by Marcia James
With a wave, Suzi continued down the hall and entered the employee lounge. Dom took a moment to straighten her mask and push back some snow-dampened strands of hair before heading in the opposite direction. A casual glance confirmed she was alone in the hallway so she quickly dodged into the loading bay area.
The musty-smelling room’s chilly air raised goose bumps on her now warmed skin. The warehouse-like loading bay had seen little renovation since the old building had served as a salami factory, and the club wasn’t pumping a lot of heat into this storage and shipping area. The dust of decades clung to steel girders while unpleasant droppings suggested four-legged rodents shared the space with the two-legged drug rats.
The cavernous chamber was filled with crates and the stored porn sets. From where she stood, Dom could see a French boudoir, an English classroom and, incongruously, several church pews.
Walking as softly as possible on her stiletto heels, Dom skirted the majority of the detritus and made her way toward the back of the room. The carton of drug-filled marital aids was still there, near the loading bay.
Keeping an eye out for Benny and the other workmen, Domino slipped her hand into her leather purse. She ran her fingers through the contents, feeling the cool steel of her switchblade before continuing the search. After several seconds, she located the small lump under the purse’s silk lining and worked the tracking device free through a tear in the seam.
The sound of male voices had her jumping behind a set of curtains that formed the wall of a doctor’s office porn set. Dom’s elbow collided with something hard and warm, and a grunt told her she wasn’t alone in her hidey-hole. Before she could react, a hand slammed over her mouth and a husky voice whispered, “Wanna play doctor?”
Dalton! Dom’s stomach clenched with an emotion that wasn’t fear. Slowly, he removed his hand and she turned to face the man who seemed determined to undermine her assignment. He stood a good half foot above her since he wasn’t assuming a submissive cower. His deep blue eyes stared directly into hers, arrogance and confidence gleaming under the cold fluorescent lights. And the smile curving his lips was all predatory male.
She had to regain control. In one deft move, she brought her only weapon out of her purse. Dom flashed open the switchblade in Dalton’s face. To his credit, he didn’t step back although his smile wavered. The time for games was over. She had to persuade him to leave before they both ended up at the bottom of the Potomac.
“I’m Dominique Petracelli, and I’m DEA. Unless you want to be Bobbitized, I suggest you get the hell out of here and never come back.” Dom spoke in a menacing whisper to avoid attracting the attention of Salvi’s lackeys.
Shock and disbelief passed over Dalton’s face to be replaced with something resembling suppressed amusement. For one terrified second, Dom thought he might throw back his head and roar with laughter. Instead the maddening man held his hands up in front of his chest in a placating fashion. Kicking off one boat shoe, he leaned over to retrieve something under the insole. Straightening, he held up the item for her to read.
Dalton Cutter, Detective, Metro PD. She silently read then reread the card as her mind refused to accept the words. “You’re a cop?” she whispered.
He nodded. “I’m undercover,” he explained, his voice barely audible as he replaced his ID and slipped on his shoe. As he straightened and again met her shocked gaze, Dalton added, “What? You think I come here for my health?”
Dom recalled appalling details of her sessions with Dalton—vivid memories of the things she’d said and done to this man, this police officer—and a blush suffused her cheeks. Something flickered in his eyes and she felt a shift in the atmosphere as a bolt of sexual awareness arced between them.
“This shipment is out of here tonight.” The voice of Clyde Salvi sounded too close for comfort.
Dom jumped, the moment shattered. She gazed through a slit in the curtains to see the menacing club manager supervising the loading of a truck. If she didn’t act now, she’d lose her chance to attach the tracking device to the crate. All business, she retracted the switchblade and returned it to her purse.
“Stay out of my way, Cutter,” she hissed as she tried to ease past him to approach the drug-filled carton from a more sheltered direction. Dalton’s hand shot out and caught her arm before she could take two steps.
“This bust is mine, lady.” He matched her hushed tone but his glare added weight to the words.
Teeth gritted, she shoved her face near his. “Like hell.”
