Slave to Love

Slave to Love Nikita Black Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language. This material is meant for mature audiences!

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Slave to Love A Whispers Publishing Publication April 2008 Copyright ©2008 Nikita Black Cover illustration copyright © 2008 Rene Walden ISBN Not Assigned All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. Published by: Whispers Publishing, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

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What Reviewers are Saying “Black delivers a combustible blend of thrills, chills and a twist or two, which keeps the mood edgy and off-balance. A series of vicious murders sets off the explosive, volatile relationship between the lovers, which is quite explicit and sexually adventurous. You'll need a fan to cool the heat and a heater to warm the shivers, because once you start reading this book, it'll be hard to stop. “ ~ 4 ½ Stars Sandra Garcia-Myers for Romantic Times "Slave to Love is a no-holds barred, sexual masterpiece penned by the extremely talented, Nikita Black. Detective Michael “Mick” McGraw and Special Investigations Officer, Caroline Palmer, tear up and heat up the pages of this latest hot erotic story that leaves little to the imagination – the chemistry and sexuality between Caroline and Mick is off the heat meter!!... Slave to Love is breathtaking, seductive and a pure pleasure to read. The build up and tension throughout ever page is fulfilling and satisfying in its conclusion. Nikita Black should be labeled the Queen of Steam." ~5 stars—Tracey West for The Road to Romance "The gifted Nikita Black is incomparable when it comes to writing compelling stories which have a lasting impact on the reader. Full of emotional intensity, Ms. Black also intertwines her powerful romances with arousing thoughts and actions to titillate throughout the story." ~5 stars — Amelia Richard for CataRomance

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Chapter One The Iceman cometh. Special Investigations Section Officer Caroline Palmer rested her back against her partner's chest and contemplated Homicide Detective Michael 'Mick' McGraw as he strode through the SIS—better known as the vice squad—door. Okay, cometh was the wrong word to use. Arriveth would be more in keeping with the glacial Detective McGraw, who probably hadn't come in years. Caroline lowered the pimp's case file her partner, Julio, was reading over her shoulder and tapped his linenclad thigh. When she saw McGraw turn and head straight toward them, she dropped the file. Damn. Why was it every time she ran into the frustratingly cool detective, she was dressed like a hooker? She stooped to retrieve the scattered contents of the case file from the floor. She'd just come off working a night of decoy out on Colorado, and was dressed in her favorite pro outfit—bright red mini-skirt and a glittery offthe-shoulder sweater—guaranteed to attract any man's attention. But not the Iceman. McGraw was unmovable. Unfortunately, the five minutes of flirting she’d done with him before being informed of his “untouchable” status probably had him convinced she threw herself at anything in pants. Which of course couldn’t be further from the truth. Since coming across the street from Traffic a year ago, she’d been as unobtainable as he was. She just didn’t make a religion of it like the Iceman. Not that she cared about his interest or lack thereof. She’d simply like to make a good impression on the department legend, on the off chance she got her fondest wish—a transfer to Homicide. Playing with fire was not her thing.

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Ignoring the expensive spit-polished shoes which came to a halt directly in front of her, she gathered up the papers from the floor, tugging down on the hem of her skirt, vainly attempting to cover as much black-stockingclad thigh as she could manage. The outfit was naturally designed to make any red-blooded man break out in a sweat, even at eight a.m.. Good thing McGraw's veins were filled with ice. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. She could hear the guys at their desks softly snicker, but she knew it wasn't her they were laughing at. Although the whole department admired Mick McGraw’s near mythical skill and tenacity on the job, everyone thought he should lighten up. He had nothing to prove to anyone...even if his father was a murderer. McGraw braced his feet apart, one shoe coming to rest on the edge of the last paper from her file. What the hell...? She lifted her gaze, up past long, muscular legs encased in well-fitting navy slacks, up past lean masculine hips and waist. Past the absurdly broad chest which stretched a white button-down shirt to maximum capacity. And up past the choke-knotted red-striped tie and strong, shadowed jaw. All the way up to McGraw's sharp, icy-blue eyes. God, he turned her on. Shit. No. He didn’t, she told herself firmly. “Detective?” she said, clearing her throat. And noticed that her scoop-necked sweater was gaping open, giving him a taste of what he'd be missing if she were that kind of girl. But she wasn’t, so she slammed it to her chest with one hand. “You seem to be on my case,” she snapped. His cool eyes assessed her, and for a second she thought he might make a retort. Instead, he wordlessly moved his foot just enough for her to retrieve the paper, which she did and then rose. Four-inch platform heels on top of her own five-foot-eight height let her look down at most men. It instantly irritated her that she had to crane

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her neck just to meet this one's gaze. “You're wanted in my office,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “Subtle approach, McGraw. Does it usually work?” His chiseled lips thinned. “Every time. Let's go.” She hiked her brow at his impassive tone. Lord, he was serious. “Sorry, I'm busy. We’ve been out all night and I have a pile of paperwork to finish before my shift ends.” Her partner Julio's hand came around her waist from behind and pulled her back to rest between his thighs as he sat on the desk they shared. “What's this all about, Detective?” McGraw's glance flicked to Julio's proprietary hold on her, but his expression remained shuttered. “Taking your role to an extreme, aren't you, Sergeant Martinez?” Julio played pimp on their john busts while Caro trolled sidewalks. But her partner tended to look the part even when they weren't on the job. “Just watching out for my girl,” he answered with a good-natured smile, his other arm coming around her waist, too. It was all part of their arrangement. Kept the goons off her, and suspicion diverted from him. McGraw wasn't impressed. He looked down at her and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, everyone's waiting.” Caro crossed her arms under her breasts. “Everyone who?” He might be the reigning god of Homicide, but she really did have a ton of work to do before going home. And her chances of working for McGraw anytime in the near future were somewhere between slim and none. “Look, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on.” “Chief Trujillo will explain when we get there,” McGraw said, stepped back and looked at her with an iron-willed expectancy. The good detective was obviously not used to anyone balking at his orders. Of course, the minute he'd mentioned the Chief, she knew he’d won this little battle. “At least let me change out of these clothes,” she

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said, frowning at her attire. Hooker gear was not her first choice for an interview with the chief of police. “Don't worry about it.” McGraw turned on a heel and headed toward the door. “No one will even notice.” She gritted her teeth and whipped a quelling glare at Julio, who chuckled behind her. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Now, now, querida. The man may be blind, but he's in Homicide. Do you realize what this means?” “I'm a murder suspect?” Julio winked, and whispered, “All your favorite fantasies may come true in one fell swoop.” She gave a derisive snort. “Shut up, Julio.” Would she never live down that tiny crush she’d had on McGraw after seeing him for the first time? She rued the day she’d confessed it to her partner. But he’d gotten her wondering just what the hell was going on. It had been her goal to work in Homicide ever since joining the force. She'd started out across the street in Traffic—of course, she was a woman, wasn't she? When she'd put in for a transfer a year ago, the male powersthat-be agreed she had the brains for it, but decided she'd be more useful in Special Investigations—the vice squad. Something to do with her legs in a short skirt, no doubt. Up until now she'd been pretty much stuck on the antiprostitution team. She was good at it, and she’d actually learned a thing or two in the way of street-smarts. And to be honest, she'd just as soon not get involved with drugs or gangs anyway. But if she had her preference she'd take a nice, clean murder any day of the week. Unfortunately, until this point Homicide was as big a fantasy as seeing Mick McGraw naked. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she made a face at Julio and hurried after McGraw, who paused at the door and waited for her to go through. She smiled at the old school gesture, and geared up for the rest of the hike to the second floor. She tried not to swing her hips, but she knew he was watching her backside. She could feel his eyes on her body

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all the way to the elevator. Well, who could blame him? She looked good. Yeah, it had taken her years to come to that realization—twenty-nine to be exact—but during her five years in L.A. her confidence had peaked. Before coming to California she’d felt insecure and awkward in her own skin and with every wayward thought or impulse. Her daddy had seen to that. With her and Mama, it was his way or the highway. Finally choosing the highway had been the best decision of Caro’s life. Mama’d never had the guts. But since moving away from home, Caro had come into her own as a person...and as a woman. Sure, her hips were too wide and her top too small, but she'd learned that didn't matter. It was attitude that made a woman sexy. Daddy hadn’t liked attitude. But she wasn’t in Daddy’s power any longer. She’d found her own. Along the way, she’d found out something else about power. Something important. As strange as it seemed, dressing as a hooker, and therefore putting her sexuality out there for all to see, it had allowed her to become just one of the guys, and be more professional in the job. She’d seen how far baggy uniforms and androgynous haircuts had gotten most women in the department. The way Caro figured, the male officers were so busy trying to imagine what was under the sexless attire they never forgot the wearers were women. With Caro, there was never any doubt. Therefore most of the men got past it in a hurry. Those who didn’t were quickly set straight. Well, except for the Iceman, of course. He pointedly ignored her femininity, as he did with all females. They got to the elevator and sized each other up as they rode up one floor. Normally she'd have taken the stairs, but evidently McGraw didn't trust himself not to look up her skirt. She gave him a smile but remained as silent as he. When they got off she stopped to get a drink from the water fountain by the restrooms, to rinse the streets from her suddenly dry mouth. “I've always wondered why hookers wear panty hose,” he remarked, leaning a hip against the wall as he clinically observed her bending over the fountain. “Seems like

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they'd just get in the way.” “I suppose that depends on what services they're offering,” she said between sips. “Ah.” There was a slight pause and she could practically hear his mind assessing her leg-wear. “I see you're wearing them.” “You sure about that?” Turning, she licked droplets of water from her lips and gauged the effect she was having on him. Nada. Not even a crack in the façade. “Yeah. And any john would, too.” “I don't actually screw the johns, Mick. I just arrest them.” She might have thought the Iceman didn't like women, except, on rare occasions in the past she'd caught him with his precious guard down. She'd be parking her car in the lot, or pouring herself a cup of coffee in the lunch room, and he'd be there in the shadows, watching her with a hooded expression that sent shivers down her spine. Something hot and feral and very male lurked deep in that man. Something that liked women. “That may be true,” he said. “But in Homicide, there's more to it than just making the arrest.” And then, there was that persistent rumor about a woman a long time ago, when he was still on patrol in the LAPD. He'd beaten up her husband—a lieutenant on the force—for some undisclosed reason, and almost ruined his career. A new start in Pasadena was the only thing that had saved him as a cop. “Remember,” he continued, “the three things that make a good detective are detachment, determination and details. If you're working with me you better get the details right or I'll have you back in SIS so fast your head will spin.” He pushed off the wall and strode down the corridor toward his office. Her mind snapped to attention. “What? What did you say?” She hurried after him, shifting gears, hardly believing what she'd heard. “McGraw!” But it was too late. They were at his office door and

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he was already opening it. Technically, it was Lieutenant Fredrickson's office, but as lead detective, Mick shared it. He ushered her in and closed the glass door behind them. Inside, she found Chief Trujillo, Lt. Fredrickson, Bobby Staunton, and another man she didn't know. “Hey, Chief.” She greeted Trujillo with a smile. She liked the Pasadena Police Department's gray-haired commanding officer. He was the epitome of professionalism and fairness. She hadn't had any dealings with Lt. Fredrickson, but his rep was sterling. She smiled at him, too. “Come in, Officer Palmer. Have a seat.” Trujillo waved at a wooden visitor's chair. She glanced around. The small office fairly reeked of testosterone, all of which was standing with their hands in their pockets or lounging on desk corners. If there was one thing she'd learned in her year with the Big Boys, it was always look 'em in the eye. “No thanks, Chief, I'll stand.” “You know the Lieutenant, and Mick of course, and his partner, Detective Staunton.” She nodded to Bobby, who nodded back with a neutral expression, but in his eyes she swore she could see a streak of amusement. Chief Trujillo indicated the third man she didn't know. “And this is Detective Jeff Cody from LAPD.” Then he motioned to a row of four crime scene photos lined up along the edge of Mick's desk. “You recognize these?” She walked over and took a look. Two females, stripped down to their lingerie, strangled, and laid out on their beds. Sightlessly looking on from the foot of the beds were two males, tied to chairs, their stomachs gutted. Suddenly, her midnight lunch decided it wanted to do an encore. She swallowed hard. She'd seen crime photos before of course, but the two shots of the men were really nasty. “The Teddie Murders,” she managed to get past the bile. Two Pasadena couples had been found murdered

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during the past month, obviously victims of the same twisted killer. The press had been quick to pick up on the most titillating link—the women's attire. Trujillo nodded. “How'd you like to join the task force?” She yanked back her shock and said, “Sure,” as casually as she could. She wished she'd taken that seat he'd offered. This was too good to be true—working on the biggest case to hit the area since the Hillside Strangler. She kept her excitement at bay and inquired professionally, “What would I be doing?” Trujillo cleared his throat. “As you know, Detectives McGraw and Staunton are in charge of the investigation. In the past couple of days it's taken a somewhat...bizarre turn.” She eyed Bobby Staunton narrowly. He was sitting on the back corner of the desk casually studying her legs. Caught, he jerked his gaze up, then over her shoulder to McGraw. “Actually, more like kinky,” Bobby said. “Kinky,” she repeated, frowning. “Like how?” “Nothing we say leaves this room.” McGraw's rumbling voice came from behind her, where he'd propped himself against the wall by the door, arms folded across his chest. “Is that understood?” She bit back her knee-jerk reaction to being treated like an idiot in front of the Chief. Wouldn't do to alienate McGraw before she'd even found out what they wanted her for. “Yes, sir, perfectly.” “This guy's good,” Chief Trujillo said into the momentary silence. “No indication of forced entry. Hasn't left a single piece of traceable evidence at either crime scene. No weapon, no hair, no semen. Nothing except fibers from some absorbent material, a tiny residue of leather—probably from gloves—and the ligature marks. We haven’t had any leads on the killer, and as you probably know, other than the obvious we'd been unable to find a linkage between the couples, either.”

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Hard to avoid knowing, since it had been plastered all over the papers for the two weeks since the second murders. She nodded. “Until now, that is,” he went on. “A few days ago, Mick’s team uncovered an interesting lead, but he'll need some help running it down. That's where you come in.” She caught her jaw a nanosecond before it dropped to the floor. She'd expected to land in the smoke-filled conference room with the other grunts, making the endless phone calls necessary to eliminate the thousands of dead ends generated by a special hotline they'd set up. Not tracking down important leads with the primary investigator. She tried not to look too incredulous. “How?” The quartet of men exchanged a brief look. An uneasy feeling suddenly tickled the hair at her nape. Trujillo swiped a hand across his mouth. “Here's the deal. We have very good reason to believe both victim couples, the Atkins and the Connors, were into the leather scene. Aside from the leather glove residue, the forensics field unit—FIS—logged a few implements consistent with the BDSM lifestyle which were hidden in closets at both homes, and under the Connors' bed they found a leash and collar.” He looked up. “The Connors didn't have a dog.” BDSM? Bondage and domination? She blinked. Ho-boy. “I see.” “The task force has traced both couples through credit cards to a leather fetish club in West L.A. called Brimstone. It took a few days to track because the club masked the charges by using other company names. But the dates are all wrong for the murders, and LAPD—” he tipped his head at Detective Cody “—has hit a brick wall at the club. Everyone's clamming up. No one admits to seeing the victims or anything unusual, and we're getting nowhere fast.” This time her jaw did hit the floor. She stared at the chief, dumbfounded. “Leather fetish club? You mean, like—”

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He steepled his fingers over the desk. “Yeah. Whips and chains. That sort of thing. We want you and Mick to go in undercover. See what you can find out from the inside.” He had to be kidding. Her pulse kicked up. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go to this place with...Detective McGraw? Undercover?” She was totally knocked off balance for a second. “You mean, as in...dressed like that?” “That's right,” Bobby said with a grin. “Just another couple from the 'burbs downtown for a night of fun, frolic and S&M bondage.” “It shouldn't be too difficult for you, considering your talent for...costume,” McGraw commented dryly, eying her red mini-skirt and spangled top. She spun to face him, quickly regaining her composure. Oh, she knew costume, all right. She hadn't spent the past year on the streets for nothing. It was what lurked behind those costumes she didn't know too much about, given her self-imposed restraint concerning relationships. “And exactly what kind of costume did you have in mind, Detective?” McGraw met her gaze levelly. “The leash and collar indicate they were into a Master-slave scene, which fits with the profile of the killer we've put together. Our guy will be looking for couples who practice that lifestyle.” She should have reacted to the fact that he meant to use her as bait for a homicidal maniac. But her mind had snagged way back at the first sentence. “Master-slave?” “Yeah.” He pushed off the wall. “And in case there's any doubt, I'm the Master and you're the slave. If I take you on, I want it crystal clear who's giving the orders.” Of all the arrogant... As if she had to be reminded. “I take it this wasn't your idea.” “As a matter of fact, it was.” He took a step toward her. “But that doesn't mean I want some damned female rookie screwing up my investigation. Your job is to smile demurely and keep your ears open. You don't talk, you

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don't move, you don't even breathe without my say-so. Got it, Officer Palmer?” “Yeah, I got it.” What she got was a severe desire to smack him and his condescending demeanor back to the Stone Age. He might have the body of a god, but as a working partner he obviously left a lot to be desired. At least for her. She hadn’t escaped the emotional abuse of one rude and overbearing man just to trade him in for another. Lt. Bridger, her boss at SIS, was nothing like this. On the other hand, Lt. Bridger wasn’t the lead detective for Homicide, where she desperately wanted to be. She took a deep, cleansing breath. Turning down this opportunity would kill her. Somehow she had to find a way to work with this Neanderthal, without decking the man, and with him her career. Hell, she’d lived through her father. She’d live through McGraw, too. She looked him in the eye. “Why me?” Surprise flashed across his face before he quickly masked it. He stepped in front of her. “What's the matter? You don’t want the assignment? I’d heard you’d do anything to get into Homicide.” She froze at his tone when he said “anything,” her face suddenly heating. No. He couldn’t possibly have meant that the way it had sounded. Not spoken so blatantly in front of his lieutenant, his partner and the Chief, for godsakes. “I want nothing more than to work in Homicide, sir. But is it out of line to wonder about your motivation in choosing me?” “Why? You have a problem with leather?” “No. I have a problem being treated like an idiot, McGraw. I'm sure there must be a dozen female candidates willing to be your slave. Why me?” He stepped closer and got right in her face, speaking in a low voice, for her ears only. “I want you for my pleasure slave, Caroline. Nobody else. I don’t need any other reason.”

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Stunned, she stared up into his simmering gaze. He stared back with a look that covered her entire body in goosebumps. For a breathtaking instant she wondered again if he could be talking about something other than undercover work. “I...” The look of raw demand in his eyes, real or imagined, threw her as nothing else could have. There was a dark hunger lurking deep in them—a darkness she responded to on a purely primal level. A hunger she wanted nothing more than to arouse and incite, drive into the open so it would be forced to acknowledge its lust for her. If only she dared... “I—” The passion in Mick's eyes suddenly vanished and he dropped her wrist. “But if you don't think you can hack it, we'll find someone else.” It was like being dashed with water. Ice water. Get real, Caro. This was the Iceman—cold and remote, anything but passionate, even about the job he was so good at. “This has to be your decision, Officer Palmer,” the Chief said. “We'll be working with Detective Cody here, and LAPD, to have people watching you at all times. But I won't lie. It's a dangerous assignment.” She stuck her unsteady hands under her armpits. “That doesn't worry me.” The last thing she was concerned about was her physical safety. The shrill of the phone on Mick's desk made her jump. He answered with a curt hello, and listened grimly. His eyes met Bobby's across the room and some silent communication in them made his partner come to attention. “Okay. We'll be right there.” McGraw's steely gaze drew a bead on her and she shivered involuntarily. “Make up your mind, rookie,” he growled. “This is the last time you'll get the offer.” She drove her fingers through her hair, warring with herself. She so badly wanted the chance to prove she could cut it in Homicide. But it would mean working with

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a man who was already making her crazy. Between wanting to seduce him and wanting to kill him, she was afraid of what might happen. But she was more afraid she’d never get the chance again. Swallowing the knot of irrational fear lodged in her throat, she gathered her courage and prayed she wasn't making the biggest mistake of her career. “All right, Detective. I'll do it.” With the sinking, fatalistic certainty that her life would never be the same again, she heard him say, “Good. Get your gear together and come with us. They just found another couple of bodies.”

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Chapter Two “More Teddies?” the Lieutenant asked sharply as Mick reached for his jacket. “Looks like it,” Mick said. “He’s escalating,” Bobby said worriedly. “It’s only been two weeks since the last one.” “Yep,” Mick said. Now the insanity would start in earnest. One crime like this was terrible. Two crimes made people nervous. Three crimes caused an outright panic. “Report in as soon as you've got the preliminary,” Trujillo said, moving to the door. “Don't worry about anything you have going at SIS,” he told Caroline. “I'll let Julio know you've been reassigned.” “Thanks, Chief,” she said distractedly. Caroline looked as pale as if she'd seen her first corpse. Hell, this would probably be her first corpse. Mick frowned when he noticed sweat beading on her lip. “You sure you're up to this, Palmer?” She glanced his way, and abruptly her spine straightened and her expression calmed. Swiping at her lip with a finger, she said, “No problem.” He doubted it. “Look, you don't have to—” “I said I'd be okay,” she snapped, then regrouped and pushed out a slow breath. “If I'm going to be a part of this, it's best I see exactly what we're up against.” Bobby gathered the files from the desk. “She's right, you know.” “Yeah, okay,” Mick conceded, then looked her over critically. “You got a badge hidden there somewhere? You'll need it.”

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From the back pocket of her miniskirt she produced her badge hanging from a thin neck chain and held it up. “Never leave home without it.” He headed out. “We can bring you up to speed on the ride over. We’ll take my car.” Bobby let out a snort. “Now, there's a shock. Hope you don't like driving,” he remarked as Caroline preceded him into the elevator. “'Cause if you're working with him, you're shit out of luck.” They had this same discussion every time they went out on a call. “I happen to like the car I was assigned. As opposed to that pile of crap you insist on driving. It's a downright embarrassment.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I could drive a Lamborghini and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. You just don't like not being in control, even for a five minute drive.” Bobby was right, of course. But Mick wasn't about to admit that. If you let control slip away, there was no telling what would happen. And it was always bad. He led the way into the parking garage and unlocked the white, almost new Camaro Z28 convertible which had been seized from a drug dealer last year, then stepped back to consider who would climb into the back seat. Bobby was way ahead of him. “Ladies first,” he said with a gallant sweep of his arm toward the open passenger door. Caroline made a face. “In your dreams, hombre.” Seemed Mick was the only one lucky enough to get a floor show today. Shaking off the memory of her lithe body bending over at his feet, he ducked into the driver's side to get the portable cherry light before a smile could crack through. Everyone in the department knew Officer Palmer’d had a crush on him when she came over from Traffic. Until he’d set her straight, of course. Still, it was enough to inflate a man's ego. They’d all tried to attract her attention. He was the only one who’d succeeded. Not that he’d tried. He stuck the cherry onto the dashboard of the car and slid into his seat. It wasn’t his thing. He had a strict

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hands-off policy with women on the job. To her credit, Caro had ceased her flirtation almost immediately, as soon as she'd introduced herself in the lunch room and he'd treated her to the I'm-Not-Interested stare. But he’d also noticed he wasn’t the only one who didn’t pick his friends and lovers from among fellow-cops. Like he didn't get enough of them on the job that he had to take them home with him, too. No thanks. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt from hell. But he wondered why she didn’t. She was, after all, the darling of SIS. She could have her pick. Those men who weren't won over by her sultry blond just-out-ofsome-guy's-bed looks, were sure to be impressed with her ability as an officer. She was good. Damned good. Which was the only reason he'd picked her for this assignment. When he'd first suggested recruiting Caroline for this undercover gig, the choice had been just logical enough that he'd escaped raised eyebrows. The chief would have immediately suspected any other man in the department of having ulterior motives. Christ, the woman was liquid sex. But not him. Mick pulled out of the garage and made a right onto Colorado, forcing himself to pay attention to the narrative Bobby'd started about the case. “Two married couples,” his partner was saying, “the Atkins and the Connors. The Atkins were killed four weeks ago in their single family home in north Pasadena. Middle class neighborhood. Ages thirty-two and thirty-three, no kids. He was a stock broker, she was a lawyer.” Mick flipped on the cherry light and siren and took a sharp left across traffic onto El Molino, then interjected, “We checked out the disgruntled investor angle and also went through her client list looking for an ex-con with a grudge, but didn't find anything particularly suspicious.” Caroline glanced over at him, brow raised. “What?” “You weren't expecting to, were you?” she asked

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matter-of-factly. Smart girl. “No. But I'm surprised to hear a rookie from SIS say so.” Her chin went up. “It may come as a shock to you, Detective, but I went through the Academy. I've even read Robert Ressler.” It wasn't any more than he'd expected, given her reputation for diligence and her aspirations for Homicide. The crime was much too ritualistic and specific to be an improvised grudge killing. Kindergarten stuff. He drawled, “I'm delighted to hear that. I assume that means you can write, too. From now on, you're in charge of typing up our reports.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her jaw clench, but damn, if she didn't muster a tight, “Yes, sir.” And damn, if he didn't like how those words sounded in her mouth. “Mick will do,” he stated coolly, hating that he liked it so much. Reactions like that could get a man seriously off track. “Or you can start calling me Master.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he prompted Bobby to continue. In the rear-view mirror his partner flashed a grin that said he had no idea who was winning but he was sure enjoying the contest, then picked up his narrative. “Two weeks ago the Connors turned up dead in their small bungalow just south of New York Ave, and we knew we were dealing with the same guy. Same signature, same exact posing of the victims. Ages twenty-eight and thirtyfive, again no kids. She was an elementary school teacher, he was an engineer over at Jet Propulsion Lab.” Caroline leaned over to examine the photos and Bobby's eyes strayed to the low neckline of her sweater. But she was studying the pictures with only homicide on her mind. It wasn't her fault she even managed to make looking at crime scene photos a sexual experience. “Where's the blood?” she asked. He speared Bobby with a glare and the other man sat back in his seat, stacked his hands behind his neck and

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gave him another wise-ass grin before turning back to Caroline. “What do you mean? There's plenty of blood.” Mick wasn’t interested in her for himself. He just wanted everybody to keep their minds on the case. Personal relationships on the job caused nothing but trouble. Big-time trouble. For him, this case was do or die; nothing and nobody was going to get in the way of taking it to its conclusion. Sexy Caroline Palmer included. She was a means to an end. Period. Looking up at him, she said, “The male victims were stabbed in the back, but the blood's mostly in front.” Damn, she had a good eye. He was impressed. “The Coroner thinks the men were stabbed right after ejaculation, presumably on the bed,” he answered. “Then, judging by the marks in the carpets, they were dragged to the chair where he gutted them with a second knife.” “Same kind?” “Nope. One’s a cooking knife, the other’s for hunting.” “That’s unusual. Did he bring them with him?” “Yep. Took them away with him, too.” “Huh.” She sifted through the photos for a few moments. “No blood on the bed.” “Correct. There were traces of plastic and absorbent material found in the back wounds.” “Absorbent? Like diapers?” “Exactly. We think he soaked up the blood as soon as he stabbed them in the back. Maybe even stabbed them through it to prevent spatter.” “A neat freak?” “Definitely. He washed any blood off the woman and changed the bed sheets afterwards, too. Forensics is checking all that, including the detergent residue for a match to the house linens. We’re hoping he brought his own.” “If he did, what did he do with the blood-soaked ones?” “Must have taken them with him.”

