Slave to Love (28 page)

For some reason, the image of Lauren lounging in her white teddie flitted through Mick’s mind. The woman was definitely a sick agent, dressing herself and her friend like that. She bore careful watching. But first things first.

Keeping to the shadows and the wall, he slowly prowled through the maze of small, crowded rooms, searching for the stage where he’d find Jakob Robbins and his depraved sideshow.

Deep in the darkened bowels of the very last den, on a black-draped stage against blood-red walls, he was rewarded.

Jakob was wiry and muscular with light, military-short hair. Dressed in olive camouflage pants and no shirt, in his hand he held a huge hunting knife, obviously razor sharp. He bent to his task with steady concentration.

His blindfolded victim was tied wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew’s cross, his back to Robbins. It was a man.

The top of the man’s back was already scored with bright red cuts carved into his skin in a chevron pattern. Thin rivulets of blood dripped and dribbled down from the slanted lines, pooling in the waist of his white boxer shorts.

The crowd was hushed, rapt.

Mick felt his stomach lurch.

He turned away, gagging, and sucked down a gulp of air to clear the bile.

When he turned back, there was a tall man standing next to him. A man dressed just like him—right down to the black executioner’s hood.

A punch of sick recognition slammed through Mick’s body, nearly bringing him to his knees.

The man in the mirror.

He was older, more grizzled, more tattoos. If possible, with a nastier expression smeared across the visible half of his face.

But there was no doubt who it was.

Mick felt an anguished scream start deep in his entrails, leaping to strangle the breath from his lungs.

He throttled it savagely.

“Well, if it ain’t the whore’s little mama’s boy,” the man drawled in the familiar smoker’s voice that grated against Mick’s soul like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Tryin’ to pass for a man.”

For a brief, horrifying moment he regressed to a cowering six-year old, grappling the wall behind him for support.

“What are you doing here?” he managed to croak.
He had to get hold of himself
. Everything, his whole future, depended on what happened at this meeting.

The man sneered. “Been lookin’ forward to this moment for a long, long, time, boy-o. Twenty-five years, to be exact.” His malevolent gaze studied Mick snidely from head to foot. “Gotta say, I never figured you’d wanna be just like me.”

That made two of them. On both counts. Quelling the shiver in his limbs, Mick forced himself to stand tall. And confront the monster who had spawned every nightmare he’d ever had, and not a few daylight horrors.

“That’ll be a cold day in hell, Dad.” He set his jaw. “A real cold day in hell.”

Chapter 18

Caro counted to thirty forward and backwards, twice, as she moved her body to the beat of the pulsing music, shooting death glares at the velvet curtain Mick had disappeared through twenty minutes earlier. What the hell was he
doing?

She didn’t know what was worse, her anger at being locked up against her will in this preposterous cage, or her fear that Rick would talk Lauren and Rebecca into leaving with him and they’d end up in some Pasadena bedroom, dead.

And here she was, powerless against both situations.

“Hey, honey, why don’t you spread those sexy legs of yours and let me see what you’ve got?” a business-suited man standing at the foot of the cage called up to her over the loud music.

She sighed through gritted teeth. She was pretty sure Rick was Smythe. But was Smythe the Teddie Killer? Likely, but not by any means certain. She was stuck here until Mick deigned to return, so her best course of action was to continue working the case. Which meant dealing with all potential suspects. Including the asshole groping at her leg.

“What would you do if I did spread them for you?” she called back.

He leered up at her. “I’d stick my fingers up your cunt and rub your pussy until you come. Then I’d lick your juices off them one by one.”

How creative.

Thankfully, also not the killer’s MO.

She leaned down in the cage so only he could hear, her breasts threatening to spill onto his spellbound face. “You should be more careful, big guy. What if I have a terrible disease?” She winked.

His change of expression was priceless. Needless to say he scurried away without another word. She resumed her dancing.

After deflecting—generally with outward flirtatiousness—several more indecent male advances that didn’t fit the killer’s profile, it occurred to Caro that these sex games were no fun with anyone but Mick. She didn’t want to flirt with or provoke or enflame anyone but him.

