Tales from the Lyon’s Den 2
Collaring Colleen
Dr. Colleen Duncan is certain someone at the Lyon’s Den knows where her sister is. Instead of Mercy, what she finds at the private BDSM club are two P.I. Doms willing to trade lessons in submission for their efforts to find her sister.
Daniel Welsh and Rob Conrad know a sub when they meet one, and that look is all over Colleen. A gifted trauma surgeon, the woman is clearly frightened out of her wits at the disappearance of her younger sister, Mercy.
As the men help Colleen reveal her inner submissive, they also bring more than their own expertise to the case. They enlist the aid of two other Doms with investigative backgrounds who met, and were very drawn to, Mercy.
It doesn’t take them long to learn something substantial…and worrying. Someone else is looking for Mercy, too, and that can’t be good.
There’s no time to waste. The clock is ticking.
Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Romantic Suspense
Length: 56,219 words
COLLARING COLLEEN
Tales from the Lyon’s Den 2
Cara Covington

Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
COLLARING COLLEEN
Copyright © 2017 by Cara Covington
ISBN: 978-1-64010-842-4
First Publication: December 2017
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2017 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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PUBLISHER
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DEDICATION
As always, to my husband, David. We’ve begun a new chapter in our lives, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Morgan Ashbury, also writing as Cara Covington, has been a writer since she was first able to pick up a pen. In the beginning, it was a hobby, a way to create a world of her own, and who could resist the allure of that? Then, as she grew and matured, life got in the way, as life often does. She got married and had three children, and worked in the field of accounting, for that was the practical thing to do, and the children did need to be fed. And all the time she was being practical, she would squirrel herself away on quiet Sunday afternoons and write.
Most children are raised knowing the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule. Morgan’s children also learned the Paper Rule: Thou shalt not throw out any paper that has thy mother’s words upon it.
Believing in tradition, Morgan ensured that her children’s children learned this rule, too.
Life threw Morgan a curve when, in 2002, she underwent emergency triple bypass surgery. Second chances are to be cherished, and with the encouragement and support of her husband, Morgan decided to use hers to do what she’d always dreamed of doing—writing full-time.
Morgan has always loved writing romance. It is the one genre that can incorporate every other genre within its pulsating heart. Romance showcases all that humankind can aspire to be. And, she admits, she’s a sucker for a happy ending.
Morgan’s favorite hobbies are reading, cooking, and traveling—though she would rather you didn’t mention that last one to her husband. She has too much fun teasing him about having become a “Traveling Fool” of late.
Morgan lives in Southwestern Ontario, Canada, with a nine-pound Morkie dog who thinks he’s a German shepherd, and her husband of forty-five years and brand new retiree, David.
For all titles by Cara Covington, please visit
www.bookstrand.com/cara-covington
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I am grateful to my readers for continuing to not only read my work, but to submit reviews and to promote my books. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for sticking with me on this incredible journey. Your loyalty truly means the world to me.
I’m grateful to my friends, the Lusty Ladies, for their friendship and their loyalty and for the way they continually uplift me. Because I know you’re waiting, I work hard with the hope that I never disappoint you. Thank you all for supporting me and promoting my work. Thank you, Lisa Buchanan-Phillips, for being the administrator of this group. I’m truly grateful.
Any time I tackle a subject I don’t have sufficient personal experience in, I seek out experts who will point me in the right direction, and correct any misconceptions I may have. Never has that been more important than when writing about BDSM. I am very grateful to Master Cecil and Darcy from The Woodshed in Orlando, Florida. If you’ve a mind to explore this world, I can think of no better place to begin than journey than at The Woodshed. If you google them, you’ll find them! I’ve learned a great deal from Master Cecil, and any technical mistakes in this book are entirely my own.
Thanks go to my beta reader, Angie Buchanan Jones. Angie, thank you for all you do for me. I couldn’t do what I do as well as I do without you.
Last but not least, I’m grateful to the professional women and men at Siren Publishing. You all make me look better than I am. Thank you to my wonderful editor, Devin, whose professionalism is absolute and appreciated. And thank you, Amanda Hilton, for giving me this amazing opportunity, and for continuing to believe in me.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Landmarks
Cover
COLLARING COLLEEN
Tales from the Lyon’s Den 2
CARA COVINGTON
Copyright © 2017
Prologue
One week prior
Mercy Duncan had never been able to explain why she thought certain things when she thought them. She just did, and usually those thoughts were spot-on.
