"As
we
are," he corrected.
"Fine. As worried as
we
are."
"And I take it we're meeting her?"
"Your powers of deductive reasoning simply amaze me."
He was quiet for several moments as the cabbie jerked to a stop, laid on his horn, and yelled words in some Middle Eastern language that may have alluded to abusing sheep.
"I don't suppose," McClain said, in a very weary voice, "that you have any ibuprofen on you?"
She rolled her eyes and dug back into her purse. Men. Blacken their eye, split their lip, break their leg, and they'd rather suffer than ask for help. But just touch their pride and joy and they turn into simpering infants.
When she'd worked in the New York field office, Eve had had occasion to deal with socialite types. Park Avenue princesses who were slaves to fashion, plastic surgery, and the vapid men who ran in their circles. She'd expected to meet a grape plucked from the same vine in Katrina Hofsteader, even though Katrina lived in SoHo instead of on the Upper East Side.
She couldn't have been more off target. Katrina may be rich, she may be on a par with a princess based on her lineage, but she was far from a slave to anyone's idea of status quo. Despite Eve's
assumption
that she would barely more than tolerate Katrina for Tiffany's sake, she found herself liking the woman on first meeting. Same went for her significant other, Sven.
"Please come in." Katrina met them at the door herself in bare feet, worn hip-hugger jeans, and a hot pink crop top silk shirt. "I'm so anxious to speak with you about Tiffany."
Eve had seen photos of Katrina in the tabloids. She was an international celebrity for not only her wealth but also her striking beauty. You couldn't stand in line at a supermarket and not see her photograph. Those grainy photos, however, hadn't done her justice.
Katrina was Halle Berry-gorgeous, a stunning mix of her German father's Aryan features and her South African mother's dark, exotic beauty. Her blue-black hair was straight and long in one of those trendy choppy cuts that complemented her oval face and flawless creamy mocha skin tone.
Her longtime love interest, Sven Jorgenson, was a Swiss-born Olympic-quality downhill skier slash Nordic god. Sven looked up from a plush white leather sofa when Katrina ushered Eve and McClain into a mammoth sunken living room. He stood when Katrina made introductions.
"I'm sorry," Katrina said, genuine apology on her face when she addressed McClain, "I'm afraid I'm a little unsettled about all this. I didn't catch your name."
"Tyler McClain. I'm an associate of Ms. Garrett's."
Eve raised a brow at that but let it pass.
"Thanks for seeing us." McClain extended his hand to Sven. "We want the same thing you do, to find Tiffany, make sure she's all right."
"Mr. McClain," Sven said, returning his handshake.
Jorgenson wore a white silk dress shirt open over a pair of jeans. He, too, was barefoot, and between all six feet of his statue-perfect physique and McClain, the two of them seemed to fill the cavernous room. Sven's blue eyes flicked with concern to Katrina, who had motioned for everyone to sit down.
"Can I ask you a question, Ms. Garrett?" Katrina curled up in a leather side chair.
"Please. Call me Eve."
"And I'm Mac."
Katrina nodded, smiled. "Then you must call me Kat. Can I ask, what is your relationship to Tiffany?"
On the cab ride to SoHo, Eve and Mac had reached an agreement. Since they'd already decided to work together to find Tiffany for Tiffany's sake, they needed to set some ground rules for their unholy alliance. And until they knew exactly what Tiffany's situation was, they'd agreed to the need to exercise discretion. They had to be careful what they confided to who.
Eve glanced at McClain. He nodded. Which meant he felt, as she did, that Katrina Hofsteader could be trusted. Still, for the sake of expediency, Eve offered only a watered-down version of the truth.
"I've known Tiffany since she was fifteen. And while you and I have never run into each other, Tiffany often mentioned you. She cares a great deal about you. And I care a great deal about her, although I'll be frank with you, Tiffany hasn't spoken to me in several months. She thinks I betrayed her when, in fact, I was looking out for her. It's a long story, but the bottom line is, I care for her very much. And I want to find her. That's why I'm assisting Mr. McClain, who was solicited by Mr. Clayborne to find Tiffany."
"Jeremy Clayborne contacted you personally?"
Mac shook his head. "His representative. Roger Edwards."
Kat tensed immediately.
McClain cut a glance at Eve before addressing Kat. "I take it you know Edwards."
"I know him. Tiffany hated him."
Eve nodded. Tiffany had always made her scorn for Edwards clear.
"She always felt that Edwards tried to fill in for her father. Instead of endearing him to Tiffany, it made her that much more aware of her father's neglect. She wanted Jeremy Clayborne, not Richard Edwards, and Edwards bore the brunt of her anger."
That was the way Eve had always seen it, too.
"Why did Edwards hire you, do you think?" Katrina asked.
"Damage control," McClain said. "Tiffany has been on the move for a few weeks, blowing a lot of coin. Edwards says Clayborne wants her reined in."
"The problem is," Eve added, "we're no longer comfortable with Edwards's take—that she's acting out, intentionally being irresponsible, blowing her trust fund, all to spite her father."
"It's what I would do if I were in her shoes," Kat said with a concerned scowl. "Her father is a horrible person."
"Agreed, but we're starting to think there's more to it than Tiffany on the run." McClain paused, then asked point-blank, "Were you aware that she's heavily into drugs?"
