Spy for Hire (For Hire)

by Cat Johnson

  I could become addicted to waking to this each morning.

  Reaching around front between her legs, I worked her with one hand while plunging deep from behind. She was crying out in mere moments.

  Chelsea said my name in the midst of her orgasm. My name on her lips as her body gripped mine finished me off—in more ways than one.

  How could I leave? But how could I stay?

  As I held her tight and we both struggled to regain our breath, I came full circle with still no solution to the problem. I was still expected back in London. Nothing had changed.

  I’m not sure what I had been expecting. Some sort of post-coital epiphany, I supposed.

  Instead, all I’d come away with from our morning activities was what felt like a lead weight in my chest in the vicinity of my heart and a happy but well-spent cock.

  One out of two wasn’t bad.

  Chelsea rolled over onto her back with a groan. “I need to shower.”

  We both did, but since she shared the flat, I opted against the idea of our sharing a shower. Her roommate might frown upon that. I’d heard Trina come home after Chelsea had already fallen to sleep last night.

  Then there was the fact that I’d seen her shower stall. It was possibly smaller than the telephone boxes that still occasionally dotted the streets back home.

  With a groan of my own, I released my hold on her. “All right, love.”

  Her lips twitched with a smile. I echoed it and asked, “What’s got you so amused?”

  “You. Calling me love. I like it. It’s so . . . British.”

  “If you like that, you’ll really enjoy when I call someone a wanker or a knob.”

  She beamed brighter. “Oh my God. I can’t wait for that.”

  I laughed, shaking my head at her excitement. “Go on now, so I can shower after you.” We needed to get our day started. It was getting late and the only things I’d accomplished had been getting off and amusing my girlfriend.

  Girlfriend. The word echoed through me like a cannon shot. As I absorbed the concept, and realized that’s what Chelsea had become, I also realized something else. I was falling for a woman I was about to be living thousands of kilometers away from.

  I grabbed for my cell phones—both of them. The only way to take my mind off how much I was going to miss this feeling of what it would be like to have a normal life, to live and love like a regular man, would be to throw myself back into work.

  Checking my secure work phone first, I found a message from the home office instructing me to let them know my arrival information when I had it.

  I blew out a breath and tossed that phone to the side. Avoidance wasn’t a good plan but it was the only one I had at the moment.

  My other phone yielded something that grabbed my attention fully. A voicemail from the manager at Angel Escort Services.

  I held my breath as I pressed to listen to the message. I had, after all, dragged Chelsea out of their event just yesterday, and she’d lied to security on the way out.

  It took just seconds for me to realize this was a sales call and had nothing to do with the embassy event.

  Relieved, I could concentrate on the content of the message. It seemed I was being invited to a private party today as a guest of the agency, but I had to call for more details if I was interested.

  Yes, I was interested. It could be a lead to finding Morgan, which would go a long way in relieving my worry over Chelsea trying to do so on her own after I left.

  The call had come in last night.

  Determined to get this investigation moving in the short time I had before I had to fly to New York, and then back to London, I hit to return the call.

  It was early for business hours—though less early than it had been before our morning sex so maybe Mark Hargrove would answer the phone.

  “Hello,” a male voice said.

  “Tristan Fairchild returning Mark Hargrove’s call.” My clipped, professional tone on the phone masked the true maelstrom within me.

  “Mr. Fairchild. I’m so happy you called. I understand you recently stopped by the Angel Escort Services offices."

  "Yes. I had needed a couple of companions to entertain some visiting dignitaries, but as it turns out, the trip was postponed."

  "Not a problem. We'll be here to provide what you need when you're ready. This is actually about another part of our business, our invitation-only, private club for our most discriminating clients. I’d like to extend an invitation to you and a date for a VIP private event this evening for our Sanctuary Club members, if you’re not otherwise engaged.”

  Yesterday’s VIP event where I’d found Chelsea amid the politico still fresh in my mind, I said, “I’d love to attend.”

