by Maggie Price
“Our being in bed wouldn’t have happened—”
“Maybe not last night, but it would have happened. You felt the attraction between us that first day of your workshop. I did, too. That’s before any of this other stuff started. It’s separate.” He tightened his hand on hers. “Agreed?”
“Agreed.” She linked her fingers with his. Her head was telling her to keep things simple. Her emotions weren’t cooperating. “At the bar you said what was between us was more than physical. That you care.”
His thumb stroked the pulse point on her wrist. “I do care, Paige.”
“So do I.” She closed her eyes, opened them. “There’s a sense of connection I feel with you. I don’t fully understand it. I’m not even sure I want to feel it, but I do.”
He rose, walked around the table and tugged her to her feet. “Why don’t we go back to bed and see if we can work on that connection? Give me a chance to convince you it’s a good thing.”
“I don’t think we have time,” she murmured as his mouth went to work on her throat. She swayed against him. “We need to get cleaned up. Get some clothes from my hotel. I have to buy a coat and replace my cell phone.” She tilted her head to give him better access to her throat. “All before we head to the station.”
His hand fisted in her hair and he gently tugged her head back. “When I talked to Ryan last night, he sent orders for you to take the day off.”
“What about you?”
“Since you refused to go to the E.R., I’m your designated healthcare professional.” He waggled his sexy black eyebrows. “I prescribe bed rest.”
“Do you?” she murmured.
“Speaking of bed…” He dipped a finger beneath the robe’s lapel, tugged up her silver necklace. The handcuff key and miniature badge glinted beneath the kitchen’s light. “Think I ought to call your grandpa and tell him you really do wear your lucky necklace all the time, just like you promised?”
“Do, and he’ll repay you with a buttful of buckshot.”
“That happens, I’d need a lot of bed rest.” He loosened the belt on her robe, ran his hands over her hips. “And a nurse.”
“I might be able to help you there….”
Late that afternoon while they were still in bed, McCall’s cell phone rang with the news they’d been waiting for.
“That was Brenna Freeman,” he said as Paige dug herself out of the tangle they’d made of the covers. “The members of Midnight are meeting tonight.”
“So soon?” she asked, shoving her hair away from her face. The prospect of nabbing Loverboy kicked her adrenaline into gear.
Chapter 20
“Honey, you’ve got one hell of a handsome partner,” Brenna Freeman commented while steering her car along the dark road in a remote section of the city. Earlier, they’d stopped and locked a metal plate over the vehicle’s tag.
“Lots of women agree,” Paige said. She and McCall had spent hours the previous day at Brenna’s mansion getting in-depth details on Midnight’s operation. Paige hadn’t missed the under-the-lashes looks the older woman sent McCall.
“The man certainly thinks you’re something.”
“He admires my mind.” And, okay, probably other aspects of her now that they’d spent some quality time in bed.
Paige shifted in her seat. Beneath the coat she’d bought during a rushed trip to a mall, she wore the black leather dress that sported a zipper spanning from cleavage to a little south of her crotch. The damn thing was sausage-casing tight.
In the glow from the dash lights, she saw Brenna’s mouth curve. “I saw his face tonight after you changed into that dress. Honey, he admires a lot more than your mind.” Brenna lifted her chin. “The entrance to Midnight is just ahead.”
Paige checked in the mirror, saw the headlights of McCall’s car. The plan was for him to park in the wooded area they’d spotted on the aerial photos. After she went into Midnight and got a fix on Loverboy, she’d call McCall. He would pick up their suspect’s tail when he drove off the grounds.
Brenna steered onto a paved drive and braked at massive gates set into a twelve-foot-high gray stone wall.
“Mask time,” she said before sliding hers over her head.
“Right.” Paige zipped on her mask, careful of the cut on her left cheek. Having her entire head encased in leather made her feel claustrophobic.
Brenna lowered her window and punched buttons on a keypad. The code she entered had been posted on Midnight’s encrypted Web site. As a precaution, McCall also had the code.
