AtHerCommand (8 page)

“What kind of work do you do?”

Calvin collected his muddled thoughts. “Uh, I’m a director
at the State Department. I work with a lot of top-secret information. Stuff I
really can’t talk about.”

“Okay.” Suzi lifted her hands from his neck. “Now, I’m going
to apply some massage oil, if you’re not allergic.”

“No problem,” he managed to say, when what he wanted to do
was ask her to return those talented hands to his body.
Damn.
Maybe if
he could pretend Suzi was a chiropractor, he could enjoy the benefits of this
massage without remorse. Yeah, that was going to happen.

Thanks to the extension supporting his face, Calvin couldn’t
see what she was doing. When warm liquid was dribbled across his shoulders, he
jerked slightly.

Suzi chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. “I’m sorry. The heated
oil is supposed to be a nice sensation.”

He relaxed again. “It is. I guess I’m not used to this type
of massage. The only ones I’ve ever had were in college when I played football.
And this massage is very different.”

She spread the oil in circles, encouraging his bunched
muscles to relent. The scent of the lotion, an intoxicating mixture of
sandalwood and other spices, filled his nostrils. Calvin inhaled deeply.

“Is this massage different as in good different or bad
different?” Suzi asked, sounding anxious.

She was leaning over his upper back, pressing and rubbing.
He thought he could feel the slightest tingle of her breath on his skin and the
sensation had a rebellious part of his body growing taut. His sex drive had
been comatose since Pam’s death. This was a helluva time for it to show signs
of life. Calvin shifted slightly and was glad the table was well padded.

“Good different,” he admitted.

“That’s great.” Suzi trickled more of the warm oil down to
the small of his back, following it with her clever hands. After being sandwiched
for days in the car, his muscles practically purred.

“So, where did you go to college?” she asked.

“Cornell.” He was amazed she’d given up so easily on getting
details about his government job. “I majored in political science.”

“Plan on running for president someday?” Suzi teased.

Calvin laughed, the sound rusty. He hadn’t found much to
laugh about since his wife’s prolonged illness and passing. “No. I’ll leave
that to the glory-seekers and the saints.”

She worked the oil into the small of his back, sliding her
fingertips under the top of the towel wrap. At first the tension clung
stubbornly to his muscles but then her careful kneading loosened the knots. The
sensations were wonderful, sinful, and Calvin experienced the familiar guilt.
How could he still be alive, enjoying life like this when Pam was dead? Suzi’s
voice broke through his thoughts.

“Do you have a family?”

“I’m a widower. No children,” he said in an abrupt way he
hoped would discourage further questions.

“Oh I’m so sorry.”

Calvin was surprised at how sincere her words sounded. He’d
received his share of hollow condolences over the years but this woman’s quiet
sympathy struck a chord within him.

Neither spoke as Suzi continued to work. He heard her open
the refrigerator-like box and then she was laying hot towels across his neck
and back. He sighed again as the delicious heat soaked into his body.

“So, what’s with those Redskins?”

Calvin snorted at her blatant attempt to lighten the mood
and she laughed aloud.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re a Ravens’ fan?” Suzi said.

“Bite your tongue,” he answered, immediately regretting the
image that brought to his mind. He had no business imagining this woman’s
tongue.

She laughed again as she poured the lotion down his left
arm. Suzi smoothed the oil, massaging the muscles on the back of his arm before
lifting his limb to spread the liquid onto the front. He tried to help her by
raising his arm. Suzi stopped and admonished him.

“You’re tensing up that way. Just let me handle the weight
of your arm.” She propped his arm over one hip. “See, I can brace you like this
and still reach your whole arm.”

Calvin, trying to ignore the press of her trim body against
his skin, attempted the self-hypnosis he’d learned at Quantico. He made an
effort to relax his entire body from the top of his head to his fingertips and
toes. Again, one very independent part of his anatomy ignored the signal to
chill out.

Suzi slipped the cooling stone from his left palm and gently
stroked his hand. It was beyond stimulating and Calvin gasped at the intensity
of the rush.

“The human hand is chock-full of nerve endings.” Suzi worked
each finger. “Perfect for acupressure.”

She completed her ministrations on his left hand, walked
around the table and worked on his right arm. Calvin was floating, the way he’d
felt when he’d gotten a shot of muscle relaxers after his football injury. The
feeling was great.

