From Cape Town with Love (14 page)

If I'd been chasing anyone else, I would have ignored his cue. “You seen her or not?”

“Can't say I have.”

Now I was sure of it: He was speaking in code. I tried to keep my patience. “This lady you can't say you've seen . . . where would I find her?”

“Can't say that either,” he said with a convincing shrug. “Sorry I can't be of more help. But be sure to check out our selection in the rear.”

He went back to his chair to soak up the UV.

I began to doubt that I'd read the car salesman's meaning right, but I followed a gravel footpath to the rear of the building. The path had a steep incline, since the office building was higher than the makeshift car lot below. Behind the building, a bike covered in sand dust leaned against the storm fence between the building and the rocky cliff pressed behind it. The strip was narrow, without a blade of grass—never mind a living and breathing female. The windows were shuttered from the inside, and the rear door was locked. End of the line.

Sighing, I glanced one more time at my treasure map.
Let's see if you're Up to finding me.
Why was the word
Up
capitalized? Way too deliberate to be a coincidence, so I looked up. Beneath the dizzying blue skies, I noticed fire-escape–style stairs from the rooftop on the opposite corner of the building. The stairs were painted white to blend in with the paint.

Was that a piece of paper up high, waving at me in the ocean breeze?

My heart gave a tentative leap. I climbed up the stairs, which rattled enough to make me glad the walk was only two stories. At the top of the stairs, I grabbed the paper, which was anchored by a rock.
CAN YOU HELP ME
? the same handwriting said.

The modestly sized, flat rooftop was a makeshift beach-watching and hangout spot, with faded deck-style wood flooring and observation benches and a large umbrella facing the sea. I was only a few feet behind two lounge chairs side by side, their backs raised high. A few discarded Coke Zero cans were strewn near the stairs. From the rooftop, the shoreline stretched as far as I could see in either direction. The view of the water across the highway would have been perfect except for the large beach house smack at the center of the vista, far below.

“Hello?” I called.

Silence. Or did I hear a faint whimper? And R & B music playing
very low? It might be Marvin Gaye's “Sexual Healing,” or my horny imagination. Two steps, and I heard Marvin's familiar whisper:
Wake up, wake up . . .

“I'm glad you finally made it,” a hidden woman's silken voice said. “It starts to cool off up here before long, and then I'd really be in trouble.” Her voice came from one of the loungers.

I saw two bare brown legs first, one outstretched, one bent at a knee that glimmered with oil in the sun. The photo hadn't done my Mystery Lady justice: Her feet were small, with brightly painted red nails, but hard, not dainty. Exquisitely toned calves, and legs a mile long. She lived in the gym: Her body hadn't bloomed that way by accident.

When I stood over the lounger, I recognized her Victoria's Secret teddy—but she wore it in red to match her toenails. Her breasts were more impressive in the flesh, ripe and round, bare except for the nipples. It was hard to look away from her chest.

Her face was a disappointment only because it didn't unlock any memories. The new face was a hell of an improvement, but except for maybe the nose, it was hard to see high school Marsha in the lovely woman she had become. The acne was gone without a trace, and time had been generous to her smooth face, perhaps in compensation for her awkward high school years. Her hair was long and bone straight, almost the way Cher wore hers—a weave, obviously, albeit a good job. She wore reflective sunglasses that hid her eyes except for a glimmer of sea green that had to be contact lenses. She was strong jawed like Mike Tyson's ex, Robin Givens.

Her kind of beauty could be both a lure and a weapon. If she was my age, she didn't look it. She and Halle had the same timeless genes.

“What took you so long, Ten?” she said, smiling playfully.

My mind was slow to respond, deprived of blood flow after the sudden surge to my groin. As far as the Little Head was concerned, we'd already spent way too much time talking.

“Lousy directions,” I said.

“And yet, here you are.”

“Funny—you don't look like a car salesman.”

Without unclasping her hands from behind her head, she nudged away her sunglasses with her elbow, displaying her full face. Her eyes
were so large and striking, with or without contacts, and they seemed to swallow me. I longed to see their true color. The true window.

Her nose brought her surname back to me.

