Seduced

by Angel Payne

  On second thought, maybe he’d skip the whole “talking to her” part of that plan and get to the section where Ava was in the next room from the bastard. Better yet, the next country. He wondered how he could arrange another planet.

  Could this ordeal drag by any slower?

  He flung the crop a few times, testing its whir to cut his tension while waiting for Bella to call out for Ava. But when the actress finally spoke up, it was to tell Ava that she and Fulsom’s assistant could handle the wardrobe change themselves.

  Damn it.

  Now he formed a seething audience of one as Lor took advantage of Ava’s black knit dress in ways clearly inspired by their kinky surroundings. With every inch of skin the man revealed during his groping, a new tendon in Ethan’s body coiled straight past jealousy and into incensed.

  By the time the crew turned the lights back on, he had grabbed at Bella like an unthinking ape—a comparison that didn’t veer too far from the truth. After tearing off the bottom two feet of the useless skirt, he got to work on ignoring Grant’s session directions, using his own instinct to pose her with animalistic fury. It was just his fucking luck that Fulsom didn’t just approve of the behavior but was gleeful about it. The man started taking shots with a camera in each hand, shouting at them in wild encouragement. Bella, never missing an easy bandwagon upon which to climb, got into the act too. Her moans and sighs filled the room as Grant flashed away, finally collapsing and declaring himself “verklempt with photographic delight” before ordering a furniture and lighting switch for the next round.

  Dandy. Fucking dandy.

  Grant turned his monitor toward Ava and Lor so they could join him as he scrolled through the shots. Ethan wondered why the views that garnered the photographer’s most triumphant crows, the steamiest ones of the shoot, were also the ones that drained the smile out of Ava’s eyes—and sometimes off her lips too.

  The same lips that gave you the grand kiss-off six days ago, Archer. Remember?

  He grunted softly. Did he remember? The more apt question was, how did he make himself forget?

  Did the tremors in her lips mean she hadn’t forgotten either? And was maybe reconsidering her words…a little?

  He decided to latch on to that hope, even if it was false, to get him through the second half of the shoot.

  Thwack.

  He grunted in satisfaction after rounding the corner into the next play area and testing the crop at full strength against the red leather pad of a full-bondage bed. The big, black-painted piece featured at least twenty rig points, as well as cups in the posts to hold extras like lube or clamps. As it had a dozen times since he’d even glanced at this thing, his mind filled with all the decadent ways he longed to take Ava in it, on it, next to it. Thank fuck Grant had decided they’d done the “sexy bed” theme to death during their Arabian reenactment at the Huntington and had taken this shoot in a different direction. He wasn’t sure an ice pack jammed down the front of his leathers would sit well with the photographer but was damn sure it’d be the only thing hiding his erection if he and Ava were in the same vicinity of the bed.

  “You’ve got a good arm there.”

  He looked up and smiled at the source of the sultry statement. The statuesque strawberry blonde, with curves that were all hers and a smirk that told him she really meant the statement, had already been pretty awesome to them tonight. As the owner of Ricochet, Hudsy Hawn had not only opened the club exclusively for the shoot but had a full spread of sandwiches and snacks ready for them too. The woman hadn’t stopped the hospitality there, either. In the gracious style of the switch she was, every one of Grant’s requests or needs were seen to personally—right before she gave the guy a minute-long lecture for spilling soda on the floor and not cleaning up after himself. Ethan had to actually admit agreeing with Grant when the guy called Hudsy “a helluva sexy ball breaker.”

  Finding himself at the receiving end of his own one-on-one time with the model, actress, singer, and club owner, he looked at the woman with sincere respect. “I’m rusty, but thanks.” He offered the crop back to her. “You don’t go wonky on your equipment, do you? Is it custom?”

  Her smile inched up, conveying her deference in return. “Yeah. I have a guy.”

  Ethan chuckled. “Just one?”

  She laughed. “Well done.” After she took the crop, she refilled his hands with something else. The black T-shirt displayed a gray version of the club’s logo: a bullet unpeeling from its casing in blatantly phallic symbolism. “While I’d love to stand here and trade one-liners until one of us caves, I’ve come to fetch you back to my office.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Why?”

