Intimate Knowledge

by Julie Miller

  Logan? He was the man she loved. Though he didn’t seem to believe in such things as happily ever after, she loved him. When this case was over, he’d walk out of her life just like so many men had walked out of her mother’s. But she loved him anyway. “He is, Mother. He’s a very good man.”

  Mimsey looked visibly relieved to hear the admission. In contrast, Grace’s own heart felt a bit heavier. Logan had no reason to stick around when this was all over. Great sex might be the stuff dreams were made of, but it would hardly be enough to sustain a long-term relationship.

  Mimsey’s hand on hers brought Grace’s thoughts back to the bathroom stall with her mother. “Look. Would you take a bit of advice?” That would be a first. But Grace nodded. “Until I could get away from Harris—until he moved on to his next interest—I found I could distract him with dress-up games.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. He wanted to ‘act’ with me. Lion tamer and the naughty lion, principal and the naughty schoolboy, lady bat and the—”

  “I get the picture, Mother.”

  Hadn’t Harris asked to be punished for being too forward last night?

  Oh, God. Logan better have found that computer.

  In a way, she appreciated Mimsey’s concern. Though it came a little late in her life, it was the first time Mimsey had offered Grace advice. The first time—other than where their next meal ticket was coming from—that she’d showed concern for Grace’s welfare.

  Acting on a long overdue impulse, Grace reached out and hugged her mom—and was tightly held in return.

  After nearly a minute had passed, Grace thought of her surroundings and Harris’s order to return before the guards came to find her. She pulled away and both women straightened their tight dresses.

  “By the way, Mother. Why are you here?”

  “Oh.” Mimsey beamed, suddenly remembering something besides her daughter. “Grant and I are celebrating.” She held up her left hand and flashed an embarrassingly extravagant diamond on her third finger. “He asked me to marry him. After all these years, Gracie, I finally found someone who loves me. Just me. Not my name or my boobs or my theatrical reputation. He really loves me.”

  Maybe it was too much to expect for Logan to love her in the same way. But that didn’t diminish her hope for her mother. “I’m happy for you. You deserve it.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.” Mimsey unlatched the door, but halted before leaving. “I mean it, Gracie. Harris isn’t a good man to stay with.”

  “I won’t be with him long, Mother. I promise.”

  “Call me soon. Let me know you’re safe.”

  Though Mimsey’s motherly concern had kicked in twenty-six years too late, it was a start. In the gold-appointed bathroom of New York’s Chez Dumond, a tenuous relationship between mother and daughter had finally blossomed, with each assuming their traditional roles.

  Grace gave Mimsey’s hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled. “I will, Mother. I will.”

  IN THE SECRET ROOM behind the office? No. Like an old-fashioned game of Clue, through process of elimination Logan had finally determined where Mitchell’s secret computer was kept.

  His bedroom.

  Though there was enough evidence in these file cabinets to charge Mitchell with money laundering and extortion, there was no computer terminal. No list of names, no link to Mitchell’s network of buyers and their money transfers. If he wanted to take down all of Mitchell’s network—and he did—he’d still have to download Grace’s flush-out program.

  Logan pushed the light button on his watch and checked the time. Almost nine. Grace and Mitchell’s entourage should be arriving within the hour. He intended to be in and out and back at the bungalow calling in Carmody and the backup team before Mitchell ever set foot inside the front door.

  But while the panel behind the Kama Sutra had let him into the secret room, Logan spotted no such panel inside. How did he get out without forcing the door?

  He moved the beam of his flashlight around the walls of the vault. Besides the gray metal filing cabinets with records of Mitchell’s illegal dealings, there were piles of cash, a stack of bonds, a jewelry case with several authentic-looking pieces of diamond jewelry.

  “Are those for you, big boy?” Logan imagined Harris Mitchell wearing them, remembering Grace’s description of the women’s underwear he’d worn. Was Mitchell’s cross-dressing wardrobe as extensive as his collection of pornographic art?