“So, we’ve exhausted the topics of politics and sports,”
Suzi said. “Would you like to talk about the weather?”

Hidden within the doughnut extension, Calvin’s mouth curved
in a smile. This woman’s cheery attitude was contagious.

“Tell you what, before you ask about my favorite color and
my sign, why don’t you tell me about yourself,” he suggested.

“I have enough trouble keeping my clients awake during a
massage without boring them with my life’s story,” she said.

Completing his right arm and hand, Suzi placed another
heated stone in each palm and covered his upper limbs with hot towels. He felt
cocooned in warmth. Then she dribbled massage oil on the backs of his thighs.
The movement of her hands on his flesh so close to ground zero had the warmth
morphing into something hotter, something wrong. He shifted away from her
stroking hands.

“Sorry, I’m a little ticklish,” he lied.

“No problem. Let’s try this instead.”

She began to lightly strike the muscles of his thighs with
the side of her hands, a chopping motion that shouldn’t have felt as good as it
did. Then Suzi used her elbows to press down into cramped calf muscles, which
gave way in relief under the gentle assault. Despite his efforts not to, Calvin
kept imagining her leaning across his lower body, her firm breasts inches from
his skin. His thoughts turned the non-sexual deep massage sensual.

“Damn.” He had no right picturing another woman’s breasts.
Calvin realized he’d muttered the curse aloud when Suzi hesitated mid-chop.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he reassured her. “I was saying it feels damn good.”

She continued to massage his legs, ending with an
application of hot towels on his lower limbs. Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed
the tension in his third leg. He couldn’t remember the last time his body had
functioned with such disdain for his mind.

“Now, the
piece de resistance
.” She exchanged hot
towels for the cooling ones on his neck and back. “I’ll go easy since you’re
ticklish.”

Moving to the end of the table, Suzi drizzled warm oil down
the sole of his left foot. He bit back a groan and tried to steel himself
against the pleasurable ordeal. If she stroked her fingers from heel to toes,
Calvin was afraid he might levitate off the table. Instead, she used her thumbs
to press into the tendons and muscles of his foot. It was as close to an orgasm
as he’d gotten in years. Disgusted, he reproached himself for his lack of
control.

Without speaking, Suzi worked his left ankle and loosened
his Achilles tendon. When he was about two seconds from moaning aloud, she
switched to his right foot. Nothing in Calvin’s FBI survival training had
prepared him for being tortured with such physical pleasure. Maybe this was how
the woman got her information. Turn the customer into a quivering mass of nerve
endings and then pump him for top-secret data.

But she wasn’t asking any questions. In a somnolent daze, he
heard her walk away from the table and then return. Suzi removed the warm
towels covering his body—all except the towel wrap around his waist, which he
doubted he could have stopped her from taking if she’d wanted, given his
semi-conscious state. Slowly, she worked his arms into what he realized was the
terry-cloth robe and then settled the soft garment against his back.

“Suzi’s super-duper, special massage is over.” She spoke
close to his ear, sending a residual tremor through his muscles. “Don’t feel as
if you have to hop off the table though. Just get up and dressed when you’re
ready.”

As he tried to rally his muscles for the effort of sitting
up, he heard her moving around the room. From the sounds, he assumed Suzi was
preparing the room for her next client. When she turned on the faucet in the
bathroom sink, Calvin forced himself out of his prone position and attempted to
stand. His bum right knee threatened to buckle but he held onto the table until
he felt steadier.

Except for one insistent part, his body resembled a wet
noodle. Damn, where was the self-control he prided? Before Suzi could return
from washing her hands, he closed the robe and tied the sash. Then taking
cautious steps, he walked over to the dressing area and changed into his
clothes.

Suzi hadn’t pursued his top-secret bait. Well, he’d just
have to come back in a couple nights and give her a second chance. But that
meant getting another massage. His hands stilled in the act of buttoning his
shirt.

Calvin felt a tidal wave of guilt over the fact he’d even
entered the sex club. Having another woman touch him, being turned on by that
touch, was a betrayal of his dead wife. But his FBI job was all he had now. So
he’d complete this assignment and move on to the next one.

