One Wrong Move (47 page)

“Are you animal enough for me, Miles?” she crooned.

“I’ll try,” he said, coming closer, to stroke the smooth globes of her ass cheeks. Taut, round, perfect. She wiggled, parting wider.

“Fuck me hard, Miles,” she ordered him. “Now.”

He yanked the plastic cuffs out of his sock. Shoved her facedown against the desk. She squawked as he snagged her hands behind her back, fastening them, ratcheting them tight.

She shrieked, flopped. “No!” she shrieked. “No, I don’t like it that way, you bastard! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

No!
”

She was very strong, but he gritted his teeth, hanging on to his mind shield with grim desperation as he bore her down to the floor. He planted his weight on top of her while he cuffed her feet, and hooked her hands and feet together. It was as uncomfortable as hell, and he hated doing it, but he had to immobilize her. Buy them some time.

She twisted, shrieking obscenities. Attacked with her mind, too. The strangling snake squeezed, and he thought his eyes would pop out of his head from the pressure by the time he’d dragged her across the floor and fastened her to the radiator. She sobbed, wailing incoherently. Her hair had come loose, spread like a bright fan across the floor.

It was the most distasteful, horrifying thing he had ever done, and when he stumbled to his feet, his legs shook beneath him.

He groped in his other sock for the knife, and knelt, as far from her as he could, hacking two long strips of taffeta off the bottom of her skirt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she spat.

He wadded up the piece of cloth, stared at it, stared at her, and decided, what the hell. Nothing to lose by not asking, at this point.

“Where’s the B dose?” he asked.

The blankness on her face made his heart sink. She stared at him with her mouth open. “My God! If I knew that, would I be here, peddling my mind and my tail for these pig-fuckers? If I knew that, I’d be the queen of the fucking world! You ignorant jackass! Who are you, anyway? Are you with Arbatov? With that Christie bitch?”

So much for that. “Never mind. Where is Lara Kirk?”

“Lara? Why are you asking about her? What does she have to do with anything? Who the fuck cares?”

“I do,” he blurted incautiously, and instantly cursed himself for it. He could get the poor chick killed with his big mouth. Better shut her up fast, and himself as well. He was making things worse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and tried to stuff the gag into her mouth.

She jerked away. “I’m going to tell everyone how you cuffed me, and beat me, and raped me! After they find me here like this, they will believe me! You will go to jail and rot there, you sick piece of
shit!
”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“No? Miles, honey, do you see that hair stick? On the carpet?”

He looked, saw it. “What of it?”

“When I get loose, I will hunt you down, and fuck you with it.”

“That’s nice.” That sentiment gave him the oomph he needed to jam the gag in, but she still writhed away. Just not done with him yet.

“You won’t be able to stop me, and you know why? Because you’re a pussy! I smell it, see? Nicey nice guy! No balls at all! I bet Cindy’s out somewhere this very night, on her knees, taking it hard from behind from a guy who has what she really needs!”

“Huh,” he said drily. “Yeah, probably.”

“You don’t even have the balls to kill me like a man, do you?”

“Nope, I sure don’t. Shut up.” He pinched her cheeks until her jaw yielded, stuffed the fabric in, tied the other piece over it, as tightly as he could stand to tie it. Fucking awful. He surveyed the results, uneasily. He’d heard horror stories, of people dying accidentally in stupid sex games from gags. Big suffocation hazard. Her wrists were bleeding. That sickened him. He didn’t want to hurt her, not even if she meant to bugger him with a sharp stick when he least expected it. Hmm, tasty thought to ponder as he drifted off to sleep. Perfect for taking his mind off his love troubles. Along with the maddening question of whether or not he had balls. But she seemed to be breathing OK.

He was done here. He could not do any better or any worse than this. He backed away, staring at the blazing hatred in her eyes.

He shut the door, listened at it for a moment. Could not stand to stay there one more second. Or even walk down the corridor like a normal person. He kept breaking into a shaky, stumbling, panicked run. His legs so shaky, they threatened to dump him onto his face.

He spied a restroom and bolted for it, hanging over the sink for ten minutes, washing his hands and his face, over and over.

