A Matter of Time 07 - Parting Shot (MM) (23 page)

Aaron’s eyes narrowed, and from the look on Clay’s face, it was not the response he had been hoping for. As if he could rattle the billionaire. “So,” Aaron clipped the word, staring holes through Jaden. “What happened to the cooking career?”

“I realized I don’t really much like working,” he simpered, rubbing his chin over Clay’s knee. “I mean, I like to cook for one, but that’s it.”

“And so, back to being kept,” Aaron said bluntly.

“Back to being pampered and adored,” he corrected his ex.

“I see,” Aaron nodded, leaning back against me.

Something was wrong.

“Lemme talk to you a sec,” I said, getting up.

Aaron held out his hand and I lifted him to his feet.

Crossing the floor to the balcony, when we passed by the swing, I saw Kian on his feet looking up at a very angry-looking man who tightened a collar around his neck. He also yanked his own lightweight sweater up over his head and pulled it down over the smaller, younger man.

“Oh, that’s good.” Aaron cleared his throat. “It looks like someone was just waiting to hear that Kian was free of Wells.”

The collar was thinner, but what was interesting was that it had none of those rings to attach something to like a leash. And what was most telling was the twisted metal on the front.

“What is that?”

“It’s an Infinity Collar,” Aaron informed me.

“Is that a big deal?”

“It is.”

I smirked. “How come I don’t have one?”

“Because yours had to be special, Detective.”

We were close to the railing, so I grabbed him and crushed him to me, kissing the side of his neck.

“But whatever you want,” he moaned, hands on my back, clutching tight.

“I’m sorry Jaden’s an idiot,” I growled into his ear before I kissed him.

“It’s all right,” he sighed, nestling closer. “That wasn’t my first thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“He reminded me that I tire of people and lose them,” he said, staring up into my eyes. “And I thought that I need to make sure I don’t lose my detective. That I don’t let him get lost.”

“It goes both ways,” I said before I kissed him again.

Reaching under his suit jacket, I tugged at his shirt, yanking until it was untucked and I could get my hands on his skin. He felt good. He was open for me, ready, and then he shoved me away.

“What?” I gasped, my entire body hard and needy and ready to throw him up against any flat surface.

“The surveillance.”

I was lost.

“I said we can’t fuck here,” he reminded me.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Because it’s being recorded,” he said, as if I should have been riding his thought train already.

“Right.”

“Well, what do you bet there is some place where they collect all that stuff?”

The light came on. “Oh shit, you’re kinda brilliant.”

He squinted at me. “Kind of?”

“Okay,” I said, first rotating and then giving him a slight push back toward the room. “You go and be chatty. I’m gonna go look around.”

“What?” He whirled on me. “No. We should go together. The story will be better that way. We’ll say we’re looking for our cabana.”

“Casita,” I corrected him.

“Whatever!”

“No. I’ll be lost and drunk; you go back and be entertaining.”

His eyes that had been passion-glazed a second ago were concerned now.

“What?”

“Should we even be talking like this? And I called you by your title a minute ago and… fuck.”

He meant the audio surveillance. “I doubt it’s bugged out here, probably just the rooms. Wiring the whole place for sound would be crazy expensive.”

Aaron arched an eyebrow for me like I was stupid.

“Just go.”

He was not convinced; but he left me. I checked to make sure no one saw me go and simply flipped over the railing and dropped the six feet to the path below. I would have preferred to have my running shoes on, because my dress shoes weren’t as flexible or quiet, but Bond did it, so I would try and manage.

The grounds were ridiculous, but I figured that chances were any kind of surveillance room would be toward the front. It made sense, since farther back toward the small canyon, any signals would be harder to get. Yes, the resort had no Wi-Fi for guests, and it was billed as a positive. Like being away from the distractions of the outside was a good thing. But in reality, it would have been hell to get Internet into the resort, so it was actually very clever marketing.