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“So hopefully we’ll find them at his place when we catch him.” He snorted softly. “Hope springs eternal.” “So he’s let into the house by the victims, with at least two knives, leather gloves, ligatures, a pack of diapers and possibly a change of sheets. Sheesh. Think he brought the teddies, too?” “Presumably. We have a team on trying to find the source.” There was a pause as she digested all that, then Bobby went on. “Forensics reports are in the files. Basically, what they say is we got squat from the crime scenes in terms of traceable, usable evidence. But of course, our bad guy left a dandy pile of stuff for the profiler.” “Special Agent Tim Woodruff of the FBI has been working with us on that,” Mick said. “He'll be in for a briefing tomorrow.” He caught her eye. “You'll want to read the profile extra carefully. This is the killer who'll be looking us over at the Brimstone fetish club. To nab him we need to know him as well as we know each other.” “Well, that won't be tough,” she muttered as he pulled in behind a jumble of police cruisers, a pair of ambulances, the department's mobile Field Identification Specialist Unit’s forensics van and a fire truck. She looked around in surprise, glancing up and down the street. “Oh!” “What's wrong?” “This is just a couple blocks from where I live.” “Then it looks like I've picked the right person to work with,” he remarked casually, “killers being creatures of habit, and all.” She looked spooked for a second, but then snapped out of it. In spite of himself, again Mick was impressed. He'd been rough on her today. More than rough. Not because he wanted to be a prick or treat her like an idiot, as she’d accused. But because he’d had to know if she could take the heat. Where they were headed it was going to get a hell of a lot hotter. She'd come through with colors flying high. If he'd thought any differently he

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wouldn't have chosen her to fulfill the most crucial role in his plan, other than his own. The Teddie Killer was on the verge of causing mass hysteria in the usually quiet suburban neighborhood where he struck. And those murders ate at Mick's insides like no one would ever know. Yeah, this one was personal. Down to the blood and bones personal. He thought about the woman he'd hand-picked to help him bring down the fucker. She'd shocked him back in his office when she'd questioned his motives for choosing her. Everyone knew how much Caroline Palmer wanted to be in Homicide. It took a hell of a strong person to look a situation in the eye and know when to question it. That was the moment he'd decided he wanted her, and nobody else would do. He wanted that strength for himself. For his team, he mentally corrected. But right now he wasn't sure whether he should be elated by Caroline's agreement to help him, or to run like hell for cover. Every time he looked at her he lost his concentration. Not that she was beautiful in the classic sense. Sure, her hair was great, she had a pleasant face and a curvy, feminine body he wouldn't kick out of bed—but he'd seen better. And yet... And yet, the woman’s half-lidded looks and sensual moves could make a man’s temperature rise in an Arctic snowstorm. Something about those big eyes, the color of a Caribbean sky at twilight. And those hooker outfits sure didn't help. Yeah, he was having second thoughts, all right. Major ones. Being this close to her all day every day could prove to be a real distraction, and to get through this ordeal he’d need every ounce of his concentration. He might not be interested in her beyond her involvement in this case, but hell, he was only a man. He just hoped they wouldn't run into any Arctic snowstorms any time soon. He opened the trunk of his car and grabbed the black

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sports bag holding the murder kit and tossed it to Caroline. “You're in charge of this. And memorize the contents while you're at it.” Lifting the crime scene tape, he ushered her through, fielding a few blatant stares from the group of cops milling on the front lawn. He introduced her to Denzell Brown, who was in charge of access to the house. “This is Officer Palmer, Denny. She's with me.” “His new assistant,” she clarified. She gave Brown a look that dared him to comment on either that or her scanty attire. “Coroner here yet?” Mick asked as they signed in. “Right after FIS. Just waiting for you to give the goahead before transporting the bodies,” Denny said, still grinning at Caroline like a fool in love. He pointed with his clipboard. “Upstairs on the left.” In the living room the usual carefully organized chaos reigned, and Mick felt the powerful kick of adrenalin he always got before descending into the hell of blood and stench of murder—but especially this time. The team from FIS and their equipment jostled for space in the cramped staging area, the three of them calling instructions to each other. The distraught neighbor who'd discovered the bodies was parked across the hall at the dining room table, being fussed over by a female uniform and a paramedic. Bobby jerked his head in the direction of the sobbing witness and veered off to the dining room to get in a few questions before the medic could pump her full of tranqs. “Stay close and don't touch a thing,” Mick admonished Caroline. He knew there wouldn’t be any more evidence here than at the last scene, but he wanted to train her well. He’d need her alert to every detail and discrepancy on this case. “I will,” she murmured, not even reacting to his preemptive order. Progress. He unzipped the black bag she still held and pulled out two PPD baseball caps, tugging one onto his own head and the other onto hers, then grabbed a couple pairs of paper

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booties. “Here,” he ordered, thrusting hers toward her. “Put these over your shoes.” She was doing her best to look unaffected and professional as she booted up. The only thing giving away her nervousness was the way her eyes darted around, never settling on any one thing. He rooted in the bag for a small vial of mentholated gel. “Hold still.” He dolloped a generous fingerful and held onto her chin, spreading it above the delicate bow of her lips. They parted a fraction and she stared at him from behind a lock of stray hair stuck in the brim of her baseball cap, but didn't say a word. With any luck the gel would at least keep her conscious. “You'll do fine,” he assured her, wishing he was that certain, then handed her a pair of latex gloves before he could do something really stupid like brush that stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Detective-In-Charge,” he said, flashing his badge to the uniform posted at the top of the stairs, where they were directed to the back bedroom on the left. Pausing at the door, he donned his gloves, pulled out his mini tape recorder, pushed the record button and stepped carefully into the room. Déjà vu swept over him. Behind him, he heard Caroline's short gasp. He made a quick survey, left to right, knowing even before he looked what he would see. They were definitely dealing with the same killer. “Who was the first on the scene?” he called over his shoulder and past the forensics guys awaiting his release of the room back to FIS. “I was, Detective.” An officer stepped out from behind them. “Come on up here.” Recognizing the seasoned patrolman, Mick knew Brady Washington would have scrupulously maintained the integrity of the scene until FIS got there. “Talk to me, Brady.” “Got the call at eight-twenty,” Washington said, consulting his notes. “Victims are Glenn Berg and Wendy Tailor. The neighbor, Mrs, uh, Connie Slocum, was coming for her usual Monday breakfast date with Tailor, and when

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Tailor didn't answer she let herself in using a key they keep under a flower pot by the door.” “You check that?” “Yep. Still there.” He snapped his notebook shut. “She found the bodies?” Brady nodded. “Tailor had her exercise bike up in the spare bedroom and sometimes lost track of time. Neighbor went up to check on her. Found them both dead and called 9-1-1. Officer Brown and I arrived at eight-twentynine—” Mick pursed his lips in approval of their speed “— and searched the premises. Doors and windows locked. No sign of forced entry.” “Neighbor touch anything?” “No, sir. Not that she remembered. Ran down to the kitchen to use the phone. That's where Denny and me found her.” “Okay, thanks. Send a copy of your notes to my office, will you, Brady?” “Sure thing, Detective.” Beside him, Caroline's gaze had fastened on the victims, and she was looking rather peaked. But then, he'd expected that. She wouldn't be human, otherwise. He turned his attention to the bodies. “Male and female victim,” he droned into the recorder. Both FIS and the Coroner would have already done this, but Mick habitually recorded his own impressions and then compared all three sets. Everyone saw things differently. And there was something bothering him. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. The Teddie Killer was careful, and at this point predictable. But there was still something... Never mind. It would come to him. “Approximately mid-thirties,” Mick continued. He looked carefully at the floor before venturing closer to the bed and the chair sitting at the foot of it. “One set of heel scrape marks on the carpet. No other visible foot prints. No overt signs of struggle from either victim,” he recited. “No visible implements or weapons. Male's clothes are neatly folded over the footboard.

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“Female lying on her back on the bed with hands laced over her stomach, legs together. Ligature marks and some bruising on the wrists and ankles but no sign of the restraints. Eyes closed, some petechial hemorrhaging around them. Narrow red ligature mark across her throat. Light bruises on hips rounding to the buttocks. Wearing a white Teddie and nothing else—” He bent low, checking under the body. “Probably put on her post-mortem. White bedcovers clean and smooth. No blood on female victim or bed. Appears to be a similar pose to previous female victims.” He glanced back at Caroline. She was still staring at the remains of Wendy Tailor, biting furiously at her bottom lip. He figured once he started in on the man he had three minutes tops before she lost it. Sucking down a breath, he walked back to the chair, forcing himself to confront the very darkest deed in the sick arsenal of man. “Male victim, nude, seated in a chair at the foot of the bed, to the right and facing it. No visible bruising, no restraints. The chair was probably brought up from the dining room,” he stated, recognizing the open ladder-back style. “Stabbed once in the back, on the left side looking from behind.” Right in the heart. He paused and made a quick check of how Caroline was doing. Her face had turned five shades of green looking at the dead man, but she was valiantly struggling against her natural reaction. She'd dropped the black murder kit and folded her arms tightly over her chest, and was now busy biting her thumbnail to the quick. Forty-five seconds, max. He carefully stepped around the front of the chair. “Stomach slit medially, sternum to lower abdomen.” He slowly eased out a breath over the top of the tape recorder. “Lots of blood, lots of guts pouring out onto his lap.” Not terribly scientific, but it would do. From the doorway he heard a low female curse, followed by a choking sound. Damn. Caroline spun from the bloody carnage and stumbled in her ridiculous heels toward the stairs, clutching onto

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the banister as she tripped down them. “All right, guys, it's your show.” Mick scooped up the black bag and followed in her wake. “I'll be back up in a bit.” He vaulted to the bottom of the staircase, grabbed her arm and steered her toward the back of the house. With her hand pressed tightly to her mouth, she struggled mutely against both him and the nausea that must be threatening to explode. He shoved her into a small powder room off the hall and kicked the door closed behind them. She doubled over the pedestal sink, but on the way downstairs he had managed to whip out a plastic trash bag from the kit and he now held it up for her as she hurled. “That's right, let it all out,” he murmured softly as she puked her guts out. “Just hang onto my arms. Try not to touch anything else.” He stood right up against her back, bracing her between his elbows and legs, holding the trash bag to her face. She clung tightly to his forearms purging herself of the sight upstairs. Unfortunately, he knew it would stick with her for the rest of her life. The first one always did, and this one was particularly brutal. He was amazed she'd held out as long as she had. No doubt, she'd do well in Homicide. Gradually, the heaves slowed, and finally stopped altogether. She made to pull away, but he clamped his arms tighter around her so she couldn't move. She'd be a puddle on the floor if he let her go now. “Relax. Lean against me for a minute. Until you get your legs back,” he said quietly. When he was certain she'd obey, he carefully set down the trash bag in the sink and, one-handed, fished a container of wet wipes out of the kit. “Here. These'll help.” He yanked one out for himself and wiped off a layer of sweat from his forehead. “Sorry,” she said in a shaky voice. “Oh, God, what a wuss.” “Don't beat yourself up. At least you didn't do it all

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over the crime scene. The techs hate that.” She made a feeble attempt at a chuckle. He figured he was on a roll. “Look, everybody pukes over their first dead body. Kind of a rite of passage.” He took off his gloves. “Did you?” she asked, resting her head back against his shoulder as she peeled off hers. He tossed them and the used wipes into the kitchen bag, then answered truthfully, “No.” But then, dead bodies had been small potatoes for him by that time. It was the ones that were still alive that made his stomach turn. She angled her face up and looked into his eyes. “No?” “Hey, I'm the Iceman.” Suddenly, he was having a hard time figuring out what to do with his hands. Pretty much anything he did here would land him in trouble. He fished her out a small bottle of sports drink from the kit bag. “It's as warm as piss and probably tastes worse, but it clears the palate,” he said. “You want to spit?” She nodded and he held up the bag for her. “Yuck. You weren't kidding.” Nevertheless, she took a long pull on the chartreuse liquid. Ripping another towelette from the container, he started dabbing at her sticky forehead. “Feel strong enough to turn around?” “I think so.” Toe to toe now, she drank and he continued to work on her face, feeling oddly comfortable with the close quarters and his intimate task. He tipped her chin up and wiped the menthol from her lip. Smoothing another towelette over her temples and cheeks, he was taken by the softness of her lustrous skin and the intriguing angles of her cheekbones. He’d noticed those cheekbones in the photos he’d— “Say, leave me some make-up, would you, McGraw?” she chided when he disposed of a suspiciously rosy-colored towelette. “You don't need it,” he said without thinking. Aw,

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hell. He straightened. “I mean—” She tilted her head. “You don't like my hooker makeup?” “Sure I do, but you look just fine without any at all.” She always wore it to work, but he recalled the time in the market when he’d watched her, hidden in the next isle... “Uh-huh. Well, I tried that strategy in high school. Can't say's it worked.” He dabbed at a remnant of red lipstick. “Not a lot of dates, eh?” Her lip curled wryly. “Not until college.” He studied her for a second, wondering what the hell was wrong with boys back then. He wouldn’t have lost any time getting her in his back seat and— Shit. “Okay, I'll let you keep the eyes.” “Gee, thanks.” Her amused smile turned sincere. “For everything. You've been awful nice to a damned female rookie.” “Don't mention it.” She broke eye contact and watched him toss the last towelette. “Going back up?” He nodded, pulling out some more gloves. Definitely time to get out of there. She plucked the jar of menthol from the kit and twisted it open. He almost groaned when she reached up and smoothed a slippery finger above his lip. For some reason he didn't tell her nobody used the stuff but wimps and first-timers. The gel felt cool and hot all at the same time. Innocent and incredibly erotic. It put him in mind of slippery fingers smoothing over other things in other places. He jerked away, unwilling to let the fantasy go any further. “I have to get back up.” “I'm coming.” She smeared menthol under her own nose and gingerly hoisted the trash bag. “Caroline, you don't need—” “Yes, I do. I'll never live it down if I hide in here like a chicken-shit. And you won't either.”

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He picked up the kit and handed her a new pair of gloves. “Pretty smart for a damned rookie.” “Bet on it.” Ignoring the guffaws and pointed looks when they emerged from the powder room together, he marched straight up the stairs after directing a passing tech to dispose of the trash bag. “Hey, McGraw?” she ventured, right behind him. “Yeah?” “So, when are we going shopping?” He paused at the landing, shooting her a puzzled look. Her coy smile should have warned him. Like a dolt, he asked, “Shopping for what?” He could already feel the first Arctic snowflakes swirling around him when she answered sweetly, “Black leather.”

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Chapter Three Before pulling open the door to the conference room the next morning, Caro took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She'd do fine, she told herself. She'd survived the crime scene yesterday, and Mick had been okay with her small lapse of decorum. Nice, even. No reason to think he would have changed his mind about having her on the task force this morning. She was a few minutes early. Mick sat at the head of the table totally absorbed in his work. He looked beat, his eyes filled with that soft, little-boy-lost look she'd seen on rare occasions when he didn't think anyone was watching. It never failed to spin her heart in her chest. He glanced up, snapping to awareness. “I can carve out a couple of hours around two this afternoon for that shopping expedition,” he said, returning a sharp gaze to the stack of files on the table in front of him. “Okay.” She walked past and continued down the table. “I'll drop by your office.” She chose a chair close to the far end. “By the way, where will I be?” He looked up again, brow raised. “Where will my desk be? Or should I just use the one I've got in SIS?” “No,” McGraw said quickly. “I'll dig up something. Use the task force room in the meantime. There's a computer and printer in there, and a copier, so you can write up the reports and get them out to everyone.” She was glad she'd be billeted in the task force room,

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where the action was. She'd never been on a task force before and it would be exciting to see the complete workings. He checked his watch when more people started filing into the large conference room. The main players on the Teddie Murders task force had all been pulled in for this morning's briefing. After the discovery of the third couple yesterday, the mood in the room was grim. Everyone looked exhausted as they took their seats. Many had been working seven days a week, sometimes twelve hours a day, since the first murders. Last night nobody'd gotten any sleep. Except her. Mick had sent her home because she was going on fumes, having worked the graveyard shift the night before and been up over twenty-four hours. Caro could feel the tired, curious gazes pause on her as they traversed the length of the table. No doubt they wondered what an officer from SIS, barely out of Traffic, was doing sitting in the same meeting as the chief of Forensics, the head of FIS, the deputy Coroner, the assistant M.E., the head of Crime Analysis, three of PPD's best Homicide detectives, and a dozen of the department's most decorated uniformed officers. She fought back the urge to bite her bottom lip, and instead smiled across the table at Brady Washington, who grabbed a seat next to his partner Denny. “Hey, Officer Palmer,” he said, taking in her prim business suit at a glance. She’d deliberately chosen it as a contrast to yesterday's outrageous get-up. “You feeling better today?” he asked with a wink. She rolled her eyes and grinned weakly. “Yes, thanks.” “That was one bad-ass crime scene. You done good, going back upstairs. Took guts.” She warmed under his praise but was spared comment when McGraw called the meeting to order. One by one, the departments gave their reports on the latest murders. “So far there's nothing concrete from the house,” said Maria Rawlins, Chief of Forensics. “We're working on a whole bunch of non-conforming hairs and fibers FIS found downstairs, but the neighbor said they had a dinner party

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Saturday night, so that's probably where they came from.” “Do we have a guest list?” McGraw asked. “Yep,” Bobby said. “Neighbor put it together for us this morning. Reed's team can call them all in to give statements and volunteer hair samples.” Officer Reed, who was in charge of the phone banks, gave a nod. Bobby continued, “Of course, the killer may have been one of the dinner guests.” Several people at the table groaned. This would mean countless hours trying to connect all the guests to the previous victims, even though the probability of it being one of them was less than slim. Still, all leads must be followed. “Anything else, Maria?” The Chief of Forensics shook her head. “Nothing at this point. But it's early days. It'll take weeks to go through all the vacuum bags from all the crime scenes.” “What about the bodies?” McGraw asked the assistant medical examiner. As A.M.E. Bruce Benedict gave the preliminary report of how, precisely, the victims had met their demises, Caro's gaze was inexorably drawn to the man sitting at the end of the table. Despite the sleepless night she knew Mick had had as head of the task force, he was impeccably dressed as always. Jacket over a crisp white shirt, razor sharp creases in his navy blue slacks. Tie knotted just so. Short sandy hair neatly brushed. She noticed it had a slight wave to it, just enough to beckon a woman's fingers to smooth it into place. What would it be like to touch? Silky? Coarse? How would it feel, fisted in her hands as she pulled his face closer— She came to with a start, almost dropping the chin she'd been resting on a palm as she stared at him. He was staring back. Holy shit. She had to get a grip. Fantasizing was one thing. Drooling was quite another. The assistant M.E. was saying, “Same weapons seem to have been used. Fillet knife in the back. Large hunting knife for the frontal wounds. More on that in the report.

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Our team is checking local hunting stores for a likely match for that one, since it’s the more unusual. Of course, it could have been purchased over the Internet.” “What about plastic and absorbent material in the wounds?” Mick asked, apparently unaffected by her scrutiny. “Same as last time?” “It appears so,” Maria put in. “Very few fibers, but enough to analyze. We’ve narrowed the content down to a kind of disposable mattress pad for baby cribs. Available in every department and drug store in the country.” “The sheets?” “Still working on them. Teddies, too.” “Thanks,” Mick said, and looked back at Caro. “Anyone else have anything urgent or new since last night?” There was a murmur of negative responses. “All right, then, if you'd all pass your morning briefs to Officer Palmer. From now on she'll be in charge of putting together and distributing the update reports to everyone.” All eyes turned to her. She produced a smile and murmured, “Thank you,” to everyone who sent down papers. “I'll get you the final autopsy reports as soon as they're done,” Benedict told Mick as he handed her the M.E. and Coroner's reports. Just then a tall, rangy man wearing khakis and a sport jacket walked in carrying a briefcase. “Sorry I'm late,” he announced to the room in general, and went to shake McGraw's hand. Mick rose to greet him. “Woodruff, I presume? Glad you could make it. Folks, this is Special Agent Tim Woodruff from NCAVC.” Woodruff had arrived from the FBI's National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime early that morning, at the request of Chief Trujillo. Caro had heard that after the second set of murders, McGraw and Bobby decided to call in the big guns from Quantico for help. Gone were the days when high-profile cases were jealously guarded by local jurisdictions. With the dawn of the Information Age,

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law enforcement was finally learning the value of cooperation and sharing. At least this department was. She was eager to hear what the FBI profiler had to say about their quarry. After a few opening remarks, he got right down to it. “Based on what we know so far,” he said, “this is who I think we're looking for: White male, mid to late-thirties but quite possibly older, above average intelligence, goodlooking, socially adept, drives a flashy car. This man is macho, very neat in appearance, and needs to be in control. He dominates his sexual partners, and has a hard time maintaining steady relationships. Look for a history of sexual assault and/or rape. He's obviously into fetishism in a big way, and may have priors of breaking and entering to gather tokens or objects fitting his obsession with BDSM.” Wow. She'd read about profilers gaining amazing insights from a simple written description of a crime along with a few photos. But when confronted with a real person analyzing this complicated case, it seemed fairly amazing. She'd have to do a lot more reading. Maybe corner Special Agent Woodruff and ask him for some specifics. “Our guy is a very, very organized killer,” the FBI man went on. “Very precise. He's been fantasizing these murders for a long time, which is why I’ve upped the age range from the usual serial suspect. He has perfected his ideal scenario in his mind to the degree that the crimes are already all nearly identical. And that scenario is extremely complex and revealing. What we need to ask ourselves is why now? Why hasn't he acted on them before?” There was a spate of suggestions from the floor. He'd been in jail. Maybe he’d done it before, but out of state. Something in his personal life had set him off, pushing him over the edge from fantasy to acting out. Woodruff nodded at all of the suggestions, and Caro took copious notes. “What about the posing of the bodies?” she asked

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impulsively. “And changing the sheets and all?” She glanced up at Mick to see if she'd breached protocol, ready to defend her right to speak, but he was busy writing, too. “Good questions. Very unusual situation to begin with, killing couples. There have been cases where a female in company with a male was targeted, but very few where both were deliberately killed and staged at the same time. That's a key factor and a big clue to this guy's head. We also need to figure out what he was trying to say by his method of killing the victims. Why stab and gut the men but strangle the women?” “You mean why not just shoot them both, which would be easier,” she ventured. “Exactly. In killing the men, he's telling us he's angry. A knife is a very personal weapon. Sexual, almost. The brutality of the deaths tells us he's got a whole lot of hostility and rage directed at whomever the male victim represents in his fantasy. And yet, he is very controlled in his rage. He uses two different knives, is precise with their placement and careful to absorb the initial blood spatter. Then he deliberately and savagely guts the men. It’s almost like he’s trying to shock us with the brutality once he has them under his control. Trying to make it look like a crime of passion, when in fact it’s meticulously planned.” “And the woman? Why strangle her?” Woodruff contemplated a spot on the wall behind the table. “With the woman, it's something very different. Subtle. There are no wounds, and despite the overt sexual context of the crime scene, he leaves her in a modest, even innocent pose. He cleans her up, along with the bed, and dresses her in white, hands folded over her chest. Almost reverently. Like he wants to leave her in a good light.” He looked up and down the table at the members of the task force. “Our job is to figure out why.” Caro thought about that as Tim went on to analyze other details of the crime and answer questions from the

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task force. If they could solve that one puzzle they'd be a lot closer to pin-pointing the murderer. It was something she'd have to keep in mind when she and Mick started meeting people at Brimstone. What deep need was the killer fulfilling by killing and leaving his victims in just this way? And which particular suspects were most likely to fit the profile? Her musings were interrupted when everyone at the table turned to look at her. “Officer Palmer and I will be going in undercover,” Mick was saying. “We're working with LAPD for surveillance, and hope to be able to spot the perpetrator before he does any more damage.” “Dangerous,” Tim said, tenting his fingers in front of his chin contemplatively. “But...hell, it just might work. I'll have a real close look at any suspects you identify.” “I was hoping you'd say that,” Mick said. “You two should probably move in together.” Caro stared incredulously at Woodruff, who had made the preposterous statement. Studying serial killers for years had obviously affected the NCAVC profiler's own mind. The man was out of his gourd. “No,” she replied emphatically. At the same instant, McGraw recovered from his shock sufficiently to utter a firm, “Impossible.” Woodruff wagged his head back and forth. “It's up to you, of course, but I'd strongly advise it. All the victims were couples married or living together. As I said, this guy is highly organized. It wouldn't surprise me if he stalks, or cases, his victims well ahead of time. Remember, the credit card receipts all indicate the dead couples were at Brimstone during the week. But they weren't killed until the weekend. He's probably checking them out in the meantime. The fact that they all lived within several blocks of each other supports the theory that he’s probably killing in familiar territory, close to his home.” To her dismay, McGraw sat back and actually appeared to be considering the idea. Oh, brother. She had to nip this one in the bud but quick. So what if she occasionally

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wondered what Mick McGraw's delectable body would look like naked? It was a totally different thing to actually have to confront it walking out of the bathroom every morning for God knew how long until they caught this guy. No. Not a good idea. She didn't do naked men. Way too unsettling to a woman's career. She'd made it this far without messing up, and she didn't intend to start now when her goal was actually in sight. Though she had to admit, this was the one man she'd be real tempted to make an exception for. Damn his hide. “I only have one bed,” she tossed out, very grateful he was also the one man she could absolutely count on not to entertain any notions of accepting. If he hadn’t come on to her during the past year in her hooker outfits, he wouldn’t now, either. Down the table, Bobby chuckled. McGraw sent him a scowl, then said to Tim, “He'd have to follow us from the club. I can stay for a few minutes when I drop her off at her place.” Caro hid a satisfied smile behind her coffee mug. Who said reverse psychology didn't work any more? Men were so damn predictable. “Well,” Woodruff told Mick, “I'd seriously think about it. I know you wouldn't want to miss catching this wacko just because you didn't like sleeping on the couch.” “We'll discuss your suggestion.” Caro groaned inwardly. What would it take to convince McGraw this was a terrible idea? Maybe she'd just have to use a little more reverse psychology. Like maybe on their shopping expedition that afternoon.... “No.” Mick stared at the tangle of leather latigo straps held together by buckles and steel O-rings, and balked. He looked like an extra for a Conan movie. Or worse. “This is not what I had in mind.” Caroline and the cute oriental sales girl at the kinky clothing store they'd gone to on Hollywood Boulevard both

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gave him knowing looks. “Just what, exactly, did you have in mind?” Caroline asked with what might have been amusement in her voice. When she let her gaze linger on his button-down shirt and tie with the black jeans he'd purchased the night before, he drew himself up to his full six-foot-four and glared down at her. “I was going to wear a T-shirt with the jeans. A black T- shirt. I just didn't have one with me today.” “Uh-huh,” she stated in that annoying female way she had. “What's the matter, McGraw? Afraid to show a little skin?” “Hardly. I just think this is a bit extreme.” Caroline appealed to the sales girl. “Do you think it's extreme? We're dressing up as Master and slave for a party.” “It's perfect,” the other woman answered with a smile. “Very authentic. All the real Masters are wearing this kind of torso harness these days. The look is very Middle Ages and domineering. And it comes with a fun attachment—” She held up a foot-or-so long strip of matching latigo, with a buckle on one end and a dollarsized rubber ring on the other. Jesus. He glanced at Caroline. Judging from the guileless expression on her face, she had no clue as to its actual purpose. “I don't think so,” he said flatly. It would be a cold day in hell when he wore a cock ring in public. Caroline picked up the harness on its hanger. “Fine. Forget the attachment, but you're trying it on.” She took his arm and pulled him toward the back dressing rooms, calling over her shoulder to the sales girl, “Black leather pants. Something that goes with the harness.” “Officer Palmer,” he ground out between his teeth, “I have no intention of—” “Look. You brought me into this gig because of my expertise with costume, right?” She steered him into the dressing room and shut the door behind them. It was a roomy place with a plush easy chair, lots of mirrors and a

