“I promise you that Bud is more real than the name my parents gave me.”
If she was a Fed or a reporter she’d already know his name, and it’d be good for her to think he was being honest — she’d be more open to accepting his lies later.
“And what do you do for a living in Atlanta, Bud?”
“Have dinner with me and I’ll consider telling you.”
4
Nickie had lost her ever-loving mind. She never dated strangers. Ever. She’d learned too much about the world to trust anyone she hadn’t known most of her life.
She scened with people in reputable BDSM establishments, and she trusted her close circle of friends and family. She tried to point light into the shadows to stop the worst of what humans do to each other, and she’d put her own life in danger time and again to do it. However, risking your life to stop a human trafficker was completely different than risking your life to have sex with a hot guy you just met. She was too old for a trafficker to want to abduct her and sell her, but she’d made lots of enemies over the years and this guy obviously had secrets.
She should be safe enough with Bud if they stayed in the resort, though. She had her pepper spray and knife, but it was too bad she couldn’t bring her gun into Mexico on the plane. The resort’s security was paid to keep a closer watch over her, so he shouldn’t be able to drug her and stuff her in a suitcase as long as she didn’t go to his room. Or let him in hers.
Bud had made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in the resort, so she donned a cocktail dress and heels and went all out with her hair and makeup. The polish had chipped off one nail, so she painted it black. The other nails were copper and her dress was black. It worked.
A quick Google search of Bud Jones in Atlanta didn’t turn anything up, but she hadn’t expected it to. She had other resources, but she’d be late if she started searching through them now, and she wasn’t going to have sex with him tonight anyway. Maybe she’d get a real first name at dinner so the search would be easier tomorrow.
On second thought, it couldn’t hurt to alert one of her people in the States and get the ball rolling, just to be safe. She’d secretly taken a few pictures of Bud from across the boat, and she sent them to one of the private investigators she frequently used. He was a lot faster than the investigator at her security firm, and he had no qualms about hacking to get information when he couldn’t find what he wanted through legal means. She started to send a quick email to Tyler, just to keep him in the loop, but decided to wait to see what the PI turned up. Tyler went with her when she travelled as an investigative journalist. He was her security guy, but he managed to do his job without holding her back, most of the time. She trusted him with her life, but she wasn’t sure he needed to be brought in.
She turned her phone’s ringer and vibrator off, and tucked it into her bra so it was practically under her left arm. Her knife was already in the holster hooked to her bra under her left arm — easily accessible with her right hand. Her lipstick went into her bra under her right boob, and her pepper spray went into her left bra cup, aimed so she could reach into her cleavage and quickly pull it out.
A hasty glance in the mirror showed her the image she worked so hard to project — rich, sheltered female with no clue about the real world. No one would guess she could defend herself against most scum of the earth, but she’d fought off bad guys both on her own and alongside hired muscle more times than she wanted to remember. This was society’s idea of beauty and it opened doors for her, so she went with it.
She closed her eyes against the memory of the room full of ten to fourteen year old girls who’d been taken from the suburbs of America and were due to be sold on the auction block to the highest bidder. She’d saved forty-eight girls who were returned to their families, but the human traffickers had walked out of prison within six hours of their arrest, never to be seen again. She’d lost their trail and that was it. Her assistant had told her she’d go crazy if she couldn’t put it behind her, and she’d retorted she just might go crazy if she dropped it and stopped trying. Those men had a network that sold hundreds of girls every month. She hadn’t shut them down at all, and if she could just watch the same channels long enough, she’d find them again.
She shook her head at her own image. The FBI had all her notes. If anyone could find them, they would. She’d done her part, written her story, and it was time to move on.
Tonight, she intended to let her muse turn the delectable Bud into the perfect book-boyfriend. Perhaps it was time to add another novel to her werewolf series.
Bud slid into black dress pants, black dress shoes, and a black dress shirt he left open at the neck. With his shorter haircut, he looked like someone else entirely.
Shadow had left an encrypted message with the information he’d dug up. He’d found several of Nicole’s pseudonyms. Her real name was Nicolette Bell and she was forty-three years old. She lived in a rural town about forty minutes away from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She didn’t write anything under her real name, but he’d found several pen names. Nicole Blackthorn wrote cozy mysteries, Nick Woods wrote a grumpy private detective series, and Nicoletta Black wrote about werewolves. As usual, Shadow saved the bad news for last and sent Bud to her investigative journalist website. Bud’s heart fell as he saw links to stories she’d done for various news organizations around the world, as well as the non-fiction books she’d published on issues like the international drug trade, human trafficking, and the diamond industry — all written under the name Cole Daniels.
Shadow noted she had other income he was still investigating, but worried she might be doing an exposé on bikers or possibly even the sale of illegal weapons to the Mexican drug cartels. Bud used the hotel notepad to write the names and genres before pressing the button in the app to remove all traces of the message from the server and his phone.
He considered standing her up, but his wolf wanted to face her and he was inclined to agree. They needed to know what she was researching and how he figured into it.
His phone beeped and he opened the encrypted app to see a video request from Shadow.