It was true, what she’d said. He was a fucking pussy. Toughen up, lamebrain. He could not fall apart like this. Could. Not.

He lifted his head, stared into his own face in the mirror. Dead grayish pale, dripping with water from his obsessive washing.

Eyes haunted, like he’d seen the shambling horrors of the crypt.

Which, in effect, he had.

It occurred to him, some grasping instinct for self-comfort, that the only possible experience more disgusting and soul-killing than tying and gagging a screaming, weeping, unarmed woman—

if you didn’t count the mind-raping—would be tying and gagging a screaming, weeping, unarmed woman after having fucked her.

But he hadn’t. At least that.

Still, he had to wash about twelve more times before he could bear to leave the bathroom.

. . . cow should know when to lay off the Botox . . . plastic doll . . .

. . . was looking at me, oh, God, he was really looking at me. . . .

Nina strolled through the room while speeches droned on. She brushed everyone as she passed, the lightest mind touch she could manage, but her head still pounded, after letting a stampeding herd of smug philanthropists trample through it. Or maybe it was the specter of imminent death that was making her neck muscles stiff. She must have tapped everyone in the place, but she must have missed someone. There had to be someone here who knew something. Had to be.

. . . like to drag that dress down until those titties popped right out
into my hands, and then bend her over the table . . .

That lascivious thought had been aimed at her. She recognized her red dress, though she herself was unrecognizable through the man’s eyes. She glanced back, caught a hot-eyed guy chugging a glass of whiskey, eyeing her boobs. So exhausting.

Didn’t they have anything else to think about? Being invisible had been simpler. She missed it.

She’d have thought that the minds of the super-rich would feel different from the minds on the New York subway, but it was all the same obsessions, desperations. Sex, sex, more sex. Stress about money. Larger amounts, but the anxiety was the same.

They worried about cheating spouses, or they were the cheaters worrying about getting caught. They were angry about failing marriages, terrified their kids were doing drugs, scared of their medical diagnoses. Some felt smug. Some trapped. Some numb.

Most felt scared.

And she was in a daze, forgetting what she was trying to accomplish. Her eyes snagged upon Thaddeus Greaves, shaking the hand of the guy who’d just fawned all over him at the podium, going on and on about Greaves’s amazing awesomeness.

She studied his smiling face. Helga had mentioned his name, but she had not said to go to him for help. But for God’s sake, why not? What did she have to lose, at this point? She reached out again with her mind, feeling at random.

. . . how long until they find out about the money I took . . . got to
make more money we’re a family now . . . can’t go to jail . . .

She pinpointed the balding guy, smiling as he poured a glass of something for his pregnant wife. She touched the wife’s mind.

. . . can’t tell him the baby isn’t his . . . would break his heart . . .

Ouch. She moved away from those two, quickly. The speeches were over. The band began to play. She pulled away, scanning for Rudd or Anabel or Roy. Dug the strip of paper out of her bosom, visualized Miles’s dialog box. She visualized typing the password in.

The screen in her mind changed, and a printed message scrolled swiftly down before her astonished mind’s eye.

Third column behind bandstand.

Hurry.

Been waiting 4fuckingever.

Wow. Miles’s system worked. She hurried, casting out for Aaro.

She sensed him, but could not read his thoughts beyond a certain distance. When she caught sight of him, she jerked her chin toward Miles’s column, and made a beeline through the dance floor.

Aaro caught up with her as she slid behind the column, and pulled her into a tight hug. “No luck?”

She shook her head. Miles leaned on the wall, looking exhausted.

“You OK?” she whispered. “Where have you been?”

“Hiding from Rudd. I’m persona non grata now.”

“Did she breach your shield?” Aaro asked.

“Only insofar as she knew I was up to no good. She thinks I’m drug enhanced, too.”

Nina studied his face, his haunted eyes. “Where is she?”

“Cuffed and gagged in an administrative office upstairs,” he said wearily. “Freaking awful. She didn’t seem to know about the B dose. Although I’m no telepath, so she could have been lying.

I’m sorry I didn’t find any answers for you. I got squat.”

