by Tina Donahue
His body said “oh, yeah”, and thought playing in the tub would be a great idea. His mind told him he’d be taking advantage, which would make him a prick. He’d slept. She clearly hadn’t. “Where’s your soap?”
“Why?” She squeezed her pussy around him in a way far more wanton than her innocent voice would suggest. “Am I still sticky?”
“You’re a real mess. So am I. After I wash you, I’ll do myself and we’ll get some more sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Then you can watch me snooze, because I’m fucking beat.” Unwilling to put up with an argument, he grabbed a loaf of scented soap from her shower caddy, lathered his hands and ran the bubbles over her firm breasts.
Air whooshed from her. “I’m not sticky there.”
Who cared? To keep her quiet, he nibbled her lower lip. She cooed at the love bite. His hands went down her torso, washing her ass and mound. Her body wilted against his, confirming her fatigue.
He held her tenderly, his fingers trailing over her sodden hair, shoulders and back. She made grateful sounds that he met with a sad smile. He tried to imagine her nights in this big, old noisy place. Did she roam the empty rooms, looking for the source of the sounds, discouraged she had to protect herself because she’d ended up alone? Did she think of her parents then and consider what might have happened if they’d lived: that they would be here, welcoming her to dinner to hear about her work, apartment, life, while giving her the unconditional support all children needed? Or did she watch TV like everyone else and fall asleep during the eleven o’clock news?
Probably the latter. Could be his presence, not sorrow or fear of burglars, had kept her from sleeping. Shaking off his sentimentality, he turned her to the showerhead to let the water rinse away the soap.
She moved her head to the side. “Although this is very nice, I enjoyed facing you much better.”
“Soon as we’re in bed, I’ll hold you like that again.” He swatted her butt playfully. “Towel off. I’ll be with you in a sec.”
He washed and shampooed quickly, practiced in the art. As a kid, his father had taken him camping a lot, mainly in the Dakotas where some of the Stearn clan had started out and still lived. Every facility his dad picked provided clammy cold water to match the icy days. Shutting off the shower’s flow, Mike pulled his wet hair off his face and opened the curtain.
Jasmine sat on the toilet seat, the sole of her right foot on the wicker hamper. She blotted her calf with a thick terry towel. Beads of water dotted her back and arms, the moisture winking in the candlelight.
Confronted with her newly scrubbed flesh, Mike decided to be selfish and give her no more than a half hour to sleep before he took her again. At thirty-four, he needed only a ten or fifteen minute nap to rev up. She was three years younger, so thirty minutes should have her perking till well after sunrise. Pleased with his math, he left the tub, found a towel on the shelf and scrubbed his hair dry. While he patted his shoulders and chest, he noticed the door to the side of her. He figured it was a linen closet until he saw the lock near the knob. “What’s behind that door?”
The towel paused on her calf. “Nothing.”
“You mean it’s a fake door leading nowhere?”
“No.” She cleared her throat. “It’s just another bedroom, or what my parents had wanted to use as a nursery before Mom found out she couldn’t have more kids. When I was younger, it was our guestroom. Since I took over the family business, I use it for storage. I told you that when we came upstairs, remember?”
Vaguely. “Uh-uh.”
She lowered her right foot and put her left on the hamper to dry it.
Reluctant to ask any more questions, he ran the towel under his arms. Though clean, he would have liked to get rid of his stubble. He glanced at her counter to see if she had a razor he could use and maybe a new toothbrush. No such luck. All he noted were ten bottles of perfume or cologne, in various tints, shoved together haphazardly. He pushed the towel to his thighs, drying them as a thought nagged: something about her spraying perfume on her throat and nipples, and the bottles rocking as she moved them aside.
For his Glock. The space it should have occupied was empty. His head snapped to the stack of towels, thinking she’d shoved his pistol inside. Their neat contours told him she had not. “Where’s my gun?”
She lifted her head from her leg and glanced to where he looked. “In the bedroom.” Apprehension strained her voice. “I didn’t know if the steam would hurt it, so I put it in the dresser next to my underwear.”