Since only people who were invited into the resort got past the front gate, there was no one to provide us with detailed information about the grounds. The FBI had e-mailed me satellite pictures from NASA, and I had searched the resort on Google Earth, but none of those photos had markers on the buildings because nobody knew what was what. What I had seen had been no help at all. And anyone the FBI went to could have potentially tipped off Clay Wells.

So I was sort of moving around blind on the grounds until I saw the small tower. The antenna was a dead giveaway, as was the dish on top. It was tucked behind some very tall flowering trees and was no taller than an average two-story house.

The door was locked, of course, and a key card was needed to get inside. My only recourse was to either wait for someone to come out—and not knowing when a shift changed or even if someone was on duty, that seemed futile—or find where the staff quarters were. I needed to get into the room and see how they stored data and fortunately, I wasn’t worried about a search warrant. I had one to look, just not one to enter. But since I had been invited…. It was sticky but if I could identify Evan Polley on the grounds, from video surveillance, that would be enough to tie the two men together. That, along with a wiretap would elicit the kind of investigation that would ruin Clay Wells. I had to do some more looking around, but I was getting worried about Aaron explaining my absence.

Coming around the side by the footbridge, I saw Kian and his new guy. The man, easily six five to Kian’s maybe five eight, had him in his arms, the younger man’s arms and legs wrapped around him. I stopped to look at them because how could I not?

“They look beautiful together, do they not?”

I turned and confronted a very handsome man, older, silver at his temples, tall and broad-shouldered, powerfully built. His pale-blue eyes were like glittering pieces of ice, cold and empty. He appeared eastern European to me; his accent wasn’t soft, as others I knew were, but sharp and precise. Although the words were benign, the voice was like a razor.

“They do,” I agreed.

He offered me his hand. “Goran Begović.”

I slipped mine into his. “Duncan Ross. Pleasure.”

“No,” he said, taking a step closer, his eyes all over me, finally stopping at the heavy chain around my neck. “It is very much mine.”

It was not lost on me that he was still holding my hand.

It was hysterical, really. Back home, in my life, walking around, I never got this kind of attention. No one saw me outside of the club when I was trolling for a one-night, or one-hour, stand. But now that Aaron was suddenly looking at me, everyone else was as well.

I tried to ease my hand back, but he tightened his grip.

“That is a lovely piece,” he said, lifting his other large, meaty hand to my neck, his fingers sliding over the surface of the collar. He lifted it and saw that the
A
could be flipped to a
D
.

“So the
D
is from Duncan. What is the
A
for?”

“Aaron,” I answered, trying to take a step back, but his fist around the chain made that impossible.

“Wait,” he said gently, calmly, releasing my hand but not the chain. “Don’t be scared.”

I glowered. “Let go.”

And he got it because I saw the understanding fill his eyes. I wasn’t afraid; I was annoyed.

“You look like you’ve been in your share of fights, Duncan.”

“A few.”

He nodded. “You’ve taken some damage. Your nose, your hands…. May I please see below the chain?”

“I don’t think—”

“You need to show me, actually. You’re away from your master, and I am returning you to him. While he’s not here, you need to do as I say, within reason. Unbuttoning your shirt is a small request.”

I had no idea what the protocol was, but I seriously doubted he was telling me the truth. The thing was, I didn’t want the act—me strolling the grounds by myself—to have attention drawn to it, so I complied.

When my shirt was unbuttoned, he flattened his hands on my chest, sliding them over my skin like he was sculpting my pecs.

“Your body is beautiful.”

I just stood there, waiting.

His hands ran down my abdomen and finally settled on my hips as his eyes lifted to mine. “Very beautiful.”

It took a lot of concentration not to move away.

“These scars,” he said, tracing a fingertip over one that bisected my collarbone, “are from some kind of service. These are not bondage scars. These were made to try and kill you, not for fun, not for punishment. I know the difference.”

“How do you know?”

His smile did nothing for his eyes, infused no warmth. “I’ve inflicted some that look like this, seen more.”

“You’re in the service?”

“Not here.”

“Where are you from?”

His eyes narrowed, and too late, I saw his gaze slip past me.