With Mick, pushing the envelope of sexual behavior excited her. With other men, the thought of doing those things turned her stomach.

But she was here to attract a killer’s attention, not to enjoy herself. So she continued to flaunt her body and move sinuously to the raucous techno-rock blaring through the club, running her hands over her curves and making eye contact with every man who approached her. She learned several names, discounted nearly all of them.

Cody was across the room sitting at the bar sipping beers, and had been watching her intently the whole time. She’d tried subtly to motion him over a few times, so she could tell him about Smythe, but either he hadn’t understood or he’d ignored her signals. Nevertheless, it was good someone was catching her back. God knew, Mick was taking his sweet time in the seraglio. It was over half an hour he’d been gone.

She slipped into annoyance, thinking about the arrogant Detective McGraw, then realized with a start that a man lingered next to her cage, just outside her peripheral vision. His hand smoothed over the back of her leather skirt, his touch so light it took her a moment to realize what he was doing.

“Did you get my invitation?” he asked in a low, cultured baritone.

She whipped around and met his eyes head-on. They were clear, shrewd, confident.

“The business card,” she said, instantly alert, but cautious not to appear too eager. “With the website address.”

He nodded once.

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “My Master and I have never tried...beeswax candles...before,” she said, deliberately using the password Peter had discovered on the hidden web page. “What can we expect at the Tether Club?”

The man smiled. His appearance was amazingly non-descript—average height, average build, average coloring—except for that Cheshire-cat smile. It spoke volumes. “You can expect an experience unlike anything you’ve ever done before.”

“Such as?”

He gestured around them. “Brimstone is merely children’s games and dress-up. At The Tether Club, we have the genuine article.”

The way he said “
the genuine article
” made a shudder snake down Caro’s spine. She wondered what he meant by it. Brimstone seemed pretty damn real to her.

She bit her bottom lip, disregarded the blast-off of her pulse. “We’d like to give it a try. What should I do?”

The smile widened. “Excellent. The festivities start at ten p.m. tomorrow night.” He paused. “By the way, there is a dress code.”

“Oh?”

“Appropriate formalwear for Masters and onlookers. Collars and shoes for slaves.”

“With any kind of dress?”

His eyes slid over her. “You misunderstand.
Just
collar and shoes. Nothing else.”

Shock rocked through her. “As in, naked?”

“This is a Male Dominant/female submissive event. How better to show off that dynamic?” Then he smiled and walked away, dissolving into the crowd. In an instant he’d disappeared completely.

No clothes ?

Oh, God. No way.

Not a chance in hell.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She was so
not
going to that party tomorrow night nude.

“Are you all right?” a masculine voice said from below.

She popped open her eyes. It was Cody. “Uh, yeah.”

“You look upset.”

Shaking off her embarrassment, she gave him a wry smile. “No, really? What could I possibly be upset about?”

“Oh...” He stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced up at her almost shyly. The poor man didn’t quite seem to know where to look. His gaze skimmed up her bare torso, which by virtue of the cage being suspended a couple of feet above the dance floor was poised at eye-level, did a quick circuit over her barely-there leather bra, then lifted his gaze to hers. Thank goodness he couldn’t see up her skirt. “I guess that depends on how you feel about Mick,” he said.

“In general or right now?” she asked with a snort.

He shrugged. “You tell me.”

There was just enough space in the cage to drop to her knees, which she did so she was nose-to-nose with Cody. That way they wouldn’t have to raise their voices above the music. Much. She clutched the iron cage bars and he stepped closer, grasping them right below her hands. His handsome face was gentle, placid, his expression filled with calm concern. For some reason it unnerved her.

“Cody, I need to talk to Mick. Do you know where he is?”

“Is there something wrong? You have a suspect?”

“I’m not sure. I—”

Just then a drunk in his underwear lurched up. “Hey, beautiful! You interested in—”

“Get lost,” Cody said loudly, searing him with an intimidating glare. “I’m talking to the lady.”

“Okay, okay,” the drunk muttered, and backed off.

Cody returned his attention to her. “You’re not sure of...?”

“I think Rick the security guy is Rodney Smythe.”

