The Taken

by Vicki Pettersson

  Grif was so focused on him that Kit’s low whisper didn’t register at first, though her body heat did. “I think we’re going to have to split up.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Look around, Grif. There’s something else going on here. For example, have you noticed a distinct whiteness to this crowd?”

  “Mormon,” Grif pointed out.

  “This isn’t a Mormon function,” she returned. “And even the servers are all white.”

  Not to mention female. At some point the male waiters had all been dismissed, and only the hostesses remained behind.

  “And did you notice that the men are disappearing in clumps? Most aren’t heading back to the tram, either.”

  He had noticed. There’d been a slow, intermittent exodus to a doorway tucked beneath the split-V staircase, clearly guarded by a man with an earpiece and battle guns for forearms.

  Kit bit her wide bottom lip and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Something else is going on, and I think it’s behind that door. But I don’t think I can get there.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving you.” Grif had seen the look Chambers had given her. It had him looking for plasma. And for Schmidt.

  “Look, I’m too well-known for anything to happen to me here. Besides, we haven’t even seen Schmidt. So what do you say I stay here and you go storm the castle.”

  He eyed her coolly. “You’ll stay here?”

  “We need to know what’s going on behind those doors, and I can’t do it.”

  Grif wasn’t even sure he could. But five minutes later, when Chambers completed his final round with the remaining guests, the man’s implacable smile slipped as he nodded at the door’s guard, and Grif had to watch, frustrated, while he disappeared inside.

  “Stay in plain sight,” Grif ordered Kit. “I mean it.”

  Kit saluted as he headed across the ballroom. “You’re the alpha angel.”

  Smart-ass. That’s why he was already scowling when he approached the guard.

  “Your ticket, sir?” the man said, before Grif had even come to a stop.

  “I gave it to the girl out front,” Grif said, taking a step forward.

  As expected, the guard intercepted. “I mean the other ticket, sir.”

  Grif had no idea what that meant. “Guess I misplaced it.”

  “Well, I hope you find it soon.” And the guard folded his arms in front of him and looked away.

  Grif huffed, and tried another tack. “Look, Mr. Chambers is expecting me.”

  “Not without a ticket, he’s not.”

  Grif was mulling over his options when the door behind them reopened, and Chambers himself appeared. “It’s okay, Trevor. Mr. Shaw is one of our invited guests.”

  “Of course, Mr. Chambers.” Trevor moved aside and Grif resisted patting him on the head as he followed Chambers inside. He shadowed him through a winding hallway, low-lit, carpeted, whispering of privacy.

  “Is there a camera in here somewhere?” Grif asked, knowing there was but still surprised by Chambers’s easy nod. How else would the man have known Grif was outside the door?

  But why did a man need cameras in his own house?

  “No women allowed back here?” Grif asked, still probing.

  Chambers’s glance was smeared with a smile. “What kind of party would it be without women?”

  “What kind of party is it now?”

  “You’d know if you had a ticket,” Chambers said, smile growing.

  “Well, I’m an invited guest.”

  They were circling, taking jabs, feeling each other out. Looking for tells, and waiting for the other to show a weakness. What Grif didn’t know was, were they opponents or just sparring partners?

  Chambers came to a stop with his hand on another closed door. Music and laughter seeped through the cracks, and Grif relaxed fractionally. “Yes, you are a guest. And as such I expect your utmost discretion regarding the activities behind these doors. If it were to get out . . .”

  “Yes?” Grif raised a brow.

  Chambers smiled. “Everyone would want a ticket.”

  Grif inclined his head.

  And Chambers pushed open the door to reveal a curtained vestibule holding a dark, gilded podium. A woman stood behind it, wearing slim gold heels, perfume that reminded Grif of citrus on a hot wind, and the most revealing lingerie Grif had ever seen. Grif swallowed hard and she responded with a smile almost as blinding as the jewels around her neck.