  “Wonderful. I think tonight’s event will be a good introduction of what else we can offer as a company. It’ll be an intimate affair attended by our local members and their guests. We’ve set a limit of only one hundred attendees.”

  Only one hundred. This man had a strange concept of size.

  “And what is the dress code?” I asked.

  “Men in tuxedos with a proper bow tie. Ladies in formal gowns or lingerie. And masks, of course. We do provide masks at the door if you don’t have your own. Oh, and if you choose to use the pool, swim shorts are required for men. For women clothing is optional or they may choose to wear a bikini.”

  “All right. That won’t be a problem.” I managed a tone of cool indifference as my mind spun.

  Lingerie. Clothing optional.

  His description of the dress code of this party made me realize what I’d seen at the embassy yesterday was just the tip of the iceberg. A completely different type of VIP event than this one.

  “You’ll be attending tonight as our guest, but if you decide to join we offer an annual VIP membership that includes admission to all our private parties, such as the one tonight, for seventy-five. Just to clarify, that seventy-five thousand is in US dollars.”

  Seventy-five thousand dollars a year. And I’d wager there were businesses, and embassies too, who’d written off that expense, slipping it into their entertainment budget.

  Angel Escorts had quite the racket going.

  Hargrove continued, “We also offer a per-party rate of fifteen-hundred. There’s a five hundred dollar discount on that rate if the male member is accompanied by a female partner.”

  A discount for bringing a female—there was no doubt left in my mind that this was some sort of a private sex club.

  Christ. Chelsea had stumbled into one hell of a situation. Thank God I was here with her and, if needed, we had Zane and his resources for backup.

  “Can we expect your attendance, Mr. Fairchild? I’d love to show you what we have to offer.”

  “Uh, yes. Yes, you can.”

  “Alone or with a date?”

  I swallowed hard as my gaze shot to the still-closed bedroom door.

  Chelsea would want to come. I knew that. If there was a chance we’d find clues to Morgan’s location there was no way she’d agree to be left safely at home while I went alone.

  I drew in a breath. “With a date.”

  “Excellent. I’ll text you the time and address?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. See you tonight, Mr. Fairchild. I’m sure it will be an experience you’ll never forget.”

  “I’m sure it will.” I hit to disconnect the call as the door opened.

  I saw Chelsea, hair wet from the shower, wrapped in a different robe this time. “Trina’s in the kitchen making coffee if you want—”

  Chelsea frowned as she saw me sitting on the bed, no doubt looking as shell shocked as I felt. Her gaze dropped to the cell still in my hand.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Uh . . .” I wasn’t often speechless. I was now. I swallowed and dove right in. “That was Mark Hargrove from Angel Escorts on the phone. He invited me, and a date, to a private party tonight. Men in tuxedos. Women in gowns. Or lingerie. Clothi
ng optional. Everyone wears masks.”

  Her eyes widened in reaction. “It’s a sex party.”

  “That’s my assumption. Yes.”

  “We could find something out about Morgan.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “I need to figure out what to wear.” She spun toward the dresser and pulled out a drawer, pawing through lingerie while saying, “I have a box of red dye I bought for an audition. I’ll throw that on my head. It’ll only take an hour. With red hair, and a mask, I don’t think they’ll recognize me.”

  She was talking fast and I could see her hands shaking.

  Tossing the cell onto the nightstand, I stood and walked to her. I wrapped my hands around her arms and turned her to face me. “You sure you want to come? You don’t have to. I can go alone.”

  “I’m coming.” Her eyes met mine, daring me to argue.

  I heard and saw the determination in her. As I’d expected she wasn’t about to be left home while I went alone.

  “All right.” I tightened my fingers, giving her arms a squeeze for reassurance. “Go. Dye your hair. I’ll find you something to wear.”

  Her gaze on mine, I saw the turmoil of emotions in her. If she had doubts, she wasn’t going to let them stop her.

