He could already imagine it happening again. He thought of having her back at the estate, that elegant sexuality ready for him whenever he wanted. He could see them sitting by the pool, her clad in one of those lovely dresses of hers, her pretty legs neatly crossed. He’d let her hold the cat. Demeter would like her, he thought. He could feast on her with his eyes . . . and then have that tiger she kept inside her come out to play.
His penis twitched at the memory. He wanted more.
But that wouldn’t happen tonight.
If it did, she might get it in her head that she could control him through sex. He wasn’t a man who’d be controlled through any means, and there would be no thinking otherwise.
Still, it had been very nice.
It would happen again.
Soon, this tedious business would be dealt with and his operation would resume functioning like a well-oiled machine. It was his own fault things had gotten tripped up. He’d been focusing on the wedding, thought he’d make it an . . . experience, and while he’d been focusing on that, he hadn’t watched his business as well as he should have.
When a businessman didn’t keep his eye on all aspects of his business, there were problems. Patrick had a problem of epic proportions. His best asset had become his worst nightmare and at the very worst time. Then he’d been forced to replace him, because things were already in motion for the wedding and he simply couldn’t cancel.
That wasn’t about to happen.
This new man was costing him more money, but he was supposed to be top of the line and smoother than glass.
Excellent.
Things would level out and then Patrick could focus on the things that mattered, once his business got back to functioning as it should. Life as normal would resume and he could direct his attention to his career, his other business interests . . . his new wife.
It wouldn’t be long until he had his new wife living on his estate and he could bring out that inner slut whenever he so chose.
It was dark and quiet by the time he pulled through the gates.
The security guard came out and smiled as he recognized him. “Evening, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Hello, Jake. Out to have a drink with a friend. Couldn’t get away any sooner,” he said, giving the guard a pleasant smile. Always best to be friendly and pleasant to the staff. Assholes tended to be remembered. Patrick tried to avoid that.
The guard smiled. “That wedding of yours is getting close. I imagine you’ve got your hands full.” With a nod, he disappeared back inside and the gate swung open, letting Patrick pass through.
Yes, the wedding had his hands full. Although it was the party afterward that was the most pressing detail.
Tonight would help cover the rest of those concerns, though.
As long as this new player worked out.
As he pulled up in front of the cabin he’d set aside for his guest, he smiled. He wondered what the man thought of the accommodations. While they were adequate, they were no doubt lacking, compared to what the man was likely used to.
Patrick had his reasons for doing it, though. One, he could control things, to some extent, on these grounds. Observe who came and went. And he had people on his payroll who would see to it things would be . . . monitored, if he hired this man.
If.
He also liked making sure people understood their place in the scheme of things . . . it was wherever the hell he wished to place them.
The man came highly recommended, but that didn’t mean much. The last man had come highly recommended as well. It hadn’t stopped him from trying to fuck Patrick over.
He parked the car and climbed out, giving a casual look around. The Ford Explorer was a deep maroon, looked like a family car. Good choice. Not quite the “drug dealer” or “dirty cop” car that some of the pricier models were, but it would provide a good ride, and lots of room. Appeared to be well cared for, and he didn’t see a rental tag sticker. Noting the license plate number, Patrick committed it to memory.
He’d run a check once he left. He doubted it was traceable back to anything, but he had to be certain. If the man couldn’t handle this small thing, then he was useless.
THIRTEEN
NOTHING out of place so far.
He was pretty sure Chapman was chasing windmills on this one, but so far, she’d managed to point him in very odd directions that had yielded some disturbing results.
Too bad they’d yet to find any evidence.
Just coincidences.
Tucker Collins couldn’t exactly see the local cops doing shit to Patrick Whitmore based on coincidences. The bastard had deep pockets, and he had more than a few high-society bastards on his payroll, too. Collins had learned that a long time ago.
Granted, he hadn’t thought Whitmore would be doing anything this twisted. Drugs, sure.
But this . . . nah. He hadn’t planned on anything quite this deep. Still, Chapman wasn’t often wrong. And they were friends. He didn’t have too many people he could say that about. He’d hold tight for a little while, see what he could see.
Then he’d—
A woman appeared in his line of vision.
And dayyum.
What a woman.
He snapped a picture of her, although he wasn’t here to troll for babes. Chapman wanted him to watch for the mark, and that’s what he’d do.
Although this woman . . . man. She was practically a piece of art, strutting down the road, a little purse hooked over her arm, her ass swinging with each step, long legs, a pair of fuck-me shoes, that short little skirt . . .
Just looking at her made him itch. He wanted to keep on looking, just enjoy that view for as long as he could.
But he was here to work the job. And the jobs Chapman called him for were always the weird kind. That meant he had to to keep his eyes open . . . and not on that gorgeous woman . . .
* * *
HER name was Nalini. At least, that was what she usually went by. It wasn’t a name she gave out easily. Honestly, she preferred not to give it out at all, but there were certain people who did need to know her real name.
