Scorching Desire (6 page)

“I posed as Tasha’s boyfriend when we went to the fetish club.” Marco jerked open a drawer and took out a polo. “She had to pretend she was interviewing for a job working there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that she took off everything but her underwear and got manhandled. This fucker named Sammy made her put on handcuffs and then jerked her around.” Marco shrugged on a new shirt. “I hate that she had to go through that because of something we did.”

Marco’s defense of Tasha was unexpected. “I agree that’s unsavory, but I assume she’s accustomed to being in difficult situations if she’s a corporate security agent.”

“She’s not a corporate security agent. I think she was a spy. A real spy.”

“Like a CIA agent?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” Marco shrugged. “I don’t like that someone else may have to get hurt to fix our problem.”

“What makes you think that she’s going to get hurt?”

“Fine, not hurt, but she may have to do things—like pretend to be a stripper—to help us.”

“I agree that it’s not ideal, but I’m also enough of a feminist that if she chooses to use her sexuality that way I’m not going to judge her for it.” Damon didn’t like the idea of anyone—man or woman—cleaning up his mess, but after the way Tasha had gotten him to blurt out the information about the stolen cell phone, he wasn’t going to make the mistake of thinking she was helpless.

“She’s not what she seems,” Marco said. “She’s…”

“What?”

Marco shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s go. I want to hear what she thinks is going on.”

Tasha was applying makeup, using the mirror in the foyer. She’d changed clothes and was now wearing black boots, a pair of tiny skin-tight black shorts and a loose black see-though shirt.

“Tasha?” Marco asked.

When she faced them her eyes were rimmed with dark make-up, making her look dangerous, but her lips were a glossy pink.

“I’ve reported our progress to the Grand Master,” she said.

“Was he pissed?” Damon asked.

“He might have been
, had I told him everything.” She checked her reflection again, this time pulling her hair up into a loose bun that she secured with two black chopsticks. “He doesn’t need to know everything we do, only that we’ve made preliminary identifications and are pursuing the women.”

“Thank you,” Damon said.

“Where are you going?” Marco asked.

“To the club.
I want to see Jennie.”

“I’m going with you,” Marco declared.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. After what happened in Vegas I’m not letting you go alone.”

“You’re going to…protect me?” Tasha looked away, and Damon thought for a moment her face changed, her expression sad or uncertain. He stiffened—was she afraid? Planning to put herself in real danger?

“I’m going too,” he said, surprising himself.

Marco raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were too much of a feminist.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

Tasha crossed her arms, making Damon painfully aware of the fact that he could clearly see her bra and the upper swell of her breasts through the shirt.

“You are not going with me. You will stay here and eat your food.”

“We’re going with you.” Damon stepped up to her. Even with heels, she was shorter than him. He was not above using some body-language intimidation to get what he wanted.

“You’re going to go to a fetish club? Unless you have alternate IDs you risk your precious reputation.”

Damon smiled. “Luckily, I do have one. You might not think it, due to our current situations, but Marco and I know how to be careful.”

