Marco looked at his friend. Her name?
“Well…” Marco said. “I don’t think we know.”
“As I said. She was nothing more than a commodity to you—a bottle of wine. Though I suspect you remember the names and vintages of wines more than you remember the names of the women you fuck.”
An unfamiliar feeling curdled in Marco’s gut. He felt…guilty.
“You think we deserve what happened to us,” he said to Tasha.
“No, blackmail is a heinous thing. I have no doubt that the women you’ve been with were using you just as much as you were using them.” Tasha’s gaze moved between them. “Together you are quite the pair. Dark—” she motioned to Marco “—and light.” She gestured to Damon.
“Well, we’ve established that we’re idiots for bringing women from a club to our hotel, and that we’re pigs for fucking them. Now that we’re done with the guilt trip, what do we do?” Damon’s voice was hard, demanding. He did not like to dwell on anything, either good or bad. He liked solutions.
Marco would have preferred to continue talking, to explore Tasha’s words, to understand her censure. It was
a novelty having someone comment on his behavior. Their position with the Trinity Masters meant they had been free to indulge themselves, essentially operating outside societal norms. They would be married when they were called to the altar and until then they had no one but themselves to answer to.
At least that had been true until the blackmail.
Tasha rose and crossed to where Marco sat. She knelt on the couch between him and Damon and laid a hand on both of their shoulders. Marco could smell her perfume, see the lace of her bra. She was slim and lithe. Unbidden, an image of her on her knees, that silky hair wrapped around his hands, rose in Marco’s mind’s eye.
“Tell me the rest,” she whispered. “Tell me everything.”
The shift from confrontational to confessional had Marco scrambling to make sense of her.
“There’s, uh, not much more.” Damon sounded as flustered as Marco felt. “A link to the video was sent to my personal email. I tried to trace the account it came from but there was no name. I know a bit about computers and I was able to track the IP address back, but it bounced around, and as far as I can tell it originated in Morocco.”
“I’m impressed you were able to do that.” Tasha smiled softly and leaned in to Damon. “Is there anything else that happened? Even something small?”
“Someone stole Marco’s phone,” Damon said, gazing into Tasha’s eyes.
“Damon!” Marco barked, reaching past the blonde to smack his friend.
Damon shook himself and then looked at Marco. “Fuck.”
Tasha rose to her feet. “I knew you were holding something back when you reported to the Grand Master.”
Damon frowned. “You were there?”
“Yes.”
“But…where?”
“Sitting in the office.”
“What? How did I not see you?”
“Very few people can see me when I don’t want to be seen.” She was back to being hard and matter of fact.
“Who are you?” Damon demanded.
Marco was holding his breath, hoping they wouldn’t circle back to the issue of his stolen phone.
Tasha faced him. “What was on your phone?”
Apparently Marco’s luck was not that good.
“My contacts, calendar.” He shrugged.
“Something more than that, otherwise you wouldn’t be hiding the fact it was stolen.”
Marco looked at Damon. “I’m sorry,” his friend muttered. “She Jedi mind tricked me.”
Marco snorted. “You’re a disgrace.”
“I know.”
“Gentlemen.” Tasha sat on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows braced on her crossed knee. “What was on the phone?”
“Photos.”
“Of?”
“Of the Winter Gala.”
Tasha’s eyebrows rose. “The public reception?”
“Some…and some in the private party.”
Tasha shook her head. “That is a problem.”
Four times a year, the Trinity Masters hosted grand galas in the Boston Library. Half the party took place upstairs and was open to the public—the wealthy public. Potential new members—usually undergrads from the world-class universities in and around Boston—were invited, as were influential people who were not part of the
organization. It was an excuse to bring the members of the Trinity Masters together in one place. As the public party wound down, the private party in their secret headquarters under the building started up. Often there was a formal meeting included as part of the event, but Marco rarely attended that—he was there for the festivities. It was a chance to meet other members and indulge himself with people who, like him, could not commit themselves to a relationship because they were waiting to be called to the altar.
“Could other members be identified from the pictures?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Marco answered. “We were all wearing our masks, but there are photos of members upstairs.” He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone about the phone because he couldn’t bear the idea that he’d betrayed the trust of his fellow members. There were few things as important to him as the Trinity Masters. The video was clearly the more pressing threat, and as far as he knew the phone might simply have been lost. He’d had it at some point, but by the next morning it was gone. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he told Tasha. “I was able to log into my account and delete the contents of the phone.”
“And were you able to trace its location?”
“No, that had been disabled.”
“Meaning whoever took it knew enough to prevent you from recovering it.”
“Or it fell out of my pocket and was run over by a car on the boulevard.”
“That would be very lucky, but I doubt it’s the case.”
Damon broke in to the conversation. “The probability of someone using the video of us, plus the pictures on Marco’s phone, to positively identify the existence of the Trinity Masters is slim. The likelihood of them correctly picking out members from photos or the attendee list of the Winter Gala is so narrow—”
“It is not as improbable as you think. There are things you don’t know.” Sasha stood. “We have to find these women—the redhead and whoever took the video.”
“We?” Marco asked.
“What happens when we find them?” said Damon.