Calvin finished buttoning his shirt and sat down to pull on
his socks and shoes. He’d discover who was passing classified information to
foreign governments and arrest them. If he had to visit Suzi—experience another
incredible massage—to accomplish that goal, so be it. And with dogged
determination, he ignored the wave of anticipation that shimmered through him
at the thought of visiting the sexy masseuse again.

Chapter Eight

Suzi slid into the cracked vinyl booth and set her tray on
the sticky tabletop. The smell of grease and cheap ketchup permeated the place.
Why had she agreed to meet Dalton for lunch at this greasy spoon? Sure, the
Catholic University area dive was well away from the precinct but the food was
targeted toward students with a craving for saturated fat and mystery meat. The
veggie submarine sandwich she’d chosen was the least offensive item on the
menu.

She glanced at her watch. Dalton was late. Not surprising
given the double homicide he and his temporary partner Howie Weinberg had been
working since the weekend. They’d probably had only a couple of hours sleep a
night since Saturday. Jason’s funeral was the only break Dalton had taken from
the case.

Suzi took the lid off her Styrofoam cup of coffee. It wasn’t
Starbucks. She stirred in powdered creamer until the coffee was mocha brown.
The color reminded her of Calvin’s broad, muscular back, powerful arms, large
hands…

Stop it.
Suzi commanded herself to put all thoughts
of her sinfully attractive customer out of her mind. But it was hopeless. She’d
been daydreaming about the man since she’d seen him in a towel wrap the evening
before. She’d admired his yummy body and then she’d had the great good fortune
to run her hands all over that tempting flesh. It’d been the first time since
she’d gone undercover at the club she’d forgotten to wear gloves while giving a
massage. Suzi had almost been sorry—the operative word being “almost”—that he’d
requested a straight massage without the “happy ending”.

She sipped the coffee and tried not to picture Calvin’s
dark, serious eyes and full lips. With the amount of beefcake at the cop shop,
she should’ve been used to virility on the hoof. But there’d been something
different, something so appealing about her customer despite the unhappiness
surrounding him like a shroud. His unwillingness to discuss his late wife was
probably just the tip of a large, emotional iceberg.

Unwrapping her submarine sandwich, she wrinkled her nose in
distaste. The edge of the lettuce was turning and the tomato slices looked
mushy. Maybe on her way to the club she’d pick up a tofu pita from the vegan
takeout on Pennsylvania Avenue. Or maybe she’d stop by the Korean barbecue on
25
^th
before her shift started. Of course, there was always the
tapas-to-go joint on Connecticut Avenue. Suzi made a face.
Or maybe
concentrating on food is just a way to distract myself from another kind of
hunger.

Disgusted, she pushed away the sandwich and sighed. She
would not break her promise to herself. The next man she slept with was going
to be “the one”, her happily-ever-after guy. Calvin might be the hottest thing
since peanut butter and jelly but the Suzi Cho moratorium on casual sex would
prevail.

“What’s wrong?” Dalton’s voice had her jerking her head up
in time to see him slide into the booth across from her. He set his tray on the
table. “Find a cockroach masquerading as a mushroom in that sandwich?” he
teased.

“Even D.C.’s insect life is giving this food a pass.” She
grimaced toward the oily grilled cheese sandwich and fries on Dalton’s tray.
“Of course, the joint does have a stellar view.”

Dalton glanced out the grimy window at the exhaust fumes
partially obscuring the Burger King across the street. “Yeah, and I really like
the interior design—particularly the fly strips by the takeout window,” he
agreed with a laugh.

Suzi looked at the dangling, fly-studded sticky paper and
lost whatever remained of her appetite. She pushed her plate farther away and
gave Dalton the once-over. The dark circles under his eyes resembled bruises.

“Heard about the double homicide,” she said. “Any leads?”

“Better. We got the jerks who shot them.” Dalton gave her an
abbreviated version of his last three days spent chasing down the killers of
two street punks. Drug-related deaths like this double homicide were all too
frequent in the nation’s capital.

“How’d Howie work out?” she asked, wondering what Dalton had
thought about being partnered—even temporarily—with the wiry, irreverent
detective.

Dalton shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “He’s a good cop.”

