AtHerCommand

by Marcia James

  But the session had been so much more than just arousing. Sighing, Dalton rubbed the heels of his hands over his tired eyes. If he ruled out pain, humiliation and lack of control, what the hell had driven that incredible post-session climax in the shower? Bella. For a moment, a vision of her dancing eyes and mocking smile filled his mind. Despite his submissive undercover role, he’d felt a challenge from her, a war of wills that had raced through his blood. The second he’d met her gaze, Dalton had experienced a sexual déjà vu. It was as if he’d known her intimately before and she’d finally returned to him.

  Snorting with disgust at his sappy thoughts, Dalton glanced at his watch. Twelve-forty a.m. At loose ends, he gathered up the congealed remains of his dinner and threw the foul-smelling mess into the garbage can in the garage. Besides the trash, the two-car garage housed his 1969 Shelby Mustang and Jason’s Jeep Cherokee. Too restless to go to bed, Dalton grabbed the SUV’s keys off the counter and his bomber jacket off the peg by the door. A little night surveillance of the Xecutive Branch sex club was just what he needed.

  * * * * *

  Dom heaved a heartfelt sigh as the door to S&M Room Five closed behind her last customer of the night. Tootsie Tom was a harmless foot fetishist but an evening of dominating him and a parade of other milquetoasts had been surprisingly exhausting. Her feet in particular were killing her, unaccustomed as they were to the hot, thigh-high leather boots she’d worn with Tom’s predilections in mind. Yet the arch pain and toe-pinching were worth it considering the alternative—Tom’s tongue on her flesh instead of the boot leather. Dom suppressed a shudder.

  She tugged at the hem of her micro-mini leather skirt and smoothed down her black spandex top. Since puberty, Domino had avoided form-fitting clothes that showcased a body her first boyfriend had described as “stacked”. He’d praised her curves as earthy and sensual before they’d made love but afterwards the jerk had called them “false advertising” when her sex drive hadn’t lived up to the promise of her figure.

  Dom frowned. Eager to be taken seriously by her teachers and later by her bosses, she’d learned to take her measurements out of the equation by disguising her attributes under boxy tops and relaxed-fit pants. Domino wasn’t ashamed of her body but she was still uncomfortable in Mistress Bella’s revealing clothes. Today’s outfit made her feel like she was wearing a sausage casing.

  Wincing at her aching feet, Dom walked to the sex toy cabinet, picked up the pad and pen inside and listed the items in need of restocking. Then she quickly straightened the rest of her equipment. As she worked, her mind wandered back to the inconvenient subject that had plagued her all day—Dalton C.

  Maybe Dalton having been Mistress Bella’s first appointment explained her fascination with him, Dom rationalized. But as a veteran of two full nights at the club, she had to admit the truth—there was something different about the man. Whether it was woman’s intuition or her experience dealing with criminals, she knew Dalton wasn’t what he appeared. So, Dom told herself, it was curiosity not attraction that had her wondering if her intriguing first customer might return.

  With effort, she banished thoughts of Dalton’s steely blue eyes, yard-wide shoulders and world-class butt. Okay, he was attractive. So what if she’d felt a connection with the man that had made it very difficult to top him or hurt him in any way. If Dom followed her grandmother’s advice to “find a nice man and have beautiful bambinos”, she certainly wasn’t going to pick some guy who frequented a dominatrix.

  With a groan, she headed to the supply room. As soon as she restocked her cabinet, Domino was changing into her street clothes and driving home. After the last few days, she needed a good night’s sleep. Hopefully this time none of her customers would invade her dreams, not even the fascinating Mr. C.

  * * * * *

  Dalton swung the Jeep over to the curb and killed the engine. A layer of road grime covered the shiny black exterior of the SUV and the tinted windows were ideal for his purpose. He opened the glove compartment and took out the high-powered binoculars Jason had stashed there.

  Without a keycard, Dalton couldn’t enter the club’s private garage. So after circling the block several times, he’d chosen a location that offered him an unobstructed view of the top parking level. He knew from Jason’s journal that the open-air roof of the garage was employee parking. Thankfully, the second-story lot was surrounded by a simple steel fence and not a stone wall.

