by Song, Myra
Heat blooms in me, thinking of her watching us fuck. I bet she’d touch herself, too. I know, because that’s what I plan on doing with it later. “Not likely. Not without a warrant.”
She whips around, poking a finger hard in my chest. “You listen here, asshole, you filmed me without my consent--”
“You consented plenty, and this is my private residence. I’m sure you can push your point, but you’ll have to tell people what we did -- what you let me do to you -- to make it happen. Defeats the purpose of trying to keep the video under wraps, yes?”
The way she fumes is a major turn on. I like getting under her skin. Maybe not as much as I like touching her skin, though.
Her eyes drift back to the screens. She points to two that’re turned off. “Why have these screens if you aren’t going to use them?” Her finger stretches toward the power button on one and my heart falters. Quick as lightning, I grip her wrist and stop her.
Christ. I’ve never met anyone more observant than she is. No one else would question two blank screens. No one else would even see them. They’d be focused on the activity they could see, not what they couldn’t. I was going to have to disconnect those monitors before tonight.
A man needs to protect his secrets, after all.
“Look, I’ll have someone in this room, and I have a feeling you’re going to want to be out in the crowd,” I offer. “Now, let me show you to your room.”
“What are you talking about? Room?” She’s still glaring from the video, and I know this has her simmering.
Which means I can’t wait to see her reaction when she finds what else I have in store for her.
Elise
Jameson looks smug as hell when he opens a door for me, and I don’t trust him for a minute.
The room is lovely. Obviously a guest bedroom. He’s crazy if he thinks I’m staying here. I will never stay under the same roof as him. Not once in my twenty three years have I met anyone as infuriating, smug, and secretive as him. It makes me angry that being near him makes my skin as hot as my temper.
“Thanks, but no thanks--” I stop, because I see the box sitting on the table. I know that kind of box. My father gave me a similar one for my debutante ball.
It’s a dress box. Large and cream, tied in a silky lavender bow.
“Open it,” Locke urges, and I’m moving toward it despite knowing better. Butterflies are in my stomach as my fingers trace the shining fabric ribbon before slowly tugging the bow to release.
Sliding my fingers under the top, I lift and hear the whisper and crinkle of protective paper and fabric.
Inside is a dress. It’s silk, real silk, in a dark and daring violet. The color dances in the light, sometimes black, other times a vivid purple, but so, so lovely. Knowing I shouldn’t, I pull it from the box, admiring how it ripples free like water to hang from my hands.
Simple. Elegant. Capped sleeves and a sweetheart neck leading to what looked to be a tight bodice and a mermaid flare.
I’d been dressed up before, but it had been a princess gown, made to highlight my youth while welcoming me to adulthood. This dress zoomed past that, straight into sexy. Daring.
Womanly.
“I’m not wearing this,” I breathe, but I can’t take my eyes off it. The color will look incredible next to my skin. It’s cut will highlight all the right curves, playing up my voluptuous figure.
Another box is in his hands. Locke sets it down and takes the dress from me, hanging it on the closet door.
Frustrated, I open the second box. In it are a pair of fuck-me heels. The toe is pointed, fierce and enticing, while the heel itself seems almost miniscule, as if daring physics to deny it. I can hold any weight, it promised, and look like art. They were black and I knew from the shape they were from a designer who was expensive. Two paychecks for a pair of shoes expensive.
“What are these for?”
“Tonight.” Locke’s voice is husky again and I know he’s picturing me in these clothes. I shut my eyes tight, willing my body to refuse the urge of arousal he seems to be able to inflict with just a word or a look.
“Are you taking it out of my pay?”
“No. If you’d read the contract, you’d have seen this, as well as a room for the night, were payment in addition to the fee.”
“Are you doing this for the police department, too?” I can’t help the snideness in my tone. I’m still battling my desire for him.
He chuckles. “Hardly.”
“Then I can’t accept.” I glare at him, trying to appear more resolute than I feel.
Locke shrugs. “Fine. But you’ll stand out wearing what you’re wearing, and not in a good way. I, of course, love it. I just think you may have a hard time seeing anything nefarious if you’re not blending in.”
“Do you expect something nefarious?” My gut is screaming at me. He knows something, for sure. It feels too close to home for comfort.
He winks at me on the way out the door. “I expect something interesting, at least. Always interesting.”
The door thuds behind him.
I’m left with a dress, shoes, and a bunch of doubts.
~ ~ ~ ~
In the end, I settle on the dress. He was right, though I despised admitting in. The best way for me to observe, learn, and maybe meet a few potential clients, is to blend in. Appear like I am on their level.
I kept my Chucks, though.