Premonitions? Instincts? A little ESP somewhere in her genetic make-up? She couldn’t say for certain. The only thing she knew at that moment and without a single doubt was that Dr. Fitzhugh Symington had lied to her during her interview with him earlier that day. He’d sat there in his plush leather chair
and lied to her about his research, and about his miracle drug, methodipirate.
It had taken every single bit of willpower for Mercy not to scream at him, not to rail at him about his lies and his damned drug, and not to call him what she knew, down to her bones, he truly was.
Fitz Symington was a damned murderer. Hopefully, after tonight, she’d be able to prove it.
Mercy shivered as she waited in the cleaning closet inside Symington Pharmaceuticals, an independent laboratory situated an hour north of Houston in The Woodlands. She waited for the building to settle and for the dark of night to arrive. Why do they call midnight the witching hour? She had no answer to that question either and added the query to her long mental list of minutiae she would someday look up online. The sound of people moving past her hiding place had tapered off more than an hour before. She thought it might be safe now to creep out of this small closet and see if Symington had left the building.
There were no internal security measures, just the very elaborate one designed to keep people from the outside, on the street, venturing in after hours. Once a person was inside the building, they had free rein. There had been no sign-in procedure when she’d arrived and, therefore, no requisite sign-out upon leaving. She’d left her vehicle several blocks away because this had been her plan all along. She’d arrived, been met by the typical lab assistant, and interviewed Symington, but hadn’t left. As far as she knew—she was almost one hundred percent certain—no one realized she was still there.
Mercy decided the fact that Symington had no internal security measures beyond simple door locks indicated his supreme arrogance, and not the fact that he had nothing to hide.
Ah, but would a genius scientist keep incriminating information in an unsecured place? Mercy thought the answer to that question was yes, especially if said genius scientist was also a narcissist. She mentally nodded her head. She had the man’s number, all right. Fitz Symington was a genius scientist, an arrogant narcissist, and a murderer.
Mercy physically shook her head, needing to get all the floating information inside her brain to settle down. She had serious work to do now. Once she got her hands on the evidence she was after, she’d deliver it to the proper authorities—in the form of an anonymous tip, of course.
She wouldn’t risk the chance of Symington not being arrested and convicted in exchange for a Pulitzer Prize-winning article. She didn’t need any glory, not for this.
All Mercy Duncan needed was justice for sweet Julie Armstrong.
Slowly, carefully, she opened the door of the closet. This would be the make-or-break moment. She’d be able to see to the right of the door but not to the left of it. The corridor lights had been dimmed, which she took as a good sign. Last person out, please turn off the lights.
She knew exactly where she had to go from where she was. To her left, down to the next corridor on the right, and then third door on the left. That was the devil’s lair, and that was her target. Symington had a large outer office full of file cabinets and plants and an even larger, more lavish inner office with a smaller cabinet and one plant. He claimed to spend most of his time in the lab, but something in the expressions of the staff as he led her through the “place where the magic always happens, his home away from home,” as he’d claimed that he spent most his time in that room, told her that if he had once been a lab rat, he was one no longer.
Not many research scientists she’d met, and yes, she’d met a few, wore Armani while on the job.
Feigning complete admiration during her phone conversation with him last week had won her an appointment for the tour and interview. No Slant News was a new online e-paper, but it had already built a solid readership and a reputation for honest reporting. She’d explained in her phone call that the world needed to know about Symington and his break-through migraine medication—about the miracle he’d created! Oh, it had been the best acting Mercy had ever done, and as a result, he’d been quite happy to grant her that interview.
The man’s assistant, a creepy-looking throwback to an earlier age named Kelson Jefferies, had met her at the reception desk when she’d arrived. She’d honestly expected him to tell her his name was Igor. He’d been happy, eager even, to answer all her questions, and yes, maybe she’d flirted a little with the man despite the fact he’d made her skin crawl. Just a little.
