“Don’t kill anyone.”
She turned her head just enough for him to see the curve of her cheek. “There are so many things worse than death.”
The Grand Master stared at the closed door of his office for a long time after she left.
~~~~
Chapter Two
Marco Polin ran through Chopin’s
Scherzo No. 2 Op. 31
.
“For God’s sake,” Damon muttered. He brought a coaster over and set it on the edge of the baby grand where Marc had propped his drink. “Use a damned coaster. And play something else. I’m sick of that piece.”
“You’ll make an excellent wife,” Marco told his best friend, ignoring the request to change pieces. Playing calmed him, and
Scherzo No. 2
was complicated enough that he had to concentrate. There was no space in his head to worry about their current predicament.
“I’m not going to defend you in court when you’re sued for ruining that piano by using it as a table.” Damon was pacing, a sure sign he was stressed. His hair was mussed, the light-brown strands disheveled, which was very unlike Damon.
“It’s my piano.” Marco shifted to the right as the key changed.
“No, it’s not. It’s on loan to you.”
Marco snorted. “You worry too much.”
“How much is that thing worth again?”
“This piano?” Marco pounded through a crescendo, feeling the music swell through him. “Most likely it’s priceless. Charles Walter only makes sixty pianos a year.”
When Damon didn’t say anything more, Marco looked over his shoulder. His best friend was standing at one of the glass walls, looking out over the Chicago skyline. Damon’s two-story condo with reinforced floors that allowed him to have the
piano, had a good, if not excellent, view. Of all his homes—London, Singapore and Chicago—this condo was his favorite. It felt the most like home.
And one of the reasons it felt like home was staring out the window. Though Damon was now based in Los Angeles at the US Attorney’s office there, he’d been living in Chicago working for a litigation firm before that. Those few years, when he and Damon had lived together, enjoying the many amenities available to the young and wealthy, had been some of Marco’s happiest.
He doubted Damon knew that, and he would never tell him. Damon wasn’t tormented by emotions the way Marco was—a trait Marco both envied and pitied. The closeness they shared was precious to Marco, but he suspected telling Damon that would make the other man uncomfortable.
“Who do you think they’ll send?” Marco asked.
“Price Bennett is a member. I heard someone mention his name at one of the annual meetings.”
“They’re parties, not meetings.” Marco shook his head. Only Damon would call a costumed masquerade a meeting. “And who is Price Bennett?”
“Seriously? He’s CEO of Bennett Securities and heir to one of the largest fortunes in North America. The guy’s richer than Trump, extremely well connected and the one to call if you need someone to watch your back. I’d be surprised if the guy didn’t break the equivalent of this generation’s Watergate scandal in his lifetime. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere. The only problem is I understand he was recently matched. For all we know he could be out of the country on his honeymoon. I hope to God he’s not.”
Marco finished the piece with a flourish and then closed the key cover of the piano.
“Because he could help us?”
“Maybe.
I don’t know. How do you stop a blackmailer?”
Marco picked up his drink and carried it—and the coaster—to the window. Slinging his free arm around Damon’s shoulders, he took a sip. “I don’t know. I’m afraid my faith in humanity is broken.”
“We knew we were playing with fire.”
“Ah, but what’s the point if you aren’t risking a burn?”
Damon’s jaw clenched and his shoulders went rigid, but then he relaxed. “I want to be pissed at you, but it’s hard.”
“Why would you be mad at me?”
“Because you have terrible taste in women.”
“I have excellent taste in women.” Marco took Damon’s glass and went to the wet bar to make them fresh drinks.
“If you did, one of them wouldn’t be blackmailing me.”
“I didn’t realize you expected me to find us women who are beautiful, sexually adventurous and moral.”
“If anyone could find them you could.” Damon accepted his glass and raised it in salute.
“Next time I’ll be more selective.” Marco took a sip and then wandered over to the massive white-leather couch that dominated his living room.
“I doubt there will be a next time,” Damon said, following Marco over.
“Why? I’m sure this will be fixed.”
“You have a lot of faith.”
“Do you doubt the Trinity Masters’ power?” Marco had no illusions about his skill as a musician—he was exceptionally gifted, yet there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of people with his same skill level who did not enjoy his career and international fame. The Trinity Masters had been his patrons, putting him in front of the right people at the right times. Marco’s belief in the organization was absolute.
“No, but I think there are some situations even they can’t fix.”
“That’s true.”
Marco jumped at the woman’s voice. He and Damon both leapt to their feet.
A slim blonde woman sat on his baby grand.
“Who the hell are you?” Damon demanded.
She slid off the piano and walked over to the couch. She wore dark pants and a white shirt unbuttoned enough that Marco thought he could see the lace of her bra.
“You were just talking about me,” she said.
“We were?” Marco asked.
The blonde sat on the back of the couch, running her fingers over the leather. Her straight, silky-looking hair swung gently around her face.
“The Grand Master sent you?” Damon asked.
“Yes.”
“Do we get to know your name?” Marco asked. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he was captivated by the blonde. Her skin was pale and creamy, her cheekbones high and pronounced. He was struck by a desire to have her look at him so he could see what color her eyes were.
“I’m Tasha.”
“Tasha who?”
Damon demanded.
She focused on Damon. They stared at each other for a long moment. Marco raised one brow—it was a brave soul who would attempt to stare down Damon
Corzo.
“You do not need to know more than that. Show me the video.”
“Not until we have some proof about who you are.”
She sighed and then started unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt.