Kat glanced at Sven, worry mixed with denial. "No. I don't believe that. She went through a phase there where she experimented a little—we all did—but she would never do anything hard-core."
When her sharp gaze skated between McClain and Eve and she saw the truth, her face fell. "Oh God. It's true, isn't it? Then something
is
wrong. Something's bad wrong. What's going on?"
Eve shook her head. "We don't know. The only thing we know for certain is that she's keeping company with a musician and a couple members of his band. Does the name Lance Reno mean anything to you?"
"No. But I do know that Tiffany makes poor choices when it comes to men. It's no secret why. She can't win the love of her father, so she hangs her heart on anyone who will give her attention."
"When was the last time you had contact with her?" McClain asked.
"About a month ago." Kat looked toward Sven for confirmation. When he nodded, she continued. "She called. She sounded so unhappy. I convinced her to meet me in Rome. Just have a little one-on-one girl time. She didn't show. I've been worried ever since."
"Has she called you to explain why she didn't make it?"
Tears pooled in Kat's eyes. "She left a message about a week ago. All she did was cry. I couldn't understand her. She sounded so ... I don't know. Lost. When I tried to call her back, I got a no-service message."
"She's here, you know," Eve said. "In New York."
"Oh my God. Why hasn't she contacted me?" Kat looked confused and a little hurt.
When McClain glanced at her, Eve nodded. "She might not be able to."
The alarm in Kat's eyes deepened.
Eve felt genuine sympathy for Kat's worry. "We think it could be that she's being controlled or manipulated by this Reno character. He's probably the one who's pushing the drugs on her." She explained about the dwindling bank accounts, the constant moving around.
"Do you have any idea where she might go when she's in the city?" Mac asked, leaning forward—very carefully, Eve noted. "Hotels where she likes to stay? Clubs she might frequent?"
Kat rattled off the names of several hotels.
"Already tried most of those," McClain said, surprising Eve that he'd already checked them out. "She's not registered. Neither is Reno."
"Which," Eve concluded aloud, "suggests they've changed their pattern because they've decided they need to go low-profile. And that translates to the notion that now they're actively hiding, which hadn't been the case before.
"How about nightclubs?" she asked, switching gears.
"Oracle," Kat said decisively. "She loves the place. If not there, there are several others. We made the rounds every time she came to the city."
"If you can give us a list," McClain said, "that's where we'll start then."
"We want to help you look," Sven added with a meaningful nod toward Kat that brought a renewed threat of tears to her eyes. "Besides, you'll need us to get in."
"Thank you." Kat went to Sven, settling on his lap.
Mac glanced at Eve. She shrugged. "Fine. Let's get started."
"Um, there's one little thing," Kat said. "Strict dress codes are enforced in these clubs."
"Dress codes?" they asked in unison.
"You mean like white-tie?" McClain asked with a frown.
"Um ... not exactly."
The grin that Sven appeared to be fighting made Eve nervous.
"Come on." Kat rose, giving McClain a long once-over. "You're about Sven's size. And Eve, I'm sure I've got something you can wear."
Eve followed Kat from the room—unable to shake the feeling that she was like a lamb being led to the slaughter.
"No fucking way." Mac gave a nervous laugh and shook his head as he glanced from Sven to the bed, where the Swede had tossed several costume items and told him to take his pick.
"You want to get into Oracle? You dress the part."
The studded dog collar made Mac shiver. He hooked a finger under a piece of leather that looked like a masochist's version of an athletic cup. "What in the
hell
is this?"
"A codpiece."
Codpiece. Jesus. Now there was a word he'd never hoped to see in anything but historical literature. And never in a million years had he thought he'd be in the same room with one, let alone use it in a sentence or contemplate wearing it.
"You people are sick."
Sven grinned, despite the gravity of the situation. "It's the going thing."
"Yeah, if you're into sadomasochism."
"Or the pretense of. Although there are plenty of those kinds of nightspots around if it—how do you Americans say it—trips your trigger? With the exception of one area of the club, Oracle is just for fun. To see who can make the most outrageous statement."
Sven laughed again when he saw Mac's expression. "There's an upside," Sven suggested as he shrugged out of his shirt and slipped into a black chain and leather vest.
Mac gave him a look.
"Wait until you see what the women will be wearing."
Mac opened his mouth, considered the possibilities of Eve Garrett dressed as a dominatrix, and eyed the costumes on the bed. Well, fuck. The boys had taken a lot of abuse lately. Looked like they were going to take a little more.
Leather, Mac was soon to learn, did not breathe. Neither did the codpiece. As it turned out, that worked out just fine, because when he walked out of the bedroom looking like a cross between a punk vampire and a bad-dog biker and got a gander at Eve, he didn't think he was going to be taking any breaths any time soon anyway.
All he could do was stare.
"Not one word, McClain," Eve warned.
Not a problem. He couldn't have said anything if he'd been held at gunpoint.
Holy hell. The codpiece was the only thing keeping him from busting out of his pants. And the boys, once again, were suffering mightily.
Wet dreams didn't come any more X-rated than the woman standing before him in spiked ankle boots and black fishnet stockings that stopped midthigh, where lace and black leather garters took over in stark contrast against her ivory skin. The skirt—also leather and all of twelve inches from top to bottom—barely covered the good parts, leaving not only a provocative length of naked thigh but also a generous strip of bare hip and belly circled by a thin silver chain.