  One point for Chambers, Grif thought, feeling the man’s eyes on him. “Mr. Shaw, meet Melody, your personal concierge. Melody, this is Griffin Shaw. It’s his first time at the dance.”

  Melody couldn’t have been a handful of years out of her teens, but slipped to Grif’s side with a well-practiced sway. She had large eyes in a heart-shaped face, and a tiny nose with the slightest dusting of freckles. Her dusky hair was shot through with subtle blond streaks, and her firm skin wore a color that could only come from the sun. But that adornment stopped there.

  Her negligee skimmed the top of her thighs, and shimmered over the peaks of tight, smooth breasts. Leaning into him, she pressed jutting, gold-tipped nipples against his arm, and linked her slim fingers with his. Her warm, orange-grove scent washed over him again as she purred, “At your service, Mr. Shaw. If you see anything you like, anything you want, you need only give the word. I’m here for you.”

  Grif cleared his throat in response.

  Snorting, Chambers turned toward a wall with parted curtains, and another woman appeared instantly. So the vestibule was also heavily monitored, Grif thought. And this woman was most decidedly not Mrs. Chambers. Blond as Marilyn Monroe, with similarly lush curves, she, too, was impossibly tan. Surprisingly, she wore even less than Melody, and she clung to Chambers’s arm without reserve, face turned adoringly up to his.

  The world’s shortest skirt, ostensibly white, skimmed her upper thighs, though like the bikini top, it was utterly transparent. The skirt swirled as Chambers guided her around, revealing red palm marks on her behind as she quickstepped, fighting not to topple over in her heels. Grif got the feeling that Chambers was parading her, trying to provoke another reaction.

  Grif was a red-blooded man, so there was definitely a reaction, but he was also a gentleman, so it was involuntary. Chambers still shot him a knowing look, then looped an arm over the woman’s shoulders and began toying with her exposed nipple. When Grif just lifted his chin, he said, “Shall we?”

  The ballroom had been grand, the slim passageway private, but this room was opulent and rosy, with a thickly carpeted floor, silk-papered walls, and damask curtains hanging from ceiling to floor. Hurricane lamps offered the room’s only light, providing shadowed alcoves and niches where men and their dates could repose in private.

  Not that most of them bothered.

  Grif now expected the women, scantily clad, but what he didn’t figure on was for them to be draped across every surface, vertical or horizontal, some spotlit or uplit, others dripping shadows. Some were dancing, or moving to a beat that matched someone’s idea of music, while others writhed on pedestals that looked like blocks of ice. Alone or in pairs, they were all smiling and taking requests from the men who were gathered around in groups—smoking, drinking, even reaching out intermittently to sample the golden, embellished flesh.

  The largest platform was located in the room’s center, where not one but two women were performing for a cluster of men. The two kissed, sliding their hands up each other’s slim wrists and arms, cupping their soft faces and necks, taking turns tipping their elegant heads back to allow access to their lips, necks . . . breasts. One of the women slipped pink manicured fingertips between the other’s legs, who arched back in response.

  The men applauded.

  Grif turned away. Score another point for Chambers, Grif thought, and while the other man didn’t gloat, it wasn’t because he was beyond it . . . it was because he was already leading Grif to a roped-off alcove with two chairs and a table draped in
black silk between them. Once seated—once his fawning escort was kneeling beside him—he motioned for Grif to sit as well.

  “So what brings you to Vegas?” Chambers asked conversationally, like there wasn’t a half-naked woman sliding a hand over his crotch.

  Grif cleared his throat, trying to ignore Melody, who was clinging to him like her life depended on it. “Not this, that’s for sure.”

  All these women. What were they doing here? And why? He could barely stand it for them.

  “Fair enough. After all, women are a ubiquitous commodity. You can get this anywhere.” Eyes cold, he jerked his chin at Melody. “Mr. Shaw needs a minute to acclimate. Go get him a drink.”

  “Of course.” She leaned over Grif, looming close so the gold-tipped cleavage was even with his nose. “Signal me when you’re ready, darling.”