When she didn’t need to give a real name, she had a handful of fakes she gave out that were close enough. Nala. Lini. Nali.
The names varied, along with her appearance.
Lately, she’d decided to let her hair go back to her natural pale blond, just a few shades darker than platinum. There was nothing normal about the style she’d gone for, though. As if the unusually pale locks weren’t odd enough, she’d let her hair grow long, and it grew fast.
A while back, she’d had the odd urge to do the thick mess into dreadlocks. And that had been a nightmare. The initial process hadn’t been too bad. One day, and several long, tedious hours with her ass stuck in a chair while a woman who must have excelled in torture back-combed, twisted, and teased Nalini’s hair into submission.
But the time after it? That was the pain in the ass.
There had been days when she wanted to just cut them off. White women just weren’t the ideal specimen for dreads, she knew.
But the effect was stunning, and she was either honest enough, or vain enough, to admit it. When she looked into the mirror, the woman looking back at her was stunningly exotic, the long, dense hair falling more than halfway down her back. Her eyes were large, dominating the clean, elegant oval of her face. They had a faint, upward tilted slant at the corners, a sharp, clean line echoed in her cheekbones, her jawline. Her mouth was full, and although she rarely bothered with much makeup, she had a fondness for deep, dark red lipstick. It was stunning against her pale skin, and she liked that a lot.
Before she slid out of her ridiculously priced cabin, she slicked a shade just a bit darker than blood over her lips, paused to study the effect, and smiled.
She was dressed to impress these days, trying to catch the eye of a particular man.
Not that he seemed to be paying much attention.
But he would. He’d notice sooner or later.
It was, after all, why Nalini was here.
Grabbing a little purse that echoed the snakeskin design of her skirt, she headed to the door. Her heels clacked on the tile, a sharp, decisive sound.
Maybe it would happen tonight.
But then again, if it didn’t, it didn’t matter.
She had reasons for being here, and in the end, her patience would pay off.
* * *
THE fucker took forever, Joss thought, brooding as he slumped on the couch.
He’d been out there for more than a few minutes, and Joss knew exactly why he was taking so long—the stream of his thoughts was unending. He could shut that door, but he needed to know what he was dealing with—shutting the door just wasn’t an option.
Yeah, you check those plates, dumb ass, Joss thought sourly. He’d done the same himself and the car tracked back to Mr. Mike Sellers, nice, normal dude who did indeed have himself listed as a computer system tech, freelance. Contract labor. Sellers always paid his bills on time, paid his taxes on time, and had a modest monthly budget that he stuck to without fail.
There was nothing a quick surface look would tell him about Mike Sellers. Joss knew because Taylor had already done one.
Joss muttered to himself as he got up and headed back to the bar. He splashed some more whiskey into his glass and tossed it back. It was smoother than he was used to and, he had to admit, there just might be something to be said for paying an arm and a leg for the good shit.
Still, he would settle for a bottle of Jack Daniels and he planned on having one after this mess was said and done. Getting shit-faced drunk might dull some of the images in his mind, and as soon as humanly possible, he was going to get resynced so he could strip away this excessive power surge.
He didn’t know how Jillian—
If this goes well—
The thoughts in the man’s mind came to a halt. Joss stiffened as he felt the predatory surge of interest and he closed his eyes, focused, concentrated. The man had seen something—no, somebody.
A woman.
Walking down the long, winding road, swinging a little purse, swinging her ass, every move a physical seduction. She was almost even with the monster standing outside Joss’s cabin, and something about her face was familiar . . . the hair was wrong. Long and blond, hanging in a thick fall down her back, but those eyes.
Yeah. Familiar.
She glanced over, like she’d just noticed the man watching her.
Joss hissed out a breath.
The slow curl of her lips, those wide, dark eyes.
Then she winked.
He growled and pushed out with that gift.
But all he could touch were the same minds he’d felt earlier. All those open, vulnerable minds. Not hers. Hers wasn’t open, wasn’t vulnerable.
As the woman continued walking, strutting with every step, Joss closed his eyes.
“What in the . . .”
Then he groaned.
He had the weirdest damn feeling that wink had been meant for him. As though she was aware of him, although that shouldn’t be possible.
“Shit, isn’t this job complicated enough?”
There was no time even to contemplate the complications, though, because his visitor decided he’d waited long enough. Joss felt him moving closer—literally felt it, like the guy’s very brain waves grew in frequency or something. No. Like a radio was moving closer to him.
How in the hell did Jillian manage to function like this?
He shoved it out of his mind and did one last mental exercise to calm himself—blue seas, unfurling out before him, the sun sinking down to meet the horizon. At his back were mountains and there was nobody around . . .
The knock came. It was polite. Firm.
Joss felt it to the very essence of his soul, and with it, he felt the man’s evil.
Wiping his emotions from his face, he shored up his shields. Modify the fucking door . . . let me see what I need to see, he thought. If Jillian’s power was that strong, he should be able to control something of what he was taking in.
He didn’t want a damned window into this man’s soul.