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solid door. With a lock. His nerves shimmered. He watched her put the hanger on a peg and slip the leather harness off it. “Well?” He met her gaze. It was obvious she was unaware she had a tiger by the tail and had locked herself in the cage with it. “Partly,” he conceded. “So, trust me. I know what I'm doing.” “I have no doubt of that. But I thought we were here to buy stuff for you.” He glanced at the short skirt, tank top and fuck-me shoes she'd worn for their shopping expedition. Not that her outfit needed all that much beefing up. Maybe a nice, decadent slave collar... “You be a good boy and try this on, McGraw, and I might let you dress me up afterwards.” She winked and thrust the harness into his hands. Before he had a chance to even think of a response to that, there was a knock and the door opened. “I thought you might like this style,” the sales girl said, and handed a pair of black leather pants to Caroline, who looked them over critically. “Nice. He'll look great in these.” She hung the pants on the peg and the both of them stood back and watched him expectantly. He was tempted to give them the show they were waiting for. Mighty tempted. Caroline looked like a wetdream and the oriental sales girl was pretty, and had just enough exotic mystery to inspire fantasies in any customer, him included. But that would be out of character. So he scowled at them until they got the idea and backed out of the dressing room, giggling like a couple of co-conspirators. He felt decidedly outnumbered. And more than a little horny. Fuck. He swiftly shed his shirt and tie, and donned the latigo harness, which, with a few buckle adjustments fit him like a second skin. Just like coming home. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he rejected the

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feeling soundly. But looking calmly back at him was the very image of the man he'd been running from his whole life. “You ready yet?” Caroline called from just outside the door, jerking him out of his clawing thoughts. “Almost.” Jaw clamped, he slid out of his stiff jeans and pulled on the leather pants. Image complete. The door cracked open and her head peeked around. “You decent?” A number of comments ran through his mind, but he clipped out, “Yes. And next time knock.” He spotted her in the mirror and almost choked. Instead of the tank top, she had on a satin, lace-up corset that showed just the right amount of her pale, smooth body in just the right shape to seriously turn him on. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said, fighting for a shade of derision in his tone, rather than reveal his true reaction. Nothing could have prepared him for how she looked. “You aren't seriously thinking of wearing that, are you?” Ignoring his comment, she stepped purposefully into the room, followed by the clerk, and fussed at the latigo straps criss-crossing his back and chest. “Nice, McGraw. Very sexy.” He reminded himself they were supposed to be a steady couple dressing for a theme party. He tolerated her hands on him because the sales girl would think it strange if he batted them away. But he didn't like it. Her hands and the corset were giving him ideas. Ideas best left miles alone. He wasn't about to break his rules. Even for the most tantalizing woman he'd met in decades. The one he’d hand-picked for this very role. For that very reason. But she was a cop. He had to work with her. And they had a killer to put away. Stepping out of line now would be far too risky. He caught the two women assessing his pants. He planted his fists on his hips and narrowed his eyes. “Too baggy,” they said in unison and turned to file out before he could draw breath to protest. They weren't

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baggy. They were ample. And it was a fucking good thing, too. By the time Caroline came back with another pair for him to try, he had his unruly mind and body under strict control. Right up until he saw the new outfit she was in. Thighhigh spike-heeled boots and the skimpiest leather demibra he'd ever seen in his life. Along with her black miniskirt, the combination made it nearly impossible to breathe. “What do you think?” she asked, studying herself critically in the mirror as she handed him the pants to try on. “Too dom,” he choked out, striving for a neutral expression. “You're supposed to be my slave.” Jesus. The very thought had his head spinning. And his body betraying him big-time. Talk about fantasies coming true... “Yeah, you're right. Though...maybe with a collar?” She turned to him, a question in her eyes. Something in his own must have warned her off. “No, maybe not.” She hurried out and shut the door with a smack. He gritted his teeth and yanked off the pants he was wearing in favor of the ones she'd given him. There was no way he'd get them fastened. Not with those laces back and front, and definitely not with this killer hard-on. He was still fumbling with the ridiculous closings when she knocked. “I can't get these damned things laced,” he snarled. He was not having a good time. How he would ever survive the next hellish weeks he hadn't the slightest idea. What the devil had possessed him to choose her to do this with? But he knew the answer before the question had even finished forming in his mind. He’d studied her for a year. She was the only one. She walked in wearing her own shoes again instead of the boots. She'd added a leather slave collar, studded and sporting a leash-ring on the front of it.

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“Here, let me help you,” she murmured. She dropped to her knees behind him, and grasped the ends of the ties that laced up the back of the pants. His stomach dropped along with her, and his pulse went into hyperspace as he watched her in the mirrors. “Caroline,” he warned, but she wasn't paying attention. She was plucking at the laces over his butt, a focused look etched on her face. She had no idea what she was doing to him. Her hands caressed down his backside, smoothing the wrinkles from the leather. His muscles flexed into taut bundles under her fingers. “Caroline.” “Hmm?” Her breasts were practically spilling out of the leather crescents of the bra. The black of her slave collar contrasted erotically with the long white column of her neck. Her tongue peeked out from between her moist lips in an unstudied move of concentration. Her hands on his ass were fast sending him over the edge. He endured about another ten seconds of her ministrations before snapping. He spun, braced his legs apart, and drove his fingers through her hair, holding her head rigid between his hands. “Stop.” Her eyes widened and her hands fluttered to rest on his abdomen. “What?” Her lush red lips parted as she peered up at him. They were the sensual, pouting lips of a natural-born fellatrice. Oh, God. His erection throbbed under the tight, slick leather binding his hips. Right then as he held her a tongue's length away from his bursting need, he vowed to have her. Just like this. Exactly like this. On her knees before him, his fingers wound in her hair. Only, there would be no supple leather barrier to protect her from him. From his lust. The image shook him to the core. “These pants don't work for me,” he ground out.

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Her gaze wavered, flicked down in sudden awareness to the blatant arousal in serious danger of breaching the low-slung leather waist. Shock rounded those fellatrice lips into an 'O' of surprise and she jerked her hands from his groin. “Yes, I see what you mean,” she said, clearing her throat. He could see her struggle to appear undaunted. “Maybe we should try something a bit...roomier.” Again she disappeared through the door and he wiped the sweat that had gathered on his brow. Placing a shaky hand on the wall, he leaned in and gathered his wits. This was never going to work. He had to get rid of her. If he didn't he would jump her, and more—much, much more—sure as his name was Michael Patrick McGraw. There was a limit to the strength of his icy façade. And she was fast chipping through it. Too damn fast. She'd have to quit the task force. He was sorry, but that was the only solution. She'd been right yesterday to question him. There was no way they could ever work together. Okay, so he was a male chauvinist Neanderthal pig, but there it was. All he could think about was tearing her clothes off and fucking her blind. And that was no way to run an investigation. He'd talk to Bobby this afternoon. Then he'd break it to her as gently as he could. Sorry, baby. You're history.

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Chapter Four When a knock sounded at the door, Caro glanced over the rim of her wine glass to see what time it was. Elevenseventeen p.m. Who the hell could it be? Eleven-seventeen was late even for Julio to come whine on her shoulder about his and Barry's latest tiff. Julio liked to be all tucked up by this time. Needed his beauty sleep, he always said. Caro figured no amount of sleep would make her beautiful, so she couldn't relate. Still, visitors seldom showed up on her doorstep after nine p.m., regardless of how late she was awake. Tugging down the hem of the oversized T-shirt she'd pulled on after her shower, she clicked off the TV and walked to the door. As she peeked around the curtain on the sidelight window, her breath backed up in her lungs. There, leaning against the wooden rail separating her part of the front porch from the other half of the old Spanishstyle duplex she shared with a neighbor, stood Mick McGraw. Dressed in well-worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt that shone like a beacon in the dusky moonlight, he watched her steadily. Almost as though he expected her to sneak off and pretend to be asleep. For a brief second she thought about doing just that. Coward. Straightening her spine, she swung open the door and forced a smile to her lips. “Lost, Detective?” “Hopelessly,” he said, straight-faced. “Listen. We need to talk.” At eleven-seventeen at night? Then she remembered the meeting that morning.

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Damn. She'd hoped he'd forgotten all about that conversation. “Look, if you're here about moving in together, I don't think—” He glanced up looking confused for a second, then shook his head. “No. It...it isn't about that.” “Ah.” She held his gaze a split second longer, trying to figure out just what was going on. His expression was stern and unyielding, but in his eyes she swore she saw something soft, along with...an emotion she couldn't quite identify. Guilt? Desire? Guilt over his desire? Yeah, right. Oh, what the hell. After his uncharacteristic reaction to her that afternoon, anything was possible. She hoisted her wine glass. “I was just having a nightcap. Would you like to come in?” His gaze darted to the glass and back. She almost fell over when he said, “Sure,” and strode past her into the dimly lit living room. Careful what you wish for, girl... Closing the door in a jitter, she turned and nearly ran smack into him. He stood directly in front of her, looking very large and very solemn, like a man with something on his mind. She wished she'd thought to flick on another light before answering the door. “What is it?” she asked, trying her best to ignore the sexy, masculine scent teasing her nose. “I have this rule,” he said. Now, there was a shock. His words jolted her right out of her growing panic and firmly into well-known territory. Here it comes. “Mm-hmm. Let me guess.” She leaned back against the door and took a fortifying sip of wine. “You have this rule against getting involved with other cops.” That earned a nod. “Common knowledge, I guess. I don't fraternize with other cops. Ever.” “So I gathered.” She gave him a sardonic smile, feeling the first edge of disillusionment. Not because he didn't want to fraternize—she'd figured that one out a good year ago—but because she was beginning to fear he did. With the usual proviso, naturally.

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He opened his mouth to say something more, but she held up a hand. “No, no. Please. Let me continue.” He pursed his lips, then conceded. “All right.” “But your wife—no, wait, you're not married. Okay, then, your girlfriend doesn't understand the pressures of being a cop. You need someone to talk to. So, you're willing to make an exception. Right? Just this once. As long as it doesn't get out at the station. About our relationship, that is.” She took another sip. “How am I doing?” He stared at her for a long moment, grimaced, then said, “Do guys really feed you that crap?” “You're saying you're not?” Despite his reputation for being different, she was mildly surprised. That would be a first. “I don't have a girlfriend.” She saluted him with her wine glass. He wouldn't, of course. What could she have been thinking? “Point to you, McGraw.” He eyed her. “Do you think I came here tonight to seduce you?” “You? No.” She almost laughed. But something in his expression stopped her. “Well, maybe for a minute. No.” She shook her head. “No, of course not.” Confused and slightly flustered, she gave in and bit her lip. “Did you?” A muscle in his jaw jumped and he glanced away, frowning. “Like I said, I don't fraternize. I wanted to talk to you about the task force.” Relief swept over her. And here she'd deluded herself into thinking— Well, never mind what she'd been thinking. That was never going to happen. Rescued from herself, she smiled. “Before you do, I just want to say thank you, Detective.” He looked nonplussed. “What?” “For picking me to work with you.” She gave an embarrassed shrug. “I know I gave you a hard time about it day before yesterday. And I really do know you had your choice of any woman in the department. I just want you to know how grateful I am to be on your task force. To be

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given this chance. I won’t disappoint you.” His jaw dropped and he swallowed. “I, uh... Shit.” He reached around her for the door knob. “This was a bad idea. I've got to go.” Hell, damn and blast. Now what? Here was maybe her only chance to figure out the elusive Iceman and she was about to lose it over saying thank you? “Wait!” She touched his arm. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—” He jerked back from her, his expression turbulent. “You didn't. It's just late.” Oh, God, this was going downhill fast. She scrambled for something to keep him there, talking. “What was it you wanted to discuss? Did the autopsy report come in?” “Yes. But—” “Great! You can tell me what was in it.” She took his hand and tugged him toward the living room. “We can also strategize about tomorrow night at Brimstone.” He balked. “I promise, no fraternizing. You have my word,” she said, making a crossing motion over her heart. He still hesitated, the look on his face switching between sharp resolve and uneasy capitulation. “One drink, Mick. What’s the harm?” His gaze drilled into her with obscure purpose. “We'll leave our badges outside the door?” “We'll leave our badges outside the door. Swear.” Whatever that meant. He closed his eyes and slowly hissed out a breath. “All right, then.” He allowed himself to be pulled along into the living room. “But just for five minutes.” “We can still talk about the case though, right?” “Why not.” “You can tell me your theory about the killings.” “Who says I have one?” “You’re a detective, aren’t you?” A flicker of a smile curled the corner of his mouth. “We're both going to regret this, you know.” It was simply amazing the difference in his face that

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smile made. It gave her the shivers clear to her toes. “Never.” She was still walking backwards when she bumped into the couch. They halted and stared at one another. Suddenly she was electrically aware of her severe lack of clothing, and of his powerful body standing over her. Just where had she been leading him, anyway? Easy, girl. She dropped his hand and quickly retreated to the liquor cabinet, snapping on a floor lamp along the way. The blue mosaic Tiffany lamp on the mantel was pretty, but definitely not bright enough. “What will you have? Wine? Or?” “Got something stronger?” “Have a seat.” She waved at the couch. “I hear you're a tequila drinker. Slice of lime, right? Beer chaser?” Just for good measure, she flipped on the lights above the wet bar. “Sounds good.” She stooped and opened the bar fridge. “Corona or Mic dark?” “Mic dark, eh?” “Julio likes it.” “In that case I'll have the Corona.” She glanced at him, barely resisting a smirk. “Need a glass?” He shook his head, but didn't move, electing instead to watch her prepare his drink and pour herself a refill of merlot. A large refill. To her chagrin, the bottle shook a little as she pressed the cork back into it. Silly. She wasn't a suspect in one of McGraw's investigations. And being naked under your sleep shirt wasn't a crime as far as she knew. So, why did she suddenly feel like she should hide that fact? On the other hand, the Iceman wouldn't notice if she were parading around in nothing at all. Her traitorous mind spoiled that little illusion by dredging up images from their afternoon shopping expedition. Of his strong fingers holding her head immobile, his blatant masculinity on proud display before

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her as she clung to his lean, muscular hips. Of his gaze burning into hers so hotly she thought she'd ignite on the spot. Even now, she could smell the heady scent of leather and desire that had whirled about that dressing room. She gave herself a mental kick. All right, maybe he'd notice if she were nude. But he'd still do his damnedest to deny it. As he had this afternoon when he’d sent her from the dressing room with a bark and a growl. So she was just going to ignore it, too. She handed him his drinks, returned for her own and walked over to the couch, seating herself carefully so her T-shirt wouldn't ride up her thighs. Tossing him a smile, she raised her glass. “To my new, um...Master.” He inclined his head and returned her toast, a strange glitter in his eyes. “And to my new pleasure slave.” She took a sip but had a hard time swallowing it. He tossed his tequila back in a single gulp and sauntered over to set the glass on the bar. To her surprise, he flicked off the lights above it. Turning, he stood there nursing his beer as his gaze stalked restlessly around the room. Okay, so maybe it had been a bit bright with three lights on. Swirling her wine, she studied him. It was the first time she'd seen him in anything other than slacks, buttondown and tie. Well, other than that afternoon, which didn't really count. He looked good in jeans. And his Tshirt was pleasantly snug. Even if it was plain white, freshly laundered, and probably starched. She hid a smile behind her glass. Still, it fit nicely. Very nicely. Almost as nicely as those tight jeans. Their eyes met again. We'll leave our badges outside the door. No. That wasn't what he was here for. She had to put a tight lid on her wayward thoughts and concentrate. She wasn't sure exactly what he was here for, but fulfilling her secret fantasies wasn't it. Not that she would ever in a million years actually go through with those fantasies. No,

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she had to act like the professional he expected her to be. Correction. Like the professional she was. The Not-Interested Professional. No teasing. No flirting. No kissing. Definitely no kissing. So, what did that leave? She endeavored to say something before his eyes bored a hole through her resolve. “Why don't—” “Caroline, I need—” he said at exactly the same moment. They both laughed nervously. “You first,” she said. After a brief pause he shook his head. “No. You go.” “Okay. Why don't you fill me in on what was in the M.E.’s report on the Connors?” His eyes flickered, taking her in as though he were coming to some sort of decision. “I could do that,” he finally said. He strolled over, casually settling on the couch next to her. Right next to her. She determinedly ignored his knee bumping hers as he leaned forward to put his beer on the coffee table. “Death by strangulation for Mrs. Connors, using the same kind of fabric strip as on the other two women. Based on the pattern of bruising, Forensics thinks it was probably a scarf,” he said. “Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles consistent with the same fabric. Light abrasions from the restraints, but not extensive enough to indicate a real struggle. No heavy bruising. Champagne residue on the wife’s body.” “Champagne?” she asked, surprised. “On her body?” “One of the things we’ve kept from the press. The torso’s covered with the stuff. Plenty in her stomach contents, as well. Same with the other female victims.” “Body shots?” He paused. “Mostly higher.” “Aha.” Was it getting warm in here? “Was the lab able to identify the brand?” “Coeur de Diable.” “Expensive,” she mused. “I assume you’re questioning

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stores that sell it?” He nodded. “There’s another...interesting thing the M.E. found the three women had in common.” “What’s that?” “Something else we’re keeping under wraps. As it were.” “Okay.” “They’d all had wax jobs. Complete wax jobs.” It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. “Oh! You mean...” Heat suffused her cheeks. Professional, Palmer. She kept her gaze firmly locked on her wine glass. “I see. All three?” She sensed him nod again. His thigh against hers moved slightly closer. “And there were traces of nipple rouge on one of the women’s breasts.” Oh, Lord. Never having experienced either, she was at a loss to comment. “I see,” she repeated, cleared her throat, then added, “Just traces?” “Most of it was either wiped off or—” he shrugged “— wore off during the evening’s activities. There was also evidence of oral sex on all the husbands.” Her cheeks blazed even hotter, but she managed to say, “Blowjobs, eh?” with fair composure. Definitely getting hotter in here. Mick’s arm shifted to the back of the sofa. Behind her. “Mm-hmm.” She did her best to ignore it. “What about the wives? Did they have, um...” He shook his head. “Nothing.” “So the men didn’t reciprocate?” “Apparently not. Although...remember the leather residue? It was found inside them.” “Leather? Inside?” “We’re thinking gloves. Though—” he shrugged again “—who knows? There are a few other possibilities.” His thigh against hers was getting hotter and more solid by the second. She struggled to concentrate, but the subject matter was nearly as unsettling as his nearness. “What about semen?”

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“In all the usual places. Lots of it. Wild nights in suburbia.” “But no condoms,” she managed. “I don’t suppose the killer left his DNA anywhere?” She knew he hadn’t, or it would have been mentioned, but she was grasping at anything to keep the conversation moving. “Just the husbands on the first two women. It’ll be a few days for the full results from the latest vics, but I suspect he’s been just as careful.” Caro got up from the couch as nonchalantly as she could and wandered over to the mantelpiece, where she set about straightening the knickknacks and mementos. What she really wanted to do was fan her face. “So, does that mean the killer didn't rape the women? Or just that he used protection?” “Good question.” Mick picked up his beer, his eyes tracking her movements like a killer watching his prey. “With this kind of organized murder, you'd expect him to rape her before he killed her. It's almost always part of the fantasy.” “But this guy is unusual, right?” “Right. The husband definitely plays a role in the fantasy, having sex with the wife while she's tied up and the killer watches. But from the amount and position of the semen inside her, the M.E. doesn't think it's been disturbed by subsequent intercourse with the killer.” “So the leather...whatever...was used before the final time.” “Yep.” Mick rose and strolled to the other end of the mantel from where she stood. He fingered a framed photo of her graduation from the Academy which sat under the softly glowing Tiffany lamp, then ran his thumb along the uneven edge of the lamp shade. All the while he kept his eyes on her. “Maybe he's using the husband as a surrogate because he can't perform himself,” he suggested. She tore her eyes from his hands and slid away from the mantel. “Didn't Tim say that by staging the woman's

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body and cleaning up the blood from her and the bed, it indicates he wants to put her in a good light?” She walked over to her easy chair and sat on the arm. “To create an impression of purity and innocence?” “Yes, that's what Agent Woodruff said,” Mick replied stiffly. “What's your point?” If she didn't know better, she'd think her use of the profiler's first name irritated him. “Well, maybe this guy doesn't want to have sex with her. Maybe that's not what this is all about.” He nailed her with a bald stare. “Caroline, it's always about sex.” “Yes, but not necessarily about having sex.” His eyes narrowed and he took a few steps toward her. “You don't know a hell of a lot about men, do you?” She doused a flare of annoyance. “Well, maybe it isn't a man,” she shot back, jumping up to pace behind the couch. He looked momentarily astonished, then his brows knit together. “You must have been distracted when Tim was going through the part about ninety-eight percent of serial killers being male.” The only thing distracting her from Tim's profile had been Mick's unrelenting gaze on her through practically the whole presentation. The same way it was distracting her now. She really had to pull herself together. “I was listening,” she ground out. “I just think there might be an alternative explanation.” He looked more than skeptical, but folded his arms over his chest and said, “Okay, I'm all ears.” Lord, was he actually taking her seriously? Shocked, she took a sip of wine to stall for time. “Well, first of all, the killer doesn't have sex with the woman. Has the M.E. looked at the husband for traces of other partners?” His mouth parted, then snapped shut. “I expect so.” “Does the report mention anything?” With obvious reluctance he admitted, “It doesn't mention that specifically.” She refrained from smiling. She hadn't really thought

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this through, she'd just made an impulsive suggestion in reaction to his sex-biased assumptions. But now she was determined to see where she could take it—as unlikely as the theory was. She paced back and forth behind the couch. “And then, there's the fact that the killer stabs the man in the back right after ejaculation, when he's completely vulnerable and most likely unaware of what their guest is doing.” “The timing is part of the fantasy,” Mick explained with exaggerated patience. “It ties in with how the killer stages the woman's body after strangling her. The man defiling the woman enrages him and he kills the husband in a heinously vicious manner, then restores the wife to innocence after the repugnant act. Of sex. Maybe he witnessed his mother being raped when he was young, or something like that.” He took a swig of beer and looked pensive. “You're right, though. This could be about not having sex.” Well, wonders never ceased. “Yes. But why couldn't it be a woman who is reliving a horrible experience, where she herself was the one being defiled? It would explain why she'd want to kill the man as he completed the sex act on a helpless woman, all tied up. And why she'd want the woman to appear pure and innocent afterwards.” He nodded. “I see your point. But then why doesn't she just cut off the guy's balls instead of gutting him? Why kill the woman at all?” She made a rude face, walked around to the coffee table and set her glass down. “Then, there is the fact that these couples seem to have no problem inviting a total stranger into their home, tying up the wife, and having sex in front of this person. A woman would be much less threatening.” “True.” She dropped onto the couch, spinning out the theory in her mind. “Lots of men fantasize about a ménage à trois with two women. I just think it would be much easier all around for a woman to get herself into a position to

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commit the crimes.” “Maybe.” He walked over and stood in front of her. “But you forget how charming these killers can be. They come off as normal as the guy next door, so no one ever suspects them. They're talkers, able to put people at ease and make them do things they never even dreamed of.” She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed another pull of beer, then swiped a drop of moisture from his lip with his tongue. Her pulse kicked up a notch. What things could he make her do that she'd never even dreamed of? She cleared her throat and forced herself to study her glass. “Yes, well. It was just an idea.” “And an interesting one. It's good to keep our minds open to all kinds of possibilities,” he said in an oddly gravelly voice. She felt the cushion next to her dip and tamped down on her increasingly wobbly nerves. “Does he take trophies?” she quickly asked. “Family and neighbors haven’t spotted anything missing.” He paused slightly. “But I suspect he does. Something kinky. Like a collar or whip. Or...something like that.” She blinked away the image that created, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. She couldn't get up from the couch again without looking totally obvious, so she scooted back a bit and slung her elbow over the back cushion. “So what's your theory?” “About the killer?” He peeled off a corner of the label from the beer bottle. “He's a sociopath. Bad childhood. Abusive father, abused mother. Frustrated sexually, rigid in his habits. Doesn't trust people. A loner.” He shrugged. “You know, the usual serial killer spiel.” She studied him, wondering about the man behind the cool, detached façade. She was beginning to think there was a whole lot more to Mick McGraw than what he let people see. “What about you?” He looked up sharply. “Me?” “Yeah. Do you trust people?”

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He relaxed almost imperceptibly and gave her a wry smile. “Sure I do.” “Uh-huh. That's why you're Mr. Warm-and-Friendly at work.” He chuckled, going back to his label. “I like being the Iceman. Suits me.” “Why? Why don't you want to get close to anyone on the job?” He lifted his shoulders uneasily. “Afraid someone you like will get hurt? That you'll lose your edge if it's a friend or a lover in the line of fire?” “Partly that,” he said, rolling the bottle between his hands. “Partly ancient history.” He took a long draught and gave her a crooked smile. “Partly because I like my sex a little over the edge. Who needs that making the rounds at the water cooler?” Her breath hitched. The idea of the Iceman liking kinky sex should have made her laugh. But the laughter died in her throat. Deep down, she suddenly knew it was true. This afternoon when he'd been dressed in that leather harness, she'd seen it in his eyes—the dark, primitive passion swirling in their depths like a vampire's cape. It had scared the hell out of her. But as much as it terrified her, it also fascinated her. And drew her to him as to no other man she'd ever known. Dangerous. With a shaky laugh, she grabbed her barely touched glass and got up to refill it at the wet bar. She flicked on the lights again. “If that were really true you wouldn't be telling me about it.” “I trust you with my secret.” She turned in surprise. “Why?” He took another sip from his beer. “Because you're already over the edge.” This time her laughter was genuine. “Right.” If only he knew. “So,” he ventured. “What's your excuse?” “For what?” she asked, nearly sloshing her wine.

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“For not getting involved.” She made another face. “Don't be ridiculous. I have tons of friends in the department.” “Ever invite them home?” “Sometimes.” “And lovers? Why no lovers?” “You don't. Why should I?” she fired back, ignoring the heat that suddenly rocketed through her veins. “I have plenty of lovers. Just not on the job.” An unexpected jolt of raw jealously pierced her gut. She clamped down hard on it. “Well, if you must know, Julio—” “Is gay.” She looked up from her wine in shock. “How did you—” “I'm a detective, Caroline. And you're avoiding the question.” She made a physical effort to calm her unruly reactions. “That's because it's absurd. Everyone knows my reputation.” “Uh-huh. A reputation based on your assignment in vice.” He nodded, a calculated expression crossing his face, as if a puzzle piece had just fallen into place. “Short skirts, flirty smile, always a sexy come-back. Yeah, I know the drill. But you're pretending to be hot and heavy with a gay man, and the only other guy you’ve ever actually come on to—namely me—was a whole year ago and you knew damn well I would turn you down. Now, when you finally get me alone, you won't let me come within ten feet of you.” She stared, helpless to deny his annoyingly accurate observations. “You don't want to get involved any more than I do,” he said. “You just have a different way of avoiding it.” “Who died and made you so damn smart?” she muttered. Before her eyes, his features subtly changed, became edgier. More forceful. More dangerous. His smile was slow and lazy, like a wolf's. “Like I said, I'm a detective.”