That solved one mystery. He teased, “I didn’t think you owned any.”
Her right brow arched. “It comes in handy when I have to meet with clients or go grocery shopping. You should see me then. I look deadly dull.”
“I doubt that.” He imagined her elegant and regal, the way she was now. Without makeup, she owned a natural, more interesting type of beauty. He toyed with the idea of telling her and decided against it. Convincing a woman she looked great without beauty aids was as impossible as persuading a guy that length and size didn’t matter. “We left my clothes in the downstairs hall, right?” He felt stupid for asking, but his memory of the first few minutes here was kind of fuzzy.
Her expression said she found the question very odd or troubling. “Why? Have you changed your mind? Did you decide to leave already?”
The already caused him to smile. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. I just thought I’d get my comb.”
“You don’t have to. Use mine.” Her voice trembled with nervousness and gratitude.
He figured she really didn’t want to be alone in this great big place.
She opened the counter’s top drawer, taking out a wide-toothed comb, a container of unisex deodorant, a tube of Aquafresh and a red toothbrush still in the manufacturer’s box. “Do you think you’ll need anything else?”
He hid his surprise at her preparations for tonight. She had an IUD, condoms and spare toiletries? Almost too good to be true. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare razor in there, would you?”
“Dozens. I attend lots of conventions to promote the line.” She put a plastic travel razor and a miniature can of shaving cream next to his other supplies. On her feet, she kissed his scar, her lips a caress, her tongue a balm. “Take your time.” Her breath ruffled the hairs on his arm. “I’ll be in bed.”
She barely made it past the door. Weakened and anxious, she leaned against the wall, trying not to panic. Ben must have broken his word and taken Mike’s gun, unless one of her sisters had it. Jasmine hadn’t noticed it missing when she’d gone into the bath, fleeing her nightmare about Desiree.
God. Her hands flew to her eyes. She couldn’t erase the bad dream, an eerie approximation of what really happened. On her and Connor’s date, Desiree watched them at the restaurant, though not from a table. She’d been in the parking lot. Her stare unsettled Jasmine and filled Connor’s beautiful features with dread. They left quickly. Although he said he’d never seen the woman before, within a few weeks he’d disappeared. Only the beginning. Jasmine began to see Desiree everywhere, those frightening green eyes staring at her. She changed her schedule and normal routes. Didn’t matter. At the ATM, Desiree waited. At the bakery counter, Desiree watched. At this house, Desiree refused to listen to reason. Her anger erupted and she uttered the curse.
You will want as I want.
Inside the bath, Mike flushed the toilet and turned on the water in the sink.
Breathing shallowly, Jasmine padded to the nightstand. She dropped the string of condoms in the top drawer next to the handcuffs. Lily’s voice played in her mind. We have to keep him here.
Jasmine’s legs gave out. She sank to the bed. What was she going to do if he asked for his gun? What would she do in the morning when he wanted to leave?
He shut off the water.
She looked at the bathroom door, waiting for it to open. A part of her feared what she’d do once he came out. A greater part of her welcomed it.
Thunder crashed, shaking the house and rattling the windows. Awakened by the noise, Mike opened one eye. Gloomy morning light bathed the room. Wind tore at the cypress and banyan trees flanking the last window. Slanting rain, sounding like hundreds of pebbles, hit the glass. He wrinkled his noise at the metallic odor permeating the dank air. Shit. Today he had a week’s worth of errands to run. The thought of driving his bike through this mess made him groan.
“It’s only thunder,” Jasmine whispered, her mouth to his ear.
Her presence and voice offered such solace, his eyes closed. “I was thinking about my bike.”
“It’s in the garage. It won’t get wet.”
He chuckled. “It will when I take it out.”
“Don’t leave.” Her fingers traced his lips.
It tickled. He caught her hand. “I have errands to run.”
“Later.” A new wave of thunder rumbled and boomed, ringing the air as it passed. “It’s early, nothing’s opened. The weather’s too bad. I’ll fix you breakfast.”
