She studies me a moment. “You don’t, either.”
“Believe me when I say that this is one time I’d like to be wrong.” I don’t pause to let her comment, certain that unwanted sympathy will follow. “So far, the police have kept this quiet and the press hasn’t reported on it. Whatever their motivation for silence, it isn’t likely to last. This will get out, and added to the counterfeit scandal . . . it won’t be pretty. I’m going to drag Riptide along for a bumpy ride.”
“You didn’t do this. Bad people did this.”
“People I motivated to do bad things. I’m at the root of all of this and I take responsibility.”
She looks like she wants to say more, but hesitates. “Does your mother know about Rebecca?”
I shake my head. “Thankfully, neither of my parents know, and I don’t want to put this on them right now. That’s where you come in. I need you to keep it away from them until I get back. If you have problems, I’ll be on speed-dial and I’ll charter a private plane to get back here if I have to.”
She nods and I stare at her, trying to read her. Her lashes lower, shielding her eyes from mine, and I have a powerful sense of her guarding her reaction. Maybe she thinks I’m a prick who sleeps with everyone and deserves what I get. Maybe she sympathizes with me and feels sorry for me. Since those feelings could affect her loyalty, I have no choice but to push her to make her feelings and her position clear.
I open my mouth to say as much when the waiter appears, a tray of food in hand. As he sets our plates in front of us Crystal scoots out of the booth, leaving her coat and purse behind, and darts away and down a hallway.
I curse under my breath. She’d run from the awkwardness of last night; now she’s running from this. I leave tomorrow morning. So if she’s about to jump ship, I have to know now.
Pushing to my feet, I follow the hallway behind the bar, which leads downstairs to a small space with two doors: one for men, and one for women.
I knock on the women’s door. When Crystal opens the door my hands go to her waist, walking her back into the tiny room. She pushes out of my arms and hugs herself while I allow her escape long enough to turn and lock the door.
“I guess you don’t like the door that says ‘Men’?” she challenges, but while her words are confident and cool, the way she hugs herself screams nervousness.
I ignore the flippant remark. “And you seem to cut and run when things get awkward.”
“I didn’t cut and run, Compton. If I had, I wouldn’t have been on a plane the next morning to make a trip that gained Riptide a damn good purchase. And when I left the booth, it wasn’t for the reason you think.”
She presses her hands to her head and drags her fingers through her hair. “I just . . . I saw the pain in your eyes when you were talking about Rebecca. I know you’re hurting, and I don’t know if I made that worse last night or better . . . and I don’t know what to say or do now.”
She saw pain in my eyes? No one sees anything I don’t want them to. But this woman, she sees too much. She makes me do things I don’t do, and desire things I don’t want to.
“I don’t know what you need,” she continues, “but I want to help—”
I advance on her and lift her to the sink, sliding her legs apart and pressing between them. And now it’s my hands going through her hair, tangling in the silky strands. Tilting her head, I force her gaze to mine, bringing her mouth a breath from a kiss I promise myself I won’t claim. “What I need is for you to keep this nightmare away from my parents until I’m back. That’s all.”
Her hand closes around my tie. “I told you I will, and I meant it. Whatever they need, and whatever you need, is my priority.”
What I need is her: to taste her, to feel those lips against mine, and that’s exactly what I do. My mouth closes on hers, my tongue delving deeply, stroking, tasting. Taking. I need. Oh yes, I do, but that need shifts and changes, turns to something darker, and more demanding. Suddenly I’m aroused beyond belief, thick and hard, my cock straining against my zipper, and the burn to be inside her is almost too intense to bear. It’s consuming. It’s dangerous to my vow to stay away from women who don’t live my lifestyle.
And still I deepen the kiss, my hand traveling up her waist, caressing the curve of her breast. She presses into me, moaning, demanding “more” without words. And all too easily, I could give it to her. I tear my mouth from hers, staring down at her, and my hunger roars to life. I want Crystal, but even more so, I crave her submission and my control.
“Put your hands on the sink behind you,” I order.
Her chin lifts. “I told you—”
“What happened to ‘I’ll do whatever you need’?”
“Need and want are two different things.”
“Not if they’re done right,” I assure her, taking her hands in mine and pressing them behind her onto the counter, holding them there as I nip her bottom lip. “You want an orgasm? Then don’t move.”
Her eyes glint with rebellion but she says, “Since you put it that way.”
I tug her dress and bra down, my gaze lowering to her rosy, tight nipples before I roll them in my fingers and tug roughly. She whimpers and I lean in, sucking one of them into my mouth, and then scraping it with my teeth. A soft yelp escapes her lips and I glance up at her. “Hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I do it again.
“Good?” she demands.
“Pain only makes the pleasure better.” Demonstrating, I lick the wounded nipple, and slide my hand between her legs, finding the silk of her panties and ripping them away. I hold them up. “A reminder to me that you really can do as ordered.” I shove them into my pocket.
“Those were expensive.”
“So is the orgasm I’m going to give you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I lower myself to my knee, shoving her dress up her legs to expose the neatly trimmed V of her sex. “It means”—I explore the wet, slick heat between her thighs—“that you’re going to find out I take orders, too, when given to me my way.”