  Watching her saunter away, Grif wondered if vomiting on his shoes would be considered a signal.

  Chambers’s girl made to follow, but he stopped her by grabbing a handful of hair. “Not you, dear. Back on your knees. And be discreet.”

  Though her eyes were watering, and the strain showed in her neck, she managed a tight smile, which widened when she swiveled back around. Only then did Chambers loosen his hold on her hair.

  “Always,” she managed, and made to kiss him on the lips. But Chambers turned his head, his expression sour, and the woman improvised with a quick nibble on his earlobe before she sunk out of sight. The tablecloth lifted, a zipper sounded, and Chambers held Grif’s gaze, unblinking. Then one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, and he held his right hand out to the side. Another concierge materialized immediately to hand him a cigar and snifter, before melting away. Without taking his eyes off Grif, Chambers slid lower into his seat.

  Grif returned the cold stare. Opponents, he knew now. Not sparring partners.

  “You really should try this,” Chambers said, puffing away. He wasn’t talking about the cigar.

  “I’m here to talk murder, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Hear that, Bethany? You’re going to have to work extra hard.” A blond head popped up to respond. One-handed, he pushed it back down.

  “A woman was murdered after being provided a list with your name on it,” Grif continued.

  “Among other names, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Others in this room.”

  Eyes half-lidded, Chambers sipped. “And?”

  “And she was investigating a prostitution ring.”

  “Is that what you think this is?” Chambers laughed, a hearty, hard sound. “Look around. Does any woman here look like they’d be caught dead at a shitbox like the Wayfarer?”

  Grif and Kit had never mentioned the Wayfarer, and Chambers realized it immediately. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “This is my city, Mr. Shaw,” Chambers said now, carelessly flicking ash on the floor. “I have a vested interest in everything that happens here.”

  “Then I’d expect you to be more concerned when an innocent woman is butchered.”

  Chambers didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he slid further back into his seat, eyes glazing slightly. “What’s the big deal? Every woman plays the whore at one time or another. Nicole Rockwell just died while doing it.”

  The cameras, and the beef at the door, were all that kept Grif from lunging. “You don’t like women much, do you?” he asked tightly.

  Chambers laughed, and puffed at his cigar. “I’m surrounded by women. In my work, my family, my church. Outnumbered really. I know women better than most men ever do.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and wanna know what most men don’t?” Chambers asked, leaning forward. “That even you don’t seem to know?”

  Grif raised his brows.

  “They’re just one enormous, intractable problem after another.”

  He smiled, leaned back, and tilted his head, eyeing Grif from the corner before closing his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  Grif looked away, but there was nowhere decent to set his gaze. Nude, intractable “problems” lay everywhere. Was this what the world had come to? There’d been prostitution in his day—any day—he knew that and had never considered himself a prude. But this . . . these men weren’t just treating these women as objects . . . they were treating them as other.

  Chambers finished in utter silence. Grif knew this only because Bethany rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm. “Get Marie,” Chambers told her. Bethany wobbled away without looking at either of them, and a few moments later another woman appeared. She was still beautiful, but older—around Kit’s age, maybe even Grif’s—and clearly some sort of authority as she’d been allowed the dignity of true clothing, even if it was skintight leather from head to toe.

  “She’s a slob,” Chambers told Marie.

  “I’ll see to it,” the woman replied, and disappeared immediately.

  Chambers caught Grif’s eye. “See what I mean? Always a problem.”

  Moments later, Bethany was escorted from the room by the same man who’d been guarding the ballroom door.

  “Keep hanging out with that Craig woman and you’ll see.” Grif’s gaze shot back to Chambers, who nodded as he finished his drink. “Yep. Her family tree is littered with crazy bitches. Her mother, who loved to fuck the blue-collars. That dykey aunt of hers. Even her father was just one big pussy.” He smiled blandly. “Excuse my French.”