Both halves of the gate swung back. Brenna steered up a winding drive, edged on either side by intermittent lights.
“Nervous, honey?”
Already, Paige felt the adrenaline, the hunting hormone, flowing in her blood. Even though she hadn’t been on the beat for three years, she was glad to know she still had it and could handle—even enjoy—the excitement, the anticipation.
“Steady as a rock.”
“Remember, no talking once we’re out of the car.”
“Got it.” Paige flexed her fingers against the chill. She had applied concealer on her scar so she didn’t wear gloves that would mess up her expert handiwork.
“I wasn’t happy when I saw on the Web site that this is ladies’ night. That’ll make it more difficult to spot Loverboy.”
“Let me make sure I’m straight about how ‘ladies’ night’ works. During the opening ritual, each man drops his gold ring into some sort of container.”
“Usually a brass bowl.”
“Okay. The men then step back. The women come forward en masse. Each selects a ring from the bowl. The owner of the specific ring a woman picks becomes her coupling partner for the evening. Sort of a new take on spin the bottle.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“You’re sure each man puts his ring back on after he pairs up with the woman who picked it?”
“Positive. The rings are our sole means of identification.”
Paige glanced down at the small rosebud etched into the gold-plated ring she’d purchased at a discount store. “Before we get to the opening ritual, you have to check me in as a new member, right?”
“Yes. When we walk into the foyer there will be a man wearing a cloak. He’ll be masked, just like everyone else. I’ll give him a signal so he’ll know you’re a new member I’ve recruited. He’ll escort us into a room and watch while we press the imprints of our rings side by side into wax. That impression will be the only record that I recruited you as a member of Midnight.”
“And as a new recruit, I’m allowed to watch instead of participate?”
“Right.” Brenna slid her a look. “I feel for you, honey, your first time at Midnight and all you get to do is watch.” Her mouth tightened. “I just hope the bastard who killed Lauren shows up tonight.”
“If he’s here, we’ll get him.”
Brenna steered around another curve and the house came into view. Cast in an aged yellow tint from lights set into the foundation, it took on an eeriness Paige had not sensed during the day. Baskerville Hall of an English Moor, she thought, gazing at the massive chimneys on either end of the three-story stone structure. Deep-set windows had center panes of clear glass, framed by stained glass cut in a diamond pattern. Behind the glass, flickering lights showed above the drapes. Candlelight, Paige decided.
A discreet records check had revealed the house and land was owned by an elderly woman who resided in a nursing home. A trust in her name paid for the upkeep and the taxes on the property.
“Remember,” Brenna said, “no phones or weapons allowed.”
“I couldn’t even hide a pencil under this dress.” Paige kept to herself that she was wearing her black ankle boots Holden Lassiter had commissioned from a contact he’d made during his CIA days. The left heel was hollow and outfitted to hold her asp in a retracted position.
As she and Brenna walked from the car in the cold, biting wind, Paige was aware of several other masked figures moving
silently toward the house.
The massive front door led into a foyer, its floor laid in bloodred tiles. Opposite the door was a staircase that split into a horseshoe shape at the first landing. According to Brenna, couples who preferred to observe and/or be seen in action used “gaming” areas on the second and third levels. Those who wanted privacy retired to one of the many rooms on the first floor.
Near the staircase stood a life-size statue of a naked woman. She held a finger to her mouth, which was bound with a gag. Do As Thou Will was chiseled into the base. In other words, Paige thought, anything goes, just keep your trap shut.
After hanging their coats on hooks spanning one wall, Brenna nudged Paige toward the masked man wearing a black cloak. She checked the gold ring on his right hand, saw it displayed a hieroglyphic sign. The press-the-rings-into-wax initiation went without a hitch.
Paige was now a member of Midnight. So far, so good.
Next stop was the huge “ritual room” lit by a fire roaring in an enormous stone fireplace and tall tapers with flickering flames. The wavering light illuminated the masked figures clad in black leather gathered in a wide circle. The room resembled a temple to Bacchus, the Greek god of wine and mystic ecstasy. Against one wall stood a statue of the god. On the ceiling was a painting of two naked men in chariots drawn by leopards.