His hand dragged down her arm and fell to the bed. “You cook in the nude.” He recalled her boasting about it last night.
“We can use the table like you wanted. There’s so much we haven’t done.”
His lethargy proved otherwise. Last night, when he left the bath, she gave him a full body massage with her talented hands, mouth and tongue. He reciprocated by masturbating her in front of the cheval mirror, insisting she keep her eyes open to witness what she looked like during an orgasm. An impassioned fuck, missionary style, followed, after which they collapsed. “Like what?”
“You haven’t let me tie you up.”
“Wasn’t in the game plan.” He ran his tongue around his mouth. “You said you wanted me to be your master and you’d be—what are you doing?”
“Shhhh.” She straddled his body, her velvety cunt on his cock, her mouth to his. “Give me your hand.”
He liked where it was—on her left breast, her nipple stiffening against his palm. “To tie me up?”
“It’ll be fun.”
The wind slammed against the house. Branches swished and snapped. The crack of wood said one of them broke off. Definitely too bad to go out, just as she’d said. He surrendered and offered his hand.
She kissed his wrist, then looped her silk sash around it. Eyes still closed, he yawned. She crawled off him, shaking the mattress as she left the bed. His arm followed.
When his fingers hung over the side, he asked, “You tying me to the bed post or the doorknob?”
“The post.” She pulled on the sash, redirecting his arm to the headboard.
Wind pushed a branch against the window. Behind his closed lids, Mike saw lightning flash. Thunder followed quickly. The bed jiggled. He heard metal hitting metal. A sound he hadn’t expected. “What was that?”
She slipped something cool and smooth beneath his hand. It drew closer, surrounding his wrist with a tinny click.
His eyes flew open. He turned his head and stared at the handcuff, not yet believing what he saw. The second he realized the truth, he yanked his arm, wanting to get free. She’d made certain he couldn’t, hooking two sets of cuffs together. The end farthest from him clanged against the metal bed frame where she’d secured it. He scrambled to a sitting position and frowned. “What the hell is this?”
Jasmine backed away from the bed. A precaution so he couldn’t grab her arm. Lightning kept flashing. She didn’t appear to notice it or the resultant thunder. In the glare, he saw the maroon circles beneath her eyes. Last night her makeup and the soft candlelight in the bath hid her shocking exhaustion.
A stew of emotions surfaced. Surprise and concern for her…anger and a faint thread of unease for himself. What the fuck was going on? “Jasmine.” He used his mildest voice.
Her eyes glinted with lust. “I can’t let you go.”
Alarm raced through him. He recalled her voice last night when he’d awakened to find her watching him and told her to get the corset. She’d sounded distracted and drugged then, the same as now. “Why?”
“Desiree. The yearning.”
She wasn’t making sense. He hoped his voice didn’t show his deepening anxiety. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“She blamed me. I tried to fight it and stop, but…” She shook her head, unable or unwilling to go on.
Mike inhaled as deeply as he could, forcing himself to remain composed. “Did you take a drug while I slept?”
Her eyes glistened with tears. One slipped down her cheek.
“Jasmine, it’s all right.” He wasn’t worried about the cuff. If he couldn’t convince her to unlock it, there was always his telekinesis, a lousy, fucking gift he’d sworn never to use again, especially to save his sorry ass. Shit. If she saw the cuffs opening on their own, what would she do? Think she’d lost her mind and really freak out? Go totally nuts and hurt herself? As long as she didn’t pull out his gun, he told himself to wait. To talk her down like a normal person would and leave the supernatural stuff buried where it belonged. “Just tell me what you took.” Another tear followed the last, dripping from her chin. He fought the urge to push. “Was it a street drug? Ecstasy? Meth? Coke—”
“No! I didn’t take anything!” She stepped back with her shout.
Behind her, the door to the bath flew open, the knob smacking the wall. A man in his mid-twenties stalked out. His barbed blond hair, bronze tan and toned frame gave him the look of a surfer. His glare and Mike’s Glock in his hand said he wasn’t so laid-back. He meant fucking business.