  “Some guy called and asked if I could link you up with him on a video call. His name is Franzen? Says he’s your CO? Built like Thor of Polynesia? Kinda hot? Okay, maybe a little more than kinda—”

  “Shit.” He weathered a hit of both relief and unease. Had they finally caught a break with the memory stick that Luna lifted off Lor on Friday? The USB key had at last unlocked the laptop, but the information on the device was gibberish, a combination of numbers, symbols, and pictures that seemed a more insane puzzle than the Kryptos sculpture that greeted the spooks out in Langley.

  “Shit,” he repeated after taking two steps. The dungeon’s lights picked up the threads in his shirt and reflected them across the wall in a kaleidoscope that screamed use this fashion disaster against me forever. While that ball-wrencher was going to be inevitable once the photos were published anyhow, he wasn’t about to give Franz, and whoever was on the call with them, any extra ammunition for the cause.

  “Came to the same conclusion,” Hudsy drawled. “Which is why I brought the new threads.”

  After whipping off the disco magic shirt, he pulled the cotton over his torso and emitted a grateful groan. No more threads that felt like a thousand scorpions had turned his torso into their dance club. Unable to help himself, he gave Hudsy a mushy cheek kiss. “I adore you.”

  She whacked his shoulder. “Those are only pretty words to me, Sergeant.” Her hand curled in except for one chiding finger. “Save them for the one you really mean them for.”

  As they started down a hallway that led past the club’s kitchen and storerooms, he gave a dismissive snort. “Bella gets lots of adoration, each and every day, I guarantee—”

  “I wasn’t talking about Bella.”

  She tossed another knowing smile in emphasis before stopping at a door with a sign that read Bow to the Queen, Boys. On the other side of it was a small office, though not so tiny that an old-fashioned school desk and a spanking bench couldn’t occupy one wall. The desk to which she directed him was clearly used for the real business side of the club. She pulled out the leather chair located in front of it, but Ethan didn’t sit yet. Instead, he squared his stance to the woman and cut to the proverbial chase of things. She was clearly as good a Domme as she was a sub, which meant coy and cute were a waste of time here.

  “Ava and I… Let’s just say it’s complicated.”

  Hudsy angled an elegant hand against her latex-clad hip. “The best ones usually are, honey.”

  He locked his teeth. “I’m not her Mr. Right. I’m not even her Mr. Right Now.” He sank into the chair. “Not anymore.”

  She hitched her hip onto the desk and cocked her head. “And that creepazoid of a producer is?” When Ethan returned only a sullen silence, she scooted back to her feet with a huff. “Fine. Talk to your boss. I have some things to take care of.”

  Before she stomped out of the office, she hit a couple of keys on the computer to bring up the window to which Franz had obviously directed her. He wondered if Hudsy thought it odd that “Thor of Polynesia” had given her a Victorian home-decorating site to bring up as their conference portal but pushed back the concern as he navigated the triple firewall into the screen where Franz waited with Colton at his side. Neither of them jolted when his ping sounded on their end. They were ready.

  “Runway!�
� his leader declared. “Good, you’re on. Are you alone?”

  Ethan frowned. Urgency soaked Franzen’s tone. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m in the club’s office. Can’t guarantee how thick the walls are, though.”

  “Understood. We’re going to be quick and general about this, anyway.”

  “Okay.” He drew it out as half a question. Franz was a smart guy; he’d pick up on the subtext. If this call was classified as “quick and general,” why had they called the club and brought Hudsy in on the exchange instead of just hitting him on his cell?

  The answer punched him in the gut.

  They didn’t want anyone to know he was getting a call. At all.

  Franz cleared his throat before continuing. “I’ll get to the point. We’ve only scraped the fucking iceberg on breaking through this code. But somewhere between the cartoon conversation bubbles, the algebra questions in Dr. Seuss form, and the paragraphs that look composed by a toddler, your friend Rhett hooked up with a new friend from the FBI encryption team, and they hit what we think is a significant breakthrough.”