Paige and Brenna joined the circle of approximately fifty people who stood together in eerie silence. On a pedestal in the circle’s center sat a large brass bowl. Straining to see through her mask’s gauzy eye holes, Paige scoped out the rings worn by the men standing nearby. She spotted an assortment of designs and several animal heads, but not a wolf’s.
A chime broke the silence. Each man stepped to the bowl, slid off his ring and laid it in the bowl, then moved back.
When a second chime sounded, the women stepped forward. Paige peered into the bowl. Her pulse spiked when she spotted the wolf’s-head ring. Brenna reached into the bowl, selected a different ring. Paige watched and waited. Her plan wasn’t to take a ring, but instead spot Loverboy and begin surveilling him.
A tall, willowy woman in a black leather catsuit plucked up the wolf’s-head ring. Holding it in her palm, she walked slowly around the circle of men, pausing when a hand settled on her shoulder. Catsuit slid the ring onto the man’s right hand.
Hello, Loverboy.
Paige eased toward the door, keeping him in sight. Loverboy was tall, with a muscular build that snugged against his black leather vest and pants.
When he and Catsuit passed by, Paige tried to see his eyes. Just as hers were, a gauzy veil concealed them. There was no hint of what he looked like behind the damn mask. She noted that his mask looked like the one worn by the man who mugged her. But so did almost every other mask there.
Hanging back, Paige waited while several other couples passed by her. Keeping Loverboy in sight, she stayed at a distance as she followed him across the foyer, then down the hallway. Apparently he and Catsuit were headed for one of the ground-floor privacy rooms.
Brenna had explained that, as a matter of safety, none of the interior doors at Midnight had locks. Each door had a sliding panel depicting the silhouette of a man and a woman. Before entering a room, a person slid the silhouettes together into a coupling position, signaling the area was occupied. The action was reversed upon leaving.
Paige drifted past the door that Loverboy and Catsuit had closed behind them. The silhouetted man and woman on the door’s sliding panel were going at it.
She reached a vacant room, paused at the door to slide the silhouettes together, then stepped inside. According to Brenna, the identical ground-floor privacy suites consisted of two rooms. The dimly lit anteroom just off the hall where Paige now stood was used for undressing and stowing clothing in an armoire. Still masked, the couple then adjourned to the connecting bedroom, which also had a door. Paige moved to the bedroom, peered in. On the wall beyond the round bed was an “armaments rack,” loaded with different kinds of whips, along with chains and ropes, leather straps, rubber hoses, cuffs and clamps of various sizes.
Freaky.
Paige returned to the anteroom, impatience beginning to simmer inside her. Loverboy and Catsuit might be together for hours. So, why not make the most of her time?
The lab had yet to ID the short fibers found inside the box that held Lauren’s body. With Loverboy’s attention diverted, Paige had the perfect opportunity to collect possible evidence. Errant hairs clung to collars and seams. Fibers lodged in pockets. If she found some on Loverboy’s clothing the lab might get a match to the trace evidence from Lauren’s makeshift coffin.
Paige had conducted covert searches before. She knew how to get in and out. She was only yards away from a possible killer. No way could she let the opportunity go to waste.
Seconds later, she slipped unobserved into Loverboy’s anteroom. Her nerves started to jangle. The bedroom door was closed; no sound came from behind it. Must not be into whips.
Soundlessly, she moved to the walnut armoire. She dug into the pockets of Loverboy’s leather vest. Nothing. His leather slacks lay folded on a shelf. She dipped a hand into a pocket. Felt something.
She withdrew the contents.
The condom packets now in her palm weren’t what stopped Paige’s heart. It was the plastic toothpicks with floss on one end.
A picture of Steve Kidd flashed in her brain, an ever-present toothpick wedged in one corner of his mouth. Were the short fibers found in the box with Lauren’s body the same length as the floss on the toothpicks in her hand?