“They killed Jason Walters…my partner.” The simple words were a whisper but the flash of anguish in his eyes spoke volumes. This bust was personal.
With the empathy of a fellow law enforcer, Dom felt a surge of compassion and raised her hand to Dalton’s face. He closed his eyes when her palm brushed his cheek, as though her touch were painful. She’d never had a close partner but knew such a loss would be like the death of a brother.
Growling barks had them both turning to look through the curtains. One of the club’s bouncers, a nasty piece of work named Hobart, had entered the loading bay, leading Salvi’s snarling Doberman. The dog was straining on the leash, tugging toward the doctor’s office set, obviously scenting them. Dom heard Dalton curse under his breath and she realized they had seconds before they were discovered.
Determined, she turned to him. “I can get us out of this, if you trust me and follow my lead.” Dom implored him silently and after several tense seconds, he nodded. “Just go along,” she whispered. “I promise the plan will work.”
Then giving Dalton an impulsive, quick kiss on his mouth for luck, Dom made her way around the back of the porn set to intercept Hobart.
Chapter Sixteen
Dalton watched her go, stunned by his reaction to her swift kiss. At least if he had to be hot for her, she was a DEA agent and not a dominatrix.
He shook his head to clear it. In the next few minutes he could very well die and yet he’d just put his life into this woman’s hands. Well, he’d put just about everything else into her hands these last few weeks. But he only had Domino’s word she was DEA. Shit. He had a terrible track record when it came to judging women. Between his mother’s abandonment and his fiancée’s betrayal, Dalton carried a mountain of trust issues. He had a sick feeling he was about to be played for a chump.
Still, Dalton had no alternative but to trust her. Trapped in the porn set, he pressed his eye against the slight gap in the curtains and watched Salvi signal to his thug to search the room with the dog. This was it. His time had run out.
“Hello, Mr. Salvi…Hobart.” Domino’s clear, calm voice called out as she stepped from behind the boudoir set.
“Well, if it isn’t our newest counselor.” Salvi strode toward her with the menacing arrogance of a dictator. The men loading the truck stopped to watch as Salvi continued. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing hide-and-seek?”
The Doberman lunged at her and Dalton’s heart flew into his throat as he watched in tense silence. Domino only smiled and moved closer to the straining animal.
“Hi, Spike.” Patting the dog’s sleek head and getting licked in return, she asked it, “Hunting for bad guys?”
Salvi frowned as his dog whined in an effort to get closer to her.
“If so, the man you’re looking for is behind the doctor set.” She stopped talking to Spike and spoke directly to Salvi. “I followed him here after he left my last session.”
A red-hot rage swept through Dalton as he witnessed her treachery. He should have guessed, should have seen it coming. She was selling him out to save her own skin.
Hobart tightened the dog’s leash, pulled out his gun and stepped closer to the club manager.
“One of your clients came snooping in here?” Salvi asked.
With her dominatrix persona firmly in place, Domino nodded and raised her voice. “The jig’s up. Get your ass out here.”
Dalton wished like hell he had his gun so he could take out Salvi and t
hat lying bitch at the same time. But he was unarmed and out of options so he stepped between the curtain to stand in front of his likely executioners. Spike snarled at him and Salvi took the leash along with the gun his henchman held.
“Search him.” The order was quiet but the bouncer jumped to do his boss’s bidding.
Dalton stood stock-still as Hobart roughly ran his hands over every inch of his body, checking for hidden weapons and wires. Only Dalton’s eyes moved as he glared first at Salvi and the gun he held steady in his hand, and then at the woman who’d asked for his trust.
For a brief moment, Domino’s eyes seemed to plead with him to believe in her. But his anger was too raw and it squashed the flicker of hope that fought to survive despite the evidence of her betrayal. Dalton stared back, letting her see his fury. Her arrogant smile faltered and then firmed as her expression took on a hard determination.
“Nothin, boss.” Hobart stepped away from Dalton and looked at the club manager for further instructions.
“Check his shoes.” Salvi noticed Dalton’s brief start. He smiled like the cold-blooded predator he was and directed his next command to his captive. “Kick off the shoes. Now.”
