Rough Draft: Big Easy (7 page)

She pulled his hand away from her mouth, wheeling on him. “You scared the fuck out of me, you jackass!”

He gestured toward the body. “You were a little preoccupied.”

“Gee, ya think?”

Jett shushed her, his voice lowered. “I’m sorry I scared you, but I didn’t want you to scream. The killer could still be around here.”

Leave it to Jett to see a dead body and think completely rationally. “Writing those murder mysteries has left you twisted. That poor man has been killed!”

He grimaced. “Yeah. I see that. But I’d like to make sure we don’t end up the same way.”

She swallowed heavily and nodded. When she spoke again, she made sure to whisper. “I get that. I just…I’ve never seen…”

Jett wrapped her in his arms, holding her tight. She didn’t bother to deny to herself how safe she felt there. “I know. It’s okay.”

Twisting slowly, she stayed close to him as she looked at the dead man once more. She steeled herself for what she would see, then recognition dawned.

“Jett. It’s—”

“Gregory. It looks like he pissed someone off.”

She nodded slowly. “From what I could tell, he pissed off everyone in the dungeon tonight. You and me included.”

Jett tightened his grip on her, keeping his arms wrapped around her waist, her back pressed to his chest. “Yeah. But there’s a difference between wanting to kick a man’s ass for being a prick and
this
. Someone really had it in for the guy.”

Carissa shivered, her body trembling roughly. “It got cold out, didn’t it?”

“Shit. No. It’s still warm. Come on. We need to report this, then get you a stiff drink and into bed. I think you’re going into shock.”

She tried to laugh. She wasn’t the kind of woman to flip out over much of anything. “I’m f-fine.” No doubt her reassurance would have sounded more convincing if her damn teeth hadn’t started chattering.

Jett wrapped a strong arm around her and escorted her back to the castle quickly. Once there, he led her to the front desk where he requested to see the manager.

“Is there something wrong?”

Jett nodded. “Yes, there is. It’s vital that we talk to the person in charge.” Carissa noticed he didn’t tell the clerk about the dead body. Maybe he’d decided it would be better to report the murder to the manager.

The clerk studied them closely, taking in Jett’s scowl and Carissa’s trembling. Then he picked up the phone and quietly spoke to someone on the other end. Jett was surprised when the man instructed them to take the elevator to an office on the top floor. “The master of the island is expecting you.”

Jett and Carissa got on the elevator, their movements almost mechanical. She was starting to feel like a zombie.

“Master of the island?” she whispered.

She and Jett had discussed the rumors surrounding the billionaire recluse who owned Eden. The man was a bit of a celebrity, despite the fact very few people had ever seen him. On the rare occasions he had been spotted, he was always wearing a mask that hid his face, which, of course, encouraged the tabloids to splatter the covers of their rags with fresh rounds of speculation regarding the man’s appearance, his disdain for society and what skeletons he was hiding in his closet. Over the years, rumors had included everything from accusing the man of being a murderer on the run to a Russian spy to a recluse like Michael Jackson.

When they arrived at the door, Jett lifted his hand and knocked. A deep voice bid them to enter.

Carissa squinted in the dimly lit room. The curtains were drawn, keeping out any light that would have been provided by the moon. A single candle illuminated the large office, which meant they were essentially standing in the dark.

A rustling sound came from one of the corners and Carissa could just make out the silhouette of a man sitting behind a desk.

“Is there a problem?”

Jett had taken Carissa’s hand before they entered the room and he hadn’t released it. She was grateful for it now when she heard the master’s deep, gravelly voice.

Jett remained where he was rather than attempting to move closer.

“There’s been a murder.”

If they’d expected some sort of alarm or concern from the man, they would have been disappointed. “I see.”

Carissa waited for him to ask more questions, but none came. She took a small step forward. “We met the man who was killed, tonight in the dungeon. I believe his name was Gregory. Someone tied him to a lounge chair, stabbed him, cut off his—” She stopped, embarrassed.

“Someone cut his cock off and stuffed it in his mouth,” Jett finished for her.