Paige was pretty sure they were.
Her mind racing, she fed the facts through her shocked brain. Lauren died last Sunday. The day Kidd wrote about in his workshop assignment. He’d unconsciously revealed that when he left home that morning he’d been under stress. Pressed for time. Lauren had told Brenna she planned to confront Loverboy at home.
Kidd claimed he went for a drive alone in the country. But his words had betrayed him—Paige knew he hadn’t been alone the entire time. Lauren’s Jag had been found in the country. She’d died inside her car. On Sunday.
For Paige it was easy to see the threat Lauren presented to Kidd. If word got out that a cop belonged to a sex club, he could be fired on grounds of moral turpitude. He would lose his job, his health insurance, his ability to earn money working off-duty security—things Kidd had to have to support his depressed, suicidal wife.
“Steve Kidd,” Paige whispered, staring at the toothpicks while realization buzzed inside her head like a swarm of wasps. “Holy crap.”
A second later, something heavy smashed against the back of her skull.
Chapter 21
Paige woke up with a headache, a ball gag in her mouth and her wrists handcuffed behind her. She was in the dark, lying on her side on a cement floor. A cold floor.
It took her a moment to realize her mask was off.
Head pounding, she lay still, forcing her mind to click into gear. Loverboy. Steve Kidd. Hell.
She rolled her head and felt a lump the size of a plum.
Kidd must have come out of the bedroom for some reason, she theorized. Spotted her going through his pants. She’d had the toothpicks with the floss in her hand, said his name. He’d have recognized her voice. Her accent.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He was a cop, he would have instantly known there was only one reason she was at Midnight, digging through his pockets. He’d have guessed she and McCall had somehow linked him to Lauren Gillette’s murder.
The irony was, they hadn’t. She and McCall had been on the trail of a masked guy wearing a wolf’s-head ring whom Lauren had nicknamed Loverboy.
It had never occurred to them the guy might be a cop.
Paige closed her eyes. Kidd wasn’t just any cop, he was McCall’s co-worker, his pal. The close friend who’d seen McCall through the rough times after his fiancée dumped him. The man who McCall had defended to her just twenty-four hours ago at the cop bar. God, McCall was going
to hurt big-time over this.
If she lived to tell him about it.
The possibility she might not had fear bubbling in her stomach. She lay still, pulling in deep breaths through her nose, waiting for her heartbeat to level. She had to stay calm. She was on her own, and she meant to get herself out of here.
So, where was here? Still at Midnight? The room’s cool air held a faint scent of pine. Cleaning solvent? If so, and she was still at Midnight, she could be in some storage room where none of the members would venture.
She had no clue how long she’d been unconscious. Or when Kidd would return. She had a good idea, though, why she was still alive.
Kidd would have surmised that if she was here, her partner was nearby. McCall could have even donned a mask and be inside the manor house. Kidd would not only be desperate to peg McCall’s whereabouts, but to find out if the estate was surrounded by cops. If so, a live hostage was worth a lot more than a dead one.
Paige had no intention of letting Kidd use her as a hostage, alive or dead.
She jerked her wrists. He’d locked the cuffs tight—had to expect that from a cop. There was something else…
She groped behind her. A thick chain had been looped through the cuffs. The chain was bolted to a wall that felt like it was made of stone. Great.
Using her elbow, Paige shifted into a sitting position. The pounding in her head intensified.
From her new perspective, she saw a wedge of light. She slid her legs under her, levered up on her knees, then stood.
The room tilted. She leaned against the wall, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Whatever Kidd hit her with had done a number on her head.
When the room righted itself, she inched sideways as far as the chain allowed. She spotted a window, moonlight seeping in through its frosted panes. So, she had an escape hatch.
Step one: get the cuffs off.
The good news was she had a handcuff key on her. The bad news was getting to it would be tricky. Her leather dress had a plunging neckline, and she hadn’t wanted to chance the cuff key and small badge getting spotted. So she’d taken off the necklace and tucked it into her bra.