  He leaned back with a deepening frown. “How significant?” Was it good enough so they could pull the plug on this part of the op? Could he finally cuff Lor and his octopus arms and drag him in for interrogation? Best of all, were they telling him they had enough to authorize a kill order on the bastard?

  “What do you make of this?” Franz clicked the mouse on their side, sharing an image from their screen to his. If the guy was thinking to dispel his confusion with it, Ethan had disappointing feedback.

  “Looks like you had some playtime with those toddlers and told them to make a C with a pack of colored candy.” The rainbow of dots was scattered into a rough representation of the letter, curving only slightly at the top and bottom.

  “Good analogy. How about now?”

  He clicked up another shot of the same dots. This time, the boundaries of California, Oregon, and Washington were laid on top of the mess. Some dots appeared in parts of Idaho, Nevada, and Arizona as well.

  “What the hell?” Ethan muttered.

  “The next view is where we’re hoping to grab your help.” Franz didn’t waste any time clicking to the third version of the map. This time, each candy piece had an Asian symbol superimposed on it.

  Ethan’s pulse kicked up as he examined the images. The characters weren’t exclusive to their own color. The assignation of the characters seemed random, but logic told him that wasn’t the case. There had to be a concrete reasoning behind the coupling of a character and a color. But what?

  “It’s Chinese,” he declared after a few seconds. “Korean has circles and sweeping curves. And Japanese has simpler strokes.”

  “We’d deduced the same thing,” his captain replied. “We just don’t know what the symbols mean.”

  “Give me a second.” The language wasn’t considered the world’s hardest to learn for nothing. Every word had its own character, and many had more than one depending on the context. “Okay, one of them is party, as in a birthday or anniversary of some sort. The one that looks like an upside-down pi symbol with arms attached is happy graduation. The one with the duplicated characters is for wedding. There are a few more that are variants of the party theme.” He shook his head. “What is all this?”

  The map didn’t disappear, so he couldn’t observe Franzen’s and Colton’s reactions. He could only wait through their long, all-too-telling silence.

  “Fuck.” Colton finally snarled it. A second later, his face reappeared along with Franzen’s.

  “What?” Ethan countered, though another thorough study of their faces filled in a lot of the reply already. “Come on. You don’t think this is a target grid, do you?”

  Franz drilled a hard look into the camera. “Every single one of these events has terrorist catnip written all over it. High civilian attendance, happy occasions full of what’s perceived as classic overindulgence.”

  “So they’re going to drop a suicide bomber in on every single one of them?” He dropped a finger onto the desk. “That’s a supersized bag of Skittles on that map, boss.”

  Franzen gave him a respectful nod. “Agreed. So what’s your take?”

  “It’s an elaborate drug-drop grid.” He rendered the reply almost immediately. “Granted, I’ve never seen any hustler, even for the high-end blow and smack the Aragons are getting into, keep a delivery grid that elaborate—”

  “Or encrypted,” Colton inserted.

  “Yeah, there’s that.” He shook his head. “But it still doesn’t add up. I still vote smoke screen. That’s a map for a party planner, not a terrorist. Not even one with ties to the big guns in the Middle East.”

  Franz glowered. “I should have Hudsy whip you for a pun like that at a time like this, Archer.”

  Under less stressful circumstances, he would’ve pressed Franz for details on how he knew the beautiful switch in ways that seemed more than “just business,” but right now, his brain was racing, working to detangle the mystery that the grid introduced. “The symbols,” he murmured, “are Chinese, not Arabic or even Italian. If Lor’s behind this, why the different language?”

  “Another smokescreen?” Franzen suggested.

  “Or part of the code we have yet to crack?”

  His leader dropped his head into both hands while Colton looked on with a dreary stare, torturing a paper clip in his own frustration. “Runway,” Franz finally uttered, “I’m afraid this means we’ve got to move forward on the op at status quo.”

  “Roger.” He would’ve summoned more enthusiasm if they’d said he was bound for a waterboarding.