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In a supple movement he rose and prowled around the furniture toward her. At the floor lamp he stopped and carefully turned it off. Goosebumps skittered down her arms. Oh, God. “You know, I've been wondering about something.” “What's that?” she said, battling the herd of butterflies that all at once invaded her stomach. He moved a few steps closer. She was holding her glass so tightly she was afraid it might crack, but for the life of her she couldn't loosen up. “I've been wondering what you have on under that Tshirt.” She froze. This time his words didn’t leave much open to interpretation. “Well, what do you think?” she hedged, whirling to refill her glass again, her mind suddenly unable to function. What was he doing? Before she realized he'd moved again, he was right behind her. His warm breath fanned through her hair, tickling the nape of her neck. “I think you're naked under it.” A strangled noise squeaked past the lump in her throat. Her eyes locked with his in the mirror over the wet bar. She wanted to tear them away—oh! how she wanted to!—but she couldn't. The power of his gaze, too potent to fight, held her helplessly captive. He reached out and flicked off the bar lights, leaving the room in a pale blue glow. Then he opened his hand, and several small, red packets spilled onto the bar. Her pulse scrambled. God no. Not this. She didn’t want to make this choice. He was too tempting. “You don't even like me,” she choked out. “You'll get over it.” Her temper made a last-ditch effort to save her from herself. “You are a fucking arrogant bastard.” “Three out of three.” “You can't be serious!” He stepped closer still, and all she could think of was how very much she wanted him to be serious. She must

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have a giant screw loose. The large frame of his body whispered against the back of hers, from his jaw all the way down to the boots grazing her bare feet. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sensation, only to feel his incredible heat penetrate the thin layers of cotton that separated them. Just as surely as he'd already penetrated her inadequate defenses. The scent of him, dark and musky, wove around her, snaring her in its seductive web. Deep, rough masculine breaths licked across her ear. He moved infinitesimally. His steel hard arousal settled intimately into the cleft of her bottom. Ohgod-ohgod-ohgod. “And I think no matter how much you want to deny it,” he murmured, “you want me as much as I want you.” She swallowed, weakening. “You want me?” “Oh, yeah. From the first time I saw you in that lunchroom, I've wanted to bend you over a chair, lift those disgracefully short hooker skirts and put an end to this infernal craving I have for you.” She opened her eyes and lost herself in the feral promise offered in his shadowy reflection. “Why didn't you?” A harsh sound vibrated from deep in his chest. His fingers dipped under the hem of her T-shirt, skimmed up her thighs and over her hips to her waist, dragging the shirt up as they went. Gripping her firmly, he pulled her back into him, so her bare bottom pressed against his jeans, her hips framed by his muscular thighs. “I don't fraternize at work.” Excitement shuddered through her body. God, he felt so good, smelled so arousingly male. He bent and kissed up her neck, catching her earlobe between his teeth. His hands left her waist and traveled slowly up. He touched her naked breasts and she cried out softly, a shock of desire streaking right to her center. “I don't want a relationship,” she managed to stammer past the haze. Just to keep things straight. He was too

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much to resist, but she had her priorities. “I think you and I both want the same thing.” His hands enveloped her and squeezed, just enough to make her ache for more. She very nearly dropped her wine glass. “Wouldn't that be classified as fraternizing?” He turned her in his arms and gripped her hips with strong fingers, her sleep-shirt riding on his wrists. “We left our badges at the door, remember?” “I don't understand,” she said, fighting to latch onto a last, coherent thought. Struggling not to think about how much she wanted him. Or how she was completely bare from the waist down. “Why now?” He stared down at her, a searing heat filling his eyes. “This afternoon, when I saw you on your knees in front of me, a zipper away from—” He paused, letting the silence fill in the blanks. “I knew there was no way in hell I could ever be alone with you for more than five minutes and not get you naked.” His mouth slanted over hers, pausing there like a succulent fruit, just out of reach. “I really had only two choices,” he murmured. She could taste his breath in her mouth and her throat ached in anticipation of the taste of his tongue on hers. She pried her fingers off the edge of the counter and placed them on his chest. If she had any kind of sense she'd push him away. She didn’t. “First, I could throw you off the task force.” He looked deep into her eyes. “I came here tonight to fire you, you know.” “What made you change your mind?” “Who says I have?” “You could always fire yourself,” she suggested tartly, giving his chest a shove. He clamped down tighter on her hips. “Yeah, I could remove myself, and give you to Bobby to work the case with. Would you like that?” He pulled her closer. “He wants you, too, you know.” Her fingers moved over the hard muscles lining his

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broad chest. “I don't want to work with Bobby. And you can take—” “Women think Bobby's a good-looking guy,” he interrupted. “Sexy. Don't you think Bobby's a good-looking guy?” “Yes, but I don't want to—” She skidded to a halt. Mick raised a brow. “Be his pleasure slave?” “That's right.” He spun them both a quarter turn and she landed with her back against the narrow section of wall next to the wet bar. The plaster was chilly against her skin, but his body pressed into hers, sending ribbons of heat zinging through her. “Whose pleasure slave would you like to be, Caroline?” She clutched at his shirt, clinging to it like a life preserver, pretending she wasn't shaking like a lamb in a lion's den. And grasped at one last straw. “You said there were two choices. What's the other one?” “I could pin you up against this wall, spread your legs and fuck you till you scream.” He bent his knees and moved against her, center to center, in a slow, provocative imitation of what he wanted. Of what she wanted. “You like to scream when you come, Caro?” Her world tilted and she felt herself sliding, down, down, down. “I— I've never—” “I can make you scream. Want to come over the edge with me?” he murmured, trailing his hands further up her body, dragging her sleep-shirt along. The smooth cotton of his T-shirt slid over her bare breasts, and the rough denim of his jeans rubbed against her trembling thighs. His zipper bulged enormously, pushing into her. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “Take me over the edge, Mick.” A sound of triumph rumbled from his chest. Before she knew what was happening, he'd whipped off her shirt and was pressing one of the red packets into her hand. “Open this,” he ordered softly, and took a step back.

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In a daze she stared down at the condom and fumbled with the edges of the wrapping. She could hear his rapid, efficient movements as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. There was a pause, then he took the unopened packet from her hand. “Change your mind?” She looked up and saw hunger and need in his eyes, struggling to burst past the iron control she also saw there. “No,” she murmured, wanting him badly, despite her panic. “Good.” She heard a quick rustle, then he stepped forward, crushing into her once again. “Scared?” “Terrified.” Grasping her hands, he linked his fingers with hers and raised them over her head. “I don't ever want you to be scared with me, Caro.” The toes of his boots nudged first one, then the other of her feet wide, wide apart. “I'll try.” She hung suspended, her only support his strong hands holding hers, his thighs pushing her up against the wall. She was nude, her legs spread, and she had never felt so vulnerable in her entire life. She trembled all over, feeling completely out of control. She was about to cave in to her fear when he said, “If you're ever afraid, really afraid, and you want me to stop...whatever I'm doing...just call me Detective.” She met his solid gaze with her unsteady one. She knew what this was about. He was giving her a safe word. It's what people did when they were into bondage and stuff like that. So things wouldn't go too far. So everyone felt comfortable at all times, secure in the knowledge that they could stop whatever was happening with a single, pre-arranged word. She gave in and bit her lower lip. His thumbs caressed small, patient circles in her palms. She peered up at him, at this giant, broad-shouldered, muscular, totally intimidating man who had her knees shaking and her insides doing things she'd never thought possible.

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“And if you get scared,” she said from her place against the wall, “you can call me Officer.” He blinked. And a wicked, wicked grin spread across his face. The grin of a sultan who'd just been handed the key to a roomful of innocent dancing maidens captured from the enemy. Then he plunged into her and all thought ceased.

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Chapter Five Mick groaned, withdrew, and thrust deep into Caro's wet, blinding heat. “Ah, baby, you feel incredible. This is where I want to be. Exactly where I want to be.” He tightened his grip on her hands and drove into her again. Her lips parted on a gasp, and she looked up, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “Oh, God, Mick.” He let one hand go and stabbed his fingers through her hair, winding the silken flax around his palm to hold her in place. Then he covered her lush mouth and kissed her hard. His pulse raced at her sexy whimper and his cock thrilled to her legs lifting to wrap around his waist. She tasted like cool wine and hot woman. Damn, she was fine. He hilted again in a single powerful stroke, sucking in her cry like succor. After a year of craving her like the very devil, he'd never felt such need to possess a woman, to claim her, every part of her, for his own. He wanted to surround Caro with his body, invade her, devour her, so all she felt, all she saw, all she tasted, was him. She twined her free arm around his neck, clutching him close, not with helplessness but with fervor. Her eager mouth opened under his, allowing his tongue dazzling freedom to take and explore, rewarding his deep forays with ardent response. Their wet-slick tongues slid and hunted, probed and teased. No, not teased. This was too visceral for mere teasing. He skimmed his hand down her neck, over her chest, grasping her breast. Squeezed her taut nipple between his fingers.

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“I'm going to make you burn so hot we'll both be ashes in the morning,” he growled, stroking over the stiff bud with his thumb. “Too late,” she whispered, her lashes quivering on cheeks the color of flame. And she came apart in his arms, trembling like a dove, crying out with timorous pleasure. Surprise lanced through him, then pure male satisfaction. He had done this to her. With a few words and a single touch. Or maybe just by being inside her. Her response to him was like nothing he'd ever experienced. More than he'd dreamed of. She melted into him with a shuddering gasp and he moved his hands to support her thighs, helping her to wring every last pleasure from his throbbing lance. “You're mine now,” he said into her mouth as she moaned low and met his thrusts. “Mine.” She gave herself up to him, to his kiss, to his possession. Her surrender inflamed him as nothing else could. He wanted her on her back, under him. In the ageold position of total submission. So there would be no doubt in her mind that she now belonged to him, completely. He spun, and dropped to his knees, holding her tight. They crashed to the carpet, still joined, their mouths still fused in fluid consummation. Again she moaned, and clung, and he thought he'd burst for want of her. He stabbed deep, felt the barrier of her womb and still he wanted more. “Give me everything,” he ordered roughly. “Everything.” She whimpered, and her inner muscles lapped at his cock like hungry tongues, working up and down his shaft till he thought he'd explode. But not yet. First he'd have her body's surrender one more time. He bent to her breasts and caressed them with his cheek and his tongue. Her back arched and she gasped in pleasure, and he recalled her sweet dissolution at the stroke of his thumb on her nipple. He dragged his stubbled jaw over both, testing the limits of their sensitivity. Her

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body quaked and shuddered, she screamed, and as he closed his mouth over one kernel-hard tip, feasting on the sweet flesh, he felt her nails sink into his shoulders. His body detonated, lit by the fuse of her passion. Her passion for him. For he refused to believe this reaction would be gifted to just any man. He plunged into her, seeking his completion in the crush of her limbs and the husky sound of his own name as it tore from her throat. Hours later, Mick rolled off Caro and collapsed next to her on the bed. He wiped the sweat from his face, but he couldn't wipe the smile from his lips. Or the creeping unease from his insides. Jesus H. Christ, she'd taken him on a wild ride. When they’d finished on the floor, he'd lifted her to the coffee table and taken her there, and then had carried her to her big, soft bed. They'd practically tied knots in the sheets with their impatient greed for each other. He'd come three times himself and had lost count of how many times he'd coaxed her to climax in one way or another. And yeah, the bedroom walls were still echoing with her scream from that last one. Lord, how she'd screamed. He turned and dragged her close, draped her warm body over his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “You okay, baby?” She only managed a small groan, but her lips curved against his shoulder and her body nestled into his. At the tender movement, his disquiet blossomed. What had he done? He could barely justify his actions of tonight—blatantly seducing her, practically threatening her with expulsion from the task force if she didn't submit. The fact that she'd wanted it as badly as he, had participated in her own seduction ardently and willingly, made no difference. That she had given him everything he'd demanded, had innocently opened her body, and had, at his insistence, conceded her very will, just made it worse. She stirred, looked up into his face, reaching for a

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kiss. If he had a speck of honor, he'd toss her aside, roll off the bed, and walk out the door before they got any more involved. He, of all men, had no right to be in her bed. Aside from anything else, she was a cop! And his partner—however temporary. Hadn't he learned long ago that was a real bad mix? But Mick McGraw had no honor. He’d lost that a long, long time ago. Besides, he couldn't help himself. She tasted so good. Felt so right. He met her lips and melted into her mouth like a sucker. Their tongues tangled and danced, and pretty soon his cock was dancing right along. “Don't even think about it,” he muttered when her fingers crept down his stomach. “Any more action tonight and it'll fall off, I guarantee.” She giggled. A warm sound that lapped at the block of ice that passed for his heart. “Wounded in the line of duty, eh?” “I'll be limp for weeks.” “Poor baby. Lick your wounds?” He groaned. And rolled her under him. “Lady, you are just plain dangerous. I should get the cuffs and arrest you.” She slanted him a coquettish smile. “For what?” “Assault with a deadly weapon.” Her body. He loved the way it fit against him. Lush and curvy in all the right places. Soft. The way she eagerly spread her long legs for him, and gave a little wriggle of pleasure when he slid into her. Fuck. He gripped her jaw between his fingers and kissed her until he couldn't breathe. Just one more time wouldn't hurt. Much. Then he would leave and they could get back to just being partners. Neither of them wanted to get involved. This was just lust. That's all. Pure physical relief from the tension of the case and the weird sexual electricity that had zapped between them for the past year. Her hips waggled under his and he caught himself just

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before he pushed into her unprotected. “Shit, these things are a pain,” he cursed as he swiftly sheathed himself and sank into her sultry heat. He expected it to sting like crazy after the raw, unbridled punishment he'd given them both for the past few hours. But it just felt good. Not feverish good. But warm, satisfying, comfortable good. He sighed, and something shifted deep in his soul. Suddenly, he found himself shuffling things in his mind. Would it be so wrong to get comfortable with Caro, just for a while? It had been a long time since he'd even thought about wanting something more from a woman than a few nights of mindless gratification. And that scared the crap out of him. The whole situation was impossible. Especially now. He couldn't get comfortable with Caro, or anyone else. Chances were he wouldn’t be around long enough to get comfortable, anyway. So he withdrew, turned her, pulled her to her hands and knees, and mounted her from behind. He was still curved over her back when they both fell asleep from sheer exhaustion half an hour later. The horizon was just beginning to show a sliver of blue underneath a black sky when Mick woke and quietly slid out of her bed. As always, he grabbed his Beretta from under the pillow, then carefully gathered up the ripped condom packets from around the apartment and stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans as he pulled them on. He made it a habit not to leave evidence lying around. It was the small details that usually got a man in trouble. Taking one last look at her moonlit, sleeping form, her tousled hair spread across the pillow they'd shared, he slipped from the bedroom and went straight out to the Z parked in the driveway. He needed to make a quick trip to his apartment. After tossing the condom wrappers in the dumpster in the parking lot on his way to his building, he went upstairs

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and changed into gym shorts and sneaks. He did his stretching, then started on the five mile circuit he ran every morning at five a.m.. Today he had a new stop to add to the route. And he was late. The old craftsman bungalows of the Connors' neighborhood were silent and dark as he loped along in the pre-dawn light. He paused by a large oak and jogged in place, examining the manicured lawn and yard of the Connors' house from a distance. A length of bright yellow crime scene tape had been missed by the clean-up crew. It fluttered incongruously against a magenta azalea bush, the only outward sign of the brutal crime which had taken place within the home's snug, comfy confines just two weeks before. But Mick could still see the victim's blood in his mind, and the grotesque expression on the face of the man in the chair, echoing the pain and surprise which had overwhelmed him as he'd met his violent death. Mick gave his head a sharp shake to clear it, then ran to the end of the block where an unmarked car kept vigil for the killer's possible reappearance on the scene. As he passed by, the plain clothes cop reclining in the passenger's seat lifted his chin in greeting, and gave him a thumb's down. No suspicious sightings tonight. Proceeding north and east, he made his way across the six-odd blocks that separated the two first crime scenes and ran past the Atkins' place. The officer on watch had gotten permission to park his small camper nights in the driveway of a neighboring house. In the murky cave of the interior, a silhouette waved and shook its head at him. Nothing here, either. Unsurprised, Mick made the turn onto Elizabeth Street, leg muscles straining, and proceeded west toward the newest victims' house. As he ran he slicked the sweat from his brow with a forearm, and was suddenly assailed by the perfume of Caro's body. His steps faltered and he put his hands to his nose and inhaled deeply. Remembered what it had felt

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like to hold her in his arms. To touch her intimately. High on the adrenalin of a night of unrestrained sex and three miles of pounding pavement, his blood's reaction was instant and primal. He wanted to turn and sprint down the street that would take him back to her duplex, and claim her all over again. Cover her with his body and the scent of his hunger. Wresting himself away from the powerful urge, he pointed his sneakers south, in the direction of yesterday's crime scene. Jogging slowly past the Tailor/Slocum house, he stopped next to an unmarked cruiser a few doors down. “Anything?” “Not a peep,” answered Brady Washington, who had been assigned stake-out duty for the first few nights, along with his partner, Denny. “Got four drive-by's. Called them in, so the reports should be on your desk when you get there.” Mick glanced at his watch as he bent over his knees, catching his breath. Already six a.m.. “Good. I'll be in by seven.” Taking the license plate numbers of everyone who drove by the scenes was a long-shot and everyone knew it. But you never could tell what would be the key to solving a case. And killers like this always came back, eventually, to help relive the crime in their fantasies. Oh, yeah. He’d be back. The trick was to recognize him when you saw him. “We'll call you with the morning list before we knock off,” Brady said, and waved. Mick trotted away toward Mountain Ave and the main loop of his circuit. His thigh muscles were screaming and sweat poured off him by the time he'd powered around the Arroyo Seco to the Rose Bowl and back to his own red brick apartment building in a transitional section of Old Town. Behind schedule, he didn't bother to make coffee before he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. As he turned on the taps full-blast, he put his

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fingers to his nose and breathed in the lingering pleasures of the previous night one last time. And wondered how the hell he was going to get through the day without pushing her into a closet somewhere and reliving them firsthand. Caroline woke up with a smile on her face and a sweet sting between her legs. She hadn't felt this well and thoroughly fucked since...well, since ever. Mick McGraw was a wizard with his cock, and fiendishly inventive to boot. Oh, man. She didn't think she'd walk for a week. If she was vaguely embarrassed by her wanton loss of control under his wicked coaching, it had been well worth it. The man had fulfilled every fantasy she'd ever entertained about him, and several she would never have thought of. Without opening her eyes she reached across to where she expected him to be sleeping, as replete and exhausted as she. But the other side of the bed was empty. “Mick?” She hoisted a droopy eyelid and scanned the bedroom. Silence hung about the room, as thick as the scent of sex in the air. No sign of her demon lover. No jeans on the floor. No strong, naked limbs buried in the pillows scattered across the top of the rumpled bed, other than her own. His phone, his gun, even the condom packets they had littered the floor with were gone. He'd left her. She let out a curse. Then another, in reaction to the first. Hell. She gave herself a swift mental kick and strangled the irrational emotions that threatened to swamp over her at his desertion. Stupid feelings, of hurt and betrayal. She took a deep breath. It was all cool. There was no place in her life for a man, she reminded herself. Especially McGraw. He was her boss for chrissakes. Talk about the stupidest thing she’d ever done in her life! She didn’t even want to think about the possibility that he’d

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just been using her. Priming the pump, as it were, to make them more believable as a couple at Brimstone. That would be too damn mortifying. On the other hand, who gave a damn? She was not interested in a relationship, and she’d told him that. Particularly not with a man who could sink her hopes and dreams, career-wise, with a single word. And if he could sink her, she had equal power over his continued employment. Yeah, she could handle Mick McGraw. By making a precipitous exit, he had only done what she wanted. What was best for both of them. So why was she so damn frustrated? Feeling like, just once in her life, she'd like to meet a man who had the balls to defy her wishes. Someone who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to demand it of her. Who would reach into her heart and rip it out, if need be, just to get her to feel something. Someone stronger, meaner and tougher than she was. Someone like Mick had been last night. Fuck him for making her think he really wanted her. Scowling, she glanced at the clock. If she tried to get up now she'd probably collapse. Tonight they'd be at Brimstone until all hours. Surely he wouldn't dare say a word if she came in a little late from getting an extra hour's sleep—considering it was his fault that she hadn't gotten any to begin with. She turned over and slammed her eyes shut. And if he didn’t like it, that was just too damn bad. At ten o'clock, she walked into the task force room and looked around for an empty desk. She felt jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Memories of the scandalous things she and Mick had done in her bed last night swirled into a giddy dread of seeing him. How would he treat her, now that they’d become lovers? Would he look at her with that special, sexy light in his eyes she'd melted beneath so many times last night? Or would he not even remember her name this morning...? “You're late, Officer Palmer.”

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His crisp, chilly observation cracked across the room, lifting heads all around. It was all the answer she needed. Last night had meant less than nothing to him, judging by the censure on his face. Recoiling from the involuntary hurt, Caroline felt her heart curl into a tight ball and creep back into the recesses of her innermost self. Back to where it had resided for most of her life. Screw him. Who needed the lying jerk anyway? She could handle this assignment much better without the complication. She made herself stand straight and tall, unwilling to back down. As she had every time she’d confronted her father. “Since we'll be going undercover tonight, I thought—” “We're all pulling twelve hour days, Palmer. You can put in your overtime just like everyone else.” Her father had never given an inch, either. “That will make an eighteen hour day, in case you have trouble adding,” she gritted out. “Deal with it. I needed the daily update an hour ago. Get on it.” For a split second the temptation to deliver a smack on his overbearing cheek nearly overwhelmed her. “Yes, sir,” she said instead. He would not goad her into giving up this chance in Homicide. She might have made a colossal mistake last night, but she wasn’t the only one. If he thought by fucking her he could intimidate her as well, he had another think coming. With deliberate calm, she set her purse on an empty desk and took the stack of individual reports he thrust at her. And for the rest of the morning she ignored the bastard. At lunchtime she slipped out from the tense camaraderie of the task force as the other members organized sandwiches and sodas from a nearby take-out place, and went downstairs to SIS. “Hey, querida!” Julio met her with a big hug, which she happily returned. Now, here was a man who knew how to treat a

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woman right. Just figured he was gay. “Yo, Palmer! How is it working for the Iceman?” called Lieutenant Bridger from across the room. “Better check me for frostbite,” she returned sardonically. But something in her eyes must have betrayed her, because Julio peered into them suspiciously. After parrying a few more teasing remarks from the squad, she let him lead her back to their desk in the corner. “What's happened?” he murmured and put his arms around her. “And don' tell me nothin', chica,” he said in his smooth Hispanic lilt. She shook her head, not wanting to go into the gory details. “I fucked up, Jul. Big-time.” She reached up and pulled the strings of his shark-tooth bolo tie. “Why don't I ever listen to myself?” He studied her for a second, then his jaw dropped. “Ay Dios! You slept with him!” She let out a humorless chuckle. “Actually, there wasn't a lot of sleeping involved. At least not for him. When I woke up he'd already gone.” “The cad,” Julio muttered with a deadly expression. “And this morning I suppose he's back to treating you like a peon, or you wouldn' be down here moping.” “I am not moping. I came to see you.” His expression softened. “You're a terrible liar, you know.” “Am not. So, how are you?” she asked pointedly. “Me?” He shrugged, apparently going along with her change of subject for the moment. “You mean aside from having another knock-down drag-out with Barry?” She looped her arms around his neck. “Oh, Jul. I'm so sorry.” He pulled her close. “Thanks. I don' know what to do. He stayed out all night. Again. I'm sure he's found someone else.” “He wouldn't dare. Doesn't he know he's got the best man in the country?” She held him for a moment, then

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gave a humorless chuckle. “Jeez, what a pair we are. Sure you wouldn't consider going straight?” He laughed, kissing her nose. “For you, querida, I just might give it a try.” From the door, Mick's voice cut through the air like a whip. “This how you spend your time in SIS, Palmer? It's a wonder you ever close cases.” “Well, if it isn' the ever-tactful Detective McGraw,” Julio observed dryly. “Qué pasa, Detective?” “What are you doing here?” Mick asked Caro stonily. “It's lunch break,” she answered evenly, disentangling herself from Julio’s comforting embrace to turn and face McGraw. Her partner’s arms remained supportively around her. She leaned back onto his chest and leveled a gaze at the man she'd spent most of the night under. And had to catch her breath. How he managed to look so fresh and unrumpled and sexy on the amount of sleep he'd gotten astounded her. He closed in on her and the chiseled angles of his clean-shaven jaw grew sharper. “We usually spend lunch brainstorming task force strategies. Everyone is expected to participate.” She crossed her arms against the unwanted erotic pull of his nearness, against the sensual familiarity of his every feature up-close, luring her to reach out and touch him. “I'm sure no one noticed I wasn't there.” His eyes narrowed. “I noticed.” “Well, maybe you should have told me.” “I'm telling you now.” She bit back a retort, resenting the way he obviously expected her to jump to his command. As she had last night. The difference was, last night she’d been temporarily blinded by lust. She gave him a cool smile. “What's the matter, McGraw? Get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Mick's ice-blue eyes drilled into hers. “No.” “Maybe he just got up too early,” Julio offered into the tight silence. “I hear gettin’ up too early can mess

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with a man's temper. An’ his good judgment.” Ignoring him, Mick stated, “Agent Woodruff will be here in a few minutes to help interview the friends of the victims and go through the Brimstone employee files. I don't like having to chase after my people. Don't make me do it again.” With that, he stalked to the door and waited. The whole squad turned to see what she'd do. “Better go before he blows a gasket,” Julio muttered, giving her a quick kiss behind the ear and a little swat on the butt. “Traitor,” she hissed beneath her breath, batting at his hand for smacking her ass, which he knew she hated. Nevertheless she did what he suggested, clamping her jaw against saying something she might regret. When they got to the elevator, Mick stabbed the button and emptied his displeasure on her full-force. “What the hell was that all about? You told him?” The elevator opened and she was herded in like a recalcitrant mare by a stallion. “I didn't have to,” she said, turning on him, suddenly strangely composed. “What’s the matter, McGraw? Worried?” She stepped close and stroked down his tie, slowly continuing the path down his abdomen with her hands. She’d show him what the hell this was all about. “Caro...” he warned. “Hmm?” She kept right on going and slid a hand between his thighs, cupping the weight of his balls in her palm. She was gratified when he sucked in a breath, his eyes flaring momentarily in shock. “Afraid I'll tell everyone how much you like being touched—” she twirled them gently in her hand, stroking the sweet spot right behind with her middle finger “—like this?” She smiled as his body reacted powerfully. His hand shot out to hit the elevator's stop button. The car lurched to a halt.