The silk whispers on my skin as I walk, making me feel naked despite being dressed. It shows, well, everything. But, I have to admit, in a flattering way. My hips, which always made me shy, are elevated to Greek Goddess status. My smaller breasts become lusty globes, my cleavage peeking out the sweetheart neckline.
The purple makes my skin appear paler, almost ethereal. After I’d grudgingly showered in the room Locke had offered, I’d found bathroom drawers stocked with everything I’d need and more for the night. From a hair dryer and flat iron to makeup to deodorant and, to my pink-cheeked realization, nipple protectors. They were black, and shaped like stars.
I didn’t have a bra that worked with the dress. Or panties. Apparently Jameson had decided to “forget” the panties. Big surprise.
Fine. As I make my way down to where I could hear voices, I try to ignore that, underneath the dress, I am wearing nothing but two black stars on my tits.
The voices are familiar, and as I round a corner, I catch glimpses of the faces of my former coworkers. When they discover me, their faces drop. All but one.
Dalton.
Exhaling in relief, I make my way to him. He whistles as I approached.
“Holy smokes, Martin. If I wasn’t married to Gina--”
“You’d still be old enough to be my dad.” I smile and give him a quick handshake.
“Some people are into that,” he winks, but I see the red creeping up his neck. One of the things I like most about Dalton is that, while he tries to make crude jokes like one of the boys, he always feels a little embarrassed after.
“So what’s the plan for the squad tonight?” I nod back at the officers, now in suits, behind me. This event is black tie, but Locke hadn’t lied-- I am the only one he’s provided proper attire for. The suits are the guys’ nicest, but they’ll stand out in the crowd.
Was Locke trying to help me blend in more? Or, I think with frustration and ire, does he just enjoy manipulating me for whatever he’s playing?
“We’re posted throughout the mingling rooms and restrooms. Three patrols of two through the primary art quarters, and five to guard the ruby safe, three on the room carrying the rest of the auctioned goods. There’s three safes in general, but one is being used to home items brought by guests.” There is a twinkle in Dalton’s eye. “That isn’t one of Locke’s safes. It’s a competitor's. So they are providing their own guard.”
My eyebrow raises. “You mean there are three independent protection duties here? The RPD, me, and some other guys?”
Dalton nods. “Yep.”
I frown. “Th
at’s an awful idea. No cohesiveness. If something happens, the communication is wonky.”
My old partner shrugs. “Nothing’s going to happen, though. This house has more security than all of our museums combined. Add over thirty capable bodies watching all the bodies? It’s overkill.”
He isn’t wrong, but I am brooding. Locke has all but said he is playing us, but I’m not seeing any connection.
“Where’s Locke?”
Dalton looks at his watch. “Probably getting ready. The Auctioneer arrived, and the caterers are set up. Guests should be getting here, well, now.”
As if on cue, the doors are opened by hired staff, and in come the guests.
I don’t love that Locke has decided to dress me, but as the guests file in, I am grateful. The dresses are ornate and have designer cuts. The hair and makeup are flawless. All of the women look like models, dolls, or the elegant and older versions of them.
They are on the arms of men in tuxes. All exceedingly good looking, or wealthy looking enough to make up for it.
The world’s elite.
I catch glimpses of celebrities, government officials-- at one point I’m certain I see a few foreign emissaries.
Mostly I see the other security force. They greet a few of the guests, seeming to know exactly who to approach, and I notice as they take packages and bags, discreetly moving off-- most likely to their safe.
Interesting.
“Time to work,” I say to Dalton, giving him another shake.
With that, I slip into the crowd.
Locke
I’d picked the dress because I knew it would stand out.
It did.
Reclining on a chair in my security room, I watch Elise move through the guests. She blends in, looking as if she could easily be one of them.
Except to me. I see her looking around the room. I know she’s cataloging faces, couples. And, judging by the direction she is heading, she’s going to look at Bryce’s safe.
Bryce Hollins is a competitor. My rival, in more ways than one. He is forty five to my thirty five, and he likes to throw his age and experience in my face. Publically, at least. We have the top two security and safe companies in the world. Mine has been built from the ground up. My father laid its foundation, and my determination has driven it to the top, mortar by mortar.
Bryce inherited an already booming business from his father. His grandfather had started it. It is a legacy business, and the world’s elite loved their legacies. For the moment, though, Locked In Securities is number one in sales.
But Bryce held the title of “Uncrackable.” His top-of-the line home and business safe has never been cracked. It is the one he was using tonight.
My newest safe will steal that from him. After tonight, if my plan goes smoothly, Bryce will be put firmly in his place as number two.
Elise is closing in on Bryce’s security.
I hope she busts their balls.
As she marches up the steps, preparing to slip around a corner, I stand and straighten my shirt. She’s doing her job, to my delight.
I have my own job tonight, and duty beckons.
Elise
The guys are dressed in tuxes. Whoever owns the third safe has the money to make sure their guard is properly attired.