“Well, this is interesting.” Marco sat down, crossed his legs and prepared to enjoy the show.
She opened her shirt enough to expose the top of her pants and her flat belly. She wore a gold belly chain and dangling from it was a small tri-spiral pendant. It was the sign of the Trinity Masters—a match to the large signet rings
he and Damon both wore. “Enough?” she asked.
“Fine.”
Damon set down his drink, went to his bag and pulled out his tablet.
The blonde’s focus shifted to Marco. Her eyes were blue—a pale clear blue with a ring of darker color around the outside. She was strikingly beautiful—the kind of beauty that spoke of strength and sexuality.
“Why do you wear it there?” he asked her.
“Identifying jewelry is dangerous. When I have to wear it I make sure no one can see it, that no one knows I have it on.”
“I wouldn’t have said it was dangerous, but then again we’re being blackmailed because our rings might give us away.” Marco smiled at Tasha, but she didn’t react.
“
Here.” Damon handed her his tablet.
She tapped the screen. The buzz of video background noise filled the living room.
“Come here, baby,” a female voice said.
“You think you can handle both of us?” Damon’s voice was nearly unrecognizable—he always got growly when he was having sex.
“Need me to fuck you harder?” Marco winced as he heard his own voice. He’d been deep in the pretty redhead’s pussy when she beckoned Damon over.
“Oh yeah, fuck me harder while surfer-boy fucks my mouth.”
Tasha rolled her eyes. “This is uninspired.”
“You’re critiquing our blackmail video?” Damon asked.
“No. I’m critiquing her performance. It’s clear she’s setting you up.”
“She’s hardly the blackmailer,” Marco said. “She’s not taking the video.”
Tasha’s gaze swung to him. The video continued to play, the soundtrack now just groans and the slap of flesh. “You think that this woman was not a part of the plan? That she did not purposefully put herself in this position?”
Marco looked at Damon, who was running his hands through his hair. “We didn’t…I mean she’s hardly the first woman we’ve shared.”
Tasha smiled slightly. “And you just assume no woman can be in the same room as both of you without wanting to fuck you in tandem?”
“Insulting our intelligence isn’t helping. If it’s your professional opinion that she was part of this blackmail plot then we’ll deal with that.” Damon’s voice was cool and calm, but Marco could hear the frustration he was trying to hide.
Tasha tipped her head to the side, her hair swinging. “Very well. I will do my job and not say anything more about it.” There was something in her voice that made Marco sit up. It was almost as if she’d been hurt by Damon’s tone.
Damon must have heard it too. “I’m sorry if I misspoke. I simply want this situation resolved. I tried to resign, but the Grand Master wouldn’t let me.”
“Of course not,” Tasha said. “I understand you are valuable and they have plans for you.” She handed the tablet back, rose and walked across the room to the bar.
Marco shrugged when Damon looked at him in confusion. There was something strange about Tasha, some subtext he couldn’t figure out. As she added ice and vodka to a shaker, Damon sat on the back of the couch near Marco and leaned over.
“Who do you think she is?” Damon whispered.
“You mean what is she?’” Marco watched her back. “I don’t know. She’s not what I expected.”
“She may be some corporate security agent—someone who specializes in finding and deleting information.”
“That sounds boring.” Marco shook his head at Damon’s lack of imagination.
Damon snorted and sat up as Tasha returned to them carrying an iceless glass of clear liquid—chilled vodka, served neat.
“Salute.”
She raised her glass to them and then downed the contents in one swallow.
“Whoa,” Marco muttered.
“Mmm hmm.” Damon raised his glass to his face to cover his response. “Cheers.” He took a drink and Marco followed suit.
“Now, gentleman, tell me the rest.” Tasha brushed past Damon as she made her way around the couch and Marco saw his friend stiffen.
When Damon didn’t respond, Marco answered her request. “The party was about a month ago. We were in Vegas. I had a concert—one night only at Caesar’s Palace. Damon flew out from L.A. to join me.”
“Where were you when this was taken?”
“In my suite.”
“And how did you meet the women you were with?”
“Some of them had invitations to the patrons’ party. It was after the concert, ten thousand a person for those who wanted to mingle with the artists.”
Tasha raised a brow. “Each of these women could afford ten-thousand-dollar tickets to a classical music party?”
“You think beautiful young women won’t spend money on the arts?”
“I think beautiful young women don’t have to pay to attend parties in Las Vegas.”
Damon snorted out a laugh. Marco nodded, conceding the point.
“We went to Pure, the nightclub in Caesar’s,” Damon said. “It was after the patrons’ party closed down at midnight. At least fifteen people from the patrons’ party—men and women—went with us. But by the time we left the club at two a.m. the men were gone and we’d acquired a few more women.”
Tasha nodded and crossed her legs, drawing attention to the slim columns of her thighs. “And did you invite them all up to your room?”
Marco shrugged. “I don’t exactly remember. We’d had a few cocktails.”
“Then I’m suitably impressed by your sexual prowess considering you were drunk.”
This time it was Marco who laughed. For the first time, a true smile curved Tasha’s lips. It was gone as soon as it happened.
“How many women were there?” she asked.
Damon was rubbing his head.
“Eight, ten? We didn’t have sex with all of them. There was a blonde I was with, and then the redhead we shared.”
Tasha’s gaze was cool. “You talk about her as if she were a bottle of wine you split.”
“I didn’t mean…we absolutely respect women.” Damon looked grim.
“I’m sure you do. What was her name?”