“I still don’t know what that means,” she chokes out as I slip a finger inside her.
“It’s quite simple. Tell me what you want, Ms. Smith, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Crystal,” she pants, arching against the two fingers I’ve slipped inside her. “And you don’t seem to need instructions.”
I remove my fingers abruptly. “If you want them back, you have to tell me.”
She sucks in air. “I do. You know I do.”
“Tell me you want my fingers inside you.”
She glares. “That’s unfair play.”
Play. Another BDSM word that I find curious. “Is this unfair?” I ask, lightly touching her clit with my tongue, then pulling back and running my tongue over her knee.
“Very,” she hisses.
“Tell me what you want, Ms. Smith.”
“The orgasm I’m not going to beg for.”
I arch a brow. “An orgasm is a start. How do you want me to give you that orgasm? My mouth? My fingers? Or perhaps my cock?”
“Any of the above work for me.”
“Choose.”
“Fine. With your mouth.”
“You want me to lick you?”
Her look is murderous. “Yes. Damn it.”
“Say it.”
“Fine. Lick me.”
“Lick me, please,” I command her to say.
“No.”
I stroke my fingers over her sensitive flesh, dipping one inside her and pulling back. “Lick me, please, Mr. Compton,” I instruct.
“Fuck you, Mr. Compton.”
I laugh, low and soft. “Not this time. This time I’m fucking you.” I stroke her bare knees with my thumbs, drawing circles on sensitive flesh. “I want to lick you, Ms. Smith. I want to taste you. I want to make you come, but I won’t. Not until-”
“You’re such an asshole,” she blasts. “Lick me, please,” She glares down a
t me and adds, “Mark.”
I slip two fingers inside her. “You know what you have to say.”
She inhales and lets it out, a mix of embarrassment, anger, and passion washing over her face. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, or that I’m really doing it. Lick my pussy, Mark. Please.”
“Mr. Compton.”
“Lick my pussy, please, Mr. Compton.”
Satisfaction fills me and I give her the reward she deserves, sucking her nub into my mouth, then licking, teasing, pumping my fingers into her. Her head falls back against the mirror, her hips arching against my fingers and mouth, the salty taste of her pleasure spilling onto my taste buds. And it is only a few more seconds before she gasps and her body clenches, tightening around my fingers. I lead her through the spasms, licking her, my fingers pumping, caressing, easing as her tension eases. And in those moments, I own her pleasure and I own her body. And that means I own the control I feared I’d lost.
When finally she shudders and relaxes, I remove my fingers, give her one last lick, and then stand up. Leaning into her, I slide my fingers into her hair and stare down at her. “That was what we call ‘just an orgasm,’ and yes, it really did happen.”
I push off the sink and leave, paying the bill on my way out. Pushing through the exit door, I get the hell away from Crystal before I forget that control is what I have now and what I need—not her in my hotel room.
Part Two
Denial
San Francisco
“How long did you know Rebecca, Mr. Compton?”
“Asked and answered, Detective Grant,” I reply, leaning back in my steel seat in the tiny room that makes the airplane I’d left an hour before seem downright roomy.
“All right, then,” he replies. “Let’s try something new. Is it true Rebecca called you ‘Master’?”
Tension ripples down my spine. “Yes. She called me Master.”
“Having such a beautiful young girl call you Master must have been a real power rush.”
“What’s the point?”
“I’ll get to the point when I’m ready. See, I’m the Master of this conversation. I’m in control. Now, what exactly did being her Master mean to you?”
“The dynamics of a Master and submissive relationship are defined by each couple, but the basics are the same. It’s the Master’s job to protect the submissive, and put his or her pleasure and safety before all else.”
He snorts. “Clearly you failed on the protection end of things.”
The words successfully hit the open, bleeding wound that no doubt he intends them to. Anger that I would normally contain prickles easily. “Mocking her death does not become a man in your role,” I say tightly.
“I’m not mocking her death. I’m mocking you.”
“Which makes me concerned about your competence to get this job done.” As does his wrinkled shirt and suit jacket that he’s accented with bloodshot eyes and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard that match his thick¸ rumpled hair.
He arches a brow. “How is my mocking you any indication of how I do my job?”
“A Master in any role, which I would assume a homicide detective should be of his, does not disrespect those who have put faith and trust in him based on that role.”
“I think you’ll discover, Mr. Compton, that we have more in common than either of us would like. Nothing I do is an accident, as I suspect is the case with yourself.”
I narrow my gaze on his, seeing the calculation behind his look. “Whatever head game you’re trying to play with me, I choose not to play. I came down here to assure that you deliver the justice Rebecca deserves. If you want my help, it’s freely offered, but from this point forward, through my attorney.”
“Why, Mr. Compton, would you need an attorney?”
“I don’t, but apparently you do. People who get off task need those of us who know how to get them back on task, to help them remain effective. I’ve been in town all of an hour. If there’s some point to all of this, get to it now.”
