“Leave me alone!” She raised her voice to a yell, but the current song was heavy on the bass, extremely popular and extra-loud. Nobody paid any attention to her.
The man started propelling her toward the back door of the club, his long legs eating up the ground as he dragged her in his wake.
“Help!” She screamed it now, but he’d made his move at the right time. The area around them was dark and nearly deserted as people flocked toward the dance floor to groove to the song.
She tried to dig her heels into the carpet, but the guy was huge and any resistance she put up was barely noticed. As they passed close to a table, she grabbed on to a chair. Surely someone would notice a huge guy towing a woman towing a chair and screaming.
But he simply shook his head and grabbed her other arm so hard that her fingers went numb and the chair clattered harmlessly to the ground.
“Look, lady.” He let go of one arm and leaned down until he was close enough for her to hear him. “If you’re going to cause trouble, I’ll just knock you out and carry you out of here. Everyone’ll think you passed out.”
His words exacerbated her fear, and pure instinct made her go for his eyes. Curling the fingers of her free hand into rigid claws, she slashed at whatever portion of his face she could get at.
She didn’t know who this guy was or what he planned on doing with her, but there was no way she was leaving this club with him without kicking up the mother of all protests.
“Fuck!” For one brief second his grip loosened as he tried to protect his eyes, and she yanked herself free. Without looking back, she ran for the dance floor and relative safety. This time, when a hand grabbed her from behind, she screamed her head off even as she started swinging.
“Get away from me!” she screamed, kicking out at the bastard. Smiling when she caught him in the shins. Glancing up, she nearly sagged in relief as she saw Byron barreling toward them.
“You bitch.” His fist came up and headed for her jaw, and she braced herself.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Byron roared, putting himself in front of her and taking on the jaw the punch meant for her.
He didn’t even flinch, just shoved the guy, who stumbled but caught himself before he fell to the floor. At the same time, the song ended and people started heading back to their tables.
“You’re going to regret that,” he muttered, then took off, blending into the crowd.
Byron watched him leave, then turned furious eyes on her. “What the hell was that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Come on! I’m getting you out of here.” For the second time in five minutes, she was dragged toward a door, but this time she was more than willing. Fear was setting in, and she was deathly afraid she was going to be sick.
Was that what had happened to all those girls? she wondered as she scrambled to keep up with Byron. Were they abducted in plain sight, while life went on around them? The thought caused her to panic all over again, so that by the time they made it outside, she was all but hyperventilating.
“Shit.” Byron cursed, shoving her toward the taxi he had waiting on the cross street. Opening the door, he flung her inside.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, after spitting their address at the cabdriver. “Who the hell was that guy?”
“I don’t know!” She tried to tell him more, but she couldn’t get enough air. The world was going black around the edges.
Byron cursed again, then shoved her head between her legs. “Try to take a few deep breaths,” he said.
“Hey, man, if she hurls, you’re cleaning it up.”
“Just drive the fucking car. She’s not going to get sick.”
She was glad he sounded so sure, but she was nowhere near as optimistic. In fact, she was pretty sure the only thing that kept her from tossing her cookies all over the cab’s backseat was the fact that she didn’t want Byron to see her puke, let alone have to clean it up.
By the time the cab screeched to a halt in front of their apartment building, she had almost recovered from her panic attack. But Byron still helped her out after paying the driver, then insisted on carrying her to her apartment.
“I’m fine,” she insisted as he headed for the stairs. “I can walk.”
“That’s why you nearly passed out on me back there—because you’re fine.”
“I’m not the one who got punched.”
“And I’m not the one who nearly puked in the back of a cab.”
That shut her up, as she was sure he had intended. Neither of them spoke again until he got her into her apartment and settled on the couch.
“Now, do you want to tell me what the hell happened back there?” he demanded as he flicked on a lamp.
“Oh, my God, look at your jaw!” She reached for him, but he shrugged her off.
“It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.”
He shrugged. “I bruise easily.”
“He hits hard.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Did he hit you?”
“No. But he sure scared the hell out of me when he grabbed me.”
“We need to call the police.” He headed for the phone.
“And tell them what? Some big guy with an attitude got a little too frisky with me at a club?”
“He did more than get frisky,” he said angrily.
“Yeah, but the cops won’t believe that.”
“They will if you tell them about your book—”
“That’s the last thing I want to do. The NOPD totally mishandled that whole case. Don’t you think there’s a reason for that? If I tell them what I’ve found so far, what’s to stop them from scrambling into total CYA mode?”
She shook her head. “No. We’re not calling the police. I can’t risk it.”
“You’d rather risk your life? Over a book?”
“You know it’s not just a book, Byron. Hundreds of girls’ lives are at stake.” He didn’t like what she was suggesting; his fury was evident in his rapid breathing and clenched jaw. But he didn’t argue anymore.
When he did finally speak again, he ordered, “So, tell me what happened.”