  Adjusting the binoculars to his eyes, Dalton did a quick scan of the fifteen or so cars on the roof. There was no movement. He lowered the binoculars. When did Bella’s shift end? Had she left already?

  With his naked eye, he could see the door leading from the club to the rooftop. Dalton itched for some action. He’d be hot on her tail the second Bella drove out of the garage. Damn. Dalton grimaced. He wasn’t even inside the building, yet he was still thinking in sexual clichés. As the interior of the car cooled, he pulled on the gloves balled in his jacket pocket and tried to think about the case.

  Thanks to Suzi, Dalton knew the Metro PD had Victor Xavier under surveillance. Unfortunately, the club owner lived in an exclusive, gated community in Northwest D.C., which prevented the detectives from entering the neighborhood without alerting the suspect. Instead, the surveillance teams were staking out the street beyond the gate to monitor Victor’s comings and goings. So far, they’d only managed to uncover the names and locations of Victor’s hair stylist, his personal trainer and a couple girlfriends.

  The club door to the employee parking swung open and two women walked out. Dalton focused his binoculars on the pair who were bundled up against the February chill. The women passed under one of the few rooftop light poles. Neither was Bella. One had reddish hair, artificially arched eyebrows and exotic eyes while the other had blonde hair that curtained most of her face except her thin-lipped mouth and pointed chin. As he watched, they got into a car, drove down into the covered part of the garage, emerged on the exit ramp and tooled past his SUV. He didn’t follow.

  Dalton leaned the seat back and took a cinnamon-flavored toothpick out of the container in the Jeep’s cup-holder. Jason had loved the tongue-tingling things and always had a supply handy. Dalton slipped the toothpick into his mouth and thought of how he’d teased his partner about his “cinnamon pacifier”. Now the sharp taste of the toothpick was sort of comforting.

  The door to the club opened a second time and a woman in blue jeans and a bulky coat stepped out. Dalton’s gut clenched and his instincts went on red alert. He knew even before he put the binoculars to his eyes it was Bella. As she walked through the shadows, he focused on her profile. It was definitely the woman he had encountered in S&M Room Five.

  Dalton was amazed at her transformation. This Bella was dressed in baggy jeans and a ski-style jacket. She wore a Redskins baseball cap with her hair pulled through the back in a ponytail. Despite her casual clothes, she had a gait and posture that exuded confidence.

  “C’mon, c’mon…” Dalton muttered as he waited for her to pass under a light pole. He wanted to see her without the dominatrix mask but the bill of her cap threw dark shadows across her upper face. Instead of walking toward the cluster of remaining cars, Bella headed to the lot’s back corner where a solitary black and white VW bug awaited. With her back to her watcher, she slid into her car, started the engine and reversed out of the parking space. The glare of the light poles on her windshield prevented Dalton from getting a good look at her face before she drove down the ramp.

  “Damn!”

  He tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat and started the Jeep. When Bella’s VW exited the parking garage, Dalton allowed several cars to pass him before he pulled out and followed. He needed to get close enough to get her license plate number but couldn’t afford to spook her.

  They dodged through traffic and he noted the plates on her late-model Bug were from Virginia, not D.C. The VW’s unusual paint job reminded him of a domino and made it easier to keep the car in sight. Dalton t
railed her over Key Bridge into Virginia and onto the George Washington Parkway. Still he hung back, concerned she’d spot the tail.

  As he followed her, Dalton admired her driving—fast yet defensive, a combination of rebellion and control. She smoothly accelerated and always signaled as she changed lanes to pass less confident drivers. He wished he could say the same about the two D.C. cabbies whose taxis had joined the three other vehicles separating his SUV and Bella’s Bug. The cabbies seemed to be playing a game of chicken on their race back to the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport for a new fare.

  “Idiots,” Dalton grumbled as the yellow cab crossed the line and almost sideswiped the checkered cab in the next lane. Taking his foot off the gas, Dalton allowed his SUV to fall farther behind the dueling taxis. If he lost his quarry, he could go through the Department of Motor Vehicles in the morning to get a list of all two-tone Volkswagens in Northern Virginia.