“Oh, good. Since you just deleted the file from the server, I hoped you’d be able to talk,” Shadow said as his image came onto the screen.
“What’s up?”
“I found another pen name. N. Cole. She writes BDSM romance.”
Bud’s eyebrows lifted as he considered the possibilities. “Yeah, that’ll come in handy at dinner. Anything else?”
“Reviewers seem to think she’s in the lifestyle, based on the way she writes it.”
“Still nothing to point to ATF or DEA?”
“No, and I’ve accounted for all her income now. The last was hardest to find because she self publishes the BDSM titles under an LLC and not through a publisher. Oh, one other interesting tidbit, hard to find because it’s from before the town’s papers and police department were computerized, but in her early days as a journalist she once spent three days in jail for refusing to give up the name of an informant. She never gave them the name, but she helped solve the crime and was released for her help. A compromise, basically, to keep the police department from looking like heartless bastards because she easily had the media on her side.”
Interesting. The woman had strong morals, but he’d already guessed that. “Okay. I’m about to meet her for dinner. Initiate an encrypted voice call if you find something else I should know right away. Otherwise, just send it through so I can grab it later.”
Bud headed downstairs and smiled at Nicole, who was casually waiting for him near an artificial waterfall just outside the entrance to the restaurant. She’d situated herself so no one could walk up behind her — so many of her actions screamed law enforcement or military, and yet Shadow hadn’t been able to find anything.
Nicole had worn a knife on a holster at her hip for the dive and she was comfortable using it, as if she had a lot of experience or practice. When she’d needed to cut a package open topsi
de, she’d reached for it and flicked it open as if it were second nature. He scanned her from head to toe now to look for signs of a weapon. She’d think he was looking her over sexually, which was fine with him. No weapons showed, and the dress was too form-fitting around her waist for the knife to be there, but he’d be willing to bet money she had it on her. Under the arm, perhaps? Or maybe inner thigh.
If she wasn’t a government agent and really was just an author, who was she afraid of?
“Well, don’t you clean up nice?” she said with a grin as Bud walked to her.
“Says the beautiful woman in the clingy, sexy little-black-dress.” Bud offered his arm, she looped her hand inside, and they walked in perfect step to the maître d’.
Bud ordered three appetizers and a fancy brand of super-dark beer, and Nicole ordered a mojito.
“I’m starved, so I’ll be ordering two entrees for myself,” Bud told her. “It occurs to me that when I asked where you lived earlier, you mentioned Pennsylvania but then diverted the conversation.”
“I live in a small rural area, thirty minutes outside of Philadelphia and two hours from Manhattan when traffic cooperates. I’ve lived in cities at various times in my life, and frequently live in them when I’m researching for a book or covering a story, but I enjoy having a home in the country to return to.”
“I lived in a rural area outside Atlanta for years, but now that my daughter’s grown and on her own, I’ve moved into the city.” He shrugged. “I’m only a few miles from downtown proper, but across the interstate in a neighborhood with a rural feel.”
“You have a grown daughter? Can I ask how old you are?”
He’d have to lie, because no way could he tell her he was approaching sixty. Werewolves don’t age the same as humans and most people assumed he was in his thirties. His paperwork said he was thirty-four. However, she was forty-three and he should probably tell her something in her age range.
“I’m forty-four. How old are you?”
“I recently turned forty-three. I must say, you don’t look anywhere near your age.”
“Ditto. What do you do to stay in shape?”
She shrugged. “I ride my bicycle a lot when I’m home. My part of Pennsylvania’s pretty flat and I much prefer biking to driving.”
Her scent told him she was leaving something out, but he didn’t want to accuse her of lying. “Based on what I’ve seen of you, I’d have guessed one of the martial arts.”
Her eyes went sharp and her shoulders tensed, but she quickly shrugged the tension away and looked nonchalant as she responded, “Only someone with experience of their own would notice. What discipline do you practice?”
“Muay Thai when I was younger, but more recently some friends and I’ve dipped into Krav Maga, which often feels closer to street fighting than martial arts, but I’ve enjoyed the experience.”
“I’ve studied a variant of Kung Fu designed for women, called Wing Chun. Oddly enough, more recently I’ve been involved with Krav Maga. Like you, I’ve enjoyed the experience.”
Bud smiled. “I sent my daughter to learn Wing Chun. She’s small and strong, and it’s served her well. I also taught her to handle firearms, and when two men attacked her and a date a few years ago, she shot them both. Luckily, her date was the district attorney, so no charges were filed against her for murder and she didn’t have to prove it was self-defense.” He needed to give her some more information — look like he was opening up so she’d feel comfortable doing the same.
“You seem proud of her. How’d she handle taking a life?”
Not the response of a shallow, vapid female. Nicole’s reaction was of someone who’d likely seen a violent death. Bud didn’t know if she’d personally killed someone or merely watched someone else do it, but he’d bet money she still wasn’t dealing well with it.
As for Bud’s daughter — she’d handled it easily enough, but only because her first kill had happened when she was twelve, and that one had been a bitch to get her through. He had to answer as if it was her first, though.