The only obnoxious part is their “Men in Black” sunglasses and ear pieces. The sunglasses obscure their faces. They’re also impractical indoors.
And they make you look like a douche bag.
Following one around a corner, I watch him enter a room. The door opens just wide enough for me to see a freaking refrigerator-sized monstrosity in the middle of the room. Obviously the safe.
“You need to go back, ma’am, this area is off limits.” I jump, startled, and whirl around.
A tall man in sunglasses is behind me, gently reaching for my shoulder. Shrugging away, I offer a smile. “No worries, I’m working the place like you are.”
He doesn’t relent. As his fingers close on my shoulder, I grab his wrist, applying pressure at the soft spot. Not enough to hurt him, just enough to suggest that maybe I know what I’m doing. Oh, and to back off.
“Whatever you’re doing at the auction, you don’t have permission to be here,” he snarls a bit, withdrawing his hand. “Let me show you the way back.”
“Actually,” I can hear the frustration mounting in my voice, “I have permission to go anywhere by Jameson Locke himself. So if you don’t mind, fuck off.”
Okay, I’ll admit-- I’m probably escalating the situation more quickly than is necessary. But I really, really hate men, or really anyone, telling me what to do. And grabbing me. It’s in my best interest to slow my temper. “Look, just call and you’ll see. Elise Martin, Private Investigator.”
He sneers. “P.I.? Really? What exactly are you investigating?” Then he frowns. “Unless he hired you to investigate Mr. Hollins--”
Mr. Hollins? Must be the owner of the safe. Competitor, I think Dalton said.
“What? Nope. Just here protecting the good, rich people of the world from would-be thieves.”
His hand goes to his ear piece and his frown intensifies. I wait, tapping my sneaker on the marble floor.
“Okay,” he says, but his voice sounds dubious. “You’re free to go. However, you are not allowed near Mr. Hollins’ safe. That room is under our protection, and no one may enter who’s not his personal staff.”
I smile and shrug. “No problem.”
Tall and Angry leaves me, heading back into the room. I catch him motioning to me, and several sunglasses turn in my direction. Winking, I head back to the party, making a mental note about Hollins and again thinking how dumb it is to allow so many different people guard an auction of this magnitude.
After all, too many cooks in the kitchen, and all that.
Caterers buzz by and I grab a flute of champagne. I’m not going to drink, not on the job, but I pretend as I waltz through the crowd to fit in. And, when people aren’t looking, I slip my business card into purses and pockets. Maybe not the most direct approach, but I’m getting a feeling I’m not used to.
Intimidation.
I grew up in wealth. But this… this is on a whole new level. Now that I’m in the press of bodies, overhearing their cultured accents and seeing the food being served, I realize I have no idea what I’m doing. These people are country-club wealthy. They are own-small-islands wealthy.
Crudites on trays pass by and I take a piece. It’s Wagyu beef. My jaw would drop if it could. This beef alone costs hundreds of dollars a pound. It’s heavily marbled in thin, gorgeous ribbons. Popping it in my mouth, it practically melts and I hum a little in appreciation.
Eyeing the trays more carefully, I see raw oysters flown in from the shore; chocolate-dipped raspberries with flakes of gold leaf; tiny octopuses, deep red and skewered.
I’m not going to down much of it, but I venture a taste of champagne. It’s the real deal. This is hundred-dollar-bottle bubbly. Even without downing it, it makes me feel a little heady.
Not for the first time, I begin to doubt myself. What was I doing here? What did I think to accomplish? It had seemed an amusement to play Jameson’s game. He was smart, I’ll give him that. When he challenged me, there’d been what… a thrill?
It didn’t help that just sharing a room with him sent me buzzing. Thinking about him now, I can feel my skin heating. Hopefully people will think my blush is from booze, not lusty thoughts.
Even in sex, he has me bested. He just doesn’t know it, and I’m not about to tell him. We’ve only fucked twice and each time he’s taken me to new heights. I’ve never come so hard, ever.
My fingers drift across my throat, recalling the way he’d choked me, just enough to make it feel dangerous, while pounding away at my ass. Beneath the silk of the dress, my bottom still tingled, sensitive from the spanking he’d given me.
I’ve seen enough in my work, both as a cop and as a PI, to know that if he did these things…
He was just ge
tting starting.
My knowledge of BDSM was small; mostly what I needed for the job. Locke felt like more than that. Like he didn’t just want to make sex a little daring-- it was like he wanted to possess me.
Gnawing on my lip, I secret away to the hall that leads back to my room. God knows I need this money right now. But my heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, and I am realizing I’m in over my head with this guy.
It isn’t easy to admit.
I’ll have to forgo the check, because suddenly, I’m not sure about anything anymore.