  Suddenly, the driver of the yellow cab floored it, pulled ahead of his competition and cut over in front of the checkered cab. Bumpers hooked, tires screeched and the cabs began a twisting, flipping dance that ended with one on its side and the other on its back. With the quick reflexes that had protected him in many tight situations, Dalton swerved around the wreck and pulled over to the side of the road.

  Cursing crazy cabbies everywhere, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Dialing 911, Dalton watched Bella’s Bug disappear in the distance.

  Chapter Six

  “It’s high noon on a dreary Monday. Next up, our even drearier forecast for another frigid week in the nation’s capital.” The disk jockey’s theatrical sigh crackled through the AM radio station’s static. “Break out the earmuffs and long johns, kiddies. It’s gonna be colder than a lobbyist’s handshake.”

  Half listening to the soft rock station, Domino cruised down Route 50 and exited onto a suburban street. The VW’s heater was managing to keep some feeling in her toes but her fingers and nose were courting frostbite. One of these days, she’d find time to get the damn car repaired. But for now, she was late for her meeting with Meyers.

  Typical of her partner on this case, he’d chosen a location close to his home—a park in Virginia’s Fairfax County. Meyers had assured her the place would be deserted on a freezing February day. Any cars in the parking lot would most likely belong to married people rendezvousing with lovers over the lunch hour. To meet openly, she and Meyers were pretending to date—Domino’s gag reflex jerked at the thought—so getting together at a lover’s lane of sorts seemed appropriate.

  She pulled into the park entrance and drove to the back lot where Meyers’ truck stood idling. Fire engine red with monster tires and enough chrome to cover the roof of the Capitol, the truck was the macho DEA agent’s pride and joy. Domino wondered if the bulked-up Ford F-150 was Meyers’ way of compensating for a less than impressive “sex machine”.

  She turned into the parking spot on the passenger side of the truck, shut off the VW’s engine and picked up her oversized purse. Dom glanced around in a casual manner. There were several other vehicles in the spacious lot but none were nearby. Slipping out of her car, she quickly closed the door and hauled herself up into the cab of Meyers’ truck before the cold had a chance to seep through her sneakers. The Ford’s welcome warmth almost made up for the leer Meyers shot her way and the stench of his cologne. To wipe the look off his face, she deliberately slammed his beloved truck’s door.

  “Dammit, Petracelli,” he snapped.

  “Nice to see you too, Meyers.” Domino smiled to herself as she pulled a sheaf of papers out of her purse. “Here’s a copy of my notes so far on the Xecutive Branch and its staff.”

  With a grunt, Meyers took the proffered pages. Holding them out of sight of any interested parties using surveillance equipment, he flipped through the document. Then with a grunt, her partner slipped the papers into a briefcase he’d opened on the truck’s bench seat.

  “I’ll go over these with Lowery tomorrow,” Meyers said.

  Dom nodded. Their boss would want to know how the investigation was going.

  “Speaking of Lowery,” Meyers continued, “he’s concerned the perps have moved the drugs to another part of the building since the cop stumbled onto them in the loading dock.”

  “It’s possible. And it’s a big building but I’m on top of it,” she reassured him.

  “Mmmmm. You on top. There’s an interesting image,” her sex-obsessed partner joked.

  “I know it’s difficult for you to keep half your brain in the sewer and the rest on the case, but try to multitask,” Dom shot back. “I can’t be late to the club this afternoon.”

  “Fine,” Meyers said. “I just have one thing to give you from Lowery and then you can get your sweet ass out of my truck.”

  Looking entirely too pleased with himself, the lecherous agent closed his briefcase and set it by his feet. Then he leaned over the bench seat to retrieve something from the back floorboard. A prickling of dread ran through Dom. Meyers was up to something and she wasn’t going to like it.

  Smiling, her partner set a flat-bottomed canvas tote on the bench seat next to Dom. Recognition made her choke.

  “No. No way, you hear me?” Domino held up her hands, refusing the offering. “I will not use Smokey on this job.”