Tasha looked between them and then shrugged.
“Fine. We need to leave. I’ll give you instructions on the way.”

~~~~

Chapter Five

Tasha bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling as she looked at Damon and Marco.

Marco wore a black suit with gray dress shirt—the shirt was open down the chest. An untied black necktie dangled from his collar, hinting that he had no intention of using it as an accessory, but rather was willing to take it off at a moment’s notice and use it for bondage. He could as easily have been on his way home from an elegant party or evening at the theater as on his way to a fetish club.

Damon she hadn’t been as kind to. Once she agreed to let them come, she’d run through Marco’s enviably large closet on the second floor master and picked outfits for each man. The easiest way to gain entry to a place was to look the part—that was true of life, not just clubs. Damon could have dressed similarly to Marco, but Tasha wanted to see the aggressive lawyer off-balance. While Marco seemed comfortable in his skin, adapting with relative ease, Damon was like a controlled explosion—each careful word and aggressive action an attempt to impose himself on the world.

Marco stretched his legs out, the limo she’d called giving him the space to do so. “You look good, Damon. I’m going to send a picture to your office.”

“Shut up, asshole,” he mumbled.

Damon wore leather pants that she’d found in the back of Marco’s closet. Nothing but black leather pants. According to the musician, they were from a photo shoot he’d done for one of his albums, where he’d been dressed like a biker while playing the cello. Tasha didn’t admit she knew exactly which album he was talking about—the liner notes, which included photos of Marco shirtless with a tattoo of music notes across his back, and another of him with his eyes closed, his face streaked by grease as he cradled the neck of his cello—had caused her to have more than a few fantasies.

Damon’s bare upper body showed off skin that was golden where Marco’s was pale, his muscles hard swells under that bronzed flesh. Tasha had used some black stage make-up she always carried to add dark streaks to his hair.

The limo pulled to a stop.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, sliding out. The driver was someone she’d worked with before and knew better than to turn off the car while she ran in to the adult store.

At this time of night, it was mostly men perusing porn DVDs and
fleshlights, though this was one of the best sex shops in the city and carried only a limited supply of cheap porn. Tasha ignored their come-ons and grabbed what she needed, plus a few extras.

Ten minutes later, she was back in the limo. Marco and Damon both watched her attentively as she dropped into a seat.

“What did you get?” Marco asked. “I didn’t know this place existed.” He was peering curiously out the window.

“Masks for you.”
She pulled out the shaped leather half-masks and passed them out. “You won’t be able to put them on until we’re inside, but do it as soon as we’re in.”

Next she took out a leather motorcycle vest. It had cost nearly five hundred dollars, but the large circular symbol on the back made it worth it. She handed it to Damon. It would have been fun to make him go in half naked, but his discomfort might give them away. Better to give him more clothes and make sure the op was a success.

“What’s this?” He was holding it up, examining the back.

“That’s the symbol for the BDSM community.”

Damon sighed, then nodded and slipped it on. Tasha eyed him—with the leather vest on and his muscled arms crossed over his chest, he looked dangerous and not at all lawyerly. He looked like the kind of man that would, and could, do serious damage in a fight as well as in the bedroom.

“You look different.” Marco said. “You look like a thug.”

“You look like a gigolo.”

Tasha smiled to herself, enjoying their easy banter. It was clear the men loved each other. She doubted they’d classify it that way, but Tasha knew how powerful a loving relationship between two people could be—whether those people were lovers, family or friends. It was both the hardest and easiest of relationships to manipulate.

Tasha took out the items she’d bought for herself and ripped off the tags. She slid the cuffs around her wrists and buckled them into place but didn’t connect then together with the clip that now dangled from her right wrist. They weren’t the subtle, simple kinds that might be mistaken for jewelry. She’d gone for the heavy reinforced-leather and metal ones that were padded on the inside and closed with four separate buckles. They weighed nearly three pounds each.

As she lifted the collar to her neck Tasha was suddenly aware of their attention on her. She looked up.

Damon and Marco were both leaning forward, their focus unnerving.

Tasha put the collar on. Holding it in place with one hand, she slid onto her knees in front of Marco and bent her head, exposing the back of her neck. “Will you fasten it?” she asked quietly.

His fingers brushed her skin. “Tasha, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“This will be simple.” She knew better than to promise him she wouldn’t get hurt. Kneeling like this was making her aware of the bruises that were forming on her knees from falling in Vegas.

“You shouldn’t have to do this.” Marco took the collar and tossed it onto the seat beside Damon.

Tasha sat back and tried not to get irritated. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”

“There’s got to be another way to get information. We can wait until the morning and go to Jennie’s house. You found Sandra’s address, you can find hers.”

Tasha didn’t have time to explain that a place like a club—designed to strip away inhibitions—was much better for gathering information than someone’s residence, where they would be more cautious.

She looked at Damon. His jaw was set, his expression shuttered. Tasha shifted to kneel in front of him. She didn’t say anything.

Damon picked up the collar, slid it around her neck and locked it in place.

“Damon, what the hell?”

“She knows what she’s doing. I’m not going to insult her intelligence by assuming she needs my protection or advice.” Though he was speaking to Marco, Damon was looking at her.

Tasha blinked as she sat back. Before she could stop it, she smiled. “Thank you.” Even experienced intelligence agents had sometimes looked down on her when she used her gender or age to get information. Damon’s trust and respect felt good. It made no sense that she liked both Marco’s protectiveness and Damon’s respect for her abilities, but she did.

Tasha took the keys to the collar, looped them through pieces of black leather and handed one to each man. Damon slipped his over his head while Marco tucked his into his pocket.

“Close your eyes,” she said, going back to her seat. Marco did as she asked. Damon waited until she’d pulled the leather bikini top out of the bag. Once he realized she was stripping to replace her lace bra with black leather, he closed his eyes.

Tasha suspected they were both peeking.

The limo pulled to a stop as she put her shirt back on and stuffed everything into a bag.

“My name is Ashley,” she told them. “If you’re asked, you’re
Doms or Masters. I’ll refer to you as Sir or Master, depending on what the situation needs.” She handed each of them a chain leash. “Keep these with you, playing with them will give you something to do with your hands, but don’t agree to play with anyone in there. Don’t give anyone your names. If someone asks, ignore them, they shouldn’t be asking. Avoid speaking if you can. I’ll do the talking for you. If either of you recognizes anyone tug your right ear.” Tasha should have spent less time thinking and more time giving them instructions on the way over. She’d just have to hope they could do this.

“Don’t we need wires or
cellphone videos or something?” Marco asked.

“None of that would be admissible in court.” Damon was looking out the window at the front of the club.

“Court? The legal system doesn’t exist right now.” Tasha tucked her ID and a few hundred dollars into the waistband of her tight shorts and then got out. “Coming?”

The men shared a look and then followed her out of the limo.

*****

Marco was grinning. He couldn’t help himself—this was fun.

Due to his relative fame and Damon’s need for privacy, their sexual exploits usually took place at a party Marco hosted. Going out like this wasn’t an option. They were fine clubbing, but nothing overt could happen in public.

Safe behind his mask, he was able to take in everything that was going on. He’d considered himself jaded and had even occasionally played with some bondage, but nothing near what was represented here. His eyes were being opened to a whole new level of kink.

The inside of the club, which as far as he could tell didn’t even have a name, was lit with alternative cool-blue and warm-gold lights. A circular stage in the center of the dance floor sported a large structure shaped like an X. A woman with a shaved head and plenty of piercings was strapped to it. She wore a thong and black tape over her nipples. A man wearing dark jeans and a leather harness circled her, a long whip in his hand. He’d occasionally flick his wrist, the thumping whip against her belly and legs. One wall was glass, and on the other side of it were three gold-lit rooms that reminded Marco of the red-light district in Amsterdam. In one of the rooms, a woman in pink lingerie dangled from the ceiling, her body cradled in a net of ropes. In the next, a girl in retro-style panties and a polka dot bra straddled a two by four, her calf and arm muscles straining to keep her body weight off her pussy. In the third, a woman wearing cat ears, a leopard-print teddy and mitts turned in a circle, showing off her tail.