Nina patted his arm. “It’s OK,” she murmured. She faced Aaro, bracing herself for a fight. “I’m going to go chat up Greaves now.”

“No, you’re not.” His response was automatic, and predictable.

“I have to try to read that guy, Aaro,” she said.

“I told you.” His voice was low and savage. “He wants to fuck you.”

Big whoop. Him and about a hundred and fifty other guys out there.

She bit back the unwise retort. “He’s not likely to do so in the banquet hall in front of a thousand donors to the Greaves Institute Fund.” She adjusted her bosom, propping and fluffing for maximum bulge. “You said today my tits could get us killed.

Let’s see if they can save the day.”

“What about your promise? What about our addendum?”

“I’m not going to have sex with the guy!” she said tartly. “And I did not solemnly swear never to flaunt my boobs to another man with an ulterior motive as long as we both shall live! Lighten up a little!”

“Hah,” he said grimly. “Looks like I need to get a little more specific with the language in the vows.”

“Sure, if you like, but not until after I talk to Greaves. OK, here goes. I’ve never done anything like this in my life, so wish me luck.”

“Luck?” His voice cracked with outrage. “What the fuck con-stitutes luck in a scenario like this? Attempted rape?”

“Calm down, Aaro,” she soothed. She scurried out into the room before he could organize his resistance.

Serendipitously, Greaves had left the dais, and was strolling through the banquet hall on a trajectory she could easily intersect. She felt Aaro’s anger and unease blazing behind her, a silent shout of protest. She forged stubbornly on. She was doing this for them both. He just had to swallow it.

She tilted her head back, stood as straight and tall as she could, imagining the gray fuzz shield falling down off her like a cloak. It felt counterintuitive, to seek attention with Rudd on the prowl out there, but she’d had no luck so far just slinking around.

Greaves eyeballed her, and changed his course, his face lighting up. “Hello! I saw you at the meet and greet, and I’ve been looking for you ever since,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Moro,” Nina told him. “Leslie Moro.”

“Ms. Moro.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, and stared for a moment at the network of scabs that covered the back of it.

“Wow,” he said. “Did you have a fight with a thornbush?”

“I like mountain climbing,” she explained. “Had a fall this weekend. I’m lucky it went the way it did. Just scrapes and bruises.”

“So you’re a daredevil type?”

“When I need to be,” she said demurely.

“We all need to be, sometimes.” He crooked his arm, and she took it, as if some outside force had nudged her closer to him.

Wow. She was, in fact,
very
close, closer than she wanted to be, but pulling away didn’t seem polite right now. Aaro probably had steam shooting out of his ears. Couldn’t be helped. “Amazing event,” she said. “The Institute is going to be wonderful. You’re very ambitious.”

“Yes, that word pretty much describes me,” he admitted.

“We’re thirty-eight million dollars closer to our funding goal. I don’t think I’ve seen you at other parties around here, Ms. Moro.

Are you local?”

“No, I’m visiting from New York City.” She’d decided to keep it as true as possible. She was so tired right now, a lie could trip her up.

“Ah. And what do you do there?”

“Fund-raising.” It was true, as far as it went. She’d done a good bit of grantwriting, back in her after-college days. Been good at it, too.

“Really? Well, perhaps you should send me your CV. I always need smart, talented people to scare up more money.”

“I specialize in raising funds for womens’ and children’s emergency health care. Campaigns to raise awareness about domestic violence, that kind of thing,” she said. “I suppose I could say, I specialize in desperate straits.”

“The Greaves Foundation is very eclectic in its giving, Ms. Moro.”

“That’s admirable,” she murmured.

“We’re not looking for admiration. We want to make the world a better place. That also means helping those in desperate straits.”

“Well, then,” she murmured. “Perhaps I’ll send you my CV.”

“I look forward to seeing it.” He lifted her hand to kiss again.

She tried to make contact. Oh, so very delicately.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She could not get near his mind.

It was like he had an invisible force field. The man was untouch-able.

He smiled. She smiled nervously back. So he did have secrets to hide. And the skill and means to keep them hidden, too.

“Could I ask you a question, Mr. Greaves?” she blurted.