

“No, no, no. I didn’t mean—” Isabella forced the emotion in her chest to stay the hell away from her face. Just because they were somewhat tucked away over here and Kellan had her back didn’t mean she could give her emotions any wiggle room. The job was more important. Always. “I only meant that if you’d like to take a break, we can go into one of the private rooms and just talk.”

“He’s always watching.”

“Excuse me?” Kellan asked from over Isabella’s shoulder, his voice soft with concern.

Angel tipped her head just slightly toward the man with the scar on his forehead, who was now roughly encouraging the blond in the blue dress to dance with a man who looked twice her age. “Franco keeps an eye on us girls from out here, but Mr. DuPree watches the private rooms with hidden cameras to make sure we’re doing our jobs. We’re not…” She paused for a wince. “We’re not really supposed to tell the guests that, though.”

Isabella’s stomach tightened. Damn it, she should’ve figured the bedrooms would be under just as much surveillance as the rest of the place. “That’s okay. We won’t tell anyone you said anything. You won’t get into any trouble.”

“Angel.” Walker kept his tone low, probably as much to keep from spooking her as to avoid being overheard. “Do you know if Mr. DuPree listens to what goes on in the private rooms too? Or does he just watch on the security feeds?”

She edged closer, although cautiously. “I don’t know. But he’s not watching because he wants to keep me or any of the other girls safe. He likes to see us work. The rougher, the better. You take me to a room and don’t fuck me or make me fuck you, he’s gonna be mad. And you don’t want to know what happens when he gets mad.”

“No, you’re right,” Isabella reassured her. “I don’t want that.”

Angel leaned in toward Isabella, her expression growing panicked. “So can we please just go fuck now? I promise I’ll try my best. I’ll do whatever you tell me to. Just don’t make him mad. He cut me off from my stash, and I…I need the fix, okay? Please.”

Isabella steadied her hands over Angel’s shoulders, but just barely. “Easy, Angel. Mr. DuPree won’t be mad. You don’t have to worry, okay?”

Taking a deep breath, she sent one last look around the space in search of a more private place to talk without being eavesdropped on or easily seen, but damn it, between the chance they’d be caught
not
screwing on video or overheard by one of DuPree’s lurking goons, talking here was too risky.

Isabella was going to have to talk to Angel outside of this penthouse if she wanted to get enough of a statement to go after DuPree. Plus, the longer she and Kellan stood here, the greater the chances someone would notice they were both still dressed and sober.

She closed the softly lit distance between her and Angel, putting her mouth close to the woman’s ear but stopping well shy of contact. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I do want to talk. If you’re not here because you want to be, I can help you.”

Angel stiffened, her chin turning in surprise. “How?” she asked, the flash of vulnerable hope in her eyes negating the toughness she’d tried to stick to the word. “You some kind of fairy godmother or something?”

“Or something.”

The girl’s dark eyes grew round. “You’re a—”

Isabella squeezed Angel’s shoulder, not hard, but enough to cut her words to the quick. “Friend, Angel. I’m just a friend.”

“I don’t have friends. Not anymore.” She looked across the room at the spot by the piano, where Scarface leered openly at the blond, who seemed far less sure of her balance and her surroundings than she had five minutes ago. “Rampage and Franco and Mr. DuPree made sure of that. Me and the others, we’re not even allowed to talk to each other most of the time.”

Isabella’s heart slapped at her sternum, but God, she had to stay steady. “Well, you can talk to me.”

“Yeah, right,” Angel said. “Like I got time for conversation. If I don’t start blowing your boyfriend in about fifteen seconds, Franco’s gonna come over here and backhand me into next week.”

“No one’s going to lay a finger on you,” Walker interjected, the vow quiet but fierce enough to make the back of Isabella’s neck prickle.

“We can’t talk now, you’re right. But you can come talk to me away from here. Would you like that?”

“Mr. DuPree will kill me,” Angel whispered, the look on her face backing up the fear.

But Isabella had had enough. “No, he won’t. Look at me, Angel.” The girl hesitated before lifting her gaze to Isabella’s, and holy hell, no one’s eyes should look so haunted. “If you come talk to me, I’ll keep you safe. We can get you clean, and you won’t ever have to go to a party like this again. I swear it.”