“It was hard, but I made sure she got the counseling she needed. She lives in Chattanooga, but we have good friends and family in the area who kept a close eye on her and didn’t let her go to a bad place emotionally.”
“Sounds like she’s lucky to have you. Can I ask where her mom is?”
“Killed by a drunk driver when my daughter was fifteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Have you ever married? Do you have any kids?”
“No, and no.”
“Never found the right man, or you don’t believe in it?”
“I move around a lot. I’ve been in my current house four years, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere, but I’ve probably only been home for eighteen months of it. I dated a guy twelve years younger than me for nearly four years, but I basically supported him while he travelled everywhere with me.” She shrugged again. “It worked until it didn’t, but I never even considered marrying him because he wasn’t my partner. I controlled the purse strings, and if I ever settle down with someone we’ll need to be closer to equals.”
He’d assumed she’d be submissive when Shadow mentioned BDSM, but perhaps he was wrong? How to find out?
“So, you weren’t happy with the distribution of power when you were in charge?”
Nicole had a small stuffed mushroom on the way to her mouth, and she put it back on her plate as she eyed him.
“Ask your question.”
“Dom or sub?”
A lifted brow. “What do you know?”
“Just a guess. I’d have found a way to bring it up at some point tonight — thanks for giving me an opening.”
“I’m a switch. He was my slave in every way, which means he didn’t have the right to get upset when I bottomed to Doms.” She sighed. “Switch isn’t exactly right. I’m a masochist who’ll bottom to Dom, sub, or switch as long as they have good references attesting to their skill and trustworthiness. I’ve only truly submitted to a few men, though.”
“And I’m a sadist without references.”
The scent of her arousal sent blood racing to his dick, but he noted her left arm tightened to her body as her right hand brushed under her left tit. The knife was likely in a sheath under her arm, and something else was tucked in her bra.
“There’s a wide network between the various dungeons and clubs. You may have references you aren’t aware of.”
Bud shook his head. “I don’t play in clubs. If you need references, it’s a no-go from the beginning, but we can still have a pleasant meal together. Tell me more about the shapeshifters in your books?”
“Again, I find myself wanting to tell you to ask your question.”
“You’re direct. I like that. I suppose I want to know if you follow the generally accepted rules or if you make them up.” Because damn if they hadn’t all laughed at the sparkly vampires. “Do your wolves lose control when they change, or stay sentient? Do they have to change on the full moon? When they’re people, do they have to fight the wolf or can the human stay in control?”
“I write sexy, alpha men. My shapeshifters stay sentient no matter their form, but their animal side is always present or why bother giving them an animal side? The wolves have to change on the full moon, but the other animals don’t. My wolves can’t be soldiers, and are killed by other shapeshifters if they’re sentenced to jail, or if they’ll be incarcerated during a full moon because the secret must be protected at all costs. My other shapeshifters can be in the military, and if they’re strong enough and their prison sentence is short, they’re allowed to live if someone in authority will vouch for their control. The smart shapeshifters are careful to not get on the wrong side of the law, because the other shapeshifters won’t take a chance on being outed by an idiot who can’t stay out of trouble.”
“No vampires?”
“No. I don’t deal well with blood and just the thoughts of having to write someone who drinks it…” S
he shook her head and shivered, and he could smell her revulsion.
He smelled something else, though. A deep, deep fear. Had she run into a vampire at some point? She thought her issue was the blood, but her scent made him wonder if it had more to do with vampires. He didn’t scent one on her, so it wasn’t an ongoing thing.
Asking her about it would do no good if a Strigorii or Celrau had removed the memory, so he stuck to the blood angle, and asked, “What happens if you’re confronted with it? If someone’s injured in real life and there’s a lot of blood, for instance?”
“I deal with the situation and then puke once it’s handled.”
“It’s really too bad we aren’t going to be able to see where things might go. I like you.”
“Because I puke when I see blood?”
“No. Because you handle the situation and then puke.”
“You know what I do for a living, what do you do?”
“I’m the president of a group who owns a number of Atlanta businesses.”
“What kind of businesses?”
“You’ve told me one pen name, so one of our businesses is a bar and restaurant.”
“Owning part of a bar and restaurant doesn’t afford you the lifestyle you apparently live.”
“True.”
Damn, but Bud hated having to beat around the bush. “You’re an author who’s afraid of something. You have muscle memory for your knife most women don’t have. You situate yourself in a room as if you’re ex-military, and I’ve noted more hotel security around when I’m with you than when I’m not. I don’t think you’ve made enemies by writing cozy mysteries and sexy werewolves. It’s possible you have a psycho ex, but I’d be willing to bet something you do for a living has garnered you some dangerous, organized enemies.”
“And you’re a man with money who notices security. Are you one of those enemies?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Bud tried his damnedest not to look intimidating as he held her gaze without looking away. He pushed his wolf down and concentrated on being a man who had nothing to hide — or, nothing a woman might see in his gaze, anyway.
Bud (Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Club Book 10) Page 3