  Logan swept the beam past a stack of lewd paintings and settled on the lifelike bust of a…bust. Though carved out of gray marble, the piece represented the figure of an aroused, well-endowed woman, complete with distended nipples and puckered areolae in a pale rose-tinted marble.

  He wondered if Mitchell got off on all the suggestive works of art or if they were just for shock value to put potential victims of his lust off their guard. Then he had a more businesslike thought. “Oh, no. You wouldn’t be that predictable, would you?”

  Logan examined the bust more closely. The base of it sat flush against the wall on top of a cabinet next to the light switch. He reached up and palmed the figure’s left breast. Cold. Hard. Lifeless. He preferred the real thing. He preferred the warmth and give and pulsing life of Grace’s breast. The inevitable tightening of his crotch made Logan laugh. He definitely preferred Grace.

  But it would be just Mitchell’s style to…he moved his hand to the other marble breast and squeezed. “Gotcha.”

  The whole breast twisted a quarter turn to the right and the panel door popped open.

  Checking first to make sure the office was still dark and empty, Logan hurried out and found the switch behind the bookcase to close the hidden panel. Then he snuck through the quiet house and up the stairs.

  A nagging sixth sense alerted him to the idea that the house was too quiet. He’d left Gertrude and Renee playing cards in the kitchen. Heather had gone home for the night, and Raisa and the two bodyguards were with Mitchell and Grace.

  So there shouldn’t be anyone sneaking around except for him, right?

  Logan shook aside his paranoia and slipped his lock pick into the door. After the lock tumbled open, he peeked over his shoulder into the dark hallway. He was still alone. Pushing open the door, he slipped inside and closed it behind him.

  He flipped on his flashlight and swore. The room’s kinky decor was both laughable and dangerous. A variety of whips and riding crops lined one wall. A construction-size spool of chain sat in one corner, with a bucket of combination and key locks sitting on top. There was a mirror on the ceiling and a heart-shaped bathtub set off in the adjoining sunporch.

  On the shelves he found every scent of lotion and oil he’d ever seen, plus a few he hadn’t. In a basket beside the shelves he found sex toys—everything from vibrators to penis rings to clips and dildos that looked as if they would cause more pain than pleasure.

  The massive four-poster in the center of the room was draped in heavy red velvet. A series of heavy metal O hooks had been drilled into each post as well as the head-board. A pair of handcuffs hung from each post.

  Mitchell’s bedroom was a high altar for dirty, decadent sex.

  “No way in hell are you ever setting foot in here, Grace.”

  He felt the cold steel at the back of his skull an instant before he heard the woman’s thick German accent. “Dat’s not for you to decide, now is it?”

  Logan slowly raised his hands in surrender, offering no struggle as Gertrude pulled the gun from his belt and took the flashlight from his grip. At the command of her Browning automatic, he slowly turned around and faced both Gertrude and tiny Renee. The petite gymnast of a woman who’d hauled their bags to their rooms now held an Ithaca Stakeout 12-gauge shotgun with comfortable ease.

  “Whaddya wanna do with him?” asked Renee, her twangy Southern drawl grating across his nerves with the glee of a game about to be played. “You’ve wandered mighty far from the bungalow, Mr. Accountant Man.”

  “Accountants don’t ca
rry veapons,” sneered Gertrude. “I say ve lock him up until Mr. Mitchell returns.”

  Logan risked his version of a charming smile. “I’ll admit I’m here on business with Mr. Mitchell. But wouldn’t you fine ladies rather have some company to entertain until he gets back? Maybe we could borrow a few of his toys.”

  Gertrude and Renee exchanged glances, considering the idea. Meanwhile, Logan debated whether to take out the shotgun or the iron maiden. Gertrude was closer but stronger. Renee’s shotgun proved the most dangerous threat though.

  Renee was the first to answer. “He might be on to somethin’ there, Gert.”

  “Right.” Gertrude was a harder sell in the flirtation department. “Get de handcuffs.”