  “Get creative, man. Step up the bromance with your pal Enzo any way you can, all right?”

  Terrific. Just the motivator he needed right now. Getting ordered to spend more time with the man who was operating under a fake name to cover a paramilitarist identity, while pawing the woman who still sucked a lung from his body every time he saw her. “Got it,” he said through clenched teeth. There was nothing more to say and certainly no small talk he wanted to dawdle on, so he mumbled, “Archer out,” and disconnected the line.

  Fuck.

  Back to work. And that meant back into the Satan-spun silver sparkle shirt too.

  Barely tamping a growl, he shucked the cotton T-shirt but couldn’t bring himself to put on the disco scorpions again. With the silver thing wadded in his fist, he wrenched the door open and stomped back down the hall toward the playrooms.

  The air smelled like leather, and he smelled like a goddamn makeup counter. Outstanding. Clear the way. Dickless wonder coming through.

  How the hell had this happened? Ten days ago, he’d smelled liked fuel fumes and desert dust, slinging trash talk with his teammates before fast-roping into the little complex in the Mexican desert where Galvaz was holed up. Two nights after that, Franzen had pinned on his new ranking and offered a ticket to Tinseltown in celebration.

  That was the moment he should’ve remembered the word no. The instant he should’ve realized that fate only let a guy play so many risky hands before it bitch-slapped him in the face, reminding him who the boss was at the cosmic poker table. He should’ve cashed in his winnings as soon as those stripes hit his collar and left the game a content man. Instead, he got greedy. Wanting a woman he should have forgotten months ago.

  Craving her exactly as he did right now…pummeled anew by her burnished beauty.

  She sat beneath one of the dungeon’s recessed lights. It had been tinted in a light flesh tone, making hers look like mocha ice cream poured over the most tempting body God had created. A lucky bar stool supported her, and she had one heel-clad foot hooked to one of its rungs, making her dress hike up and showing off her thigh beneath the smart pad she was tapping on. All of her hair was pushed over to one side, tumbling into the V of her cleavage like a sexy, soft waterfall.

  And she seemed to be alone.

  In the same room as the Cadillac of bondage beds.

  Not a great thing for
him to notice. Or hope for. Not with the solid case of pissed-off-at-the-universe decimating his gut right now. No sense in beating around the bush about it either.

  “Where the fuck is everyone?”

  She looked up at him with a grin—a grin—that formed an adorable dimple in her right cheek. “That must’ve been one hell of a bathroom break, Sergeant. Do I get to ask if someone was doing the nasty in the next stall, or has a more personal problem dragged out your inner asswipe?”

  He peeked around the corner, into the room where they’d been setting up for the next half of the photo session. Grant and his crew, along with their floodlights and reflectors, were packed up and gone. “It’s a crime to ask a question?” he flung back. “Especially one that clearly needs an answer?”

  She gave him a look that made him feel like a kid who’d pushed his mother too far. He didn’t like it one damn bit. Her conciliating tone didn’t hit the happy spot either. “Enzo got a call from the writers’ room. They had a brainstorm and wanted a huge script change for Tuesday night. He approved it, which means he and Bella are needed back at the studio for new rehearsals. Grant rolled up his own crew and was out of here five minutes ago.”

  Hudsy picked that second to drift in behind him. “Didn’t that all work out conveniently?” she murmured for his ears alone. Before he could throw back even half a glare, she lifted her voice to call to Ava. “It was great meeting you, but one of my boys is taking me to dinner at Opaque. We’re dining completely in the dark. I’m certain he won’t be late picking me up.” Her green eyes danced with naughty glee. “My maintenance guy is in the back fixing some equipment, so yell at him when you leave and he’ll lock up behind you.”

  “Will do.” Ava sent a warm smile at the woman. “Thanks for everything, Hudsy.”

  He felt oddly rooted in place while the woman’s footsteps grew faint and then were replaced by the whump of the back door. Lingering in the air, silent and potent, were the words she’d issued to him like a kinky gauntlet. Didn’t that all work out conveniently?