Slave to Love (15 page)

A soft female voice behind him stopped him dead in his tracks. “Hello, Mick.”

He whirled, unable to believe his ears. Blood rushed blindly to his head. He fought to regain his composure, praying the darkness hid his shock.

“Hello, Lauren. What are you doing here?” His first coherent thought was that he'd kill Jeff Cody if this was his idea of a joke. Then his brain cells re-aligned and he remembered Lauren Adams had left the LAPD, and L.A., right after he did. “I thought you moved to Oakland.”

“Among other places, but I'm back,” she said. “For almost two months.”

“I heard about what happened after—” He decided not to go there. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Not you, of all people.” She sized him up and down in the murky light. “You're looking good.”

His gaze sought out the contours of her face. The face that nearly ended his career before it had begun. Same round lines, same pretty brown doe-eyes, same soft, pale cheeks that had regularly bloomed black and blue back when she'd worked as his partner, now pristine peach.

Imagine, seeing her here where they’d started out, after all this time. Lauren was the one who had talked him into coming when the club first opened, on a lark. Neither of them had anticipated how much they’d enjoy the dark sexual lifestyle of the place. Seemed she couldn't shake the past any more than he could.

It suddenly occurred to him he should be real careful what he said, for many reasons.

“Who's your friend?” Lauren asked, her gaze straying to Caro, who had been strangely quiet, leaning against his arm. He was holding her hand in a death grip, and consciously loosened it, fearing he might be crushing her fingers.

“This is Caro,” he said, slipping his arm around her. He decided to forestall any awkwardness by adding, “We're living together.” To his relief, Caro snugged up closer to his side, playing along. “Baby, this is Lauren.”

Caro smiled but remained submissively silent.

Lauren tipped her head, taking in every detail of the two of them. “You've changed, sugar snap.”

He had no choice but to agree. A whole lot of things had changed since they'd last seen each other. And more were on the way.

He eyed her hour-glass figure arrayed in a tight spandex outfit. “You haven't.”

“I hope he treats you well,” she said, turning to Caro.

Caro gave her a little smile in return. “Oh, yes. He only beats me when I'm very naughty.”

Horrified, he stared at her, and Lauren went white as a ghost.

“Did he like to tie you up, too?” Caro asked in a breathy, innocent voice, startling him out of one shock and right into another.

Lauren hesitated a second before replying, “He was more into handcuffs when I knew him.”

“Really? Maybe we could—”

Jesus H. Christ.

Mick grabbed Caro's arms and pointed her toward the door to the next room before she could do any more damage. “Look, we have to go.”
Holy shit, what did she think she was doing
?

Lauren laid a hand on his arm. “Mick, we need to talk. Are you still—”

He cut her off before she could blow their cover any higher out of the water. “Call me tomorrow. You know where to find me.”

***

Caro let Mick hustle her through a beaded curtain into the next cave-like area of the seraglio. It was obvious Mick's mind was still on the woman they'd just left behind. Who the hell was she, and why did his eyes suddenly look so haunted?

“Lauren was nice,” she remarked, trying desperately not to think about how the woman was probably some former lover of his. Or maybe not so former. He'd asked her to call him tomorrow.

“Yeah.” Mick's mouth clamped shut.

“Well,” Caro said, eyeing him coolly. “So much for your lofty promises,
sugar snap
.” 

“I need a fucking drink.” He dug in his pocket for a twenty, held out the bill to her and glanced around. “Go get us something at the bar, would you, baby? I'll find a tabl—” Her words must have finally sunk in because suddenly his brow creased. “What promises?”

She plucked the twenty from his fingers, already regretting her irrational statement. “Not important.”

He gripped her wrist before she could escape, all attention. “What are you talking about?”

She shot him her most quelling female glare. “Your promise never to look at another woman while we're sleeping together.” She lifted her chin. “But then, it's a moot point because we're
not
sleeping together. Now, if you'll just release me—”

They were attracting attention, so he pulled her stiff body into his arms and murmured, “Jesus, Caro. She's my ex-partner. I didn't have sex with her then, and I don't intend to start now. We'll talk about this later.”

“Nothing to talk about.” She extricated herself from his embrace and waited patiently for him to unclip her leash, which he reluctantly did—at his end. “None of my business, anyway.”

“Of course it's your business, but we'll talk about it later. Right now I want that drink.”

She might have forgiven him, so great was her annoying relief that he and the petite, auburn-haired beauty weren't lovers, but he smacked her butt as she headed for the bar in the corner of the room. She barely resisted whirling to smack him back. Damn, she hated that.

Helpless to retaliate on either score, she swallowed her temper and went for drinks, twisting the end of her leash in her fingers. Fucking bastard. He had her completely tied in knots. What was it about the Iceman that made her think there was anything at all under that infuriatingly frozen exterior worth the bother of melting through it?

She shivered. Yeah, there was something under there, all right. Those haunted eyes had confirmed it. The question was, did she really want to find out what?