  With the apparent familiarity of a woman who’d been locked in those handcuffs before, Renee opened a dresser drawer, pulled out a key and unlocked one set of cuffs from the bed. Logan held out his wrists and winked in response to her vampish smile as she hooked the first cuff. The second cuff gave her some trouble. She shifted her gun away from her hand and into the hook of her arm.

  It was the chance Logan needed.

  In a burst of movement he grabbed the gun and twisted Renee in his arms. He lifted her as a shield at the same time he lifted the gun and took aim at Gertrude. “Drop the gun!”

  “Renee!”

  When she didn’t immediately respond, Logan pulled the trigger, knocking her pistol from her hand.

  “Ow!”

  “Gert!”

  “Back up,” Logan warned, edging his way toward the door, dragging Renee with him while Gert massaged her stinging hand. Once he was in the hall, he gave a second command. “Now get over here and lead—”

  An explosion of pain ripped through the back of Logan’s head. His glasses flew off his face as an icy blackness radiated through his skull. He dropped Renee and the gun and staggered against the wall.

  “It’s a good thing I came back early to make sure everything was prepared for Mr. Mitchell and his guest.” Tanya the Amazon’s voice registered behind him.

  But when he turned, his legs wobbled beneath him and he crumpled to the floor. In his spinning world he was only vaguely aware of Tanya’s dark hands fastening the second manacle around his wrist. “Lock him up downstairs until we find out more about him. I want to know if he’s nosy or a thief or after something more.”

  Logan felt himself being lifted beneath either arm by Gertrude and a surprisingly strong Renee. His only struggle was to remain conscious as they dragged him down the hall. But even that battle would soon be lost.

  Women! he bemoaned silently as his world spun toward oblivion.

  And the one he loved the most would be helpless without him.

  16

  WHERE was Logan?

  Grace had been hoping against hope that she’d find him waiting in her bedroom, a computer disk dangling from his fingers and a sly grin of success creasing his handsome mouth.

  She’d talked up a storm as they’d neared the estate gates, warning him through her microphone of their imminent arrival almost an hour ago. She’d asked Harris for sixty minutes to prepare herself for their evening together, hoping that would be long enough for Logan to get her some kind of message about his success or failure.

  Had he found the hidden computer? Was he safe? Was backup on the way?

  Grace studied herself in the dresser mirror, seeing a paper-doll image of a grown woman dressed in a white lace teddy and matching robe, looking for all the world like an innocent lamb being led to the slaughter. Harris wouldn’t like the virginal look, she was sure.

  Well, not on her, at any rate.

  But that was the idea. She’d play his game so far, keep him occupied as Logan had requested. But, ultimately, she hoped she would be a big turn-off and that Harris’s interest would wane before he did anything to her too horrible to even consider.

  She applied a pale pink lipstick to add to her untouched look and stewed about Logan. If he had found the computer, where was he? If he hadn’t…

  Grace’s heart turned over and her stomach clenched into a knot.

  If he hadn’t found the computer then she’d have to complete the mission on her own.

  And the only reason why Logan couldn’t have searched two rooms in the time they’d been gone was if he’d gotten into trouble. “No.” She looked at the image in the mirror and told her that wasn’t an acceptable explanation. “He’s all right. Something’s gone wrong, but he’s all right. He has to be.”

  A sharp knock at her door ended her prayers and speculation. Logan would have simply snuck in, so this had to be Harris or one of his women.

  “Miss Lockhart?” Ilsa. “It is time. Mr. Mitchell does not like to be kept waiting.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  For a woman who usually had so much trouble controlling her blushing, Grace had suddenly grown pale. She pinched some color into her cheeks and headed for the door. At the last second she went back to her attaché and reached inside for her flush-out computer disk.

  Slipping it into the pocket of her robe, Grace stood straight. She lifted her chin at a defiant angle and fixed a pouty expression of disdain on her lips.

  She was going to complete this mission. She’d find the damn computer herself and corrupt the system. She’d put the cuffs on Harris Mitchell so tight they’d pinch, giving him a small taste of what he’d done to her mother. Once she read him his rights, she’d turn this mansion inside out until she found Logan and knew he was all right.

  Because they were partners. He was counting on her to complete the mission and come out of it in one piece.