Suzi could almost hear what Dalton wasn’t saying,
But
he’s not Jason.
As she watched, he took a big bite of his grease-shiny
sandwich. It was plain he didn’t want to elaborate on Howie’s trial assignment
as his partner. She sipped her coffee and let the silence lengthen. He’d bring
up the sex club investigation when he was ready.

Thinking of the club brought her mind back to Calvin. Suzi
glared into her coffee. Man, she had to start dating again. Someone nice,
someone who might turn out to be her soul mate. Sure her customer was a nine
point nine-nine on a scale of ten but she wasn’t working at the Xecutive Branch
to meet guys. Still, there was something about Calvin…

“Earth to Cho.” Dalton’s words brought her out of her
thoughts and Suzi looked up to see him staring at her.

“Sorry, I was just thinking about this customer I had at the
club last night,” she explained. “He’s a widower who just wanted a straight
massage.”

“Poor old coot is probably lonely,” Dalton said.

There was nothing “old coot” about Calvin. Suzi nodded
however, deciding not to correct her friend’s assumption. But Dalton’s comment
made her wonder if loneliness was the reason Calvin had chosen to join the club
versus going to a licensed therapist for his massages.

“Speaking of the club, how’s it going?” he asked.

“I’ve got a good grasp on the masseuse job,” she punned.

While Dalton groaned, she took a document out of her
backpack-style purse and handed it to him. He made an effort to wipe his slick
fingers on the cheap napkins before taking it.

“Here’s a copy of my report to Captain Bennett,” she
explained. “It includes a rough layout of the club’s interior and a list of the
employees I’ve met so far.”

“Uh, have you met Mistress Bella?” he asked without looking
up from the document.

Suzi suppressed a smile, amused by Dalton’s blatant interest
in the dominatrix. It was such a departure from his love ’em and leave ’em
ways. Since meeting the detective, she’d seen him with shapely airheads and cop
groupies but never with a strong, intelligent woman. Thanks to Jason however,
Suzi had learned Dalton wasn’t the shallow sex-hound he appeared. He’d even
been engaged once to a paralegal until the woman had informed him she was in
love with a coworker. According to Jason, this hadn’t been the first time his
partner had been screwed over by a female. But Dalton was determined it would
be the last.

“Yes, I met your dominatrix,” Suzi said. “She introduced
herself as Domino. But she likes to be called Dom for short. She seems really
friendly.”

Dalton made a noncommittal noise and continued looking
through her report. Grinning, she took a note out of her pocket and passed it
across the table to him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Dom’s license plate number. Thought you could use it to
track down her address.”

Excitement flickered in Dalton’s eyes for a second before he
shuttered them. “Thanks. I’ll let you know what I find out. Anything else I can
do for you?”

“The captain’s assigned a couple of rookies to research the
employees but for now, he’s not having anyone but the owner Victor Xavier
staked out.” She pointed to the report. “Once we get some background on the
staff, you could check out what they’re up to before and after their club
shifts.”

“Sounds good,” Dalton’s eyes were on the note with Mistress
Bella’s plate number and not on the report.

Suzi coughed to cover a laugh. There was no doubt which of
the club’s employees Dalton would be checking out first.

“Listen, I gotta get some real food before my shift so I
better peel out.” Suzi slid across the booth and stood. “Promise me you’ll
catch some Zs before diving into this club research.”

Dalton rolled his eyes. “Sure, Mom, and I promise not to eat
glue or run with scissors.”

“Smart-ass.” Suzi grabbed his ear and twisted it until
Dalton yelped. Laughing, she walked out of the greasy spoon.

* * * * *

Domino sat in the Burger King booth across from Meyers, who
was filling her in on a crack cocaine case of hers he’d taken over when she’d
gone undercover at the club. Drinking a large Coke, she tried to ignore the way
he talked to her breasts instead of her face. She doubted he expected them to
answer but Meyers couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. With a sigh, she wished
yet again her boss had assigned a different agent as her partner, maybe someone
with a modicum of respect for women.

She wasn’t wearing her dominatrix getup. The T-shirt and
jeans she’d thrown on that morning were a little tighter than her standard
office attire but the clothes didn’t warrant the type of scrutiny Meyers was
giving them. She
really
hated it when guys—especially her male
coworkers—couldn’t see past her body to her mind. Would she have to keep proving
she was more than a set of double D cups until she was old and wrinkled? Of
course, by the time she was old and wrinkled, she’d probably be a double D
long. Dom frowned at the mental image.