“Ava claims her confession was protecting you, the man she loves, because she found out that you and Sara McMillan killed Rebecca.”
“This again?” I ask, irritated by the illogical claim that anyone with two bits of sense could dismiss. “Aside from it being untrue, Sara never even met Rebecca, nor did she become involved with the gallery until Rebecca had resigned. So clearly that claim is impossible.”
“I’m just relaying what Ava’s defense will say.”
“Ava’s defense, or you?”
“Anything that could present as a reasonable doubt has to be dealt with. What do you know about Rebecca’s father?”
I blink at the sudden change of topic. “What does her father have to do with this?”
“Just being a Master of my job, Mr. Compton. Every possible suspect other than Ava has to be wiped off the list.”
“Rebecca didn’t know her father.” I push to my feet. “I’m done. I came back from New York early, with my mother barely out of cancer surgery, expecting this was going to be productive. So far, it hasn’t been. If you want to ask about Ava or anything actually related to the case, I’m available. For nonsense, I’m not.”
“Before you go,” he says, pulling a red journal I know is Rebecca’s from an accordion file, “I want to read you something.” He flips to a marked page. “The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain. The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous. Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared . . .” He glances up at me and shuts the journal. “Who do you think a jury would think killed Rebecca?” He leans back in his seat. “Ava? Or one, or both, of the two men mentioned in this journal entry?” He taps the desk. “Her writing is about her Master, which you’ve already told me was you. Who’s the other man?”
I see how Rebecca’s words sound damning and could be easily twisted against me. “I want justice, and I will do everything in my power to help you see it delivered. You have my full cooperation, but I’m smart enough to have an attorney present when I do it.”
“To keep me focused.”
“As we’ve already established.” I head for the door and he follows.
“My focus, Mr. Compton, is on evidence. Confessions are given and retracted all the time. They don’t hold up. If you have any influence, as one would assume a Master would, use it to get Ava to produce Rebecca’s body.”
A body. Rebecca’s body. I feel like nails are being drilled into my skull, and though control is second nature to me, it’s all but lost to me now. It is all I can do to not pull him over the desk and shake him for fucking breathing, when Rebecca isn’t. “If I have to hear her tell me where the body is,” I say, “you’d better have glass between us or a guard nearby.”
“Understood. When?”
“I’ll get my attorney to set it up with you.”
“Today. Get him to set it up today.”
I walk to the exit and leave without looking back. But I am looking back—at every moment I’d ever spent with Rebecca.
Thirty minutes later, my attorney has promised me a call-back after he assesses the situation, and I’m pulling into the driveway of my house in the Cow Hollow area of San Francisco. Killing the engine, I sit there. My skin is twitching and my nerve endings feel like they’re standing on end. I’m drowning in emotional quicksand that spells trouble I don’t need. What I do need, I cannot have. She’s gone—and just the idea creates a burning sensation in my chest.
Fighting the urge to pound the damn steering wheel, I shove open the Jaguar’s door and step outside, walking the sidewalk leading to my porch. The cool early evening air washes over me but it’s nothing compared to the ice in my veins. My role was protector to Rebecca, and Detective Jerkoff was right. I failed.
Had I not convinced Rebecca to return to San Francisco for me, she’d be alive today. Hell, had I not convinced her to be my sub, she’d be
alive today. How am I supposed to live with that? How do I ever trust myself to be anyone’s Master again? Who am I, if I’m not that person?
Opening the front door to my house, I try not to think about the first night Rebecca came to my home, the night she started on the path to being my sub. But I remember all too well the way I’d stood at the window, watching her walk the very sidewalk I just did, in a skimpy dress I’d sent her to wear. I’d opened the door and she’d gone to her knees in the entryway.
Stepping inside the foyer, I don’t bother with a light. I’m feeling out of my skin, becoming a person I’ve not known for a decade, and don’t want to know. Control is how I left that person behind. Control is how I survived hell once before. It’s the only way I’ll survive now, and I have to survive. I have to do more than survive, since I’m faced with more than the monster that is Ava. I have the monster that is my mother’s cancer.
“She’s healing,” I remind myself, and I know she’ll be home soon and probably trying to work before she should.
And what do I do when her interim manager stops by my hotel room to have me sign off on a major purchase? With nothing more than a verbal agreement that it was “just a fuck,” I got naked with a woman so far from the submissive type she’s practically the poster child for dominant women.
Dropping my jacket on a black leather chair in my bedroom, I pull off my tie and kick off my shoes, then go to the bar in the corner that I rarely use. With a glass filled with expensive scotch and the bottle in hand, I settle onto the mattress of the four-poster bed I used to share with Rebecca. It’s far more empty than it’s ever been. Setting the bottle and my cell phone on the nightstand, I kick back the warm liquid, letting it roar a path down my throat. For a man who doesn’t like the lack of control that comes with alcohol, I’m definitely liking the way it burns away a bit of the acid eroding my veins right now.
Snatching up my phone, I check my messages and see one from Crystal. I punch the Play button, remembering her use of that word in the bathroom, then hear, “I have a problem I need to discuss. You said to call and, well, I’m calling.”