Timeless

by Brynley Bush

  I wonder briefly if Justin is her driver. I don’t have time to wonder anything else because I’m too busy trying to take her advice as the flogger makes contact with my ass. She doesn’t have the finesse of either Marcus or Michael, and the leather strands sting like fire since she hasn’t taken the time to warm up my skin first. I flinch at the first blow. She takes aim and strikes again, catching me at the top of my thighs. I jolt, but Justin tightens his grip on my wrists, pressing me more firmly down onto the bench.

  “You see, it’s all in the flick of the wrist,” Bridget says conversationally as the flogger makes full contact with the fleshiest part of my butt cheeks. “So where were you yesterday that you missed the demonstration?”

  Thwack! The flogger hits my already tender flesh again and I gasp. There is nothing erotic about this at all.

  “Um,” I hesitate.

  The sharp sting of the flogger has me scrambling to answer. “I was with an old friend. We got stranded by the snow.”

  The flogger continues to strike my ass, punctuating each question she fires at me. Where were we? Did my friend come back with me today? I shut out the pain, narrowing my focus to her and her questions. I answer them noncommittally, careful not to give her the information that she wants.

  I see the flogger out of the corner of my eye as she pulls her arm back, intent on delivering what will probably be the most painful blow yet. And in a moment of clarity everything becomes crystal clear—that niggling doubt Marcus had about her story and the inconsistencies with her injuries.

  I don’t even notice the next few blows of the flogger; my mind is too busy trying to figure out what to do next. I finally mutter something about having to use the restroom and the man holding my wrists begrudgingly lets me go. I ease my skirt over my bare ass gingerly. Fuck. I’m not going to be able to sit down for a week.

  “You should come back to our room with me and Justin,” she says casually. “We could have a few drinks so you can relax and we can play some more…”

  “Maybe another time.” The hairs on my arms are standing up and something about this is starting to feel totally wrong. “Thanks for the demonstration,” I say, trying to muster a genuine-looking smile. “I’ll see you around.”

  I fight the urge to run, deliberately slowing my walk and swinging my hips provocatively as I walk to the restroom. I take my time, hoping Bridget and her goon will have moved on to another target. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, they’re nowhere in sight. Breathing a sigh of relief, I head to the welcome table, looking for Gavin. I find him there, busily setting up a tower of champagne glasses for the Gatsby party. He smiles when he sees me.

  “I saw you with those two hunky guys. Did you flog that man out of your hair?” he asks, smiling wickedly.

  I laugh. “Not exactly,” I hedge. “I think I’m going to call it a weekend. Listen, could you get a message to Marcus for me?”

  “Dominic said he gave you his card. Why don’t you message Mr. Dominant and Sexy yourself?”

  “Because I’ve vowed to never to speak to that mother-fucking bastard again,” I say evenly. I sigh. “But I found out something he needs to know for his case. Will you do it? Please?” I bat my eyelashes at him winningly.

  “Fine,” he sighs melodramatically, but he’s grinning.

  “Tell him Bridget is right-handed. The guys who attacked her were right-handed. Or rather, there were no guys, because her jaw was broken on right side. She beat herself up to make it look like she was robbed.” Noticing Gavin’s confused look I say, “Forget it. Just tell him she’s right-handed. He’ll know what I mean.”

  I suddenly want nothing more than to just be home where I can lick my wounds in private, focus on work, and forget all about Marcus and the wicked desires he ignited. I don’t even want to stay for the murder mystery, especially with Bridget looking for answers from me. I just want to go back to my room, go to bed early, and forget this whole weekend ever happened.

  I’ve just gotten off the elevator when I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I immediately assume the defensive position I’m trained for, hyper aware of everything going on around me. Bridget’s eyes widen innocently as she steps out of the shadows with Justin right behind her.

  “Oh, look, Justin. There she is. It looks like we’ll have our little plaything for the evening after all.”