The pistol changed everything, urging Mike to use his gift. Just as quickly, his mind warned him not to make another wrong move as he’d had with Tommy, which could result in someone else dying this time. If not him, then Jasmine.
She shouted, “Ben, no!”
Footsteps pounded in the hall, heading this way. A young female voice yelled, “Jas! What’s wrong?”
“Stay out there!” she cried.
Another young voice hollered, “No!”
Two women hurried into the room dressed for bed in dark boxer shorts and stretchy pastel camisoles. Their complexions were far too pale for the Keys. The youngest one had shockingly white hair.
Instantly, Mike recognized them as the two from the alley outside the club. He remembered thinking it odd how they’d remained beneath the gas lamp, whispering. Jasmine had talked it away. Just like everything else. His mind ticked off the warning signs he hadn’t heeded, beginning with her questions about his parents and siblings. She’d wanted to know if anyone would miss him when she lured him to this house. Upon their arrival, she insisted he park his bike in the garage. So the neighbors wouldn’t see it? And what about the paintings on the stairway wall not quite matching the spaces where the original photos had hung? Were those pictures of her and the two young women? He would have bet several years of his life on it and more. She’d made certain his gun was always one room away where he wouldn’t be able to get it. Even the CD player had a role in her plan. She’d turned it on so he couldn’t hear the others here. And when he’d sensed someone watching, it had been Mr. Surfer, slinking into the bath from the other room.
“Stop it.” Jasmine’s voice cut off the younger women’s continuing questions about what had happened. She pulled on her silk robe, holding it closed with her fists. “I want you to leave. Now.”
They didn’t budge.
“Please,” she begged. “I don’t want you guys involved.”
In what? Mike wondered. He managed a swallow and a deeper breath as he watched the dynamics between the three. Their devotion went far beyond friendship and living together. Although neither of the women resembled Jasmine, they had to be her cousins or sisters. The wild card was the guy. Ben. He wasn’t the meth-addict boyfriend she’d talked about, if her story was true. He had the look of health about him, provided by a steady diet of carrots and sprouts. He also appeared murderously protective, possibly jealous of another man in her be
d. A muscle in his jaw jumped as their eyes met.
He lifted the gun’s barrel. “Cover yourself.”
The girl with the platinum hair looked over. Mike used his free hand to pull the sheet to his hips before his nudity caused Ben to fire a round he’d be afraid to divert. Even if he used his power to push the boy into the wall or wrench the gun from his hand, Ben might still be able to squeeze off a shot with possibly tragic results. Mike warned himself to remain calm and consider his options. To think, not react.
He couldn’t imagine why they were doing this. Desiree, Jasmine had said. The yearning. Ramblings of a druggie? A moment ago, he’d thought so. Not now. She appeared exceptionally lucid. Which left the same questions—what in the hell was going on? Why coax him here and keep him prisoner?
His lousy net worth made him a poor ransom choice. Only his mom would have bothered to bail him out, using the meager insurance she got from his dad. He had no value, unless he counted his time with the service. Maybe they wanted to know the new identity and location of a former witness. Maybe Desiree paid or ordered them to do it, which would have required them to connect him with the individual, then follow and bait him into coming here. An elaborate scheme he knew they didn’t have the chops to pull off. Ben appeared uncertain what to do as Jasmine and the other women argued, with nothing being resolved.
Finally, Mike interrupted. “I hope you’re aware the Blue Bliss has security cameras at all of its entrances and exits, including the alley. Everyone is videotaped going into the building and out.”
Ben’s eyes darted to Jasmine for confirmation. The two younger women turned to the bed, plainly surprised by his comment.
Good. He had their attention. If by some miracle they could keep him here, all the cops needed to do was view those security tapes and, if necessary, play Jasmine’s and his picture on every local TV station. To make certain she and the others understood what would happen, he added, “I’m a regular at the club. If I don’t keep my appointments today, it’s the first place the police will think to check out.”