“I already told you—”
“Exactly what happened.” His voice was as cold as a glacier—and as immovable. “And don’t leave anything out. Or I’m going to the police and to hell with what might happen. I want you safe.”
By the time she was done telling Byron what had happened—and answering all of his questions—he was furious and she was exhausted. The adrenaline that had carried her this far had obviously worn off.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a grin that did nothing to detract from the anger in his eyes.
“Where are we going?”
“To get you into a shower and then into bed. You look like you’re about to fall flat on your face.”
“Nice to know there’s still truth in advertising.”
He laughed as he guided her through her bedroom and into her bathroom. Closing the toilet lid, he parked her there while he turned on the water. “Now, just sit there until the water warms up.”
“I want to load the pictures, start looking at them. Maybe there’s something on there we can use.”
“And maybe there isn’t. Either way, they’ll wait until tomorrow.” He stripped her sundress over her head, then disposed of her bra and panties with equal efficiency. “Now, into the shower with you.”
She was so tired that she didn’t argue, though the small part of her brain still working did wonder if she was going to fall asleep under the spray. But then Byron was stepping naked into the shower and she forgot all about sleeping.
Turning, she pressed herself against him, exhausted but still enjoying the feel of his hard muscles against her softness. She shifted her hands to cup his ass. Maybe she could work up the energy—
Byron laughed as he pulled away. “I don’t think you’re up for water sports tonight, sweetheart.”
Th
en he guided her head beneath the shower spray as his fingers tenderly combed through her hair. “That feels good,” she murmured as he started to massage her scalp.
“It’ll feel better, I promise.”
He reached for her shampoo, squirted some on his hand and then worked it through her hair. Did the same for her conditioner, rubbing and rinsing until she was so drowsy it was all she could do to stay on her feet.
By the time he’d squirted some of her strawberry-scented lotion on a puff and washed every part of her, she was completely blissed out. He turned off the water with a laugh, wrapping her hair in one towel and her body in another before propelling her back into the bedroom.
“Where do you keep your pj’s?” he asked as he towel-dried her hair.
“In the top drawer over there.”
He found the old, oversized shirt she liked to sleep in and slipped it over her head. Then pulled down the covers on the bed and eased her inside.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked as he covered her up. She was already half asleep.
“In a few minutes. I’m going to lock up first.”
“Don’t take too long. I—”
Lacey was asleep before she could finish the sentence. Byron stood over her for long minutes, studying her beautiful face while he went over what she’d told him about the club.
He should have chased after the guy—should have found out what the hell he wanted. But at the time, he’d cared more about getting Lacey out of there, getting her someplace safe, than he had about catching the bastard who’d been messing with her. But that was before he’d realized that the asshole had actually tried to abduct her.
Turning out the light, he headed toward the kitchen and—hopefully—an ice pack. That asshole had packed a punch like an eighteen-wheeler, and his jaw ached like hell.
After filling a plastic bag with ice, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and started flipping through the pictures Lacey had taken. Each was more disgusting than the last, but as he flipped through them, his admiration for Lacey grew.
Yeah, he wanted her. Absolutely, he imagined taking her in each and every way she fantasized. But it was more than that—more than the sex and her big green eyes. More than her killer body and no-holds-barred attitude.
He loved her dedication to her job, loved the fact that once she’d found out what had really been going on down here, she hadn’t shied away from it. She’d met it head-on, determined to do whatever it took to find out what had happened to girls she didn’t know but cared about all the same.
As they’d sat at the club and the story had poured out of her in bursts and fits, he’d been awed and horrified and more furious than he could ever remember being. These men were animals—worse than animals—and the idea that they had gotten away with something like this for so long was anathema to him.
Tossing the phone on the desk next to her computer, he prowled the apartment, too wound up and pissed off to sleep. Walking the length of her dining room table, he stared at the faces of the fifteen dead girls looking back at him and wondered what the hell he could do to help make this right.
Because one thing was for certain: after what had happened tonight, there was no way in hell Lacey was going to do this on her own.
Chapter Sixteen
I n every touch of your lips I feel the strength and the sweetness that is your power over me. Your lips find mine, again and again, as we stand in your kitchen, the sun setting in the windows behind us.
With each caress of your lips on mine, each slick of your tongue over and around my own, I feel the fire inside me burn hotter. Fiercer. Stronger than before.
You slide your fingers inside my shirt, ripping the buttons off in your quest to touch me, to be as close as two bodies can be. I arch my back, offer myself to you. Revel in the feel of your mouth on the soft skin of my throat, the delicate flesh of my breasts.
On the counter next to us is the drink you made for me earlier—a margarita. My favorite. You lift it to your mouth, take a sip, then press your lips to mine so that I too can enjoy the tart sweetness that comes with the mingling of the tequila and the strawberries.
The mingling of you and me.