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“I'm not afraid of anything.” He stood there watching her as she caressed him, cool as a cucumber and just as hard. “We left our badges outside the door last night, remember? But now we've got them back on, so cut it out.” “Maybe I should just cut them off,” she softly suggested, and gave his sac a squeeze. “Try it.” He didn't even flinch. Just gave her an enigmatic quirk of his lips, revealing nothing of his thoughts. It was maddening. She was sorely tempted to squeeze harder. “Fuck you.” His smile became more sinister. “Later.” Someone on the floor above pounded heavily on the doors to the elevator shaft, making her jump. “You gonna do something more interesting with that hand or should I let the elevator go?” Mick drawled. She yanked her hand away and he calmly pressed the release button on the panel. With a jerk, the car ascended to the next floor. The door whooshed open and he strode out, pointing to a small camera in the corner of the elevator's ceiling. “Now, smile real sweet for the surveillance tape,” he said with a look of infuriating smugness. Ah, hell.

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Chapter Six Caroline sank her forehead against the wall next to the elevator. Damn, damn, damn. How brilliant had that move been? She'd completely forgotten about the security cameras that had been installed in the elevator due to the increased threat of terrorism. Now she’d have to do whatever he wanted, if he had a mind to make her. He could say she seduced him and they’d believe him— The whole thing had been caught on tape. And he'd known it all along. The bastard. How on earth had this happened to her? In less than forty-eight hours she’d gone from being offered a once-ina-lifetime opportunity to fast-track her dream of transferring to Homicide, to possibly killing any chance of staying there by sleeping with her superior officer, to subsequently being royally fucked by him. Damn, damn, damn. Jeez, what a mess. She'd end up in a straitjacket if she had to face these explosive feelings and situations every day. Should she bail out now while she still had a modicum of dignity left? No. She could handle this. She could handle him. She would reason with him. Suggest they both just forget any of it ever happened. Suggest they start over with a clean slate. And keep their hands off each other. Both of them. Maybe then she could work with him. It wouldn’t be easy. But she owed it to herself to try. She would not blow this chance because of a bad case of unruly hormones. “Mick!” she called after his retreating form, and hurried to catch up. “I need to talk to you.” “You can do that later, too,” he said without breaking

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stride. “Right after you fuck me.” She didn't have time to do more than grind her teeth and think about lifting her foot and kicking him in the shins when Bobby and Tim Woodruff suddenly emerged from the task force center. “You found her,” Bobby said cheerfully to Mick. Sorely tempted, she nevertheless dropped her foot to the floor and tapped it impatiently instead. “In SIS. She must miss it.” Mick greeted Woodruff with a quick handshake. Without so much as a glance at her, he took a sheaf of files Bobby handed him and started down the corridor to one of the interview rooms. Bobby gazed after him with a slightly raised brow, then leaned in to her. “Naughty, naughty. Detective McGraw doesn't like sharing his slaves with anyone. Better not let him catch you in SIS again.” “He won't have to.” She crossed her arms mutinously. “He’s going to fire my ass any second.” Bobby slung an arm around her shoulder, compelling her to follow McGraw and Woodruff. “Now, that’s not true and you know it.” “I’m not kidding. Honest to God, Bobby. I don’t know if I can work with the man. He's a complete prick.” Bobby chuckled. “I agree. But he's an equal opportunity prick. That's what makes him so good. The bad guys don't stand a chance. For some reason this case has him more wound up than I've ever seen him. My advice? Just do what he says and ignore the rest. If he likes you, he'll get you rotated into Homicide permanently. That's what you want, isn't it?” It was. More than ever, not that she’d had a taste of it. “That's beside the point,” she said, puffing out a breath. “He doesn't like me. Not one damn bit.” “Oh, yes he does. He does, indeed.” They'd arrived at the door to Interview 3 where Tim and Mick waited for them, so Caro didn't have time to ponder what Bobby could have meant by that ridiculous remark.

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“We'll be interviewing several close friends of the victims,” Tim explained before they went inside. “The idea is to put together a profile of the victims' patterns of behavior as couples. That way we'll better know how Mick and Caroline should interact at the club, Brimstone, to attract the attention of our subject.” Mick nodded. “That will be helpful.” Caro kept her mouth firmly closed, determined to turn things around. She followed the others into the room, buoyed by the thought that she was about to learn things few people, even detectives, were privileged to study. Tim’s professional insights into the killer’s mind were fascinating. This was what she loved to do. Over the course of the next few hours, Caro forgot completely about her problems with Mick and immersed herself in the dark world of the sociopath for whom they were setting their trap. One by one, the victims' friends were called in. Caro sat with Bobby at the far end of the table, observing and taking notes while Tim conducted the interviewees through an extensive set of personal questions about their friends' personalities and habits. Occasionally, Mick would throw in a question, and once she did, too. “Do you happen to know if Ms Tailor enjoyed receiving oral sex?” she asked Wendy’s best girlfriend, the woman who had found the bodies. The men turned to stare at her in surprise, but she ignored them, concentrating on the friend’s expression. “Well, yes,” she answered, squirming a little in her seat. “We did talk about that once or twice. She liked it a lot. They both did.” “Interesting. Thank you.” Then she clammed up. Over the afternoon a pretty good picture emerged of each couple, which led to some interesting conclusions about the killer. Afterwards, Tim recapped what they had learned. “You were right on target about them all dabbling in BDSM, Mick,” he said. “Though it seems far more likely it’s just experimentation rather than a permanent

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lifestyle.” Mick nodded. “Yeah, sounds like they definitely enjoyed leather and dressing up, especially the women. I'm going to get FSI to go through their closets again and make a detailed list of any overtly sexual outfits. Might help our targeting.” “Good idea,” Tim agreed. “Visuals can be very important.” Mick narrowed his eyes on Caro. “Why did you ask them about oral sex?” She swallowed against the memories inspired by the words, of Mick’s mouth on her last night, and responded coolly, “I’d think it would be obvious to such a gifted detective.” “Why don’t you enlighten me.” She took a breath. “All three autopsies indicated the women serviced the men orally, but not vice versa. That seemed like a strange coincidence to me. Especially considering the emphasis they put on that area of their bodies.” “Emphasis?” Bobby asked. “The wax jobs. That’s not something most women would do just for themselves. Too much work to maintain. They did it for their men. It’s an invitation. If not for oral sex, then for what?” Tim nodded, looking interested. “Go on.” “I’m thinking their sexual routines the night of their deaths may have been different than usual. Disrupted maybe. It could be because of other circumstances, but it could also be because of the killer.” “Excellent observation,” Tim said, jotting more notes on his yellow pad. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind at Brimstone,” Mick stated dryly. Pointedly ignoring him, she asked Tim, “What about the rest of their behaviors? Anything jump out at you?” “As you heard, the men were all very controlling, at least sexually. They liked to be in charge, and kept their women on a tight leash—literally. Mick, this is what you'll

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need to emulate.” “That'll be a stretch,” Caro muttered, unconcerned when it drew a sharp scowl from him. Two could play the power game. If he thought she’d just roll over for him, he was in for a surprise. “And you, Caroline, you should concentrate on being completely submissive.” She darted a dagger look at Mick, who sat back with an infuriatingly smug curl at the corner of his impassive lip. In your dreams, hombre. “Despite outward appearances, these women all enjoyed being dominated by the men in their personal lives, and there is no doubt it was a key factor in why the killer chose these particular couples. Something in that submissive behavior may be triggering his rage. Enough to make him track them down and kill them.” Frowning, she thought about her own mysterious reaction to Mick's not-so-subtle domination last night, and said, “I just don't get it. These were all smart, strong, professional women. One was a lawyer, for crying out loud! Why would any sane, intelligent woman like being bullied and abused by a man? Especially her own husband?” Tim chuckled. “You wouldn't think so, would you? However, you have to bear in mind, this is not bullying or abuse. Rather, it is intimate, sexual behavior, which is bound up with fantasy. Sexual fantasy has vastly different rules than reality, ones that are often far from politically correct. This is certainly not behavior these women would have tolerated from anyone other than a trusted sexual partner.” “I still don't get it. Why would she take it from him? What's the attraction?” Tim considered. “Lots of things. The more a person must be strong and in-control in the real world, the more seductive the fantasy is just to kick back, so to speak, and let someone else make all the decisions in one's private life. Provided it is a loving, trusted partner, on whom the person can rely to make good decisions for them both.”

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Caro thought about that. Reluctantly she admitted it made a certain amount of sense. It had been so easy last night, once she had made the decision to sleep with Mick, to let him take over and direct things how he wanted them. She'd been so caught up in what he was doing to her she'd never even noticed her own acquiescence. Uncomfortable with that bit of inner revelation, she couldn’t help thinking about her own background. Was that how her mother had been roped into her passive, subservient role with her father? Had it started in bed and simply mushroomed from there? Lord, she definitely didn’t want to think about that visual. “But still, we're not talking about deciding which restaurant to go to,” she said. “We're talking about being tied up and having sex in front of a stranger! There is a huge difference.” Tim smiled. “Not really. These women were living out their deepest, darkest sexual fantasies. It's all about letting go, relinquishing control and giving power to your partner. Bondage is the ultimate act of trust—trusting your partner to know you well enough to fulfill your fantasy, but not to hurt you.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Surely, you've fantasized about being tied up by a favorite lover, Caroline?” She blanched. Mick's posture was casual, but she felt his eyes laser in on her. Okay, so maybe she had fantasized about being tied up and helpless with a man. Once or twice. So what? She crossed her legs. “Lots of women fantasize about that. It doesn't mean they'd actually do it in real life.” “And why not, do you think?” She shifted under the profiler's serious gaze and Mick's calculating one. “Well, because...because being tied up and taken against your will is rape.” “That’s a strong word, Caroline. Is it rape even if it’s a willing, consensual act with someone you love and trust?” She swallowed. Jeez, how had they gotten into this discussion? “Well, no, I guess not,” she conceded. “Exactly. The difference is the love and the trust. In a

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Master/slave relationship, the slave loves the Master and trusts his decisions in all things. She willingly relinquishes her will and her control. Sometimes just over her body, sometimes more—over her emotions, her intellect, even over her very life. Those are the choices she makes when she becomes his slave. Our victims had obviously not gone that far in their Dominant/submissive relationships as to become a total lifestyle. And they undoubtedly never would have. Theirs was more of a pleasure slave role, which is far more common. Submission in the sexual realm only. She enjoyed the fantasy of being helpless and he enjoyed his power over her. Both based on trust. And that’s what you need to convey to the killer with your behavior at Brimstone, Caroline. That you trust Mick's decisions concerning your sexual pleasure and will go along with whatever sexual demands he makes of you. Including being tied up and having sex in front of a stranger, if he asks it. That is the key to luring this guy into your trap.” Tim regarded her closely. “Do you trust Mick, Caroline?” “About as far as I can spit,” she muttered. Mick rose from his chair and came up behind her, sliding his fingers around the back of her neck. “We're partners for this operation. Cops know they can trust their partners. She'll do fine.” “I hope so,” Tim remarked, glancing between the two of them. “Because both your lives depend on it.” After the meeting broke up, Mick laid into her on the walk back to the task force. “What the hell was that about?” he demanded. “You don’t trust me?” “It’s not like you’ve given me a whole lot of reason to,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. Halting, he grabbed her arm and stood toe to toe with her. “You’re joking, right? You can say that after last night?” “It’s because of last night I don’t trust you.” “Bullshit,” he said, glanced around and lowered his

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voice. “You would have done anything I asked last night, including letting me tie you up if I’d wanted to.” She shifted in his grip, averting her eyes when two patrol cops walked past giving them curious looks. “Last night was a mistake, Mick. One that won’t be repeated.” “We’ll see about that,” he said, making her stomach zing at the same time as her mouth dropped open. “Are you threatening me?” “No threats necessary. Just stating facts.” Suddenly, a scowl creased his brow. “You’re not trying to get out of this assignment, are you?” She scowled right back up at him, her insides warring between her need to escape the chaotic sexual feelings this man brought out in her every time they were in the same room together, and her ambition to work in Homicide. “Because if you are, it’s not going to happen,” he said. “The operation’s been approved and there's no time to find anyone else. Besides, you've been officially reassigned, and the lieutenant will want to know the real reason you've changed your mind. What are you going to tell him?” “Mick, I haven’t changed my mind about the operation,” she said, fighting the awareness. “Good thing.” His merciless gaze drilled into her. “Because there's a little matter of that security tape from the elevator...” She gasped. “That's blackmail!” A negligent shoulder lifted as he resumed walking. “Whatever it takes.” At the task force door he turned to her. “Shift's changing now. Go home and start getting ready. I'll pick you up at nine.” With that, he disappeared through the door and closed it in her face. She took a deep breath to stop her outraged sputtering. Of all the unmitigated nerve! Lord, he was insufferable! So insufferable, he probably had no clue why she didn’t trust him, or why she was so angry. Hell, judging

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from his remarks he probably even thought he'd be welcome into her bed again tonight. Yeah, when hell froze over. The selfish, arrogant bastard had sealed his own fate by walking out on her this morning and ignoring her all day. Besides, she wasn't about to get involved with a man who tried to control her through blackmail—emotional or literal. No matter how great a lover he was. Not a chance. He'd never touch her again. If she was going to get through this with her career and her sanity intact, she'd have to establish some strict rules. She'd do her job, then go home and purge her obnoxious boss from her thoughts. That's how it had to be. And that's how it would be, whether he liked it or not. Mick strode into his office and slammed the folders in his hand onto the desk. Over his dead body. No way in hell was Caro shutting him out. Unless she wanted to create a messy scene in front of God, Chief Trujillo and everyone else at the PPD, things were going to stay exactly as they were. She was a vital part of his carefully implemented plan. He was in way too deep to stop things now, even if he could. Or wanted to. Which he didn’t. He’d risked everything on this. Up to and including his own life. And he knew damned well he'd never be able to pull it off with anyone but Caroline Palmer. He needed her. However that had happened. Damn, the woman had a stubborn streak wide as Kansas. All day today, from being late, to the incident in the elevator, to just now pretending she didn’t trust him, she'd provoked him over and over, until it was all he could do not to slam her against the wall and teach her a thing or two about what happened to women who sassed. Or disobeyed. But that would never do. It would definitely blow his Iceman image all to hell. And now was not the time to redefine Detective Mick McGraw. The big chill suited him

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just fine. Kept things at the department nice and businesslike, which was just how he wanted them. How he needed them for his plan to work. Annoying woman. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why Caro was so pissed at him. They'd made an agreement last night. Now she seemed to think he'd somehow broken it. Or maybe that he should break it. Who the hell knew. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension clawing at him. Damn. He should have fired her yesterday while he still had the willpower. Before he'd gotten a taste of her. For her. Because now that he had, regardless of how much he knew he should just walk away, there was no way he would. Not yet. Not until he had to. He jetted out a breath. She wasn't going to like his decision to move in with her, either. Tim had brought it up again when they'd talked this afternoon, and Mick couldn't argue with his reasoning. A killer as clever and organized as the one they were dealing with would never miss something as obvious as them not living together. It was too big a risk not to. No, Mick would just have to change her mind with a little friendly persuasion. His body tightened at the thought. He might have grave reservations about developing an emotional interest in Caro, but physically, he was already craving her like a drug. Last night had been nothing short of mind-blowing. The eager innocence and excitement of her response had turned him on like no one had ever done before. She had given over her body to him without reservation, following his lead, letting him do as he wished with her. Though he deliberately hadn't taken her beyond the normal excesses of an—albeit unusually tumultuous—first-time fuck, he'd instinctively felt she was open to anything with him. He’d known she was. It was an incendiary situation, and their potent chemistry would make them a convincing couple at

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Brimstone, more than likely to attract attention. And hopefully the notice of the man he was trying to lure into his trap. So here at the station she could be just as stubborn and annoying as ever, and he'd just keep playing it cool, biding his time until they went home. But at night, he planned to take advantage of their chemistry. Full advantage. He and Caro fit together like a gun and holster, and he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to do a little more quick draw practice. Tonight at Brimstone...tonight it was going to be a pure damned pleasure to bring her over to his way of thinking. He glanced at his watch. He was due to pick her up in just over an hour, and there were a few things he had to do first. Grabbing the phone, he dialed the number for his friend Jeff Cody at LAPD. They had been on patrol together back in the old days. Jeff was the only one at LAPD he had even considered asking to work surveillance for this undercover thing. “Hey, buddy. Is everything all set for tonight?” “Sure thing, Mick. We'll have a couple of people inside, and three teams parked outside the club—one in the lot next door and two on the street out front. They'll be taking down license plates to compare with your crime scene lists.” “Sounds good. And they'll be following us home when we leave?” “Two of the cars will take turns tailing you back to Pasadena, looking for anyone from the club or who even just looks suspicious. You have coverage once you get home, right?” “There's a team staking out Caro's place until the case is solved.” “Ouch. Your guys are putting in a lot of overtime, eh?” “The mayor's getting antsy.” Cody laughed. “Don't they always. Got your cell phone?” “Right in my back pocket. The men have the number?”

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“Yep, and the dispatcher, too. Sure you don’t want to wear a wire?” “Not necessary. I doubt you could hear anything in the club anyway. See you tonight.” Before Mick left the station for his apartment, he checked in with Denny and Brady, whom he'd pulled from duty at the last scene to do the stakeout in front of Caro's. He’d wanted someone dependable, who knew him by sight. “You'll be there at one a.m.?” “We'll be in a white Ford, parked a couple of houses down,” Denny confirmed. “Good.” Mick didn't expect trouble, not tonight, but it was better to be safe than have things blow up and not be prepared. He glanced at his watch again and realized he'd have to hustle to make it to Caro's on time. He hated being late. Once home, he packed a gym bag with a few toiletries, several running outfits and a couple pairs of sneakers. That should hold him for a while sleeping over at her place. After a quick shower, he went to the closet and donned his new leather gear. Black pants, harness and boots. Mick definitely liked power sex, along with acting out his and his partner’s fantasies. But to this day he'd never allowed himself to indulge in actual props. Far too dangerous. But tonight he had no choice. This was the only way to trap the murderer who belonged in the deepest level of hell. He stared at himself in the mirror, torn between excitement and horror. Just as everything else about this case, the image reflected back in the mirror hit way too close to home. For a lifetime he'd been running from a man who looked just like this. His father had liked black leather a whole lot. He had lived his own sick domination fantasies—but he hadn't been acting. Fantasies that played more like nightmares to a young wife and child growing up

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under the constant threat of their violence—until a tenyear-old boy had turned it right back against him. Little had that boy known the real nightmares were just beginning. But now it was time for Mick to put an end to them once and for all. This would be his last, best chance. He added a few finishing touches to his look and went to get his keys along with a jewelry box from his dresser. As he reached for them he paused to dig an old framed picture from deep in one of the drawers. The face of his mother beamed back at him. Her eyes were closed as she lay back on a giant white beach towel. She looked so happy in that picture. It was an outing to the ocean he vividly recalled—one of the few good memories he had from childhood, just days before she’d been taken from him. As always, an overwhelming sense of guilt flooded through him. He should have been able to help her that day. He should have saved her. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “I swear I’ll do it right this time.” With that he hid the photo back in the drawer, far from the sight of prying eyes. Returning his gaze to his mirrored reflection one last time, a chill rolled slowly down his spine and back up again. He took a deep calming breath and turned away. He was not his father. He'd spent the last thirty-six years making damn sure he wasn't. But things had come full circle; the sins of the father had come back to possess the son. And here he was, all dressed up in black leather, inviting his own personal demons in with open arms. Now he must be extra strong, extra vigilant. Always stay in absolute, complete control. For his mother. And for Caro. For nothing frightened him more than the fact that he actually was the man in the mirror.

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Chapter Seven Naturally, Mick was early. When the doorbell rang, Caro had just finished putting on the black leather miniskirt and demi-bra they'd bought for her at the bondage gear shop. Quickly, she slipped into her spike-heeled shoes. Here goes nothing. She opened the door and Mick walked into the living room carrying a gym bag. He took one look at her and said, “Baby, you look good enough to eat.” He swept her into his arms, his lips crushing down on hers. She gave a gasp of surprise, unintentionally opening herself to his deep, thorough kiss. Her body reacted instantly, melting at his touch. She was so stunned, for a minute she just let him kiss her—okay, so maybe a little more than a minute—completely ruining her plans to keep at least four feet between herself and the man at all times. Then she came to her senses and tried to pull away. He held her tight. “God, I've been wanting to do this all day.” He lowered his lips to hers again. “You were driving me out of my mind.” She turned her head, avoiding his assault. “You have got to be kidding.” “I never kid.” He grasped her chin and turned her back, seeking her mouth. “Ever.” “Wait.” She struggled, knowing if his lips succeeded in meeting hers again she'd be a goner. “Stop! Detective!” At the safe word, he halted in mid-kiss and straightened, marginally loosening his grip on her. “What's wrong?”

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“What's wrong?” She pushed away and glared at him incredulously. “What's wrong? You treat me like pond scum all day and then have the fucking nerve to come here and ask what's wrong?” His brows furrowed. “I didn't treat you any differently than I always do. Or than I treat anyone else. I was only honoring our deal. Caroline, is this about that trust thing? Because—” “What the hell do you think?” She planted her fists on her hips. “By agreeing to leave our badges at the door, do you honestly think I meant you should disappear before I wake up, ignore me on the job and act like nothing has changed between us? Last night you pretended to be contemptuous of men who gave me that old line! But you’re exactly like them.” “I’m not the least bit like them. Not remotely.” “Oh? And how’s that?” she spat out. He stepped closer. “Because I'm not married, that's how. And because regardless of how we interact at the station, I promise that for as long as you and I are together, I won't so much as look at another woman.” Momentarily taken aback, she gaped. Then she frowned, unwilling to be side-tracked into that irrationally appealing thought. “You and I are not together,” she countered stiffly. Picking up the gym bag, he calmly walked toward the bedroom. “Okay, so what's the big problem, then?” Lord, he was exasperating. She let out a noise of frustration, following him down the hall. “You know damned well what I mean! We had sex together, Mick. Lots of sex. I did things with you I've—” She halted at the doorway. “Would it kill you to be civil to me during the day?” “I'm not the civil type, Caro. People would notice.” He stopped and looked at her with eyes narrowed. “Is that what you want? People to notice you're sleeping with your commanding officer?” “No,” she said. That was the very last complication she wanted. Their sleeping together was against

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department rules big-time. The chief would pull her off the task force and out of Homicide in a heartbeat if he thought they were sexually involved. “No, I don't want that,” she repeated. “In fact, I don’t want to sleep—” “All right, then,” he interrupted. “Come on, sugar. People will be talking enough as it is with me moving in here, I didn't—” “What?” She stared at him, the gym bag he was depositing on the bedroom floor finally registering. “You are not moving in—” “Agent Woodruff was right.” The zipper scraped along her nerves as he opened the bag and withdrew a small necessaire of toiletries and glanced up. “This killer is smart. Staying five minutes after I drop you off is not going to fool anyone. I'm going to need a key.” “No. No way.” Mick plopped the nécessaire onto the bathroom counter, and did a double-take in the mirror. “After last night I figured I was good for at least a couple more nights with you.” Taking a tissue, he wiped a smear of lipstick from his chin and looked at her searchingly. “Or maybe I'm wrong and you didn't like me being inside you as much as I liked being there.” She flushed, and her whole body hummed, remembering exactly how much she had loved the feel of him inside her. “That’s beside the point. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to—” “To what?” He walked over and touched his fingers to her cheek, trailed them slowly down her throat. She tipped her head back and looked up at him, soaking in the overwhelming power of his masculinity. He looked devastatingly sexy in his leather pants and harness, silver chains dangling from the latigo and a small multistrand whip hanging down the side of his leg. He was so tall and his shoulders so broad she felt as though he could swallow her up completely if he had half a mind to. Her resistance started to melt. He traced a finger along her collarbone, absorbing her confusion through its heated caress. “Because I don't mind

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telling you, last night, you and me, it was the best it's ever been. I didn't know it could get that good.” At his murmured confession, her willpower took another nose dive. “We could both get into trouble—” “Only if someone finds out. I won’t tell if you don’t.” His hands glided onto her shoulders and gently tugged her closer. “Okay, so neither of us wants a relationship. But what's the harm in just...enjoying each other a little?” She knew the reasonable answer to that, but there in the circle of his arms, surrounded by the musky scent of leather and male, she was hard-pressed to say the words. He felt so good... Out in the living room the chirp of a cell phone sounded, startling her out of his sensual spell. Just in the nick of time. His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Damn. That'll be Cody.” “Mick, I'm sorry. I’ve made up my mind,” she said in her most authoritative voice as he let her go. “You'll have to sleep on the couch.” He gave her a look that clearly said, “I don’t think so,” and went out to answer the phone. Oh, man. She was in big trouble. She felt her heart sink. This Mick was nothing like the cold, arrogant man from the station. The best it's ever been. How would she ever resist him when he said things like that? It was tempting, so tempting, to give in to his wishes. Because last night had been the best for her, too. A million times better than anything else she’d ever experienced. She groaned, and went to fix her lipstick, reminding herself of the hurt and fury he'd caused her all day. She had to be strong. Succumbing to his off-duty allure would do neither of them any good. She had her career to think of. And he had...well, he had whatever it was hidden in his past that had made him the Iceman. She slowly twisted the lipstick closed. She just didn’t dare get more involved with him. Did she...? There was no doubt if they were caught it would be a

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career-stopper. And his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality would drive her nuts in short order. But she’d been taken by surprise by those glimpses of his softer, more caring side. She had to be very careful. Those were the kinds of qualities in a man that could lead to foolishness on the part of a woman. Next thing she knew she'd be trying to help him, nurture him, draw him out of his icy shell. Change him. And if there was one thing she'd learned, it was that no matter what a woman did, men did not change. No, she’d made the right decision to put a stop to this thing before it went any further. As depressing as that decision was. Lord only knew why, but her heart had a weak spot for the man. If he’d been anyone but her commanding officer— But he was her commanding officer. So, somehow, she had to find the resources to resist him. Before it was too late. Bringing the leather slave collar she'd picked out at the fetish shop, she swooped into the living room. “Help me buckle this thing,” she said when he hung up the phone, lifting her hair off her neck and slapping the collar unceremoniously around her throat. He slid the collar from her fingers. “I have something better.” He handed her a largish flat box that looked suspiciously like it had come from a jeweler. She let go of her hair and took the box, but for some reason was reluctant to open it. “Go on. It won't bite.” Nerves shimmered over her body in a shower of goosebumps at the look on his face. “Sure about that?” She pried it open, and blinked in disbelief at the contents. It was a collar. Well, a choker really, consisting of three thick ropes of silver, linked together and fastened with a small silver padlock. A slave collar. “It's beautiful.” She looked up, uncertainty crashing through her. “A tradition,” he explained, watching her closely.