Mercy had been told flirting was her greatest talent, next to writing. She still hadn’t decided if she was happy about that assessment or not. Jeffries had taken his time, showing her some of the facility, and then brought her to Symington’s office. The good doctor provided her with the tour of his lab and then led her into his inner office. He’d served her tea and a bullshit story of his desire to find the definitive answer for the pain of the modern migraine. How watching his mother suffer, year upon painful year, had bred in him a heroic need to fix this under-served and tragic malady. Yes, he’d actually used the word “heroic” to describe his own research.
She’d had to work hard to keep the tenor of her thoughts off her face. The Armani, the Rolex, and the Ferrari down in the special, reserved parking spot were just…a happy outcome. A coincidence, if you will. No crimes of greed to see here. Move on, move on.
Mercy could even imagine, quite easily, what had happened and how it had happened. What she couldn’t get her head around was…why?
For the money, of course. Mercy had one major blind spot when it came to understanding human nature. She found it hard to accept that some people were motivated by greed, pure and simple, and didn’t care who got hurt in their pursuit of whatever it was they craved. Money or power or fame, if they wanted it, they decided they deserved it and that was that.
Head in the game, Mercy. She moved down the first hall, being as stealthy as she knew how to be. Her focus as she rounded the corner, after checking the way ahead was clear, became absolute.
The sound of a single male voice told her Symington was still inside his office. She heard only his voice and deduced he was on the phone.
Did she dare go into the outer office? I haven’t come this far to chicken out now. As soon as she heard him winding up his call, she’d hide herself in the far corner of the outer office, beside a very tall cabinet that was out from the corner just far enough she knew she’d fit, knew he’d never see her from his office door.
Mercy was grateful for many blessings, but just then her eidetic memory topped the list.
At the moment, it sounded as if Symington was just beginning his phone call. Quietly, carefully, she crept forward until she could make out his words.
“I’m going to need your help, and no, I am not exaggerating. I’m a master at reading people, and I tell you, Jack, that reporter was on a fishing expedition.” Silence told her whomever Symington was speaking to spoke to him.
“I did check her out. She is an accredited reporter. But the way she asked her questions, the calculation I saw in her eyes…so far, no one has begun to connect the dots. But I think she might be doing just that.” More silence, and Mercy felt her skin prickle, as if something bad was about to happen.
“No, I don’t think we can buy her off. I’ll give you her details, Jack, and I want you to deal with her, permanently.” More silence. “Hell, I don’t care, as long as no one ever finds the body. Hell, let me close my office door, so no one can overhear.”
Mercy wasn’t certain how she was able to move, but she did. She was snuggled up against that seven-foot-tall file cabinet, her shoulder pressed against the wall, in seconds flat.
The solid thunk of his door closing sucked the air right out of her lungs and damn near drained the starch from her knees.
It didn’t surprise her the bastard wanted her out of the way. But to kill her, outright? Did he think he was covered in Teflon? How did he know she hadn’t left word whom she was meeting with and what she was investigating?
Mercy had two options, as far as she could tell. One, she could go back to that closet and wait Symington out. She was hungry and tired, but th
at was nothing when anger bordering on rage fueled her.
Option two, she could just leave.
She stepped out from her hiding place and stared at the door. It was nearing eleven o’clock at night. Surely the bastard had to be calling it a night soon.
Mercy’s focus was absolute, but it was trained at the door she was staring at, not at the door behind her.
Arms surrounded her, and something covered her face. She struggled, terror clawing through her, but her human cage became bands of steel. Her brain became muzzy, and the strength began to bleed out of her.
“You’ll thank me, Mercy.” The voice was eerily familiar. Nausea rose up within her. “Dr. Symington wants you dead. He told me so just before he called his silent partner. I, on the other hand, just want you.”
The words reverberated and followed her into the darkness.
Chapter One
Colleen Duncan would have slammed down her phone, if the device in her hand had been a landline. She’d worked hard all her life, had become a trauma surgeon, was respected by her colleagues and loved, yes loved, by her patients. She was smart, serious, articulate, and accomplished.
And some damned cop had just spoken to her as if she were nothing more than a hysterical, empty-headed…female!
Because she wanted to slam down that phone, she instead set it down gently then covered her face with her hands. Not since the time she’d been awakened by a knock on the door in the middle of the night thirteen years before had she been so terrified.
Collaring Colleen [Tales from the Lyon's Den 2] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting) Page 1