She looked across the mustard-spotted table at the man who’d
skated around sexual harassment charges for years. While some female agents had
welcomed Meyers’ advances, Dom couldn’t have been less interested. It wasn’t
that he was ugly, at least not on the outside. Tall and muscular, he had
reddish hair and hazel eyes. But his personality thoroughly turned her off.

Meyers was wrapping up his report, still talking to Dom’s
chest. If the burger joint table hadn’t hidden the man’s lower torso, she’d
have been tempted to address all her conversation to his fly. The thought
almost made her smile. But the jerk would probably be thrilled to have her
check out his package.

“Where’s Smokey today?” Meyers asked, his gaze finally
rising and meeting hers. “Has he sniffed out any bad guys?”

“He’s resting at my house. So far the DEA’s wonder dog has
uncovered three recreational drug users on the club’s staff and a suspicious
plate of brownies in the break room fridge.”

Her partner laughed, an unpleasant sound that grated on her
nerves. “So, tell me about the Mistress Bella gig,” Meyers said. “I bet you
look hot in leather.”

“I get to cause men a lot of pain and suffering,” Dom said,
ignoring his leather remark. “What’s not to like?”

“You’re a laugh riot, Petracelli.”

“Actually, Mistress Bella is more of a scream but my
tickle-fetish customers get a good laugh out of their sessions.”

Dom could tell her words had dragged Meyers’ thoughts away
from his speculation on her sex club clothes. Now maybe she could get some
information out of the horse’s ass.

“Listen, you’ve read my e-mailed reports on this case and
there’s nothing new,” she stated, her voice cool and professional. “So what do
you have for me?”

He frowned at her abrupt change in demeanor but answered.
“Well, we think there might be a link between Victor Xavier and the Cabazone
family. New York’s going through their wiretaps right now.”

Dominique considered Meyers’ news. The Cabazone crime family
was synonymous with drug trafficking so a connection with the sex club owner
was believable. The New York DEA office had been wiretapping the Cabazones for
several years. A check of their phone transcripts just might provide a lead.
Heck, Victor’s voice or that of one of his lackeys might be on the DEA’s phone
recordings.

“The cops have Victor staked out.” Meyers rolled his eyes.
The agent’s disdain for local law enforcement was well-known in her DEA field
office.

“Makes sense,” she replied. “Jason Walters goes undercover
at the club and suddenly ends up dead. It’s not surprising they’re checking up
on the club’s owner.”

“Yeah, well, I bet Victor’s already made the cops. I doubt
he’s too worried either.” Meyers swished a cold fry through a puddle of ketchup
on his tray. “The guy has enough money to hire an army of crooked lawyers for
the next twenty years. The cops won’t make anything stick to that asshole.”

“What are our guys doing while the police are watching
Victor?” Dom asked.

“We’ve got the club’s loading dock under surveillance,”
Meyers answered. “When we spot a suspicious shipment, we’ll page you.” The
agent pushed an envelope across the table to her. “Here are several tracking
devices. When we page you, check out the shipment with Smokey’s help and put
one of these suckers in the box. We’ll track the drugs to their destination.”

Dom slipped the envelope into her purse and glanced idly around
the fast-food restaurant. No one in the Burger King was paying her any
attention but her senses suddenly hummed. She looked out the window and watched
a man exit the Catholic U student lunch dive across the street. She only caught
a glimpse of him before the tall, dark-haired man disappeared behind the row of
delivery trucks double-parked down the block.
Dalton?

Dom squeezed her eyes shut and wondered if this sighting
were real or a wishful figment of her imagination. It’d been over a week since
Dalton had been Mistress Bella’s first customer and she was still thinking
about the guy.
Damn.
After this assignment was over, she was taking a
singles’ cruise for some feel-good, no-strings-attached sexual gratification.

“Domino.”

She opened her eyes and looked into Meyers’ impatient face.
Obviously, she’d missed something he’d said. “What?”

“Do you remember the pager code for a shipment arrival?”

“Sure. It’s 7734.”

Written out and turned upside down, 7734 spelled “hell”. It
was an example of Meyers’ sophomoric humor but she had to admit it made an
easy-to-remember code.