  Roy Silverton hadn’t and it had nearly destroyed Logan.

  But she would get the job done.

  She wouldn’t let Logan down.

  THE PAINFUL THROBBING in his head was the first indication to Logan that he’d regained consciousness.

  He opened his eyes to escape the blackness, but discovered he was locked in a small room, a closet maybe, and that he was trapped in the dark. A pinch at his wrists told him he was still handcuffed.

  He breathed deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth, taking in reviving oxygen and clearing his head before sitting up. He groaned and pressed his hands to his forehead, cursing the dizziness that resulted from changing positions.

  A few minutes later his head had cleared enough to start thinking of escape. He checked his watch—11:00 p.m. Grace would be back by now. Hell. She could be with Mitchell by now. Double hell. If he’d been found out, then Grace could be dead.

  He pushed aside the flood of white-hot anger that clouded his rational thinking and forced himself to concentrate. Commander Carmody had set them up with thorough fake backgrounds. If Tanya did have him checked out, she’d find an unambitious accountant with an assortment of degrees and a penchant for betting on the races.

  She wouldn’t find an FBI agent intent on making her pay for whatever harm might come to Grace.

  He’d been twenty minutes late and a lifetime too short when he’d gone to back up Roy Silverton.

  He’d die before he’d let the same mistake take Grace from him.

  Logan quickly took stock of his surroundings. The bitter smells of cinnamon and nutmeg teased his nose, along with the sweet scent of peanut butter. He could hear two women talking. A heavy German accent and a backwoods twang.

  He must be in the pantry off the kitchen. How would he get himself out of there? How would he get past Gertrude and Renee and the bodyguards who were surely patrolling the house now?

  Logan Pierce wasn’t the best in the business for nothing.

  He climbed to his feet and felt his way around the pantry shelves. He found what he was searching for and smiled.

  From the top shelf he picked up the heaviest can he could find. Then he knocked a second can to the floor, setting off a chain reaction of falling foods, and waited.

  Moments later he heard a key in the lock. The door opened. Logan charged.

  It was on
ly a matter of seconds before Gertrude was out cold and she and Renee were locked in the pantry in his place. He found his Undercover .38 on the table, checked the cartridge and tucked it into his waistband. While Renee shouted and pounded on the door, Logan emptied the magazine from her Ithaca shotgun and tossed it into the trash.

  With his wrists still manacled, he stole through the house, taking the straightest route down the hall and up the stairs toward Mitchell’s bedroom.

  He ran into Ilsa first. But her killer kick was no match for a man on a mission. He wrapped the chain of the cuffs around her neck and wrestled her to the floor, squeezing her throat until a lack of oxygen rendered her unconscious.

  While he searched her for a key to unlock the cuffs, he heard the first screams.

  “No! I won’t! You can’t make me!”

  Logan froze. His heart pumped ice in his veins at the terrified sound, pleading for mercy.

  Logan frowned. Those weren’t Grace’s screams. It wasn’t even a woman.

  “No! What are you doing?”

  Harris Mitchell was playing one of his sick, masochistic games.

  “Yes!”

  That was Grace’s triumphant shout. Oh, God, no.

  Logan pulled a key from Ilsa’s boot and was running, praying. He freed one wrist as he bounded up the stairs two, then three, at a time. With the other cuff still dangling from his wrist he pulled his gun and bolted down the hall, charging straight at Tanya.

  She pulled her gun and unfolded herself from her stool. “You can’t come in here,” she warned, setting her stance and aiming her gun. “Mr. Mitchell!”

  Tanya fired. Logan fired. She dodged. One blow to the side of her head and she was knocked out. She crumpled to the floor.

  “Grace!”

  He shook the knob and pounded on the door.

  “Gr—!”

  He stepped back as the lock turned, and braced his gun between his hands.

  The door swung open.

  “Lo—” Grace swallowed his name and stumbled back a step when she saw the gun pointed at her face. “I’m okay.” She pushed her palms in the air, warning him of her surrender. “I’m okay.”