  Grif didn’t want to discuss Kit’s father or family with Chambers. He didn’t want her name to pass this man’s foul, profane lips, or the thought of her anywhere near his mind.

  But Chambers didn’t stop. “If you want to do her a real favor, you’ll teach her a woman’s place . . . or someone else surely will.”

  Don’t let him know you care, Grif thought, though he’d stiffened at the oily smile, the thin threat, the weighted stare. Instead of answering, he jerked his head toward center stage. The two women had finished with each other, and were now pleasuring themselves with toys tossed from their appreciative audience. “So what’s your racket here? You keep your wife, or wives, upstairs while you sell skin to your friends?”

  “Selling?” Chambers laughed, zipping himself discreetly. “These little ladies are budding entrepreneurs. I’m just the middle man. I provide the environment and opportunity for consenting adults to get to know each other.”

  “You’re a pimp.”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” Chambers shot back, and this time the animal, the other, was alive in his eyes. “These are grown men and women. The women are beautiful, the men wealthy. They can all easily find sexual partners for themselves.”

  “So you just provide access.”

  “Look around. Does anyone look like they’re here against their will?”

  No. They were partying like it was the last night of their lives. “It’s the same thing if it’s their only way to make a living.”

  “We’re all in the business of survival, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Yeah, well some of us are surviving more notably than others.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to do a little more than survive? Take one of these ladies for a little ride. It won’t cost you a thing.”

  Grif looked away, and saw that a third woman was now lying atop the center stage. As the men hooted and hollered suggestions, she stripped what was left of her clothing and spread herself wide. Grif thought about slipping into a dark corner with a woman that anyone could have, and his stomach heaved.

  “I don’t quite understand your beef with this,” Chambers snapped, seeing the disgust roll across Grif’s face. “Are you of the homosexual persuasion?”

  If this was straight, Grif realized, he’d rather be. “I ain’t queer. I just don’t like taking advantage of women.”

  “Taking ad—?” Chambers growled in the back of his throat, frustrated. “So some of the women here might need the money. So what? It’s an exchange, like any other. Services for coin. That’s the way of the world.”

  “It’s
sex.”

  “Also the way of the world,” Chambers said, his voice brittle and hard. Lifting an arm, he snapped his fingers. Marie materialized instantly. Some of the men behind Chambers stopped and stared. However, he looked nowhere but at Grif’s unblinking gaze. “Tell the three centerpieces I want a proper show, and not a tease. I want it raw and I want it now.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Marie was one of my first acquisitions,” Chambers said, as she strode away. “She’s worked her way up in my esteem because, like a good bitch, she’s learned to take orders. Sit. Stay. Shut up.”

  But she was currently giving the orders, leaning across the transparent glass to whisper in the nude woman’s ear. One of the men behind Marie fondled her ass, but she neither flinched nor appeared to notice. The girl she spoke with looked up, caught sight of Chambers watching, and quickly nodded. Yet Grif caught something else—brief, just a flash—but it looked like regret, or sadness. It was quickly covered with a snaking smile as she turned to the others.

  “I’m not watching this.” Grif rose, pushing away from the table. He and Kit would get what they needed another night, another way. He wanted no part of this filth . . . and he wanted Kit out of here now.

  “Do you want to know what the difference is between sex for money and sex for free, Mr. Shaw?” Chambers’s voice twisted across the room to snag Grif one last time. He waited until Grif had turned, to finish. “Sex for money always costs less.”

  Grif wanted to ask how Mrs. Chambers felt about that, then remembered Kit’s words. Marriage isn’t all it’s made out to be. Was it true? Did all these women feel that way? Was it a twenty-first-century development that he couldn’t understand because he was out of his place and time?

  Had his Evie ever felt like that, even for a moment?

  Chambers folded his hands behind his head, sensing he’d hit some sort of nerve. “Money is the invisible elephant in every bedroom, Mr. Shaw. You’d do well to remember that.”