Again, the master remained silent for several moments. Then he lifted the phone on his desk. “Roan? I need to see you in my office immediately.”

Jett frowned. “Shouldn’t you call the cops?”

The master didn’t move. Carissa was tempted to take another step toward the desk, curious about the man, his face, his over-the-top need for complete privacy. Jett must have sensed her intention because he clasped her hand tighter and held her back.

“There isn’t an official police force on the island. I have a security team who deals with any issues that arise. Sadly, the head of that team is stranded in Miami. A rather nasty storm front has moved in on the East Coast. It’s halted air travel to and from the southern part of Florida and my man isn’t able to get back. At least not for a day or two. Maybe more.”

“But there’s a murderer on the island!” Carissa was unnerved by the man’s utter calm.

“That is unfortunate.”

Carissa started to blast the man for his callous attitude, but before she could speak, there was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” the master commanded.

Roan stepped into the office. Like Jett, he stopped just a few feet inside the door, not venturing any closer to the man behind the desk. “You wanted to see me?”

The master raised his hand to Jett, clearly indicating he wanted him to explain. Jett efficiently recapped their evening, telling Roan about Gregory’s murder, where the body was, and the way the man had been killed.

“You know this man, Roan?” the master asked.

Roan nodded. “He’s a guest on the island. Arrived today. I was leery about letting him play in the dungeon, but his father is a highly positioned foreign diplomat and he had proof of membership in an elite D.C. sex club. I let him in against my better judgment and had him escorted out an hour later. I suspected you’d called me up here because he had lodged a complaint. Didn’t expect to hear he’d been murdered.”

The master slowly tapped a pen on his desk, the light pounding the only sound in the silent room.

“Um, hello? A man has been killed. And even if he
was
a gigantic prick, it’s a little more than ‘unfortunate’.” Carissa’s tone was downright hostile, but she was annoyed by the utter lack of compassion in the room.

“I apologize if I seem cold, Ms. Pierre. However, it is imperative that we handle things carefully tonight. As I said, everyone on this island is essentially stranded here until the storm passes. I would prefer not to start a widespread panic should the guests realize there is a killer amongst them. Do you understand?”

Carissa nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Roan, please have three of the security guards retrieve the body. Tell them to be careful when transporting it, so they don’t compromise any of the evidence.”

“Where should they move the body?” Roan asked.

“To the infirmary. I’ll call Dr. Magdalene and inform her they’ll be there shortly.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Roan started to leave, but the master called him back.

“Roan. One moment. How many people saw you kick Gregory out of the club tonight?”

Roan considered the question. “There were three, maybe four members at the exit when I had my men escort him out.”

“Did Gregory go quietly?”

Roan shook his head. “He was shouting, cursing, threatening to have me fired.”

“Then you’re a suspect.”

Roan didn’t seem surprised or bothered by that fact. “I suppose I am.”

“I’ll take care of that issue. You may leave.”

Roan bowed his head before leaving them alone with the master once more.

Carissa shuddered slightly. She was starting to feel as if she were in the middle of a
Godfather
movie. She kept waiting for the master to peel off some Mission Impossible-style mask to reveal himself as Michael Corleone, ready to give someone the kiss of death.

She snorted, covering her mouth quickly. Unfortunately, it was too late, her brief laugh completely inappropriate for the situation. She looked over at Jett, who appeared confused, but amused, by her untimely giggle.

The master—mercifully—ignored the sound. “You are a crime writer, Mr. Lewis. Is that correct?”

Jett nodded. “Yes.”

“I suspect you’ve conducted research on the criminal mind, studied the details surrounding murder scenes and the like to help you write your novels.”

“I have.”

The master stood, walking to the curtained window behind him. Carissa found herself hoping he would draw the heavy material back to allow some of the moonlight to hit his face. He didn’t.

“I intend to hide the fact there’s been a murder. When life goes on as normal tomorrow, when no crime is announced, the killer will realize we’ve covered it up. He will be suspicious of anyone who is a member of my staff and therefore on guard. You and Ms. Pierre said you met the victim in the dungeon tonight. It appears Gregory made quite a spectacle of himself there, so perhaps that would be a good place to launch an investigation. We need to sniff this man out.”