He took in a breath of surprise. “Rick?”

“He’s wearing heavy make-up, and that long hair’s a wig. Under it, he looks just like Smythe’s prison photo. I’m certain it’s him.”

Cody whistled. “I’ll have him picked up when he leaves the building.”

“He might be with Lauren and Rebecca. You know, Mick’s old partner and her friend? He introduced them, and I’m worried—”

Cody’s eyes widened. “My God! You don’t think—”

“Two women aren’t in the Teddie Killer’s MO. But who knows what Smythe has in mind...and they’re wearing those stupid white teddies.” She shook her head. “Just asking for trouble.”

Cody scanned the room for a few seconds. “Speaking of which—” He leveled his gaze on her. “Was that really you and Mick this afternoon? What in God’s name is going on with you two?”

She felt her cheeks heat. Seeing the story of their window sex splashed all over the TV news hadn’t been nearly as awkward as facing the friends and cops she respected. Julio had been aghast this afternoon when she’d run into him at the station. He’d been convinced Mick had drugged her, or somehow otherwise forced her into compromising herself. When she’d confessed she’d enjoyed what she and Mick did, a strange expression had come over Julio’s face. Really strange.

Sort of like Cody’s now.

“Yeah, it was us,” she said, feeling the pulse of the room’s strident music in her throat.

Cody grunted. The smell of the dancers’ sweat and perfume and the sound of their pounding feet swirled around her.

“Whose idea was it?”

“His.”

Cody’s voice moved to a low rumble in her ear. “Did he tie your hands?” he asked.

She closed her eyes, leaned into the bars. Closer. “Not that time. He blindfolded me.”

Warm breath wafted over her cheek. “You were naked?”

“Yes.”

“And him?”

“Just a cock-ring.”

Cody groaned softly. “And he fucked you in front of the window, but you had a blindfold on so you didn’t know.”

“He made me take it off and count the people watching us.”

“How many?” Cody asked, and suddenly she realized his hands had moved up to cover hers as they grasped the iron bars of her cage. Her spilling décolletage brushed the cotton of his T-shirt and her nipples tightened. “How many?” he repeated.

“Sixteen.”

Deep inside her, the hidden toy came to life with a sputtering vibration, then continued as a steady hum in her slick passage. Caro tipped her head back with a moan. “He’s watching us,” she said.

“Mick?”

“Yes, Mick.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“I belong to him.”

“He’s using you.”

“We’re using each other.”

“He’ll leave you.”

“Eventually.”

“You don’t mind?”

She opened her eyes and gazed at Cody. “I don’t have a choice.”

“About what?” It was Mick’s voice, coming from behind her.

“About loving you,” she replied, and Cody’s lips thinned.

The cage door swung open and Mick hoisted himself up through it, pulling her to her feet, filling the tiny confines of her prison with his towering body and powerful presence. He’d taken off his executioner’s hood and tucked it under one of the latigo straps of his chest harness. His hair was disheveled and his eyes blazed with fire.

Inside her, the vibrator buzzed excitedly.

His arms came around her, his hands covering her breasts, squeezing. “Tell him,” he said from behind her, glaring down at Cody.

“I love Mick,” she said.

He squeezed harder. “Tell him again.”

“I love Mick,” she said with a gasp. “He’s my Master and I’ll do anything he asks.”

The hidden capsule had settled low, right against her G-spot, tightening her muscles in a steady throb of pleasure. She wriggled against Mick, hungering for his touch in her secret places.

“Ask him to share,” Cody growled.

Mick laughed huskily. “Why should I?” He turned her in his arms, pulled her close and kissed her hard.

His hands sought her bottom, slipped under her mini-skirt and kneaded her bare flesh. She rubbed up against him, feeling the steel ridge of his erection press into her belly. She was aware a crowd was gathering, pointing at them and whispering, but she couldn’t help herself. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Long and wet and lustful.

When Mick broke the kiss, Cody was gone. But the crowd was gathering closer, and she heard their names being passed around in hushed tones along with bits of the news report.

She didn’t care. “Turn it off,” she murmured, her legs starting to shake.

“What?”