“Marsha Willis,” I said. “You played Lena Younger in
A Raisin in the Sun.”
Acne or not, I'd thought it was a shame to hide Marsha's face under so much stage makeup to make her look like Mama. Her face didn't stir memories, but her body, height, and voice seemed right. I hadn't known her well, but she'd been a sweet girl. And she'd been so determined to be an actress that she had routinely outshined more talented actors who were less motivated.

Her eyes sparkled. “Impressive. I knew you were the right man.”

I showed her the
HELP
sign. “What's this about?”

With a mischievous grin, Marsha shifted position to bring her hands into view, her wrists bound in handcuffs with red, feathery padding. “I'm afraid I'm in a bind, Ten.”

I expected to hear the denim in my jeans rip. I don't want to complain, but men who are well endowed have a tough time in close quarters. It's a curse, but I suffer in silence.

“First things first,” I said, trying to keep my brain power switched on. “How do you know so much about my life? Are you with SecureGuard?”

“You have to
make
me talk, Ten.”

“Too bad I left my waterboarding kit at home.”

“You're wearing a belt, aren't you?”

Not for long, I hope.
I lifted my T-shirt so she could see my leather belt and its copper belt buckle. From her appreciative smile, she was happier with what she saw beneath it.

I yanked off my belt with fluid speed, and it snapped against the chair, close to her shoulder. Clutching the heavy buckle safely in my palm, I twined the aged brown leather once around my hand for a firm grip, pulling it taut.
What's she up to . . . ?

“So . . . ,” I said. “Are you my guardian angel?”

“Guardian, maybe. Angel? Don't count on it. How's Chela?”

“She's great. Now tell me why you care.”

Her eyes swallowed me again. “Make me.”

My belt flew in a blur, snapping against Marsha's bare thigh. Marsha didn't flinch or blink; she had flawless control of her reflexes. Her smile
was engraved on her face. “Is she still Chela to you? Or do you call her Lauren?” she said.

Even my father didn't know Chela's given name, which Chela had confided to me right before I went to Cape Town. Chela was only her street name.

The
SNAP
was louder, and Marsha recoiled from the belt's sting. Wouldn't leave a welt, but it had to burn. Marsha's fixed smile broke, giving way to a fresh one—surprise and delight. She thrust her chest out, as if in reward. “I like you more all the time,” she said.

“How do you know so much about Chela?”

Marsha's eyes narrowed with defiance. She shifted her position on the lounger, one hip down, the other thrust high, offering me more skin. Her eyes watched me, anticipating. My fingers twitched on the belt. Hurting women isn't my thing, but nothing turns me on more than giving a woman exactly what she wants.
SNAP.
The belt bit into the meat of her back thigh. Lots of nerve endings. Marsha hissed, closing her eyes as she squirmed.

“How do you know Chela?” I said again, speaking slowly.

“I run a security company, Ten. Trust me, I know a lot of things.” My biography shined from her eyes. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Start with Chela.”

Marsha hesitated, not hiding her teasing smile. “My memory's a little foggy . . .”

SNAP.
The belt found her right buttock, jiggling a strip of firm flesh. Her ass was slick from oil, which brightened the pain.

Marsha's face glowed, ecstatic. “I remember now . . . Lauren McLawhorn, from Minneapolis. Struck out on her own, getting into trouble. Until she met Tennyson Hardwick.”

I was so startled, I lowered the belt. “Go on.”

“You shared an . . . employer. And you were Chela's black knight. Although I'm surprised you left your mutual friend free to do business. You could have sent that old bitch to rot in jail.”

My mouth went dry, and my erection was fading fast. I glanced around the rooftop, and for the first time I noticed a high-powered camera with a tripod at the far edge, pointed toward the beach. I almost hadn't seen the camera behind the beach chair and umbrella shading it. Marsha
might be a photography buff, or she might be in law enforcement; I was beginning to fear the latter. And she'd brought me right to her. The day's colors were changing.

“What's this about?” I said.

“My chest this time,” she said, puffing out again. Her breasts bobbed in the teddy.

“That's gonna hurt.”