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“The Master is expected to give his slave a collar befitting her place in his favor.” He took the silver ropes from the box and carefully arranged them around her neck, closing the padlock at the base of her throat with a firm snap. In mute turmoil, she reached up with unsteady fingers to touch it. “I’m your Master now. You’re mine,” he said, echoing his claiming words from last night. He picked up his key ring and showed her a tiny matching silver key which dangled amongst the mundane house, office and car keys. “You belong to me. Until I decide to let you go.” Something in the way he said it made her pulse double. “Surely, you don't mean to leave it on me, beyond tonight?” What would they say at the station? How would she explain the collar's blatantly telling presence around her neck, as if she were some kind of modern-day odalisque, servicing the sensual whims and erotic appetites of the all-too-sexy Detective McGraw? Slowly, he trailed his fingers over the cool silver. Her breasts tingled at his elusive touch, pangs of want spiraling through their hardened tips. Suddenly, all that didn’t sound so bad. “Yes, as your Master, I believe I'll make you wear it all the time.” Her heartbeat quickened with inexplicable excitement. And a liberal stab of trepidation. “Listen Mick, about this Master/slave thing. No need to go overboard. Like Tim said, the couples were probably just role-playing, not living the real lifestyle. I think I’ll just call you Sir for this gig. If it’s all the same.” “I’d really like you to call me Master.” “With Sir there’s less chance I’ll slip up. Since I’m kind of used to calling you sir, anyway. At the station.” The honest truth was, she wasn’t comfortable using such a powerful word as Master. Sir seemed polite, as opposed to the more autocratic indicator of outright ownership. “As you wish,” he said reluctantly, then smiled. “Come, my pleasure slave, it's time to serve your Master.”

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Caro fingered the metal ropes around her neck the whole way in to West L.A. The tiny padlock felt foreign, disturbing. A symbol of something she was unwilling to surrender, but felt strangely attracted to. Because of Mick. She had wanted her whole life to belong, to fit in, to be a cherished part of someone or something rather than just a place-holder. She had failed miserably with her dysfunctional parents and their rigid church, and had never really fit in at school. Ultimately, she'd run as far away as she could from her small-town, Midwest upbringing, deliberately flouting her father's strict rule and his stifling plans for her, seeking somewhere she could belong on equal footing. Now she daily faced the glass walls of a male-dominated police force. True, her colleagues respected her, but she'd never felt genuinely accepted into the fold as a complete equal. Well, except for Julio. But they were both outsiders. That Mick was offering her a chance to belong to him sexually, even if it was just pretend, held her in a strange kind of thrall. What would it be like? Scary? Thrilling? Oppressive? Cozy? And was it pretend, or did he mean it for real? At least for the duration of the case. If so, what kind of liaison did he have in mind? A man who sealed his commitment with a slave collar probably had vastly different ideas about relationships than she did. She had no interest in exchanging one controlling male for another. And yet... Why did she find Mick's potential sexual power over her arousing? It made no sense. No sense at all. Her heart pounded as she toyed with the lock. The whole thing felt extremely dangerous. And far too tempting. “What are you thinking about?” At Mick's words she jerked her hand away from the choker. “Nothing. The case. What we need to do.” He glanced over after changing lanes. “Nervous?”

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“Terrified,” she truthfully answered, pulling at the hem of her leather skirt. “I told you, you don't ever have to be afraid of me,” he said quietly. Too late, she recognized their conversation from the night before. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm thinking of the killer,” she lied, pulling herself together. “Did Tim get a chance to go over the club's employee files with you this afternoon?” “Yes. He agreed with Bobby's evaluation. None of them seem to fit the profile very well. He did pick out one guy to keep an eye on, though.” Mick pulled a file jacket from under the seat. “This one. Jakob Robbins.” “A dungeon master,” she read from the file. “Specializes in...” She looked up, aghast. “Bloodletting?” He nodded as if that weren't the most outrageous thing he'd ever heard of. “Bloodletting?” “There are a lot of strange people out there, Caro. I thought you knew what goes on at places like Brimstone.” She nibbled at her lower lip. “Apparently not.” She'd been thinking mostly in terms of fetishy costumes. Leather and latex. Chains. Maybe handcuffs. She'd noticed Mick had a pair of cuffs tucked at the back of his waistband, and she didn't think it was in case they made an arrest. The whip dangling at his side had given her pause, but when she'd spotted it she'd assumed it was just for effect. Now she wasn't so sure. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. “Um, Mick?” The convertible glided off the freeway at the Westwood exit. She swallowed and told herself she could face whatever was ahead. “Yeah, babe?” But maybe it was time she found out just exactly what that would be. “What's the plan for tonight?” “Same as it's been all along.” “Humor me.”

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He darted her a look. “You wiggin' out on me, Palmer?” She gave him a weak smile. “No. Just need to hear it once more. All of it. Even the parts you're hiding from me.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “I'm not hiding anything, Caro. Just ignore everything else and concentrate on being my slave. Do whatever I say, and always keep your eyes and ears open. But for godsakes, don't do anything without me right there. We only want to get the killer's attention. That's all. Not provoke him.” Sounded reasonable, as always. She rolled her tight shoulders, telling herself she just had the jitters. Mick wouldn't make her do anything weird. “How would we provoke him?” Mick shrugged. “If I knew that, he’d already be in jail. What his exact trigger is, is anyone’s guess. Just remember what Tim said. He’s looking for women who are innocent and submissive.” She raised a brow at the apparent contradiction of an innocent woman in a place like Brimstone. On the other hand, look at her. Sure, she talked the talk, and routinely dressed like a street walker, but when it came right down to actual experience, last night with Mick had exceeded her 'wild' factor by about two billion percent. And she had the uneasy feeling he had barely scratched the surface of what he was capable of teaching her. Involuntarily, her gaze sought out the multi-strand whip lying at his side like a snake, ready to strike. Her heart stuttered and she felt her palms go damp. This assignment wasn't turning out at all as she had envisioned. Lord have mercy, what had she gotten herself into? She snapped to attention when he pulled into a murky parking lot in the middle of a block filled with narrow restaurants, bars and seedy-looking storefronts. L.A. wasn't an all-night kind of town, but at ten p.m., the Boulevard was still full of people. They were everywhere. Sitting at sidewalk bistro tables, lounging on the street

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corners, standing in a line of black-clad hopefuls waiting to get into Brimstone. She peered at the people milling in front of the club, mentally comparing her outfit to the ones she saw there, then let out a sigh of relief. Not too tame, not too outrageous. Right in-between. Though, she didn't see any other women on leashes. Or men either, for that matter. A couple of guys stared at them as Mick cruised the Z past a parked car. Cops. Despite casual garb their stances and haircuts were immediately recognizable. “There are Cody's men,” she remarked wryly. “Nothing like standing out like a sore thumb.” Mick shot her a grin. “Doesn't matter. Our guy thinks he's smarter than any cop alive. He'll walk right by them and tip his hat.” “Then how will we know he hasn't made us as cops?” “We won't.” Swell. “Remember, no last names once we're inside. I don’t want him knowing who you are.” Mick pulled into a vacant spot, then came around to open the door for her. “Don't worry. We play our parts right, he’ll play his. It's our relationship, our interaction that will draw the bastard out.” “Great. We're dogmeat.” Even she couldn’t figure out their relationship. Overcome by nerves, she leaned back against the side of his car while he uncoiled a length of silver chain from a loop on his harness. “You've been in love with me for a year, Caro. Just let it show and everything will go fine.” An indelicate snort escaped her throat. “You're crazy, you know that, McGraw?” He pierced her with a look, his eyes slicing sharply into hers. “Don't call me crazy, baby. Especially when I'm the one holding the leash.” He reached up and snapped one end of the chain to a small D-ring behind the padlock on her collar, giving it a sharp tug. His anger was sudden and unexpected. But before she

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could react, the tension around his eyes vanished, and he asked, “So, you're clear on what to do in there, right?” Maybe she'd just imagined the whole thing. She pushed off the car and walked past him. “Yeah. I play your adoring pleasure slave, catch the interest of every unattached pervert in the place, and try not to look like a slut doing it. Piece of cake.” He chuckled. “If anyone can pull it off...” He paused to adjust her collar and his smile faded. “Caro...” If she didn't know better, she would swear he was nervous about something. Something other than using them both as bait for a vicious maniac. “What is it, Mick?” “I— Hell.” He gripped her shoulders. “Look, I'm the first to admit I'm a jealous lover. Real jealous. I don't like sharing my woman with anyone. Not with Julio, not with Woodruff, not with all the guys who are going to try and get close to you tonight.” Julio? Woodruff? Mick's fingers dug into her almost painfully. She shivered at the sheer strength she felt coursing through them, and at the guilty thrill of hearing him claim her as his woman. “I'm not your woman, Mick,” she felt compelled to point out. “And just to set the record straight, I have not been in love with you for a year.” Liar. For a second he looked like he might argue, but he only raked a hand through his hair and said, “Whatever. Anyway, I know some of the things I might have to do until this guy is behind bars will seem like—” His voice crackled with an intensity she'd never heard in him before. “For godsakes, Caro, I really need you to trust me. Trust what I do until then, even if you don’t think-— Shit. Just trust me, okay?” A tremor passed through her, and the warm night air chilled against her skin. “I’ll try,” she answered, knowing instinctively he'd keep her safe tonight, if for no other reason than the pure possessiveness she saw reflected in those ice blue eyes.

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“Good.” He shuddered out a sigh, apparently satisfied with her sincerity. “Good.” His iron grip loosened and he fished up the free end of her leash, clipping it onto one of the O-rings of his latigo harness with a quick snap. With that simple gesture, he had effectively taken her freedom and made her his slave. At least for the present. Everything she did from now until he released her would be at his sole sufferance. She fought off a sudden urge to bolt. “What if something goes wrong?” she asked, all at once assailed with doubts over the deadly game of cat and mouse they were about to embark upon. Over having to face down a killer without the benefit of a single weapon. Hell, over the whole damned set-up. “I won't let it go wrong. We have tons of backup and there'll be over two hundred people inside, watching everything that goes down. Besides, this is just phase one. We’re in no danger tonight. Remember?” She nodded once, shoring up her battered nerves. “Right.” He took a step back and ran the silvery links of her leash over his palm. “Ready?” She puffed out an unsteady breath, knowing she had no option but to be ready. “As ever.” Searching her face carefully, he shook his head. “No, you’re not.” She should have realized he was up to something when he leaned back against the convertible in a languid pose. But she was still shocked senseless when he declared, “First I want a good-luck kiss,” and tipped his head in challenge. “McGraw,” she gritted out between her teeth. He was actually enjoying this! “I—” He cut her off. “You may want to deny being my woman, or being in love with me, but I distinctly remember you agreeing to be my pleasure slave. Woodruff said subservient, yeah? I have to be sure you can pull this off. Now, kiss me. Properly.”

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Desperate, she hedged. “What about Cody's men?” “They can get their own slaves.” She stifled the itch to punch him in the nose instead of kissing him. But he was right. She was in no frame of mind to go into Brimstone yet. Not with the success of the operation depending on her behavior. She first had to get into the pleasure slave mentality. And to do that she must obey his orders. And please him. Damn. Why was this so difficult? Their lives depended on her being able to put aside her ego for a little while and let Mick take over. As he had last night. That hadn't been so bad. In fact, it had been pretty amazing. Incredibly amazing. A purely sexual fantasy, Tim had said, allowing yourself to be dominated by a loving, trusted partner on whom you could rely. She took a deep, steadying breath. She could do this. It was just for a few hours. Mick was the best cop in the business, and he'd just confessed to caring about her. Well, sort of. He was strong. And she really did trust him. In this context, anyway. A purely sexual fantasy. Yeah, that was Mick, all right. “Ho-kay,” she said, and deliberately sauntered up to him, sliding her arms around his neck. Remembering how it had been last night. He wanted a kiss? All right, she'd give him a kiss. She rubbed up against him like a cat, relaxing, letting go the restraints of independence. Enjoying the feel of his hard, muscular body and the effect she was having on it. A glitter of pleasure lit his eyes, and heat poured through her veins. Yeah, she conceded. This could be a fun fantasy. Far better than any she'd entertained in her mind over the past year. Last night with costumes. She smiled, settling into her role. “I'll be your pleasure slave tonight, McGraw,” she purred into his ear, “and I'll do anything you say while we're in the club.”

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His arms tightened around her. “Anything?” She lapped at his earlobe. “Anything at all, Sir,” she whispered. She painted her tongue provocatively down his cheek and over his lips, then gave him a long, wet kiss. He groaned. “Baby, let's skip the club and go straight home.” “Nuh-uh-uh,” she murmured, pulling away and wagging a finger at him, “I said in the club. Don't forget, at home you're sleeping on the couch.” All right, so she didn't have the slave attitude down perfectly. But judging by the hard-on she'd given Mick before thoroughly dousing his hopes, she was close enough for police work. She suppressed a smirk. Hell, he hadn't even made her walk three paces behind him when they'd headed for the club's entrance. She signed the membership form Mick put in front of her, then looked around as he exchanged words with the elaborately tattooed woman taking money at the door. Surreptitiously, Caro craned her neck to get a glimpse inside. There was a man standing at the door watching her. He was tall and good-looking. Dark. Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Native American, maybe. Or Hispanic, like Julio. The well-fitting black T-shirt under his crossed arms had BRIMSTONE SECURITY emblazoned across it in red. Another of Cody's men? She gave him a tentative smile. He raked an impassive gaze over her, taking in her collar with its leash attached to Mick's latigo. His gaze shifted over her shoulder. She turned to find Mick glaring at her. “You like him?” he growled. Her lips parted. “Wha—?” “Maybe I'll give you to him. Teach you a lesson about flirting with other men.” For a moment she was stunned speechless. He couldn't possibly be— She came to with a start. The job. He was playing his part and she was about to blow it. Already.

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“I'm sorry,” she said in a rush, laying her hands on his chest in a conciliatory gesture. “Please don't— I won't do it again. I promise.” She knew better than to deny his accusation. Sir was always right. “Please, Mick.” She looked up at him supplicating. “Please, Sir,” he corrected, and wound his hand around the chain of the leash, hauling her throat tight against the back of it. “In that case, you can choose your punishment inside.” She lifted her lips and kissed him. “You choose, Sir,” she said breathlessly, and could see he was pleased with the suggestion. She assumed it was because they'd managed so neatly to create a scene in front of a whole crowd of people, drawing immediate attention to themselves. That's what she thought, anyway, right up until he led her into the club and she saw the full extent of its offerings.

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Chapter Eight Mick watched knowingly as Caro came to a screeching halt just inside the door to Brimstone's main bar area. If he hadn't anticipated her reaction, one of them would be flat on their face on the floor. Having a woman captive on a leash might be a turn-on, but it could also be hazardous to your health if you weren't careful. The large, dark room was packed with club members outfitted in the usual leather, latex and spandex fetish wear, along with less adventurous suits, jeans and dresses. People danced to the loud, steady beat of hard techno-rock music. Wait-slaves in skin-tight hot pants and halter tops glided through the crowd with trays of drinks, serving customers who stood at dime-sized tables scattered around the huge area. Mick grabbed a full shot glass off a passing tray, flicking a ten onto it so the wait-slave's initial protest turned into a flirtatious smile. He downed the drink in a single gulp and replaced the glass, deliberately ignoring her come-on. The raw taste of tequila burned down his throat to settle in a comforting coil of fire in the pit of his stomach. This was it. Showtime. The club's main light source was a kinky slide show being projected onto the long white wall opposite the bar. Translucent oil blobs and colorful photos flashed rhythmically onto the bare skin of several men and women who stood shackled by wrists and ankles to that same wall. The men had all been stripped of their shirts, their pants lowered to their ankles. One woman's back was to the room, her conservative business skirt hiked up around

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her waist, revealing long legs in seamed stockings. Her round, white bottom was bisected by a red thong and garter belt. She struggled against her bonds, writhing in a futile attempt to shake loose her skirt. Mick moved behind Caro and slid his arms around her waist, already feeling a spurt of excitement. He imagined her up against that wall, lifting her skirt... “Is that the punishment you'd like?” he murmured in her ear. “Or perhaps you'd prefer the cages?” He directed her gaze to two women and a man held prisoner in narrow metal cages suspended a couple of feet above the packed wooden dance floor. The man's hands were tied to the bars behind his back, and one of the women's were handcuffed above her head to her cage's ceiling. The other woman swayed to the pulsing music while a couple of men outside her cage fondled her breasts. She didn't seem to mind, but Mick felt Caro's quick intake of breath as she watched one of them slip his hand under the woman's blouse. He felt her swallow twice, then she turned in his arms. “Regular customers?” she asked. “Oh, yeah,” he guessed, based on their uninhibited behavior. For the second time in as many days he saw her visibly gather her wits and pretend a worldliness he knew she didn't possess. She leaned up and pressed a kiss on his jaw. “Put me in one of those cages,” she whispered sweetly, “and you're a dead man.” She lowered her lashes in perfect imitation of a demure slave, and he had to restrain himself from smiling. His new partner really had a lot to learn about challenging him. “I suppose I could save your punishment for later, when we get back home,” he offered. A slight narrowing of her eyes belied the accepting downward tilt of her head. “In the meantime, why don't I show you the rest of the club?” “You've been here before?” “On occasion,” he said, not wanting to get into

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explanations, though it should come as no great surprise to her that he’d been here many times over the years, starting back when he was on patrol with the LAPD. He'd warned her he liked his sex edgy, even if he'd gone easy on her last night. “For what it's worth, this is the first time I've been here wearing anything but jeans.” “I wondered why we didn't have to stand in that long line.” “One of the benefits of a lifetime membership.” He jerked his thumb toward the back of the room to forestall any more of the questions he saw brewing in her eyes. “Come on.” He hadn't quite decided how to play his role of domination tonight—seductive or arrogant. His first instinct was to make the game stimulating and amusing for them both, which meant the seductive option. Besides, he was already playing arrogant to the max at the station. It would be nice to unleash his more relaxed side and enjoy himself with his lover after hours. But that wasn’t the purpose of this expedition. Somewhere out there lurked the man he was hunting, and he was only here to lure his prey into the open. So, for now, Mick opted for high visibility. He grasped the leash on Caro’s collar and backed away from her into the crowd, allowing the links to slide through his fingers at a measured rate. A bit like letting out the line on a fish you wanted to play for a while before reeling in. To his mild surprise, she didn't fight it. Instead, she followed him like a Thoroughbred on a lead, sleek and sure-footed, coming willingly because she adored the rider, relished the hard ride ahead, and craved the sweet treat he'd offer after putting her through her paces. It was an intense feeling. She walked slowly enough that the short section of leash stretched taut between them, forcing him to tug her into obedience. Yet the look in her eyes said she had no intention of denying him anything he might ask of her. She was merely provoking.

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Damn, she excited him. She might try to convince herself she was only playing a part for the job, but he knew better. He'd long ago recognized something in this woman that answered when he called, something down and dirty, that aroused him to the core. She also aroused every other man they passed in their dance of domination. And he knew with chilling certainty she would arouse the killer, as well. He smiled. A hard, masterful smile. And pulled her through the staring crowd that parted for him, towing her toward the next level of her initiation into the shadow world of erotic fantasy. The back rooms. Suddenly there was a commotion at the other end of the bar. Two amazon-like wait-slaves captured a man from the dance floor and hauled him to the wall of shackles. There, he was met by a woman Mick recognized as the club's head dominatrix. She cracked her fat whip and the man fell to his knees in front of her. “What's going on?” Caro whispered. “Sacrifice.” It's what Brimstone was known for, the “gimmick” that distinguished it from a half-dozen other private fetish clubs sprinkled around L.A.. Members never knew when they'd be singled out for special treatment by the club's elite employees. The dominatrix popped her whip again, and planted her thigh-high platform boots on the wooden planks before her victim. A spotlight snapped on, licking the two with flames of red-orange light. Mick couldn't hear her command, but the man did; he hurriedly tore his shirt from his body and placed it at her feet, leaving his designer tie hanging incongruously around his bare neck. At another barked command, he scrambled to his feet and banked himself against the wall to be shackled hand and foot by assisting wait-slaves as the dominatrix looked imperiously down her nose at him. Mick felt Caro's breasts press up against his back as she

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peeked out from around his shoulder. Her fingers gripped his arm and she murmured, “How can they get away with that?” “Private club. Everyone signs a waiver, just like you did.” He wedged past a clump of people to give her a better view. “I did?” The dominatrix exchanged her whip for a short quirt, and touched it to the man's chin, lifting it as she inspected him like a butterfly pinned to a frame. Flipping aside his tie, she slowly trailed the tip of the quirt down his neck and naked chest, over the crotch of his slacks, down one inner thigh and up the other to the juncture of his legs, where she let it linger in a slow caress. “What waiver?” Sweat broke out on the man's forehead and trickled down his temple in a glimmering orange trail. The dominatrix tossed her head and the wait-slaves jumped to her command, unbuckling the man's belt and lowering his trousers to his knees. Mick felt more than heard Caro's gasp when she realized the man was quite enjoying his predicament. “The membership form you signed when we came in. You gave your consent to all the club's various...entertainments.” Having seen enough, Mick turned toward the back rooms. Her face paled. “You're serious?” “Don't worry, there are strict rules enforced here.” He started moving, weaving through the on-lookers. “No full nudity, no actual sex, only club employees are allowed to discipline customers. And they know how to spot willing sacrifices.” “Can they be bribed?” she asked, and for a moment he wondered if she was worried about his intentions, or whether she contemplated doing some bribing herself. “No,” he lied, just in case. Her hand tightened on his arm. “Look, there's Jeff Cody.”

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She nodded at the bar, where Mick spotted the LAPD detective, dressed in ripped blue jeans and a dot.com Tshirt, leaning casually against a pillar and sipping a beer. His gaze swept over them, with an infinitesimal pause of acknowledgment. “Good to know. Wonder who else is here?” Cody had said he'd have at least one more person on the inside, but Mick knew he was having a difficult time convincing his captain to lend out so many officers to another jurisdiction's operation. Especially one that Mick McGraw was in charge of. It wasn't the same captain as when Mick had been forced to leave his patrol job over there, but he'd no doubt read the file. Mick made a mental note to see that Cody got a good share of the spotlight when this case busted open. For sticking with him. Loyalty was a rare thing in his life. “So, where does that bloodthirsty guy, Jakob Robbins, do his thing?” Caro asked, interrupting his stalk down memory lane, pulling him back to the reason they were there. Mick shot her a grimace. “Back room.” A rare shudder traced itself down his spine. He freely admitted he enjoyed a lot of the exotic sexual stuff that went on in places like this, but there was nothing sensual about cutting a woman or spilling her blood. Hell, he'd just have to get over it. As he'd had to do with so many things lately, down to breaking every damned one of his strict personal rules. He glanced at Caro as she perused the shadows of the club. His affair with this woman being right up there on the list. Shit. At least he could marginally justify his entanglement with Caro. Deep down, he'd always known this part of his plan wouldn't have a prayer of succeeding if he and the woman he picked didn't become lovers. And he'd deliberately chosen Caro because of that. He'd known damn well he'd end up in bed with her—cop, partner and all. To be honest, he’d known it since the first time he saw her a year ago. He'd wanted her, badly, even if he would never acknowledge it aloud.

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No, sleeping with Caro had nothing to do with the fact that he’d do anything in his power to see the bastard they were chasing rot in hell.... He shook off a spurt of guilt for enmeshing her in this dangerous game, and headed for the far corner of the club. Because he would do anything to trap the fucker. Including a foray into the back room to check out the vampiric Jakob Robbins, the only name currently on the official PPD list of suspects. “This way,” he said to Caro, and held aside a thick velvet curtain which hung in front of an unobtrusive opening in the back wall. “Welcome to the seraglio.” Mick slid into the dark, den-like room, pulling Caro in after him, and waited for their eyes to adjust to the dimness. The hard techno-rock of the main club receded, replaced by the soft plucking strains of some delicate Middle Eastern instrument. On the round center stage, a dungeon master stood, slowly stripping the clothes off a female club member who was tied to a post. The knee-high raised stage glowed in eerie purple light. Swirling tendrils of an orchid-scented, smoke-like fog spilled from openings in the stage walls and crept along the floor, twining among patrons who reclined on large Turkish pillows strewn on the carpet. Several of the people were clad only in their underwear, no doubt former victims of the dungeon master's attentions. A row of clothes hung from illuminated pegs on the wall. Mick squinted, searching out the low tables he knew were arrayed along the edges of the seraglio, and seeking to locate the hidden doors leading to a couple of other, similar rooms. He took Caro's hand and moved toward a set of empty pillows on the other side. A soft female voice behind him stopped him dead in his tracks. “Hello, Mick.” He whirled, unable to believe his ears. Blood rushed blindly to his head. He fought to regain his composure, praying the darkness hid his shock.

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“Hello, Lauren. What are you doing here?” His first coherent thought was that he'd kill Jeff Cody if this was his idea of a joke. Then his brain cells re-aligned and he remembered Lauren Adams had left the LAPD, and L.A., right after he did. “I thought you moved to Oakland.” “Among other places, but I'm back,” she said. “For almost two months.” “I heard about what happened after—” He decided not to go there. “I'm sorry.” “Don't be. Not you, of all people.” She sized him up and down in the murky light. “You're looking good.” His gaze sought out the contours of her face. The face that nearly ended his career before it had begun. Same round lines, same pretty brown doe-eyes, same soft, pale cheeks that had regularly bloomed black and blue back when she'd worked as his partner, now pristine peach. Imagine, seeing her here where they’d started out, after all this time. Lauren was the one who had talked him into coming when the club first opened, on a lark. Neither of them had anticipated how much they’d enjoy the dark sexual lifestyle of the place. Seemed she couldn't shake the past any more than he could. It suddenly occurred to him he should be real careful what he said, for many reasons. “Who's your friend?” Lauren asked, her gaze straying to Caro, who had been strangely quiet, leaning against his arm. He was holding her hand in a death grip, and consciously loosened it, fearing he might be crushing her fingers. “This is Caro,” he said, slipping his arm around her. He decided to forestall any awkwardness by adding, “We're living together.” To his relief, Caro snugged up closer to his side, playing along. “Baby, this is Lauren.” Caro smiled but remained submissively silent. Lauren tipped her head, taking in every detail of the two of them. “You've changed, sugar snap.” He had no choice but to agree. A whole lot of things had changed since they'd last seen each other. And more were on the way.