Crossing the floor, he opened the door, ready to face the devil.
* * *
THE towering, broad man was a little rougher than Patrick would have thought. He’d been told the man was big. And he was. Possibly six and half feet. Dark hair and dark eyes, very intense eyes, Patrick thought. He’d catch attention . . . catch notice. With those dark eyes set under the thick slashes of his eyebrows, a hard, unsmiling face. Yes, if Patrick saw him on the street, he’d remember him. Remember him and go the other way.
He’d gotten where he was by avoiding trouble.
This man . . . he looked like trouble.
But still, he’d come highly recommended. Patrick couldn’t say he trusted the men who’d offered the recommendations, but he could say he knew those men wouldn’t willingly fuck him over. Not because they feared Patrick . . . they moved in the same waters and it was just bad form.
So he’d withhold judgment for now.
For the past twenty seconds, they’d just stood there, assessing one another, and it was past time to be done with that. Patrick lifted a brow and cocked his head, waiting for the man he knew only as Mike to invite him in.
“Hey.”
That was it. The man continued to stand there, arms crossed over that brawny chest so that the muscles of his biceps bulged out. Those piercing eyes studied Patrick’s face as though he was copying it to memory. I don’t think this is what I’m in the market for, Patrick thought.
Still, his deadline was looming close, and he wasn’t going to be able to get the goods he needed on his own, not with everything else he had on his plate. He had a few others who managed to snag a choice piece every now and then, but he didn’t want to rely on luck. Not now. He needed skill.
“Interested in a job?” he said mildly, putting the first part of the pass code out there.
The man’s mouth tugged up a bit at the corner, just the faintest bit of a smile. “Jobs are always nice. Especially in the current economy.”
“Having the right kind of work is nice, too. It doesn’t matter what the economy is—if you’re not the right man for the work, it just leads to trouble.”
“Trouble is never good.” He moved off to the side, the invitation to enter clear. Dark eyes glinted in challenge as he said the required response.
Well, that was all said and done.
“I assume you can meet my fee?”
Patrick inclined his head. “Of course.” He really hated it when people put money out there so openly. “Shall we discuss this inside?”
* * *
THREE women.
All taken within the next two weeks.
One white, one mixed, one Hispanic. Very exacting details. Joss kept his hands linked together loosely between his knees as he sat on the couch, studying the neat little note cards in front of him. The blond fuck had laid them out in a nice, straight row as he explained the merchandise he needed to procure in a timely fashion.
Merchandise.
Like he was shopping for a new set of dishes.
Pretty women. Unharmed. Delivered in time to be prepared for their . . . big event.
“This is your only chance to get this job right, and your only chance to get in on a very lucrative project,” the man said as Joss lifted one card and studied all the notes made. “Get it right, and I’ll make you a rich man. Get it wrong . . .” He let the words trail off, smiling a little.
Joss figured he was supposed to be suitably threatened there. He grunted and read the final few details on the card. Blond. Slender. Elegant. Porcelain complexion—no tanning bed beauties, please. “‘Tanning bed beauties’?”
“My client has specific requests.”
“I see that.” He eyed the next card. Light-skinned biracial woman. Light-skinned. Sons of bitches. The third was to be a Latina, slightly plump with long black hair.
To
ssing the cards down on the table, Joss said, “Three weeks is a very short amount of time for such a big job.”
The answers were there . . . right there, on the surface of the man’s brain, but even that light touch flooded Joss with thoughts and memories he just couldn’t stand. He made himself do it anyway, keeping his face expressionless as he grabbed the information he needed. He was too rough—watched as the man went white, his eyes tightening around the corners, eyes clouding from the pain.
Patrick . . . his name was Patrick . . .
The second Joss pulled back, Patrick shook it off. He frowned, absently reaching up to rub his temple.
Pretending not to notice, Joss said, “So what happens if I don’t succeed?”
“You don’t want to know that.” Patrick smoothed his tie down. “Succeed and your life will be much easier.”
“I take it the last broker you had didn’t do a smashing job.”
“Perhaps he asked too many questions,” Patrick said.
Joss snorted. “Well, I haven’t accepted the job yet. And I need to understand the . . . situation, seeing as how I’m running on a very tight timetable. Knowledge is power, you know? And I can’t do my job if I’m handicapped.”
“You’ll accept the job,” Patrick said, his tone bored. “And you can do it in three weeks. You’re a resourceful man, I’ve heard.”
Resourceful.
Yeah. Joss was a resourceful man. He had a modern-day slaver tied up in one closet, and another one sitting in front of him, and he was doing his damnedest to figure out the best way to kill them both without getting caught, without having his boss find out . . . and even if he could do that, he still needed a few days to track down his lady before he got yanked off onto another assignment.
If he was a resourceful man, it should be a piece of cake.
* * *
ONCE Whitmore drove away, Tucker relaxed a little. Job done. He assumed.
Although what Chapman thought he would accomplish out here, he didn’t know. But she was running this show. Out of curiosity more than anything else, he continued to study the cabin.
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