  Thank God I was going with her, to protect her.

  No. Not just to protect her. There was no place else I wanted to be than by Chelsea’s side no matter the situation.

  I’d deal with that reality later. Now I had a sex party to prepare for.

  FOURTEEN

  I followed the GPS directions to the private residence where this sex party was being held.

  I couldn’t even fathom who the homeowner was, or who the rest of the guests would be. I’d seen a lot in my life and in my career—human trafficking, espionage, assassinations—but apparently the high-priced sex clubs of the rich and famous had eluded me thus far.

  Chelsea’s gaze cut sideways as I navigated the BMW toward our destination. “I’m surprised you had to rent a tux. Don’t all of you people own one?”

  I’d come to realize she liked to talk when she was nervous. About anything and everything. Random and disjointed topics, which now included my tuxedo.

  That was fine. A little banal conversation might help keep my mind off the snake pit we were about to enter.

  “All of you people, meaning whom?” I asked. “British men?”

  “No. All of you James Bond-types. MI6,” she clarified.

  I cocked up one brow, surprised she knew that detail about my actual employer since I hadn’t told her.

  Zane must have, which was surprising. Though I wasn’t unhappy that Chelsea knew.

  “You do realize those movies aren’t exactly representative of reality, right?” I asked.

  Chelsea lifted one bare shoulder, looking calmer than I thought she would given the circumstances of where we were going.

  Beneath that dress there was some of the sexiest black lace lingerie I’d ever had the pleasure of touching. I knew because I’d chosen it from the contents of her drawer. Just the thought of it had my tux getting tight in the crotch.

  “And I do own a tux. It’s in my flat in New York,” I said to distract myself from thoughts of pulling over and stripping that dress off her. “I didn’t know I’d need it.”

  As I was throwing weapons and the bare minimum of clothing in a bag while Brent waited in the car to drive us to his private jet, I never in a million years thought I’d need my tux to attend a thousand-dollar a head sex party in Virginia.

  Of course, I hadn’t anticipated any of what had hit me since I’d walked into the escort service’s office.

  She let out a soft humph. “See. You do own one, just like James Bond, as I’d thought.”

  I laughed, but didn’t argue since tonight’s sex masquerade was definitely worthy of a Bond plot. And Chelsea, looking drop-dead gorgeous in a black gown, black lace mask and newly dyed red hair, would give any Bond girl a run for her money.

  My own mask, the cheap plastic kind purchased from a party store, made me look like a child pretending to be Batman. I couldn’t care less how it looked, but the bloody thing was uncomfortable and making my face sweat.

  The computer voice on my cell phone’s GPS told me we’d reached our destination and I slowed in front of a pair of tall wrought iron gates. Even with as intricate as the metalwork was, there was no doubt the gates were more for security than decoration.

  I pulled up to a speaker box in full view of a camera and rolled down the window.

  “Can I help you?” the male voice coming out of the box asked.

  “Tristan Fairchild and guest. We’re here—” I couldn’t bring myself to say we were there for the sex party, so I said, “as guests of Mark Hargrove.”

  “You can drive up to the house.” The gates swung open slowly as my pulse sped.

  This was it. I raised the window and glanced at Chelsea. “You ready for this?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was firm and sure. Completely unlike the first and only op we’d been on together the night we’d met.

  Then she’d been hesitant. Six months of working for Zane had changed her. Given her confidence. Or maybe it was just her determination to find Morgan.

  Reaching out, I wrapped one hand around the back of her neck and leaned in while pulling her closer. I kissed her hard but not for long. The gates were fully open and I needed to move.

  With my hands back on the wheel, I drove slowly up the drive. “Just so you know, any other man touches you I’m breaking his hand.”

  I glanced at her and saw her lips twitch. “That’s probably frowned upon by the management.”

  “Management can bugger off. When we’re inside, you’re mine. No one else’s.”