Tasha cocked her head to the side. “You thought I would simply clean up after you? No. You—” she pointed at Marco “—will go with me to Las Vegas.” Her attention shifted to Damon. “And when I find them?” She smiled, and it was not a kind expression. “Perhaps it’s best I don’t tell you.”
She rose to her feet. “Marco, be ready at eight am. A car will pick you up. Damon, you may return to Los Angeles.” She nodded once and then left, letting herself out.
Damon looked stunned. Marco felt a bit dazed himself.
Their gazes met. “Holy shit,” Damon said.
Marco went to get another drink.
Holy shit indeed.
~~~~
Chapter Three
Marco leaned on the handle of his suitcase and yawned. It had been a long time since he’d had to get up so early. Most of his work happened at night—be it concerts or composing.
Damon had gone to bed at two a.m., but Marco had been up until four. Worry and frustration over the situation had kept him awake, and the only way to work through the feelings was to play. Luckily, Damon, who was sleeping in the same room he’d used while he’d been living in the condo, had learned to sleep through the sound of Marco’s cello.
By the time he went to bed at four, his soul was at peace. However, when his alarm went off at seven he’d felt decidedly un-peaceful.
More so because he wasn’t able to indulge in his normal routine of coffee, a run and then reading the paper.
A black sedan pulled up to the curb. The driver got out and silently opened the trunk. Marco handed him his bag and opened the rear door.
“Good morning,” Tasha said as he slid into the backseat.
“I dislike mornings.” Marco leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
“I see that. Luckily, it’s a quick flight.”
“I hope we’re flying first class,” he said, not caring that he sounded like a diva.
“We are. I didn’t think the famous Marco Polin would agree to coach.”
“Famous?” He snorted. He didn’t feel famous right now. He felt tried and grumpy.
“Aren’t you?”
“Perhaps, among those who enjoy accessible classical
music.”
“I do.” Her words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear her. “I saw you play in London. It was transcendent.”
Marco sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What was that?”
Tasha was looking out the window. She didn’t acknowledge his question.
An hour and a half later they were at O’Hare airport in the first-class airline lounge. Marco had finally gotten his coffee and his paper and was feeling more himself. Tasha sat across from him with a cup of tea and a plate of fruit.
“Why did he send you?” Marco asked as he sipped his coffee.
“Who?”
“The GM.”
Marco used the shorthand name for the Grand Master since they were in public.
“He must have thought I could help you.”
“And why did he think that? What do you do?”
Her lips twitched. “That’s classified.”
“Do you work for Price at Bennett Securities?”
Tasha frowned. “You know him?”
“No. Damon knows he’s a member. That’s who he thought the GM would send.”
“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed.”
The attendant came by to let them know their flight was boarding. It wasn’t until Marco was buckled in beside her that he realized she’d managed to completely avoid his question.
*****
Tasha’s blood started humming as the plane touched down. It was a familiar feeling, the calm anticipation before an op. She’d slept a few hours and spent the rest of the night gathering the information she needed. It had been easy enough to run an image of the redhead through facial-recognition software she’d plugged into the Nevada state DMV database.
In a matter of minutes, she had a name and address. If that was all that was needed, she was sure there were dozens of Trinity Masters who could have done what she did. People like Price, who operated within the law, sometimes dipping into gray areas.
Tasha didn’t even pretend the things she did were legal, and to take care of a blackmailer she would need to do things many people would not be willing to do. Especially if the Grand Master’s fears were correct and there was more to this situation than Marco and Damon knew.
Marco Polin and Damon Corzo. They were not what she’d expected. When the Grand Master had told her about the situation, she’d been prepared for them to be slightly stupid and vulgar. Despite what she’d said to them, she did not find their behavior offensive.
Marco was all dark, tortured
artist. His black hair was a bit too long, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He was lean and tall with long fingers and skilled hands. Damon was gold and bronze. She understood why the woman in the video had referred to him as a surfer boy. With his suit on he looked fit, but his naked body, which she’d gotten a good look at in the video, was all hard muscles and gold skin. His hair was light brown, streaked with gold, and his eyes a warm hazel.
Each of them had the kind of presence that demanded and commanded attention. Together that was magnified until they seemed almost larger than life—the dark angel of music and the golden warrior of justice.
Shaking her head at her fanciful musings, Tasha waved her hand, motioning over the middle-aged chauffeur who held up a sign with her name on it.
“That’s my bag,” she said, pointing.
Marco was beside her and lifted her bag and his own before the chauffeur could.
“I’ll take those, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The driver led them to a nondescript silver compact. He took off his hat and scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“Will this work, Tasha?”
“It’s perfect, Omar. Thank you.”
With a nod, Omar walked away, stripping off the suit jacket as he went.
Marco watched him go with wide eyes. “What just happened?”
“Get in.”
Tasha took the keys off the front wheel, unlocked the trunk and got into the driver’s seat. Marco loaded their bags and then climbed in.
“You’re a spy,” he said. “That was like a scene out of a movie.”
“Movies are fiction.” She reached into her large purse and pulled out a stretchy one-shouldered top made out of shiny material.
“But I’m right, aren’t I? You’re a spy.”
“I’m not James Bond, if that’s what you mean.” Tasha unbuttoned her thin cashmere sweater and stripped it off before pulling her brushed cotton blouse off also.
Marco’s gaze dropped to her bra, lingering for a moment before he turned to look out the window.