  She takes a step forward and I stand on the balls of my feet, ready for either of them to make a move. Thanks to constant training in the martial arts—both Jiu Jitsu and Krav Maga, which aren’t dependent on strength and force—I’m pretty confident I can take them both, even without my gun. But I wasn’t counting on a third person. I hear a muted ping as the elevator doors open behind me, and then vice-like arms grip me as a hood is yanked over my head. I struggle, using my center of gravity to shove whoever is behind me off their feet. There’s a grunt and a startled swear word followed by a sharp pain in my leg, and then everything goes black.

  Chapter Nine

  Marcus

  Fuck this. I’ve spent the last six hours since Ari left doing my damnedest to forget the heated look in her eyes, the feel of her skin, and that intoxicating laugh of hers that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and never let her go. I’ve chopped enough wood to heat a small village for a year, run ten miles in the snow, cleaned the cabin from top to bottom, and gone over a few of the cases I brought with me, but I can’t seem to shake the memories of her. Hell, I can still smell her. I may have to sell the damn cabin, because everywhere I turn I see her—sitting on my lap in the hot tub, bent over the couch with her ass deliciously pink, lying in my arms on the rug in front of the fire, sitting at my kitchen table with her forehead furrowed in thought, draped over the arm chair with her legs spread open…

  I finally throw in the towel and decide to head back to San Diego a day early. Staying here is doing me no good at all. I’m hastily throwing my clothes into a bag when my phone rings. I lunge for it, some small part of me hoping it’s her. But of course it can’t be. I didn’t give her my number, and even if I had, I sealed my fate by acting like a complete and total asshole to her today—pretending indifference to her leaving and barely even saying goodbye after everything that happened between us this weekend. I’ve guaranteed she will never speak to me again.

  “Hello,” I bark more sharply than I intended.

  There’s a long pause of silence on the other end, and then I hear Gavin’s voice, hesitantly telling me that Ari had asked him to call and give me a message.

  “What did she say?” I sound like a fucking love-struck eager adolescent.

  “She said to tell you that Bridget is right-handed. Something to do with her fractured jaw? I don’t know; Bridget looked fine to me. And then she said something about some guys who were right-handed, but there were no guys…I have no idea what she was talking about but she said you would.”

  My brain tries to switch gears between thinking…hell, hoping… Ari wanted to see me again to focusing on Bridget. Of course Ari never wants to see me again. But how the hell would she know Bridget is right-handed? And what does Gavin mean about Bridget looking fine to him?

  “There’s a Bridget at Five Pines this weekend?” I ask cautiously.

  “Yeah. Give me a second.” Gavin’s voice is preoccupied, and I can picture him typing away in his efficient way on his laptop. “Bridget Bowden. She checked in yesterday. She’s a Domme, and a delectably scary one at that. Dominic said he saw Ari doing a scene with her and the guy she was with.” His voice turns nonchalant. “Well, after the scene she did on the St. Andrews cross with those two hunky Doms.”

  The little shit is deliberately trying to see if I’m jealous, which I sure as fuck will be as soon as I finish dealing with the fact that Bridget is at Five Pines and apparently has somehow found Ari. It could be a coincidence, but I seriously doubt it. Somehow Bridget must have figured out I had been to Five Pines, which means she’d had me followed. Which also means she probably knows Ari was
with me all weekend. Hopefully she’s just trying to get information about me from Ari. Unless she plans to barter with me by using Ari…Panic hits me like a sucker punch. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Ari is a trained FBI agent, and knowing her, most likely a damned good one.

  “The guy Bridget is with. Is he a big guy? Dark slicked back hair?”

  “Yeah. Let’s see…His name’s Justin Vico.”

  Just what I’d suspected. She’s here with her driver.

  “Fuck. Where is she now?”

  “Bridget? Or Ari?”

  “Either. Both. Dammit.” I’m already grabbing my keys as I wait for Gavin’s answer.

  “Ari went back to her room. She said she was finished for the weekend. I haven’t seen Bridget or her friend.”

  At least I don’t have to worry about Ari. But I don’t like the fact that Bridget and her thug driver are prowling around Five Pines with Ari still there.

  “If you see either one, keep an eye on them,” I say, locking the door behind me. “I’m on my way.”