  I didn’t care if it wasn’t the most enlightened attitude for a modern man to have. We were walking into Sodom and Gomorrah. A bloody sex den packed full with one hundred randy strangers. If ever there was a time to let loose my possessive streak, tonight was it.

  “All right. To avoid the need for broken bones, I’ll do my best to dodge any grabby-handed men.” She snorted out a laugh. “God knows I have the experience from waitressing at Camelot.”

  “Good plan,” I agreed. It might save us all a lot of trouble.

  I tried to have faith in Chelsea’s ability to avoid grabby-handed men, as she’d put it, as we were ushered into the foyer of the posh home.

  It wasn’t an easy task to stay focused as the man who appeared to be in charge made his way across the room to greet us and I held my breath, wondering if he would know Chelsea.

  “Mr. Fairchild. Welcome to you and your lovely companion.” He grasped my hand and pumped. Then his gaze moved to Chelsea. “Hello, I’m Mark Hargrove.”

  She shook Hargrove’s extended hand, no doubt as relieved as I was that it appeared he hadn’t recognized her as one of his own employees.

  “Amelia White.” Chelsea smoothly supplied the fake name we’d prepared in advance, delivering the lie more like a trained operator than a civilian.

  Her acting career had prepared her better than most people would have been for this undercover assignment. I was grateful for that.

  With my jaw clenched, I watched Hargrove’s gaze sweep down Chelsea’s body as he held on to her hand for a beat too long before releasing his hold on her.

  Back when I was in university, with a few pints in me I would have leveled a man for looking at the girl I was with the way Hargrove was ogling Chelsea.

  My hand fisted at Chelsea’s back. She must have felt me tense and sent me a glance.

  Her eyes looked shockingly captivating when framed by the black lace of her mask and I wished we were anywhere besides here.

  I could get into some masked role play with her looking the way she was tonight. It would be far preferable to having to hold back from flattening Hargrove.

  Though laying him out on his back on the hardwood floor of the entry after one solid punch to the jaw would be satisfying in itself, it
wouldn’t further our investigation. I needed to control myself if I was going to help Chelsea find Morgan.

  The smile she shot me before turning her attention back to Hargrove reminded me of that.

  She really was a good actress. If I hadn’t known she was terrified, I would never have guessed it from her performance now.

  “Thank you so much for inviting us,” she said to the man who’d barely managed to get his eyes off her tits and back on to her face.

  “My pleasure.” Hargrove’s reciprocal smile managed to look as lascivious as it did welcoming.

  His gaze dropped ever so briefly down again and I knew the bastard was picturing her out of that dress.

  “Let me show you around.” Luckily, for everyone involved, he moved on to the tour portion of the sex party. “This lovely home belongs to one of our Sanctuary Club members and they’ve generously allowed us to host the event here. It affords much more privacy than renting a public venue.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Chelsea agreed wholeheartedly, just when I wished she’d stop talking and drawing Hargrove’s attention to her and her mouth.

  If I was picturing those red-painted lips wrapped around my cock, no doubt Hargrove was as well.

  Whether he was or not, he continued with his sales pitch, designed as much to separate me from my money as to get us into the spirit of the party. “Our newest venue is in East Hampton, New York. We also have a branch in Los Angeles. And, since you might travel internationally for your job, I’ll let you know we have a club in Moscow, as well.”

  Sex clubs in Washington and Moscow and the Hamptons—the Long Island playground of the rich and famous just a stone’s throw from Manhattan.

  Add those locations to the usual party attendees of political candidates up for election and the hot female escorts that I’d seen at the embassy event yesterday and the whole thing felt dodgy.

  That what we knew so far was just the tip of the iceberg of something bigger was obvious to me. I would have had to be blind not to see there was more going on with Angel Escorts than met the eye.

  The only question was why didn’t anyone else see?

  As we walked into the parlor I knew the answer to that question—everyone else was blinded by sex hormones.