Hands gripped my wrists, the back of my neck, and I was shoved forward. Someone grabbed the chain and used it to choke me, and I was shown a knife before I felt the tug on my belt.

I was not small. I was strong and big, so the very idea of being overpowered and held down, having others force themselves on me… rape me… had never, ever, entered my consciousness. It was not something that could happen to me.

But there were so many hands, and my belt had been cut from the back and pulled through the loops, the buckle yanked off from the front. I saw the bench, just four steps into the bushes in a small clearing, like it was natural that it should be there under the stars. Rings were soldered into a cement base so chains could be attached, leashes fed through, and tethered. I was slammed down, winded, my chest smacking the wood, head thumping hard enough that, for a second, my vision swam. One of the men took that opportunity to show me the large hunting knife he’d used to destroy my belt, serrated and thick, and I wished I could see it better, but I could barely focus.

Fingers were inside the back of my jeans, sliding close to the top of my crease, and I heard the rip as the knife began slicing through denim. For a second, a beat of time, a rush of terror, of futility, swept through me, but I moved my right foot in reaction, just a slight jolt, and I realized it was free.

In law enforcement, there are two schools of thought. One says it’s all you and your weapon. Your gun will get you out of any dilemma: become a marksman and learn the lethal art of bringing down any target.

My partner was very good with his firearm. You did not want to face him down in an alley if you both had your guns drawn. He would put a bullet in your head before you even thought to return fire. Sam Kage was the same way, as evidenced by the canon the man carried as his spare.

I had never been a great shot and so had to depend on the second protocol of self-defense, the whole
dive-into-the-fray
part most cops didn’t much care for. I was the guy who tried to grab you before you could get the gun clear of the holster. It was not the preferred way for a policeman to conduct himself. It accounted for me being hurt more than Jimmy or Sam, the distance the gun created keeping you clear of fists, bats, brass knuckles, and knives. What I found, however, was that people who depended on their guns were not so great with the hand-to-hand stuff—except the special ops guys, of course—or the grappling. So when I drew back with my leg, pushed forward, and got it under me, my leverage got better, and I was able to twist sideways and kick out.

The sound of a knee popping, followed by a high-pitched wail, was music to my ears.

“You fuck!”

I lifted in time to get a fist in my face, my left eye feeling like it had liquefied and spurted out of my socket. There was blood, and I knew it was mine, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t helpless anymore.

When he turned and swung at me with his leg, I threw myself back, clear of the kick, and dropped to the ground. When I rolled, my hand slid over my discarded belt buckle in the gravel clearing, and I grabbed it, wrapping the belt up fast as I got to my knees.

“No!” I heard Goran yell, but his man charged me anyway, and when he was close enough, he got a fist to his balls. With my belt wrapped around it, it had a larger surface, which doubled the force of my blow. He dropped like a rock.

My heartbeat was pounding in my ears as I sprang to my feet and kicked the guy in the head, rendering him unconscious. Then I turned on the other, who was still clutching his knee, and kicked him as hard as I could in the ribs.

I missed the guy with the knife, but the blade sliced and didn’t stab, his angle poor.

Grabbing his arm, I bent his wrist and heard it snap, followed instantly by his scream, and then I shoved him down and off me, taking the knife as I whirled on Goran.

His eyes that I had found so dead were now wide and glittering.

I stayed where I was, wary, listening for anyone.

“That was magnificent.”

Taking a step back, keeping all of them in my sight, I slowly straightened up from my crouch.

“I would like to speak to your master. Please show me to him.”

“You’re kidding?”

He took a step forward and I took one back.

“No,” he lifted his hand. “Please. Let me talk to you.”

“You just tried to assault me.”

He smiled placatingly, as if my statement were insane. “It was a test. If you hadn’t fought, we would have let you go.”

“Or,” I offered, “the whole nonconsent thing is your kink, and now that I’m here and you’re there, you’re giving me this line of bull.”

“No, I—”

“You just let me hurt your men for a test?”

He made a face. “They’re not my men; they’re resort security. They work for Wells. We’re not allowed to bring our people here with us. You know that.”