Your cold mouth trails kisses over my shoulder, down my chest, to my nipple. You take it in your mouth, bite softly, then suck with a strength that has me crying out. A strength that almost brings me to my knees.
My hands pull at your shirt and I nearly shred it in my effort to get closer to you, my desire to feel your skin—slick with lust—against my own nearly overwhelming.
Your laugh is low and husky as you scoop the frozen mixture out of the glass with your fingers. You rub the sugary treat over my lips, groaning, as I suck your finger inside my mouth and refuse to relinquish it. I know that I should let go, know that you have so much more in store for me, but you taste too good.
But you are wilier than I am. Better prepared. Better controlled. You dip your other hand into my drink, leave it there for long seconds. Then you rub my nipple with your icy fingers, coating it with strawberries. With sweetness.
“Look,” you whisper to me. “Look at how beautiful you are.”
I don’t want to look away from you, from the darkness of your eyes, the intensity that is the only constant in the maelstrom of emotions overtaking me. You’re pushing my boundaries, taking me further than I’ve ever gone before, and I’m afraid to look away.
You understand my fear, my hesitation, but still you push. Your hand anchors mine, holds me tightly. “I’ve got you,” you say. “I won’t let you go.”
It’s the reassurance I need, the promise I was looking for. I want to make you happy, to arouse you as you have so thoroughly done to me, so I look. I glance down and see my rosy nipples hard as diamonds as they beg for your attention.
They are covered in my drink, covered in strawberries, and redder than I’ve ever seen them. I feel you lick your lips and know that I am beautiful to you. I am desired by you. And that is all that matters.
You begin by licking the juice off my breasts, the little rivulets that have crept over the rounded globes, dribbling down onto my stomach and my sides as the heat between us causes the ice to melt. You work your way slowly—oh, so slowly—to my nipples, laving first one, then the other, with your wicked, wonderful tongue. I moan, clench my fists in your hair and surrender.
Lacey took a bracing sip of coffee and logged on to her blog, feelings of anticipation and nervousness mingling in her stomach. The anticipation was usual, but the nerves were new and she couldn’t help wondering if they had to do with Byron and his strangely sudden role in her life.
She’d posted a new entry yesterday and she wanted to see what her readers thought of it.
Just looking at the responses had her glancing guiltily toward the bedroom. Toward Byron. Though she told herself it didn’t matter, that this was all fun and games, she wasn’t so sure anymore. He’d been so tender with her last night, so careful. So concerned. Less like a fuck buddy and more like a lover.
Suddenly, putting her fantasies out there for the whole world to see felt a little like cheating on him. He didn’t know she was describing her sexual desires to a bunch of men who answered in kind. And when she’d been determined to keep things purely casual between them, she hadn’t cared.
But now . . . she kept remembering what it felt like to be held by him. How it felt to let him take care of her. Though she still wasn’t looking for anything serious, she was smart enough to know they’d crossed a line last night, one it wouldn’t be that easy to step back over.
Besides, Byron wasn’t like Curtis or the other guys she’d slept with. He loved her sensuality, wanted to know what she liked and how she liked it. With him, she didn’t have to pretend, to hide her desires. She could be herself.
She skimmed the comments—there were almost two hundred today—and it took a few minutes to read them and respond to the interesting ones. Even that felt a little uncomfortable, and she cursed herself for being an idiot.
It wasn’t like she was interested in any of the guys the way she was in Byron, so who cared what they said to her and what she answered?
But the more comments she addressed, the more uncomfortable she became, until she didn’t even want to read any more.
Should she tell Byron about the blog and hope he understood what she was doing and why? Or should she keep writing in secret and hope that when he found out—if he found out—that he would understand?
Or, an insidious little voice inside of her whispered, you could stop writing the blog. Just end it cold turkey, and really give a relationship with Byron a chance.
She was shying away from the idea even before it had fully formed. Had she really learned nothing after those two and a half years with Curtis? She’d given up everything for him, and in the end had been left with nothing—not even her self-esteem. There was no way in hell she was going to do that again.
But the blog wasn’t everything, she admitted. It was just a little piece of who she was. Would giving it up be such a terrible thing?
She reached for her coffee cup and took a long sip as she stared at the computer with blind eyes. Where would it end? If she gave up the blog, what would she feel the need to change next? How she dressed? How she talked? Who she hung out with?
No. She shook her head. Better to keep all the pieces of herself intact and see if Byron could deal. If he couldn’t, well, then, he knew where the door was, and he was more than welcome to use it.
Satisfied, she went back to answering questions. And did her best to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Byron woke up slowly, aware that for the first time in the long, sex-filled night, Lacey was not beside him in bed. He’d planned on letting her sleep, but she’d had other ideas and he’d lost track of how many times she’d woken him up to make love.
She’d obviously had her fill, however. They’d both fallen into a stuporlike sleep sometime around dawn, and now late-morning sunlight streamed through the window. It had been at least six hours since she’d reached for him.