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He eyed her hour-glass figure arrayed in a tight spandex outfit. “You haven't.” “I hope he treats you well,” she said, turning to Caro. Caro gave her a little smile in return. “Oh, yes. He only beats me when I'm very naughty.” Horrified, he stared at her, and Lauren went white as a ghost. “Did he like to tie you up, too?” Caro asked in a breathy, innocent voice, startling him out of one shock and right into another. Lauren hesitated a second before replying, “He was more into handcuffs when I knew him.” “Really? Maybe we could—” Jesus H. Christ. Mick grabbed Caro's arms and pointed her toward the door to the next room before she could do any more damage. “Look, we have to go.” Holy shit, what did she think she was doing? Lauren laid a hand on his arm. “Mick, we need to talk. Are you still—” He cut her off before she could blow their cover any higher out of the water. “Call me tomorrow. You know where to find me.” Caro let Mick hustle her through a beaded curtain into the next cave-like area of the seraglio. It was obvious Mick's mind was still on the woman they'd just left behind. Who the hell was she, and why did his eyes suddenly look so haunted? “Lauren was nice,” she remarked, trying desperately not to think about how the woman was probably some former lover of his. Or maybe not so former. He'd asked her to call him tomorrow. “Yeah.” Mick's mouth clamped shut. “Well,” Caro said, eyeing him coolly. “So much for your lofty promises, sugar snap.” “I need a fucking drink.” He dug in his pocket for a twenty, held out the bill to her and glanced around. “Go get us something at the bar, would you, baby? I'll find a tabl—” Her words must have finally sunk in because

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suddenly his brow creased. “What promises?” She plucked the twenty from his fingers, already regretting her irrational statement. “Not important.” He gripped her wrist before she could escape, all attention. “What are you talking about?” She shot him her most quelling female glare. “Your promise never to look at another woman while we're sleeping together.” She lifted her chin. “But then, it's a moot point because we're not sleeping together. Now, if you'll just release me—” They were attracting attention, so he pulled her stiff body into his arms and murmured, “Jesus, Caro. She's my ex-partner. I didn't have sex with her then, and I don't intend to start now. We'll talk about this later.” “Nothing to talk about.” She extricated herself from his embrace and waited patiently for him to unclip her leash, which he reluctantly did—at his end. “None of my business, anyway.” “Of course it's your business, but we'll talk about it later. Right now I want that drink.” She might have forgiven him, so great was her annoying relief that he and the petite, auburn-haired beauty weren't lovers, but he smacked her butt as she headed for the bar in the corner of the room. She barely resisted whirling to smack him back. Damn, she hated that. Helpless to retaliate on either score, she swallowed her temper and went for drinks, twisting the end of her leash in her fingers. Fucking bastard. He had her completely tied in knots. What was it about the Iceman that made her think there was anything at all under that infuriatingly frozen exterior worth the bother of melting through it? She shivered. Yeah, there was something under there, all right. Those haunted eyes had confirmed it. The question was, did she really want to find out what? After placing her drink order with the wait-slave behind the bar, she leaned her back against the leatherpadded counter and concentrated on calming her stormy

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emotions. The room was similar to the last one in that it was done up in faux-harem decor, complete with low tables, Turkish pillows, incense, and a light, artificial fog creeping along the plushly carpeted floor. On the raised stage in the center of this room, a woman was chained by the wrists to a Saint Andrew's cross, face to the wood, her clothing in a careless pile on the floor. She was being flogged. With an implement that looked identical to the whip hanging at Mick’s side. So that’s what it was. Caro blinked, wincing when the multiple strands of the leather flogger snapped against the woman's near-naked back. She writhed, moaning in apparent ecstasy. Yikes. What was with that? Surely, the woman couldn't be enjoying such treatment? Banking her distaste and curiosity for a time when she could quiz Mick or Tim about what made these people tick, Caro continued her survey of the room. It had atmosphere, she had to give it that. Between the fog, the music and the costumed, languishing spectators, she could easily imagine herself a real slave in some time warp or parallel universe where decadent sultans still reigned and held private parties where guests were free to indulge their taste for the subjugation of women. No, that wasn't fair. She'd seen nearly as many male as female “sacrifices” at the club, and therefore it wasn't something specifically directed at women. It merely disturbed her more when it was her own sex. Probably because for most of recorded history it had been women forced into subservience to men, and still was in many parts of the world. As a modern woman struggling for equality in her own life, she was probably over-sensitive to the issue. Caro turned to observe the woman on the cross again, watching her wriggle and undulate in apparent pleasure with each crack of the thin leather strands against her back. Every melodic sigh and moan bespoke that the

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woman truly liked what was happening to her. And with a start Caro suddenly realized she'd gotten it totally wrong. It wasn't the man getting off on whipping the woman, at all. It was the woman getting off. Caro fiddled with her leash, feeling nothing but a vague queasiness at the thought of being whipped for her own pleasure. Yet, the woman bound to the St. Andrews cross was obviously deep in the throes of a very powerful fantasy being played out up there on stage. Just as the man shackled to the wall out front had been. A purely sexual fantasy. Nothing to do with violence or abuse. Caro jumped when the wait-slave tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. “Beer, tequila and red wine, right?” She nodded, willing her heart to slow its racing. She didn't know why the revelation had her so panicked. It wasn't as if she was the one up there acting out her most secret fantasies for all to see. Not that they'd involve flogging, even if she were. So, what would they involve? Licking her parched lips, her eyes sought out Mick, who was comfortably settled on the floor next to one of the small, stubby tables. Leaning back on a fat pillow, he was watching her while he talked to a man reclining on the other side of the table. It was the security man from the entrance. Her elbows almost slipped off the bar. Stay calm. Her mind whirled, fantasies forgotten. Had Mick pegged the security man as a suspect? Or... Or had the security man sought them out, hoping Mick would make good on his threat to give her to him.... He wouldn't dare. Not if there was a chance the man could be the killer. She swallowed down another lump of irrational panic. No, not under any circumstances. Mick couldn't give her to anyone. She wasn't his to give. This whole situation was

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just a performance. A masquerade. She wasn't really his pleasure slave and didn't have to do anything she didn't want to do. And being given to anyone but Mick was definitely not one of her secret fantasies. She wiped an unsteady hand over her eyes. Of course, after the incident with the beautiful Lauren, maybe she shouldn't mind being given away. Oh, hell. This was ridiculous. She had to get her focus back on the job, not her own personal relationships and hang-ups. Obviously the security man must be a suspect. She motioned to the wait-slave. “Do you have Coeur de Diable champagne?” she asked him, recalling the M.E.’s note that the victim women had it poured over their bodies. “Sorry, no.” Disappointed, she added another beer to the tray of drinks he was finishing up for her. And shook her head over the sadly declining state of her sanity. Neither Mick nor the security man lifted a finger to help when she approached. They remained where they were, sprawled on their respective pillows, watching her juggle the tray as she knelt to place it on the table without tripping on her leash, running her stockings or spilling the drinks all over the place in the process. Not that she wouldn't dearly love to accidentally aim that shot of tequila at some appropriate bit of male anatomy. She was proud of how she kept her eyes respectfully lowered as befitted her slave status. She would not be irritated with Mick, even knowing he was enjoying himself to no end at her discomfort. No doubt he saw it as sweet revenge for all the attitude she'd given him today. Cosmic justice sucked. “Thought you went to Mexico for that tequila,” he commented after she managed to unload the tray without mishap. “No, Sir,” she said, striving for just the right note of reverence in her tone, “but I did make the bartender go

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fetch the kind with the worm in the bottle. I know how much you like that earthy taste.” She smiled demurely. His lips didn't even twitch when he answered, “And you will be appropriately rewarded for your diligence.” “I brought a beer for your friend, too,” she added, and waited for Mick's permission to hand it to him. He nodded. “This is Rick.” She slid the beer over to Rick, who had been studying her the whole time with what seemed like x-ray vision. Their fingers accidentally touched and she yanked her hand back, setting it in her lap with the other one. What if she'd just touched a man who had killed six people? His dark features lent an air of calm dignity to his expression, and his long black hair and broad shoulders made him the image of many a woman's fantasy, she was sure. But from what she could see of them, his dark eyes seemed...remote. Cold. Calculating. And there was something else— “Rick's been telling me the guy with the bloodletting act isn't here tonight.” She gave herself a mental shake. “That's too bad, I know you were looking forward to it.” She remained motionless, waiting his command. “You've trained her well,” Rick remarked. “I'm impressed.” Casually, Mick picked up the end of her leash and clipped it back onto his harness, subtly reclaiming his property. A sense of relief rolled over her at the connection. Completely absurd, but she felt safe now. “Thanks. She still has a long way to go, but I'm fairly satisfied.” Mick lifted the tequila to his lips. Again, Rick's gaze slithered over her. “Her body is hot. You're a lucky man.” “Luck had nothing to do with it.” Mick threw back the tequila. “I go after what I want.” Caro stared at her hands, her cheeks growing warm. This talk was just part of his undercover role, she reminded herself. No way had he stalked her, or even singled her out. If anything, she’d come on to him. Before

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she knew better. Right? “May I touch her?” Her gaze jerked to Mick, who cocked his head and looked as though he might actually be considering the outrageous request. For an endless moment they stared at each other. “I don't think she's ready for that, yet,” Mick finally said. He crooked a finger, beckoning her. On hands and knees she crawled the few feet and dutifully sat on her heels between him and the low table. He still reclined on his side, elbow resting on a huge satin pillow. He toyed with the silver links of her collar as he regarded her. “Would you like him to touch you?” he asked. Fighting like crazy not to react, she carefully considered her answer. This was not some crazy sex game he was playing, she told herself, this was part of the job. The case. What did he want her to say? What would the killer want her to do? From the corner of her eye she noticed several groups of people seated around them watching her. She started to sweat. She had to come up with something. And fast. “I'd like you to touch me,” she meekly replied, hoping like hell she'd picked the right answer. He smiled, and sat up. “Then Rick can watch.” Her eyes went wide. Not exactly what she'd had in mind. “As you wish, Sir.” “Come closer. Sit here.” He patted the space between his legs as he arranged them in an open Indian style. “Put your thighs over mine and lean back on your hands.” Trust what I do in there, he'd said. Ah, hell. She did as she was told, trying desperately not to think about what would come next, or the fact that her skirt rode up nearly to her panties, showing about a mile of skin between its hem and the tops of her stockings. Or that they'd both thoroughly enjoyed this position last night....

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The single men lounging against the walls of the seraglio eased in for a better view. Her face flamed. Oh, God. Up on stage, the woman moaned as the dungeon master plied his craft on her flesh, the confining chains jingling against the wood of the X-shaped cross as she grasped it for support. The whole thing was surreal. Caro's heart pounded in her throat. She took a deep, calming breath. The musky smell of sexual excitement permeated the air. Her own? No, impossible. Mick leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. “Relax,” he murmured. Yeah, right. He put his hands on her waist and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Trust me, his eyes signaled. Caught. Like the girl on the flying trapeze who suddenly found her net had vanished. And he was asking her to trust him. Should she take the chance? Or should she stand up and shout “Detective!” and blow the whole damned circus? Rick took a sip of the beer she'd bought him, watching her with black predator eyes. The corner of his lip curled mockingly, daring her to turn tail and run. If she did, it would make Mick look like a fool in front of him and everyone else watching. She couldn't do that to Mick. Regardless of whether she'd make him sleep on the couch tonight, or whether this operation succeeded or not, she wouldn't hang him out to dry. However misguided, she'd go through whatever public humiliation she had to bear, rather than betray him like that. And, amazingly, she trusted him not to take things too far. She had to be out of her mind. She took a deep breath and willed her body to stop its trembling. Then looked deep into his eyes, and delivered her dignity into his hands.

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Chapter Nine Mick felt a bone-deep satisfaction when Caro closed her eyes and her body relaxed under his hands. He wouldn't have bet his life on her reaction to present circumstances. In fact, he had been fully prepared to play the Angry Master when she refused to obey him. Frankly, he was pretty damned surprised she was going along with this. His admiration for her went up several notches. And so did his excitement. “You're being very obedient tonight,” he praised. “Sir’s wish is my command,” she replied, her hushed murmur wavering slightly under its cloak of acquiescence. “As always.” Despite her protestations to the contrary, he knew then with exhilarating certainty she still wanted him. Her resistance was just part of their ongoing game of cat and mouse, not a genuine roadblock. It was a game he'd come to enjoy thoroughly over the past year, with secret looks and hidden moves. Now that it was real, it had suddenly become even more intriguing. The hunt was always a far bigger thrill when the mouse being stalked knew it, and had a mind of her own. Being so close to her now, her thighs riding his, her skimpy mini-skirt pushed way up, revealing sexy stockings and an eyeful of mouthwateringly sheer lace panties, he was finding it hard to think about anything but getting her back home and into bed. His own fault. Shit, it had seemed like a good plan at the time. God give him strength, but he had so much more to show her, to teach her. If she let him. Where would their current performance lead them? To catch a killer, he reminded himself. She was not

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here for the benefit of his lust, but to help him trap a murdering bastard. Surreptitiously, he scanned the crowd. Somewhere out there was a man with a more sinister reason for observing them than garden-variety voyeurism. But Mick had been aroused all night, watching the sensual way she moved as she pretended to be his private odalisque. And he couldn't help but wonder how far she would have gone if they'd come to Brimstone on their own, just on a date, with no job involved? He realized it didn't matter. It was impossible to separate business from pleasure. They were here now, and for this job he could push her as far as he wanted. How far should he go? Damn. Where the hell was Cody? He could use an objective temperature gauge. “You don't mind everyone watching us?” he asked Caro, indicating the score of eyes on them. She licked her lips before answering, the hesitation betraying her uneasiness. On stage the strands of the dungeon master's flogger cracked against the woman's Gstringed buttocks, followed by a moan. “No,” Caro said. “I don't mind.” And everyone understood that she did, but she'd submit because he asked it of her. His cock swelled bigger against the tight leather of his pants. She'd submitted last night, too. Eagerly. And those few hours hadn't been nearly enough to satisfy his sexual appetite for her. A lifetime of last nights probably wouldn't be enough. “Show me, baby. Show me how much you like my hands on your body.” He tightened his grip on her and felt a tiny shiver ripple through her flesh. His cock throbbed larger still. If he didn't force himself to focus, he'd be in major-league trouble. Luckily, he knew exactly what Rick and the rest of the crowd wanted. Because he wanted it even more. Somehow he managed to pull himself together, and began sliding his hands up and down her slim rib cage.

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Making them all wait. Building the tension. Fighting to keep his voracious hunger for her at bay, and think of his mission. He traced his fingers over her arms and face, down her legs, up her silky thighs. Gradually he worked his way over more and more of her, splitting his attention between business and pleasure, helping her to relax, until he suspected she'd forgotten all about the onlookers, and was lost in his touch. It was a turn-on like he'd never experienced, bringing her to this point, in public. Slowly, slowly, he slid his hands over her entire body, ending with her nearly-bare breasts. Gently, he cupped them, sliding his thumbs along the scant edge of her demibra. Her shuddering moan vibrated in the deepest, darkest part of his being, mingling with a hushed murmur of delight from the crowd. Under the buttery leather her nipples peaked hard. He would never have believed it possible that the always-in-control Caroline Palmer would put herself so totally in his hands. She didn't trust him. She’d said she didn't. And yet here she was, at his complete mercy. His sense of power over her was incredible. He liked the feeling. He liked it a lot. Even though he knew damned well it was the last thing on earth he should allow himself to feel. She arched her back, her pink nipples shifting upward, peeking up, dangerously close to complete exposure. He couldn't resist blowing a thin stream of air over them. Opening her eyes, she blinked, disoriented, and he knew he'd been right—she'd been miles away. Her body suddenly tensed. He leaned forward and put his mouth to hers. “Don't wimp out on me now,” he urged, and kissed her. You shouldn't be doing this, a voice inside him whispered. The situation was far too volatile to contain. Fuck. He ignored the inner warning and for a moment allowed himself to revel in the taste of her, to lose

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himself in the close, edgy, perfumed atmosphere of the dark room. In the eyes on him, in the things he was doing to her, and the control he had over her. He kissed her, long and hard and hungry, until he finally came to with a start. Shoring up his badly flagging concentration, he reached up and slid the straps of her bra off her shoulders. Not all the way, which would break club rules and earn their expulsion, but far enough down her arms to thoroughly scandalize her—and elicit a growl of anticipation from the masses. She tried to pull away. He held her firmly in place, and looked past her to the entranced spectators, searching the faces of those who seemed particularly intent on watching their test of wills. Searching for one in particular. She twisted in his grasp, so he nipped at her bottom lip, drawing her focus back to him, re-establishing his dominance. Reminding her of her role and why they were there. “Easy,” he whispered. This wasn't a tough crowd, but it was a somewhat jaded one. They'd gotten its attention, but to make an impression—and raise the chances of the operation succeeding—they needed to come up with a suitably arousing end to this little show. She couldn't lose her nerve now. “Stay with me, baby.” He switched from nibbling to licking her, a more aggressive and overtly sexual assault than kisses or bites. She gasped as he covered her breasts with his hands. She leaned into him, pressing closer, and the tips spiraled pebble hard against his palms. He caressed them, feeling her skin ripple with gooseflesh. Deflecting a painful spurt of arousal, he painted his wet tongue over her jaw and down her throat. And perused the crowd again. Cody now stood among the stags, rapt in observation of what he was doing to her. Too rapt. For a split second he considered adding his old friend to the official list of suspects. A small whimper pulled Mick back from his irrational

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jealousy. His lips were tracing the pliant softness of Caro's breast. Her breath came in short bursts, pushing the mound of flesh up against his mouth in an irresistible invitation. Without thinking, he slipped his hands under the crescents of her bra, stroking over the ripe buds with his thumbs. She gasped and sat up, clutching at him. Then her fingers shot through his hair, gripping his scalp almost painfully. Holding him to her. He froze for a split second, paralyzed by her reaction. No one could see anything. Not really. Her breasts were completely hidden behind his face and hands. But everyone watching knew what he was doing. And that was enough. He stifled a rumbling groan of pure need. Nothing could have prepared him for his own powerful response to her actions. He was on fire. A thick, sexually-laden quiet descended over their corner of the room. Only the snap of the flogging onstage, the creak of the St. Andrews cross, and the heated cries of the woman chained to it penetrated the tense silence. Excitement vibrated through him as he slowly lifted Caro’s breasts from their confinement, and took a nipple into his mouth. Her breathless, whispered, “Oh, God, Mick,” told him she was just as aroused as he was. Just as unnerved. And just as intoxicated by the fantasy. He barely resisted the urge to crow in triumph. He pulled her close and suckled her hard, flicking his tongue over her stiff, elongated nipple. She shuddered in his arms. He bit down on her with his bared teeth, as a wolf would bite his mate, letting her know she wasn't alone. He was her Master, and no matter what happened, from this moment forward she was completely, utterly his. With unhurried movements, he finally released her from the bidding of his mouth and pulled her bra back into place. Straightening, he saw the stunned, barely restrained panic that flashed in her eyes, and met it with a merciless, knowing stare.

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Silently telling her there was no way to escape him now. No way in hell. Because he knew her terrible secret. They were cut from the same cloth. Her dark secret exposed, something primal and fundamental shifted between them. Mick could feel it— potent and dangerous, a current arcing back and forth between the two of them like a downed electrical wire. There wasn't a doubt in his mind he should do his damnedest to avoid getting caught in it. A vast, untapped power, it lured him with the promise of heat and light to his ice-filled life. It defied him to ignore its presence with all the mercy of an executioner's smile. He knew damned well if he let himself be tempted by her, by the power of their secret, it could only end badly, igniting them both in a spectacular conflagration of destruction. He knew it as well as he knew his own past. Was he strong enough to resist? Not a chance. He wanted her too damned much. He felt another prick of guilt over his deliberate role in her coming ruin, then shoved it aside. He hadn't done anything she didn't want him to do, and he never would. He wouldn't have to. Her own nature would bring her to him, begging for more. Yeah, she'd have to come to terms with parts of herself she obviously wasn't comfortable acknowledging. Though, after what had just happened, she should have a hell of a clue. But eventually, she'd see it. And crave it as badly as he did. Wanting to join their secret passions into an orgy of dark pleasure and forbidden delight. And he would give it all to her. But he must be careful never to allow their intense physical relationship to push him beyond a casual emotional attachment. To do so would invite the real disaster. He knew very well what always followed more substantial attachments. The man who'd terrorized his way through Mick’s childhood on the strings of his mother's heart had taught him well how easily feelings changed

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from affection to antagonism. Mick's own lessons had escaped the severity of his mother's only because he'd never been regarded with particular affection or antagonism by his father. With few notable exceptions, he'd been pretty much ignored, thank God. But he knew himself. He must keep his feelings for Caro under strict discipline. The thought of her pretty face bruised and battered, or worse, sickened him. No, Mick wasn't his father. But as long as his father was alive, the violence lay coiled around Mick, like a nest of vipers ready to strike when he was most vulnerable. She would be safe as long as he stuck firmly to his plan. To their agreement. Casual and short-term. He wouldn't take any risks. Not with Caroline. But that didn't mean he wouldn't eagerly accept every inch of tantalizing flesh she offered, every gratified fantasy, every night of salacious pleasure that pushed them beyond the pale of political correctness, even into the realm of pure decadence. Hell, no. He could hardly wait. Caro was running scared. Mick watched her try to hammer up a barrier between them by resorting to the hooker persona she used on the streets for john busts. The rest of their time at Brimstone she was flirty, sexy, seductive. He might easily have been fooled into believing her a true slave to his will. But he knew better. She was terrified to let him close. She meant to deny him. He could feel it in his bones. Every time he looked at her she lowered her gaze, playing her slave role like a pro. But he saw past the acting. She was horrified by her own behavior in the seraglio. By what had transpired between them. And she was determined to withdraw. But he wasn't about to let her wriggle out of the profoundly intimate bond they'd established. As for the uncomfortable feeling that he had somehow overstepped some intangible boundary he'd been shying

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away from his whole life, well, he'd deal with that later. Meanwhile, he never let Caro slip out of his reach. Her brief surrender in the dark had kicked in his territorial instincts in a big way. He'd started her down this path, and it was his responsibility to protect her, keep her safe, and he was determined to do so. He wouldn't ever let uncontrollable emotion put his woman in danger again. From himself or anyone else. Thankfully, Caro's own resistance to a relationship would help him keep his emotional distance, even while he enjoyed her body. By holding his own feelings aloof he would protect her from the disaster he was courting by getting close. But physically, he was resolute. He meant to have her, fully and often. For the rest of the time they spent in the club, he kept his hand on the small of her back, or her arm, or around her shoulder. He danced with her close as a shadow. He ushered her between the various rooms, showing her off, stopping frequently to talk to the curious and envious men they encountered along the way. Her subtle skittishness only lent her an air of innocent mystery which made her all the more appealing as his pleasure slave. By the end of the evening, Mick was absolutely sure if the man he sought was there, he must have noticed them. Now the only question was, would the sick fuck make a move tonight? Or would Mick be allowed the chance to fulfill his own plans for Caro, free of untimely and unwanted interruption? “Time to go,” he said quietly when his watch glowed nearly two a.m.. Caro speared him a glance, the look in her eyes reminiscent of a druggie caught with the goods. She was thinking of what would happen when they got home. Just as he was. Obviously she felt threatened by what was developing between them. Christ, she wasn't the only one. “Club's closing. We've got to hang a few minutes in the parking lot. Let him get in position to follow us,” Mick

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said. She nodded, winding her forefinger in her leash. “Okay. I'm all set.” Sure she was. He couldn't tell what she dreaded more, a possible confrontation with the killer, or the inevitable one coming between them. The least he could do was ease her mind on one of those scores. “Don't worry. LAPD's got our backsides. Everyone's ready for him.” “Yep.” “And remember, none of the couples were attacked the night they came to Brimstone.” “I know.” “We just need to be alert so we can spot him when he follows us.” “Right.” Her shoulders straightened. “Listen, Mick—” He put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” He kissed her. Short, intense. “Let's go.” Keeping a vigilant eye on the jostling stream of members exiting at the same time, he slung an arm tight around her stiff shoulders and led her out to the Z. The two men Cody had in the parking lot were still there, talking and looking around as though waiting for friends. Mick went to the passenger side of the convertible and leaned his butt against the door. “Kiss me,” he said, glancing around the lot. He held out his arms. When she hesitated, he added, “C'mon, Caro. We've got to play for time.” “Enjoying yourself?” she ground out, stepping closer. He lifted a corner of his mouth. “I live for undercover work.” “You're way over the line on this one, Mick.” “Am I?” She looked away. “I never agreed to any of this stuff when you asked me to be on your team.” “No. But you did when you became my lover.” He took hold of her leash, right next to the collar he'd had specially made for her, and tugged her to stand between his splayed legs. “Last night you said, ‘Take me

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over the edge, Mick’. Change your mind?” “Yes.” “Too late.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, sliding his tongue between her warm, reluctant lips, momentarily forgetting all about his quarry and his plans. Her recalcitrance slowly melted into desire under the patient plying of his mouth. “It's too late to back out now,” he murmured when he drew back. “We're way past the point of no return.” The drive back to Pasadena was silent and filled with sizzling tension. When Mick spotted their LAPD tail after a block and pointed out the car to her, Caro jerked a nod and forced herself to concentrate. For the rest of the drive she carefully scanned the traffic, searching tensely for familiar faces from the club. By the time they pulled into her darkened driveway, her heart was pounding double-time. There'd been no sign of the killer. Everyone had hoped he’d follow them home tonight, casing them and the house in preparation for his attack in a few days. She'd been nervous about that, but this was far worse. “Where is the fucking bastard?” Mick asked, pounding the steering wheel, knuckles white. She'd never seen him this agitated before. His usual icy cool was completely shot. Could he also be reacting to the tension between them? “I don't understand,” she murmured. “What went wrong? We had to be convincing enough.” In the pregnant silence, everything they'd done at Brimstone to be convincing enough assailed her mind in mortifying detail. “Damn it,” Mick finally said. “He wasn't there.” A strangled choke escaped her. “Not there?” “We knew all along it might take several trips to lure him out. I’d just hoped...” “Oh, hell.” She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought that it had all been in vain. And that she might have to endure Mick's outrageous behavior for another night.