“It better.”

LASH.
I gave her what she wanted. The belt must have grazed her nipple, because she whimpered and sat ramrod straight.
“Shit,
that's good,” she gasped, wide eyed, as if she'd just snorted a line of fine Colombian.

“Keep talking.”

“I saw your name when you registered with SecureGuard, I remembered it from high school, and I got curious. I know people, and I did some checking. There was some guesswork, but you'd be surprised by how much information is out there—even when it's supposedly expunged. About you. And Chela. And your mutual old lady friend. That's the part I still haven't figured out—did she give you a finder's fee to keep you quiet?”

“I know everyone makes mistakes. Even old ladies.”

“Like sending fourteen-year-old girls to do things you wouldn't want to see?”

There was more than a ring of judgment in her voice, and I took a step back. Marsha's body suddenly looked like the dangerous weapon it was. “You want to arrest Mother, go ahead. I won't shed any tears. You don't need me for that.”

Marsha laughed. “Oh, please. You think I'm a cop? That's cute.”

“What, then?”

Marsha pointed to the belt. “Try my ass again. That was nice, too.” She lay on her stomach to present her lovely brown buttocks, so shiny that they reflected the sunlight. Her ass was a ripe dark cherry, parted by the red teddy's thong.
Be careful what you wish for,
I thought.

LASH.
I was a tad careless with my strength, so I knew that last blow would leave a welt. Something to remember me by.

“Yes!”
Marsha cried. “Damn, you're good. Again?”

“Not until I hear more.”

Marsha pretended to pout. “I'm in security, plain and simple. It's my job to know things, and you're my new hobby. It's nice to see an old friend doing good things.”

“We were never friends.”

She smiled. “We're friends now, aren't we?”

“Depends on what you want.”

“It's not rocket science, Ten. I want to fuck.”

She splayed herself in the lounger with her ass posed high in the air, her eyes calling to me. Since I was no longer worried about arrest, blood rushed back into my groin so fast I thought it would explode. Dangerous sex used to be my favorite pastime; consequences always seem meek from a distance.

I gave her a last lash across her ass, more softly this time. Then I tossed the belt away. “What about Joe-Bob the Car Salesman downstairs?” I said.

Marsha laughed. “Forget about him. But remember his advice.”

“What advice?”

“Think about it,” she said, flipping over to massage my crotch with the heel of her foot. Her practiced pressure alone was enough to lock my toes. “It'll come.”

“Oh, I remember now,” I said, unsnapping my jeans to be free of the binding. With my briefs and T-shirt off, if I walked a few yards closer to the edge of the roof, I would have been flashing the motorists.

I sat beside Marsha on the lounger and whispered into her tiny ear: “He told me to be sure to check out the selection . . . in the rear.” I slid my hand across her ass, where hidden muscles flexed beneath my touch. She smelled like the coconut oil she had doused herself in to give her skin its irresistible shine. My finger toyed with the strip of satin nestling her crevice.

“Two can play that game,” she said, plying her bound hands between my legs, slippery fingers sliding past my testicles. Feathers from her handcuffs tickled me. She found her spot, and suddenly a single sturdy index finger plunged past a ring of muscle. I gasped, my breath trapped in my lungs when my body tightened around her, so rigid I could imagine snapping her finger off.

Most guys would rather cut off their own finger than allow a sexual partner to explore with hers, but a woman's touch is a woman's touch. I had given up my squeamishness during my working days, when my lady clients taught me the secret of prostate stimulation. Marsha knew how to work her finger around. Her nail must have been cut short, because all I felt was pleasure.

Still sliding her finger inside me, Marsha cradled herself over me and slipped my shaft between her lips, welcoming me with an endless throat. I would choke most women who tried, but Marsha could have been a circus act. I closed my eyes, my mouth open wide. I thought the loud wail from a nearby seagull was mine.

The cascading sensations of pressure and moistness from front to back were devastating. Marsha worked her finger back and forth, up and down, side to side, and her tongue mimicked her finger's motion as she stroked me with her mouth. My hands were claws against the lounger's edge. I hadn't felt anything like it since . . . since . . .