Dalton did and Hobart retrieved the shoes, soon locating the card under the insole. He handed the ID to Salvi. “Dalton Cutter, Detective, Metro PD,” the club manager read aloud.
“A cop.” Domino, looking outraged, screeched the words. “I thought he was just some nosy john. Is he here to entrap me?”
Salvi smiled. “I think D.C.’s finest is here for something bigger than busting a dominatrix. Isn’t that right, Detective?”
Dalton remained silent, the tension in the room ratcheting up a few notches. The only sound was Spike’s low growling.
“Tie him up and take him for a swim,” the club manager instructed Hobart. “Use one of the company cars.”
Salvi gestured to a worker who was standing nearby. The man, a swarthy, muscle-bound thug, jogged over. “Joey, go with Hobart while he handles a little disposal job for me.” He handed his gun to the man.
“Sure, Mr. Salvi,” Joey answered, feral anticipation on his face. He held the gun pointed unwaveringly at Dalton’s chest.
Hobart grabbed a packing tape dispenser and wrapped the reinforced tape around his prisoner’s wrists. Dalton’s heart sank at the use of the tape. There’d be no way to loosen the binding. At least the bouncer had secured his hands in front of him and not behind his back. Hobart finished the job and moved to Dalton’s right, roughly taking his arm to drag him over to the loading dock.
“Hobart, call me on my cell phone when you’re done,” Salvi directed. “I’ve got some business to handle at my house.”
“Okay, boss,” the bouncer answered.
“Wait!” Dom’s angry command stopped all four men. “I’d like to say goodbye to my cop client,” she snapped.
At Salvi’s amused nod, Hobart let go of Dalton’s arm and stepped back. Joey however, kept his gun trained on his chest. Dom strutted to Dalton, her purse bumping against her swaying hip. He watched her approach, wondering what else she could do after her double-cross. Spit in his face? Gloat as he was led away to die?
Domino leaned close, her exotic perfume triggering a response he didn’t welcome. Suddenly, she reached out and grasped his balls in her left hand. Dalton grunted before gritting his teeth against the hate welling inside. She squeezed her fist, the sensation almost painful while the long nails grazed the sensitive skin of his groin. Dom stuck her face close to his, her body effectively shielding her right hand from Salvi and his thugs.
“If I had a knife,” Dom began, and Dalton felt her right hand slip something cool and heavy into his pants pocket, “I would cut off your balls and feed them to Spike.”
Had she given him her switchblade or was this some cruel joke, a parting shot from a calculating bitch? Dalton wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of reacting to her words or actions.
“But I’m afraid Spike’s palate is too discerning to enjoy pig nuts.” Dom’s lips formed a cruel smile and she gave his balls one last squeeze before letting go. She turned to the club manager. “Time for my next client, Mr. Salvi. You know where to find me if you want to see my files on this cop.” Then without looking back, she headed through the door.
Dalton glared after her until he was jerked around by Hobart and hustled to the loading dock. Thanks to Joey’s gun, making a run for it wasn’t an option. Several white Cadillacs were parked near the open bay, which was sheltered by a tall fence. The bouncer stopped next to a Cadillac sporting the personalized license plate X Branch 1 and popped the trunk.
Once she was out of sight, Dom abandoned her strut for a brisk walk. She felt chilled to the bone by Dalton’s hate-filled eyes. He hadn’t trusted her and the extent of his anger shook her. She prayed she could get him out of this fix before they hurt him or worse.
Domino was sure Salvi and his men hadn’t seen her slip her switchblade and the tracking device into their captive’s pocket. But had Dalton understood her message? Did he realize she’d given him a knife? And what if Salvi discovered the weapon or Dalton couldn’t reach it to cut the tape?
Dom hurried into S&M Room Five and closed the door. Alone but very aware of the room’s hidden microphone, she assumed her Mistress Bella persona and an air of unconcern. Without haste, she took her cell phone from her purse and dialed Meyer’s pager. She didn’t dare hold a DEA conversation within the walls of the sex club so she inputted the emergency code followed by a short text message—Follow tracker. Cop in trunk. Stop murder.