“Why do you keep referring to the killer as a man? Gregory had his,” Carissa hesitated, then said, “penis cut off and stuffed in his mouth. That feels like a crime of passion to me. The work of a woman scorned.”

The master seemed to consider her assessment, but Jett shook his head. “Gregory was a large man. I can’t imagine a woman would be able to overpower him and tie him up that way.”

“Maybe she got him in the chair under the ruse of a sex game.”

“Gregory is a Dom, Rissa. Unless you’re suggesting he was a switch.” Jett appeared to be wavering. “If that was the case…”

The master cleared his throat. “It’s a theory worth investigating. Would you and Ms. Pierre be willing to do a bit of undercover work?”

Jett said, “we’re not detectives,” at the exact same time Carissa asked, “In the dungeon?”

Jett flashed her an exasperated look, but she ignored it. Carissa was oddly excited by the prospect of playing detective. She’d been reading Jett’s novels for years and was a huge fan of murder mystery television shows.

Jett crossed his arms. “Listen, I would like to help, but—”

“We’ll do it,” Carissa replied before Jett could refuse.

“Rissa. I’m not about to put you in a dangerous situation. You saw the way that man was murdered. This isn’t fiction. The threat is very real.”

“How can you just stand by and let a killer go free? What if Gregory isn’t his only intended victim? This murderer could have it out for anyone associated with BDSM or…” Carissa’s tired mind was suddenly whirling again as she spied a way to distract Jett from his sudden, inexplicable interest in her. Maybe a murder investigation to knock out some of this intense, sexual tension between them.

Jett tried to reason with her, but she could have told him she was too far-gone for that. “If it were just me, Rissa, I’d be first in line to help, but—”

Carissa put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you dare go all macho on me, Jett Lewis. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and you know it. If you try to pull that chivalrous, protecting-the-little-woman bullshit on me, I swear to God, I’ll smother you in your sleep tonight.”

Jett narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. Carissa had to resist the urge to take a step back. He’d never used his size to intimidate her until this moment. And now that he was, she had to admit he was definitely scary when he was angry.

“You won’t be able to smother me if I strap you to the bed and keep you there the rest of the week.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

He tilted his head, his expression far too smug. “You were in the dungeon with me tonight, Rissa. I made it very clear there’s nothing I’d like more than to tie you to my bed and have my wicked way with you. Don’t worry, though. I’d make sure you weren’t bored.”

For the first time since she’d entered the room, she found the master of the island the lesser threat. She turned, searching for the man in the shadows. “I’ll help you uncover the killer’s identity. With or without Jett’s help.”

Before Jett could protest or contradict her, Carissa left the room. She’d spent the last couple of hours worrying about how to hold Jett at bay until they returned home and came to their senses. Jett had used kisses to distract her from her fear of flying. Now she was going to sidetrack him from his pursuit of her with a murder investigation.

“Dammit, Carissa. Wait.”

She didn’t have much of a choice. The elevator hadn’t arrived.

“You’re not going to change my mind about this, Jett.”

Jett rubbed a hand over his jaw, dark circles under his eyes proving the lack of sleep was catching up to him as well. They were both running on empty. “Rissa—”

She leaned against the wall. “Can we table this conversation until tomorrow? I’m so sleepy.”

Jett grinned tiredly. “Yeah. That’s fine. But I’m not going to change my mind.”

The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside, pushing the button for their floor.

“Neither am I. You need this, Jett.”

Jett frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Doing some undercover work on a murder investigation may be just the trick to get the wheels in your brain turning again. It’ll put you back in the right frame of mind and jar loose whatever it is that’s keeping you from writing.”

“You think we should both put our lives in danger so that I can start writing again?”

She nodded. “Yep. That’s exactly what I think. Let’s face it, you haven’t exactly been yourself lately. You’re depressed, in a slump and nothing’s helped. Not your family, not sex—don’t even tell me you haven’t tried to use that as a cure—or even this vacation.”