  During the short drive to Five Pines, I call Griffin Black, who in addition to being married to Mila, is one of my closest friends and a former SEAL brother who now runs his own security company. I ask him to look into both Bridget and Justin’s backgrounds and see if the mafia rumors are true. If so, that changes everything. He promises to get back to me as soon as possible, and by the time I hang up with him, I’m at Five Pines.

  “Have you seen Ari?” I bark at Dominic, who happens to be the first person I see when I walk into the banquet room of the resort that has been turned into something straight out of the roaring twenties. I scan the crowd filled with men in pin-striped suits and women in flapper dresses, from the traditional to the risqué, but I don’t see any sign of Ari or Bridget.

  “Not since earlier,” he says in that calm way of his. “Gavin told me you weren’t interested in rekindling anything with her.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “Changed your mind?”

  “No,” I say curtly. “I’m worried about her. I have a potential insurance fraud case that a couple of your guests this weekend are involved in. I’m pretty sure they tracked me here, but when they saw me leave with Ari Friday night, I’m afraid they may have decided to target her instead.”

  Dominic’s forehead furrows. “Is it the Domme Bridget and the gentleman she’s with?”

  When I nod, he frowns. “They’ve never been guests of mine before. Ari was with them earlier, but I haven’t seen any of them since. I’ll ask someone from the hotel to go check both Ari’s and Bridget’s rooms. The party’s about to officially start down here. It’s a ‘roaring twenties’ themed murder mystery.” He eyes my jeans and flannel shirt critically. “You’re not quite dressed for it, but stay here and mingle in case they happen to show up at the party.”

  We agree to meet up in fifteen minutes, and I wander around the room, hoping for a glimpse of Ari. If the circumstances were different, it would be a fun party to attend, and for a brief moment I imagine what it would be like to be here with Ari as her Dom. Dominic has outdone himself with the decadently elegant décor, and the guests have thrown themselves into the theme. Several Doms are “checking” the female guests at the door for guns, and there’s a festive tinkle of glasses and a lively hum of conversation along with Big Band music. On one side of the room, there’s a poker game going on with favors or punishments at stake, and couples are dancing on the dance floor.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I quickly read the text from Griffin.

  Justin Vico has ties to Cosa Nostra. He’s the cousin of “Skinny Joe” Vinzio, the head of the Philadelphia mafia. I can’t find any mafia ties for Bridget Bowden, although it appears she may be romantically involved with Justin. Be careful. I’ll be in Denver before midnight.

  Damn. I should have thought to ask Griffin to look into the mob connection earlier. The private investigator the insurance company uses should have already told me this. Now I’m more convinced than ever that this is a sophisticated insurance fraud. And I’m sure if the mafia is behind it, they don’t appreciate me trying to expose them and won’t be afraid to send me a message to that effect. I’m relieved Griffin is on his way.

  I’m still frantically looking for Ari when Gavin finds me.

  “Dominic said neither Ari or Bridget are in their rooms, although there was some broken glass and some overturned furniture, like there’d been some sort of scuffle. The guy at the front desk said no one’s left the hotel. The murder mystery part of the evening is about to start and Dominic has to MC the introduction, but he said he’d come find you as soon as he’s finished.”

  I nod brusquely. Dammit. I’ve got to find Ari.

  I’m dimly aware of Dominic onstage telling the guests that a murder has occurred and it’s up to them to solve it. While he outlines the story to an enthusiastic audience, I continue to scan the crowd. I’m about to give up and go see what I can find in the lobby when I see them.

  Bridget is dressed in a red dress with feathers in her hair and Justin, the seemingly congenial driver whom I interviewed just two days ago, is in a dark suit with his hair slicked back. Looking at the two of them dressed for the 1920’s theme, I don’t know how I ever doubted they were connected to the mob. In between them is Ari—bound, blindfolded, and gagged, with strands of pearls strategically wrapped around her mostly naked body. Bridget and Justin are each holding one of her arms as they coolly but firmly half drag her toward the door that leads out onto the back deck. Her movements are lethargic, like she’s been drugged, but she’s still struggling, and I watch Justin squeeze her breast cruelly and say something to her. Blood roars in my ears as I close the distance between us in less than five strides. Bridget looks up, her eyes widening in surprise as my fist makes contact with Justin’s face, and then the room goes pitch black.