Domino sent the message with another prayer for Dalton’s safety. Without her gun, she’d been unable to stop the thugs. But it was torture remaining at the club while Dalton was in danger. For now, she could help him more by protecting her cover and working from within the club. After several interminable moments, she received a text answer—10-4. Meyers to the rescue.
She had to rely on her DEA partner to save the day. He could be a sexist jerk but Meyers was a good agent. He’d reach Dalton in time. He had to. Forcing back her fear, Dom began to prep the room for her next client.
* * * * *
The interior of the Cadillac’s trunk was pitch black and filled with exhaust fumes. Yet Dalton could smell the oil and grime on the rag they’d used to gag him. He breathed shallowly through his nose. Would he die of carbon monoxide poisoning before they got him to the river? No, the heat would kill him first. The trunk was like an oven and sweat was stinging his eyes.
Dalton twisted, the packing tape Hobart had wrapped around his ankles making the movement difficult. Struggling to use his bound, sweat-slick hands, he managed to push the objects in his pocket out onto the trunk’s floor. His fingers located a small, circular object that might be some type of bug or tracking device. Could Dom really have been trying to help him? Dalton couldn’t wait to be rescued. If he were getting out of this alive, it was up to him to make it happen.
Dropping the device, he slid his restrained hands over the rough carpet lining the trunk. Where the hell was it? There’d been something larger than the bug in his pocket. His right palm brushed a metal object. Her knife? Again Dalton fought a rush of hope and concentrated on saving himself.
Performing an acrobatic sleight of hand, his fingers grasped the object, found a button and pushed. The switchblade flashed open, slicing his palm. Dalton cursed behind his gag, instinctively dropping the blade. His warm blood mingled with the sweat, making his fingers slippery and uncooperative.
The Cadillac slowed and turned onto what felt like a gravel road. The tires spewed stones that pinged against the underside of the car. Every pothole and rock in the road seemed to conspire to jostle the switchblade farther from his searching fingers. After an agonizing eternity, Dalton picked up the knife again. Twisting his hands into an unnatural position, he sawed at the strapping tape securing his wrists.
It was a slow, awkward process but Dalton freed his hands. Ignoring the pain from his sliced palm, he sl
ashed through the tape around his ankles and rubbed his feet to return a little circulation to his cramped muscles. Then he untied the gag and spit the oily cloth from his mouth.
The car turned again and inched its way down a second unpaved track. They must be close to their destination—some isolated spot along the Potomac River. He shifted and tugged at the trunk’s carpet. If he could just pull it up, he could reach underneath to the tire iron secured with the Cadillac’s spare tire. Dalton had the switchblade but the tool would make a longer-reaching weapon. Although both were a joke against Hobart’s and Joey’s handguns.
Dalton wanted to believe there’d be an army of DEA agents coming to his aid but he couldn’t count on it. That might not even be a tracking device she’d slipped into his pocket along with the knife. Domino. He wanted to savor the fact she hadn’t betrayed him but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He was unbound but he wasn’t out of danger yet.
The car came to hard stop, rocking and throwing Dalton against the back of the trunk. He struggled around and continued to work on the tire iron. The sound of the Cadillac’s doors opening and slamming shut reached his ears. Joey and Hobart were coming for him. Would they shoot him full of drugs as they’d done to Jason or just knock him out before throwing him into the Potomac?
Dalton freed the tire iron and held it in his left hand while his right gripped the switchblade. He braced himself for what might be the last fight of his life.
“Freeze! Hands in the air!”
Dalton heard the bullhorn-magnified orders and let out a harsh breath. The next few moments were a blur. The trunk opened and he blinked into a spotlight illuminating the entire clearing. Several men in DEA uniforms helped him out of the trunk. The audible rush of the snow-chilled Potomac River—almost his watery grave—had him glancing to his left. The clearing ended in a rocky river bank. Dalton stood on numb legs watching the handcuffed Joey and Hobart being read their rights.
“You must be Dom’s cop.”