  At the sound of his name, the unofficial mascot of the Virginia DEA office poked his head through an unzipped section of the tote’s top. A Chinese Crested small-breed dog, Smokey reminded some of Dom’s coworkers of a steroid-pumped rat with a very bad haircut. Trained to sniff out drugs, the dog had participated in a number of undercover operations. Domino was fond of Smokey but no self-respecting agent wanted to use the silly-looking pooch on a case. It was downright embarrassing to be seen with the yappy thing.

  “Sorry,” Meyers said, though it was crystal clear he was getting a kick out of the situation. “Lowery said Smokey will save you a lot of time and risk when tracking the drugs.”

  Her partner pushed the tote bag closer to her and Dom gritted her teeth. If Sam Lowery had ordered Meyers to give her the dog, there was no use arguing with her partner. She needed to go directly to the source.

  “I’ll call Lowery on my way to work and get this straightened out,” she said. “There’s no way I can explain bringing a dog to the club.”

  “Whatever.” Meyers acted disinterested.

  Domino gathered up her purse and the tote bag and then reached for the truck’s door handle.

  “Hey, aren’t you going to give me a goodbye smooch to cement our cover?” Meyers smirked. “One of the bad guys might have tailed you here.”

  “I’d rather kiss Smokey. At least he’s had his shots.” Dom shot him a sweet smile for the benefit of anyone watching.

  Ignoring Meyers’ glare, she struggled out of the truck and carried her load to the VW. Once inside, she started the engine and turned up the heat. Her partner burned rubber out of the parking lot while Domino checked the tote bag for Smokey’s wardrobe. The practically hairless canine had his own collection of sweaters to ward off the winter chill. And he’d need his clothes if he spent any time in Dom’s freezing car.

  Choosing a tiny, fleece-lined Redskins jersey, she slipped it onto the shivering dog’s bare, liver-spotted body. Thanks to static electricity, the silky tan hair on Smokey’s head, tail and feet stuck out at crazy angles. Domino smiled. It wasn’t the dog’s fault he’d been assigned to this case.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Smokey turned his dark, almond-shaped eyes in her direction. With a whine and a lick on her hand, the foot-tall canine settled down in the tote for the ride to D.C. Domino picked up her cell phone, bracing for the argument to come, and dialed Sam Lowery’s private line.

  * * * * *

  The organ music swelled, vibrating through Dalton’s leaden body as he slumped against the hard back of the pew. He looked up toward the church’s rafters, blinking away the tears pooling in his eyes. Jason’s funeral. Over the last week, part of Dalton had
refused to believe his partner was really gone. But the church service just ending had brought the stark truth home.

  A gentle hand on his arm tugged Dalton’s thoughts back to the petite woman sitting beside him at the back of the church. She was almost unidentifiable in her lumpy winter coat and salt and pepper hair. Suzi Cho was wearing a disguise in case anyone from the Xecutive Branch showed up at the funeral. She couldn’t afford to be recognized as the club’s newest masseuse and blow her cover. Despite the risk, Suzi had insisted on attending Jason’s memorial.

  Dalton had volunteered to escort her to the church and the cemetery. Captain Bennett had agreed with the plan without suspecting his detective’s ulterior motive. In the clothes, gray hair and posture of an elderly man, Dalton too was unrecognizable. Since he was continuing his own investigation of the club, Dalton didn’t want to be made as a cop.

  With Suzi, Dalton watched as the mourners left the church. Striking in their dress uniforms, somber police officers from the Metro PD and police forces in nearby states filed past their pew. Despite newspaper reports that Jason had died of a drug overdose, his friends and coworkers knew better. And a remarkable number had shown up to honor their fallen comrade.

  Sprinkled among the dress blues were the dark colors worn by civilian friends. Quite a few of these acquaintances were young, female and blonde. It looked as if the entire contents of Jason’s little black book had attended. That thought had the corner of Dalton’s mouth quirking up. His partner would have been pleased to see the turnout. Jason hadn’t had any family but he’d been well-loved.

  “I guess we should go,” Suzi said, as the last of the mourners straggled out. Her voice was husky with unshed tears.

  Dalton nodded, taking her hand to help her out of the pew. Moving slowly like the elderly couple they were portraying, the detectives walked through the church doors into the overcast Monday chill. The steel-gray snow clouds mirrored Dalton’s dark mood as they made their way to Suzi’s green Honda Civic.