  Ari

  Funny how being practically naked, bound and blindfolded can be the most sensual and arousing thing with someone you love and trust and absolutely horrifying with anyone else, especially if they’re as awful as Bridget and Justin. I’d fought them in the hallway upstairs, but three against one aren’t good odds, especially when the third one, whom I wasn’t expecting, had snuck up behind me. Whoever he was, he was strong, and no sooner had he wrestled the hood over my head than I’d felt the jab of a needle in my thigh and the world had gone black. When I’d come to, my head was pounding, my tongue felt thick, and my brain felt even thicker. I’d been bound with my wrists behind me, my clothes removed. The third guy was gone, and Bridget had calmly produced a knife and explained how they planned to take me downstairs to the party, indulge in a little knife play, take a photograph of me afterward to send as a message to Marcus, then take me to some remote cabin where I’d be kept until Marcus agreed to drop the fraud investigation and advise his client to pay the claim. If he didn’t…They didn’t have to finish the sentence; the sharp point of the knife trailed across my bare throat had spoken volumes. I’d fought them, but in my half-drugged state I hadn’t stood a chance. They’d blindfolded me so I couldn’t see, gagged me so I couldn’t call for help, and forced me into the elevator.

  Judging by the sound of voices around us, we’re at the party in the banquet room. I mentally curse myself for ever participating in that scene with Bridget and Justin because now anyone who sees me with them, including Dominic, is going to think we’re just continuing our play. My only hope is running into Gavin; surely he’ll know something’s wrong. Or running away from them, which I have every intention of doing. I just don’t know how yet.

  There’s a gasp from Bridget, and my brain dimly registers the sickening sound of flesh against bone, a grunt, and the fact that Justin has let go of my arm. I don’t know what’s happened, but I know I need to take advantage of the momentary reprieve and try to get away while I can still hear the voices of people around us. The cardinal rule when you’re kidnapped is to never let them take you off alone, but I’m having trouble making my limbs do what I want them t
o and my head is foggy.

  There’s a sudden change in the air around me—a sense of surprise, or maybe panic—and I try to keep my head and focus so I can take advantage of the confusion, but there’s a sharp burning pain in my upper thigh like nothing I’ve felt before. I begin to feel light-headed, and despite the darkness of blindfold, or maybe because of it, my world goes topsy-turvy. My knees buckle, but strong arms catch me, scooping me off my feet and clasping me against a stone-hard chest as a familiarly masculine, clean, sultry scent fills my nose, coupled with something unfamiliar, almost metallic-smelling. I’d know the feel of Marcus’ arms anywhere, but it’s his voice in my ear telling me he’s got me, that everything’s going to be okay and he’s not going to let me go, that convinces me I’m dead.

  “No!” My voice sounds hoarse and foreign to my own ears, and I claw at the pearls wound around me, not wanting to give Bridget and Justin the satisfaction of wearing them. I’d rather be naked. I have to get away. I struggle to sit up but hands grip my shoulders, pushing me back down. I can’t let them win, but I’m so tired. And it hurts to breathe. In fact, everything hurts—my head, my chest, my lungs, and my throat.

  “Easy.” It’s a voice I don’t recognize and I desperately try to remember what happened.

  “Ari, you’re safe now.”

  First Marcus and now Tori. Tori’s soft voice with that telltale hint of a New York accent sounds so real. I’ve never experienced auditory hallucinations before, but I’ve been around plenty of people on drugs who have, and God knows Justin gave me enough of whatever they drugged me with. I open my eyes and see Tori’s face above me, her brown eyes filled with concern. Maybe I’m already dead. I realize I don’t really care one way or the other. I close my eyes again.

  “Ariana Francesca McKnight. Don’t you dare give up! If you do, I’m going to sell every single pair of your shoes on eBay.”