After placing her drink order with the wait-slave behind the bar, she leaned her back against the leather-padded counter and concentrated on calming her stormy emotions.

The room was similar to the last one in that it was done up in faux-harem decor, complete with low tables, Turkish pillows, incense, and a light, artificial fog creeping along the plushly carpeted floor. On the raised stage in the center of this room, a woman was chained by the wrists to a Saint Andrew's cross, face to the wood, her clothing in a careless pile on the floor.

She was being flogged. With an implement that looked identical to the whip hanging at Mick’s side. So that’s what it was.

Caro blinked, wincing when the multiple strands of the leather flogger snapped against the woman's near-naked back. She writhed, moaning in apparent ecstasy. Yikes. What was with that? Surely, the woman couldn't be enjoying such treatment?

Banking her distaste and curiosity for a time when she could quiz Mick or Tim about what made these people tick, Caro continued her survey of the room.

It had atmosphere, she had to give it that. Between the fog, the music and the costumed, languishing spectators, she could easily imagine herself a real slave in some time warp or parallel universe where decadent sultans still reigned and held private parties where guests were free to indulge their taste for the subjugation of women.

No, that wasn't fair. She'd seen nearly as many male as female “sacrifices” at the club, and therefore it wasn't something specifically directed at women. It merely disturbed her more when it was her own sex. Probably because for most of recorded history it had been women forced into subservience to men, and still was in many parts of the world. As a modern woman struggling for equality in her own life, she was probably over-sensitive to the issue.

Caro turned to observe the woman on the cross again, watching her wriggle and undulate in apparent pleasure with each crack of the thin leather strands against her back. Every melodic sigh and moan bespoke that the woman truly
liked
what was happening to her.

And with a start Caro suddenly realized she'd gotten it totally wrong.

It wasn't the man getting off on whipping the woman, at all. It was
the woman
getting off.

Caro fiddled with her leash, feeling nothing but a vague queasiness at the thought of being whipped for her own pleasure. Yet, the woman bound to the St. Andrews cross was obviously deep in the throes of a very powerful fantasy being played out up there on stage. Just as the man shackled to the wall out front had been.

A purely sexual fantasy.

Nothing to do with violence or abuse.

Caro jumped when the wait-slave tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. “Beer, tequila and red wine, right?”

She nodded, willing her heart to slow its racing. She didn't know why the revelation had her so panicked. It wasn't as if she was the one up there acting out her most secret fantasies for all to see. Not that they'd involve flogging, even if she were.

So, what
would
they involve?

Licking her parched lips, her eyes sought out Mick, who was comfortably settled on the floor next to one of the small, stubby tables. Leaning back on a fat pillow, he was watching her while he talked to a man reclining on the other side of the table.

It was the security man from the entrance.

Her elbows almost slipped off the bar.

Stay calm.

Her mind whirled, fantasies forgotten. Had Mick pegged the security man as a suspect? Or... Or had the security man sought them out, hoping Mick would make good on his threat to give her to him....

He wouldn't dare.

Not if there was a chance the man could be the killer.

She swallowed down another lump of irrational panic. No, not under
any
circumstances. Mick
couldn't
give her to anyone. She wasn't his to give. This whole situation was just a performance. A masquerade. She wasn't really his pleasure slave and didn't have to do anything she didn't want to do. And being given to anyone but Mick was definitely
not
one of her secret fantasies.

She wiped an unsteady hand over her eyes. Of course, after the incident with the beautiful Lauren, maybe she shouldn't mind being given away.

Oh, hell.
This was ridiculous
. She had to get her focus back on the job, not her own personal relationships and hang-ups. Obviously the security man must be a suspect.

She motioned to the wait-slave. “Do you have Coeur de Diable champagne?” she asked him, recalling the M.E.’s note that the victim women had it poured over their bodies.

“Sorry, no.”

Disappointed, she added another beer to the tray of drinks he was finishing up for her.

And shook her head over the sadly declining state of her sanity.

***

Neither Mick nor the security man lifted a finger to help when she approached. They remained where they were, sprawled on their respective pillows, watching her juggle the tray as she knelt to place it on the table without tripping on her leash, running her stockings or spilling the drinks all over the place in the process. Not that she wouldn't dearly love to accidentally aim that shot of tequila at some appropriate bit of male anatomy.

She was proud of how she kept her eyes respectfully lowered as befitted her slave status. She would
not
be irritated with Mick, even knowing he was enjoying himself to no end at her discomfort. No doubt he saw it as sweet revenge for all the attitude she'd given him today. Cosmic justice sucked.

“Thought you went to Mexico for that tequila,” he commented after she managed to unload the tray without mishap.

“No, Sir,” she said, striving for just the right note of reverence in her tone, “but I did make the bartender go fetch the kind with the worm in the bottle. I know how much you like that earthy taste.” She smiled demurely.

His lips didn't even twitch when he answered, “And you will be appropriately rewarded for your diligence.”