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Mick's behavior? No, her own. She was the one who'd sat there in full view of dozens of strangers and let him suck on her bare breasts. “We’ll just have to go back again tomorrow.” Damn. She popped her eyes open and grabbed for the car door handle. She didn't get far. Yanked back by the throat, she turned to find him holding the end of her leash in his hand, eyes blazing. “Going somewhere?” “Bed.” “We should wait a few more minutes. Just in case.” “Alone, Mick.” His eyes didn't waver as he handed her the leash. Then he broke contact and pulled a small red gym bag from under the seat. Unlocking the glove compartment, he retrieved a service revolver from it and stuffed the Berretta into the bag. He wasn't going to take no for an answer. Panic flashed through her. She couldn't do this. Somehow, she had to talk her way out of this untenable situation. Find a logical argument to convince him they shouldn't get within a mile of each other off-duty. Ever since she'd first glimpsed this tall, arrogant, unobtainable god of the Homicide Department, he'd fascinated her. She'd fantasized about him. Flirted with him. Wanted him. Hell, she'd been half in love with the man for a year. And all that time she had thought herself safe from his interest because of his reputation for not dating cops. But it seemed she was wrong. Fantasizing about what it might be like to be sexually involved with him had been bad enough. But reality had far exceeded her wildest imaginings. And now he'd sighted those case-hardened eyes on her, and she felt helpless to stop his relentless pursuit. Already she'd tumbled into waters far over her head. She felt cornered. Trapped by her own mad attraction to a man who was anything but the icy image he projected. He was hot, visceral, full of contradictions and

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potent, roiling emotion. If she let this man into her life, she knew it would be the end of her. She wasn't strong enough to resist his seductive games. Tonight had proven that. He'd so easily swept her into a frightening world she hadn't known existed. Had shown her places within herself she was terrified to probe any deeper. By continuing down this road she'd only be causing herself a world of hurt. He'd readily admitted he had lots of lovers, and while vowing to be true while they were together, he'd made it clear he wasn't interested in anything long-term. She meant nothing to him, and never would. Never could, if they ended up in Homicide together. She knew that. She felt his large, warm hand slide over her breast. Her traitorous body responded instantly, puckering her nipple and shooting a pang of painful desire straight to her center. She battled back the sting of frustrated tears. What would she do? He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. Her body's reaction to his touch said it all. There was no way in hell she'd be able to resist Mick McGraw if he decided he wanted her, for however long he wished. She launched herself out of the car. Her spike heels clacked an uneven tattoo as she marched up the cement walkway to her side of the duplex, praying she wouldn't trip in the dark. On the steps to her half of the porch she took a deep breath and counted to ten. Mick had the key to the front door. Impatiently she waited as he sauntered up the walkway like he had all night. Which he probably figured he had. Stepping onto the dimly lit porch, he eased the gym bag onto the top step and regarded her with an intensity that almost knocked her over. “In a hurry?” “Yes. I'm beat.” A soft gust of wind twirled the dry leaves around on the front lawn. She glanced down the deserted street and

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spotted Brady and Denny silhouetted in their darkened car, watching them. “No. You're scared,” he said. “You're crazy.” He closed the distance between them instantly, backing her up against a wooden porch column. “I told you before, don't call me crazy.” Abruptly, he stepped back. “We should stand here for a minute. In case by some miracle he managed to follow us without being spotted.” She nodded and studied the reflection of the moon in the shiny leather of her shoes. “Mick, I'm not kidding. I want you to sleep on the couch.” “I can't.” His voice was calm, but when she looked up his expression was smoldering. “I've taken about as much frustration as a man can endure for one night.” “I can't sleep with you again, Mick.” With a curse, he grasped her arms. “Caro, tell me you don't want to be under me as badly as I want you there and I won't touch you.” She stared up at him, unable to lie. “Go home,” she said. “After we're sure the killer won't show up, you can leave—” “You know damned well I can't do that! Aside from anything else, the case comes first.” His fingers tightened on her arms. “What's to say he isn't watching us, even now?” She glanced around nervously. “But—” “We blow this thing, it's my last, best chance to trap the bastard.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Fuck,” he said, “Why are you doing this, tonight of all nights?” Anger and frustration crackled in his voice. “I don't want to get involved.” “I don't want to get involved, either.” “That's the whole problem.” “You're not making any sense!” “Think about it, Mick,” she said, grasping at the most logical reason. “We’re both risking our jobs. Why do that

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for something you already know won’t last?” His eyes narrowed. “Who says it won’t last?” “You did! Just now,” she said exasperatedly. “No. What I said was I don’t want to get involved. Emotionally. That’s something I can’t give you, Caro, so I didn’t want to mislead you. But physically, I’ll get as involved as you want, for as long as you want me.” She shook her head. “I need the emotional part, too, Mick. That’s what I meant.” “What if I can give you something else? Something you want even more?” Doubt washed through her. “What do you mean?” “Homicide. I’ll make sure you get your transfer.” Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?” “Dead serious.” He moved tight against her, the latigo of his chest harness pressing into her front, the fluted porch column biting into her back. “We need each other, Caro. I know it, and you know it. Give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want. Simple.” “That’s sexual harassment.” He snorted. “Bullshit. It’s being honest. And I’d never be making the offer if I didn’t think you could cut it in Homicide, and I didn’t know for a fact that you want me just as much as I want you.” She shook her head. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but sex is more to me than a business transaction.” He gave her a smile then, the same smile he’d given her after sucking her breasts in front of a dozen witnesses. “In that case, tell me no. Right here. Right now. Tell me no and go back to SIS and gay Julio. Back to your empty life and your empty bed. I won’t ever bother you again. Otherwise open the front door and invite me in.” His fingers stroked down her throat. “But I’m warning you, if I walk through that front door I'm telling you now, I'll do whatever it takes to be with you. In your bed. In your body.” She continued to shake her head, desperation seeping

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in, unwilling to acknowledge how much she wanted him to do just that. How much she wanted to accept his Faustian offer and get everything she ever dreamed of. But she was too frightened, frightened of what she might become... “I'll fight you, Mick. I swear I will.” He must have sensed something in her protest she wasn't aware of. Hesitation. A challenge, maybe. A lie. He looked down at her long and hard. “Okay, then fight me,” he said. His fingers caressed her arms soothingly. “We can play it that way if you want.” Her eyes widened, incredulous. Did he mean to— “You'd force me? Take me even if I say no?” “Would you like me to force you, Caro?” Shock scuttled her ability to speak. Tim’s words came trickling back... Surely you’ve fantasized about being forced... Wait, no, that wasn’t— Suddenly, a loud, anxious voice cut into the night, coming from the other half of the porch, right behind her. “Caroline, are you all right?” She recognized the thin, whiny tone of her neighbor. “Roger!” She disentangled herself quickly from Mick's arms and turned. “Uh, hi, Rog.” “What's going on?” Roger's suspicious gaze sliced back and forth between her and Mick, dipping to take in their outfits. “Do you need help?” Gathering her wits, she gave a nervous laugh and glanced back at the street, imagining Denny and Brady in the stakeout car scrambling to figure out who the guy was and call it in. “Oh, no,” she hastened to assure Roger, pulling Mick to her side. “This is my boyfriend, Mick. We were at a, uh, a costume party. No need to worry.” Roger frowned disapprovingly, but seemed to believe her. “Well, okay. But if you need help, just give me a call.” He shot a parting censuring glare at Mick, unlocked his front door and went in. Caro let out a shaky breath. Her heart was pounding so fast she thought it would burst. “Jeezus. Where the hell

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did he come from?” “God knows.” Mick peered testily into the darkness around the duplex, and shook his head. “I didn't hear a car. We'll have to take a closer look at possible foot routes tomorrow.” He gave Denny and Brady a quick wave to let them know they were okay. She rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. “Let's go inside.” Mick's gaze pinned her, rife with unspoken questions. Oh, Lord. Her heart came to a stop, then shot into the stratosphere. “So, what's it going to be?” he asked. Despite his warning, she didn't believe he would ever force himself on her if she truly didn't want him. She only had to use the safe word and he'd stop. She trusted him that much. “Let's talk about this inside, okay?” Maybe he would see reason better over a hot cup of tea. He held her gaze for a moment, then grabbed his gym bag. “All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

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Chapter Ten Once inside, Mick disappeared immediately into the bedroom. Caro walked to the kitchen and nervously filled the tea kettle with water, then went to ask if he wanted some. From the safety of the doorway, she stood holding the kettle, and watched him fish his ID wallet out of the back pocket of his leather pants and place it on the night stand. His Beretta, which he retrieved from the red gym bag, he slid under the pillow, as was apparently his habit. “Tea?” she asked, not letting herself think about the obvious implications. “No, thanks.” He brushed past her and went to pick up the cell phone he'd left on the coffee table in the living room. “Take off your clothes,” he said quietly as he punched in numbers. Her pulse raced as he began speaking with Bobby. Oh, Lord. He’d meant it. “No, nothing. Not a hint of anything unusual,” he said impassively into the phone, staring back at her when she didn't move. He began efficiently undoing the buckles of his harness. Water splashed on her foot, and she realized the kettle had tipped, about to drop from her hand. Shakily, she set it on the nearby wet bar. “It was her neighbor,” he said to Bobby. Denny and Brady must have called in the incident with Roger, just as she'd suspected. “Our man wasn't at Brimstone tonight. He couldn't have been. He would have noticed us and followed.” He paused. “Yes, absolutely sure. We’ll try again tomorrow.” As Mick spoke, his gaze oozed all over her like warm

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fudge sauce, leaving her feeling sticky hot. Then he slid out of the latigo harness, his chest naked and gleaming with the sweat of his intentions. A trickle of excitement crept through her. “Yeah, I managed to get a few names to run. And we'll have a shitload of plate numbers from Cody's men. I'll be in early.” He listened a moment, then said, “You'll be the first to know.” He pressed the off button of the phone and his eyes narrowed on her. She tasted blood. “Are you going to take your clothes off, or do you want me to do it for you?” She should say “Detective” right now. This very instant. The word formed on her tongue, but for some reason wouldn't roll off. Why? Did she really want to slide further into the dark world he'd introduced her to, by playing the scandalous sexual game he'd suggested? Or was it a game at all? “If I force you,” he said, his tone hushed. “It won't be your fault. You can fight and scream and call me a bastard, tell me all the reasons you don't want me to touch you. And still enjoy it when I do.” She shivered, more attracted to the idea than she dared to admit. “Have you ever...?” He moved closer, pushing her up against the living room wall. “Fantasized about fucking you against your will? Oh, yeah.” She swallowed heavily. A flutter of elation swirled low in her belly at the thought of the Iceman having fantasies about her. Even those kind. “You have?” He pressed up against her, hot and hard, and drew a single finger up her arm. “Sometimes when I’d see you at the station, flaunting your sexy body in those skimpy outfits, which I couldn't react to...you'd get me so frustrated I'd go to my desk and fantasize about how I could take you without anyone knowing.” The cold plaster of the wall was like ice on her bare back and shoulders. But the Iceman was blazing hot. She

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trembled. “Like how?” “You really want to know?” No. “Yes.” He smiled sinisterly. “I'd imagine waiting till the end of the shift, and following you to your car.” He reached into his pants pocket and suddenly there was a bright orange silk scarf in his hand. “I'd hide while you unlocked the car, then I'd come up behind you and blindfold you.” He put the scarf over her eyes, and when she didn't immediately protest, he tied it snugly. She blinked, unable to see through the tightly woven fabric. A tiny frisson of fear skittered up her spine. “You struggle against me. So I handcuff you.” She felt the grip of unrelenting steel on her wrist. He snapped the cuff closed. She was surrounded by a sea of orange silk, and unable to escape. A cool breeze from an open window crawled over her heated skin, raising goosebumps. Her fear increased a notch. “Mick—” He pulled her arms behind her back and locked the other cuff, silencing her by covering her mouth with his. His tongue caressed hers, tasting of tequila and beer, and the distinctive, musky flavor of her lover. The scent of his body, his arousal, mingled with the taste of him on her tongue. Her desire flamed. “You fight me but I'm stronger. You plead with me, but I don't answer. I don't want you to know it's me.” “No,” she said , trying to pull away, her nerves screaming. “Yes. I shove you against a garage pylon and drag your skirt up. You've been out on the Boulevard, and you're not wearing panties, just a garter belt and stockings.” She jerked away. “I'd never—” He shoved her back in her place and slid his hand under her leather skirt, whispering, “Are you wearing panties now, Caro?” She gasped for breath as his fingers slid over her. “Yes!”

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“From now on, I don't ever want you to wear panties,” he hissed. “Not at Brimstone, not on the job. I want to know you're completely bare under those prim business suits you've taken to wearing at the station.” “No.” Her pulse sky-rocketed as she fought harder against him. “I couldn't—” “You're my pleasure slave, Caro. You'll do what pleases me. Always.” She shook her head again, twisting against the blindfold and handcuffs. “I won't.” He grasped the delicate lace of her panties and ripped them off with one strong yank. “You will.” His fingers sought her moist, secret places. She wrenched away, slipping from his grasp. She ran a few steps across the room, colliding blindly with the couch before he caught her and turned her in his arms. “No!” Steel rattled as she tried in vain to free her hands. As they tussled, she felt him unclasp her demi-bra and her breasts sprang free. “Mick, wait!” “I'm done waiting, Caro. I want you. Now.” He unzipped her skirt and jerked it down over her hips. It dropped to her ankles. Through the leather of his pants, his thick erection jutted like a nightstick into her belly. A spurt of feminine power surged through her. He might be the stronger, but she had done this to him, brought him to this primitive state of animal need, wanting her, willing to do anything to have her. So who was really in control here? “You've been driving me to distraction all day,” he growled. “All night. I've never wanted anyone so much.” Her nipples scraped against his wiry chest hairs as he dragged her close, sending a shock of arousal through her. His mouth crashed down on hers and sucked the breath from her lungs with his long, eating kiss. She moaned, and heard the lock release on one of the handcuffs. She shook the bra from her arms and let herself be pulled back into his crushing embrace. Except for shoes

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and stockings, collar and blindfold, she was naked. His hands roamed over her; his clever tongue plundered her mouth. Desire flooded through her down to her very toes. His muscular body felt big and strong, and completely male. He felt good. So good. Her own body was more than ready to surrender to his heated demands. But could she trust herself to him ? Trust him to keep her safe, even in the throes of this dangerous fantasy? At the club she had trusted him to obey the rules. But here at home there were no rules. How could she possibly be safe with him? Already he was teaching her things, awakening hungers, creating needs within her that no one else would ever be able to sate. Did she want that? To be so dependent on a man who seemed willing to do anything to get what he wanted? Would she survive? Knowing the answer instinctively, she groaned, pushing her hands against his chest. She grasped his arms, wanting to stop his sensual assault on her. She had to get away, get him to stop! “That's right. Fight me, baby.” She pushed harder, unsure how much was part of the game, how much was serious. She wanted him. God, she wanted him! But she had to think about the consequences of surrender. His lips bruised along her jaw, his powerful hands fondled her. Touching. Probing. Daring her to let go. All the while holding her forcibly in his grip. She squirmed, attempting to break away. He wouldn't let her. She reached up and ripped the blindfold from her eyes. “No!” The guttural cry of fear was dragged from deep inside her. “I don't want this.” “You do,” he countered, reaching for her again. “You want me to fuck you.” She lurched backwards and tripped on her skirt, still bunched around her ankles. He grabbed her and yanked her back. She kicked him, slammed him with her fists. “Ow, shit!” he swore, dodging her blows as best he

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could. But he didn't let her go. Managing to break free, she ran across the room. The handcuffs still dangled from one wrist. A floor lamp toppled with a crash. “Stay away from me, Mick!” “Not a chance.” He stalked after her, fire snapping in his pale blue eyes as sharply as a dungeon master's whip. His erection crested the low waistband of his pants, straining to lose its bonds. “I'll scream.” He barked a laugh, and lunged for her. She screamed. And jumped away just in time. She ran behind the sofa, back and forth, avoiding his grasp. He moved lithely, following her like a big cat tracking his prey. “Talk to me, baby. Tell me what you're so afraid of.” “You!” “Liar.” He smiled. A tight, demoniac kind of smile. His hand lashed out and caught her arm, tumbling her over onto the couch. He was on top of her in a flash, holding her wrists firmly above her head. “It's yourself you're afraid of.” He kissed her, whispering roughly, “You love what I do to you, what I make you do. You love how it feels with me. And it scares the hell out of you.” He leaned down and licked her breast, biting her nipple when it swirled into a tight bud. Her body arched convulsively, seeking more. He looked up, triumphant. “See? You want me to take you. Any way I can.” Gathering her wrists in one hand, he reached down and unzipped his pants. She bit him on the shoulder, hard, rolling him onto the floor when he shouted in pain. “Fuck, woman!” The coffee table tipped over with a crash as they landed in the gap. In the confusion, she scrambled away from him on all fours, only to be caught firmly by one ankle.

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“Oh, no you don't.” “Let me go!” She shook her foot, attempting to loosen his grip. She dragged herself forward, hoping it would slip. “You'll never have me again. I won't let you.” “Wanna bet?” His other hand clamped onto her free ankle, and she felt herself being hauled backwards along the carpet, her slippery stockings affording little friction against his relentlessness. She tried to kick up with her foot. “You slice my face with these heels and there'll be hell to pay,” he said. “What about my bruised knees?” she retorted, still trying to wriggle free. “There's an easy way to avoid discomfort,” he said silkily. He grasped her hips and pulled her up to her hands and knees again. “Submit.” She was in perfect position to be entered from behind, and she suspected that's exactly what he was preparing to do. She made one last break for freedom. His arm tightened around her middle and a loud crack resounded through the room. Suddenly, her bottom was on fire; a stinging pain flashed red hot through it, centered right at her most intimate area. The bastard had spanked her! She yelped in outrage, but her protest was immediately swallowed by her enormous gasp as he rammed home, hilting into her. She exploded in a kaleidoscope of pleasure. Never had she felt such acute, unbearable desire in her life. She wanted Mick deep inside her with a hunger that took her breath away; she shook with an almost painful need for him to make her come. She battled against it. “No!” With near desperation, she vaulted away, breaking their slick contact, leaving him kneeling there on the carpet fucking thin air. It took him about two seconds to recover and bring her down in a flying tackle. “You are determined to task me,” he ground out,

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flipping her onto her back under him. “I said I would,” she threw back, near tears from the irresolvability of her situation. How could she ever have the strength to fight him, this iron-willed man she wanted more than anything on earth? “Yield to me, or I'll take what I want.” He seized her wrists, stretching them high above her. She shook her head, knowing she could never win against him. “I won't.” She struggled to the last, even when she heard the mechanical click of the handcuffs locking her to the overturned coffee table. She bucked and tried to pitch him off, presenting a moving target to his cock as he thrust himself between her thighs. “Hold still!” he ordered. “Make me!” She writhed with all her might, one last time. He grabbed hold of her knees, spread them wide, then scythed into her. She almost sobbed with relief. Or anger. Or some indefinable emotion she couldn't begin to name. He groaned, and plunged into her again. His hands ran up her body, grasped her breasts. He squeezed them, pinching the nipples so she felt it to the roots of her hair. She inhaled sharply, cried out in sweet agony. “Tell me to fuck you,” he demanded, thrusting deep. She shut her eyes tight and wrenched against her bonds. “Fuck you.” He rolled her nipples between his fingers. Hard. She almost screamed. So good. Without thinking, she wrapped her legs around his waist. His breath hissed into her ear. “Tell me to fuck you harder.” He thrust again, filling her completely. She practically saw stars. She was teetering on the verge, right on the very razor's edge of orgasm. “No.” “Then, I'll stop.” He jerked out of her, leaving her cold and empty and quivering with enormous, unsatisfied need. “No!” She clutched his waist tightly with her legs. “Please,” she desperately said. “Don't stop.” He stared down at her, the muscles of his face taut

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with his own urgency. He didn't move. “Say it.” She could feel the head of his cock rhythmically touch her sensitive, swollen nether lips, pulsing to the beat of his thundering heart. Just out of reach. She knew what he wanted. She also knew with agonizing certainty that unless he got it he'd walk away from her, here and now. Oh, God. The tables had turned. She was in charge. She suddenly didn't like this game at all. It wasn't like their exhibitionistic dominance fantasy at Brimstone. That one they'd both enjoyed thoroughly. Because it hadn't been real. This was real, and they both knew it. He wanted her, but he wanted her on his own terms. By making this demand, he was giving her the decision to be with him or not. But the irony was, if she stayed, he would truly be her Master and she his slave. And he was making her choose with the dice loaded. To her surprise, he lowered his face to hers and caressed her lips, barely touching them. His tongue licked delicately at her, leaving trails of wetness on her mouth and cheeks. “I'll make it so sweet for you,” he murmured seductively. “I'll service you well.” He shifted slightly and slid his hand between her legs, brushing his thumb gently over the apex of her need. She almost came. “I know what you like, Caro. Far better than you do.” She squirmed. She wanted to claw at him, make him fill her again with his delicious, punishing hardness. He was right. He did know her better than she knew herself. From the first moment he'd laid eyes on her, he'd known exactly what she wanted, even before she did. And now, now he'd led her into dangerous, uncharted waters and was threatening to abandon ship just when she needed him most.

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A million reasons to send him on his way played through her mind. But the one thought she couldn't shake, as much as she wanted to, was that she still wanted him like crazy. Wanted his touch, wanted his taste, wanted the feel of him claiming her body for his pleasure, and hers. His thumb skimmed over her again. “Tomorrow when we're at Brimstone, I'll touch you just like this, in front of anyone.” Hot flames seared into her, quick and electrifying. The first tingle of orgasm fluttered through her throbbing pearl. She yanked at the handcuffs holding her fast to the table, trying vainly to press herself up onto his hand. His fingers lifted, then she felt one slide into her. Just enough to prevent relief from abandoning her completely, but not enough to push her over the edge. She whimpered. “I'll lick you, too,” he purred, throaty and rough like the purr of a lion. “Here. Up on the stage. With everyone watching.” She swallowed heavily, her throat aching with lust for him, for his touch, his penetration. She didn't even want to think about what her reaction to his shocking statements meant. “Please, Mick,” she begged. “What's it going to be, Caro? What do you want?” “You,” she whispered, her voice strangled with conflict. “What do you want me to do, baby?” “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me as hard as you can, and not stop until I beg you for mercy.” She wiggled under him, stretching to meet him, to take him into her. The tip of his cock pressed tight against her tumid, pulsing point of need. She lifted, wanting to pull him inside, but the head followed the movement and didn't budge from its spot. She looked down and saw he was holding it in position with one hand. Sticky liquid oozed from the tip, spreading itself over her, lubricating them both with the essence of his want. As she watched, he guided his length in a tiny circle, scarcely moving, but

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enough to make her want to crawl up inside him. Her mouth went completely dry. More flutters started, this time in earnest. “Fuck me, Mick. Please. Now.” “No, you fuck me.” He slid the slit of his penis over her small, pulsing clit and worked it like a tiny mouth. She froze in astonished delight. Her orgasm roared over her, convulsing her body under his, making her cry out with the intensity of it. And suddenly he was slamming into her, pounding in and out with the fierce frenzy of a man who'd waited for this moment far too long. He came as she peaked for the second time, but kept hammering into her until he couldn't any longer, as unwilling to end the pleasure as she was. She didn't think it was possible for anything to feel this good. He collapsed, reaching for a kiss as he melted into a limp heap on top of her. “You're my slave, Caro. You'll do as I say. Always.” Then he kissed her deeply, stirring the embers of emotions she knew would be her downfall. She'd be a fool not to cut them off ruthlessly. It was bad enough she'd just delivered her body into his power and lustful dominance, to do with exactly as he wished. To subject her heart to the same panacea would be nothing short of insanity. But what would one kiss hurt? The ringing of a phone jerked both of them out of the kiss. She blinked, meeting Mick's equally startled eyes. The phone rang again, from the floor next to the upended coffee table, not four feet away. His cell phone. Oh, my God. “Shit,” Mick swore, at the exact same moment there was a loud pounding at the front door. “Ah, Christ.” He bounded to his feet, yanking up and zipping his pants in the same fluid movement. “Open up!” an official-sounding voice shouted from outside the door. “Pasadena Police!”

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Chapter Eleven “What the hell...?” Mick let fly an even more potent oath. “Mick!” Caro called, trying to sit up, and he realized she was still handcuffed to the coffee table. “The key!” He stopped in his tracks and took in the sight of her, all naked and flushed and looking so well-fucked he got hard just looking, and for a split second he considered leaving her lying there just like that. If she'd been anyone else, anyone but a cop, he might have given in to the temptation. But no. He fished the key from his pocket, opened one of the cuffs and motioned to the bedroom. “Go. I'll deal with this.” For once she had no trouble obeying him. She ran for cover, leaving him to explain the upset furniture and abandoned clothes to their colleagues. The pounding continued, as did the phone ringing. “PPD! Open the door or we're coming in!” Mick swiped up the phone, kicked Caro's skirt and bra under the sofa and yelled, “Keep your shirt on, I'm coming!” He punched the phone's 'on' button as he walked to the door. “What the hell's going on over there?” Bobby’s voice demanded. “Just raping Caroline.” His friend chortled. “Very funny.” “Bobby, why are the cops here?” Mick swung open the door to see two officers standing on the front porch, weapons at the ready. He stood stock still except for raising his free hand, and forced a smile. “Talk to me,

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buddy.” “Someone called in a domestic disturbance. Dispatch put it out before they saw whose address it was. Okay, what was really going on?” “Please put down the phone, sir.” The officer on the porch peered around Mick, saw the state of the living room and blasted him with a scowl. “Is everything all right?” “Just great. Bobby, don't do anything till I call you back.” He hit the off button and lowered the phone slowly. “What seems to be the problem, officers?” He didn't recognize either one, which struck him as a little unusual. But lucky, since it meant they wouldn't know they were dealing with two cops. “Would you mind if we came in and took a look around? A neighbor reported a disturbance.” Good old Roger. Mick smiled through his teeth. “Not at all.” He stepped aside and swiped his fingers through his hair. It would be better for all concerned if he could avoid telling these two who he and Caro were. And what they were doing. On any front. “I know what it must look like, but, uh...” “Yes?” The female officer scanned the room, then turned to him, hand still on her weapon. She was not amused. “But what? Where's your wife?” “Wife? We...uh, she's in the bedroom. She's fine.” “I'm sure she is. I'd like to speak with her, if you don't mind.” This was getting too complicated. He should just tell them they were cops so they'd leave without demanding any more explanations. He and Caro didn't need this making the gossip rounds at the station tomorrow. “She's in bed. Listen—” “I got him, Mick! I threw him out the window!” Caro appeared at the bedroom door, clad in a robe and pink slippers with her hair up in one of those claw barrettes. She still looked deliciously rumpled and sated, but it might pass for sleepy... “Say, did I hear someone at the—

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?” Threw him out the window? What the hell was she talking about? “Caroline?” The female officer's jaw dropped as she took in Caro, and did a thorough double-take on Mick. “Detective McGraw?” Her eyes practically bugged out. So much for anonymity. “Hey, Sheila. What's going on?” Caro replied, coming to his side. “A domestic was called in on this address, and judging by the furniture...” Officer Sheila left the sentence hanging. “Um, never mind. I can see you're okay...” She started backing toward the door, motioning the other cop along. Caro laughed. “It was a mouse. Mick was helping me catch the little bugger.” She looked around at the mess in mock consternation. “Yikes. I guess we got a bit carried away.” “Yeah, um—” Caro pretended to suddenly catch on. “Oh! No, no, no! It's not what you think. We're doing an undercover operation together. Mick was just dropping me off when I spotted the stupid mouse in the kitchen. I was making tea.” She pointed at the abandoned kettle on the wetbar. The guy officer hid a smirk while Sheila nodded seriously, studiously avoiding looking at Mick's bare chest and leather pants. “I see. Well, that explains it.” Sheila continued to back toward the door. “We'll just be going, then. Good seeing you again, Caroline. Drop by Traffic and say hi when you get the chance. I'd love to catch up.” Mick barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Best nip this one in the bud, but quick. He was sure his killer hadn't followed them, so there was no reason to stick around on that account. It was almost dawn, anyway, time for his run. “I'll take off with them, Officer Palmer, so you can get some sleep. I'll see you later at the station. Don't forget to

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lock up.” Caro sliced him a gaze. An awkward moment went by before her shoulders straightened slightly, and she said, “All right, Detective. Good night.” He wasn't going to feel guilty. The night was over. It was back to their badges. Better to leave now. He grabbed his harness from the floor, and followed the two officers out, then waited until he heard the sound of the deadbolt locking behind them. Before sliding into the Z parked in the driveway, he scanned the shadows of the neighborhood, giving a surreptitious shake of his head to Denny and Brady who'd scrunched down in the front seat of their surveillance vehicle. No sense blowing the whole freakin' operation. The blue-and-white pulled away from the curb, and Mick gunned the Z to life, following in their wake. He dialed Bobby on the cell phone. “Well, that was interesting.” “What happened?” He gave Bobby the sanitized version of events, including Caro's ridiculous mouse story, since it would be around the whole station in about ten minutes flat, anyway. His partner was silent for a moment, then chuckled, then out-and-out belly-laughed. “You gotta be kidding me.” Mick sighed. “Don't I wish. You know what everyone's going to think, regardless.” “And...?” “And nothing. Breaking lamps and knocking down furniture? Please.” “Oh, excuse me. I forgot I was dealing with the Iceman. Heaven forbid you should get a little rowdy with a woman. Much better to be chasing mice.” “My thoughts exactly.” Bobby snorted with disgust. “Gimme those names to run, will ya?” “You get any sleep at all tonight?” Mick asked. “Did you?”

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“Fuck. Who needs it, anyhow.” “Names.” He couldn't help smiling as he rattled off the halfdozen names he'd exchanged with overly curious men at Brimstone. Bobby might have his quirks, but he was the best partner a cop could have. It would be a sad day when they were forced to part ways at the end of this ordeal. After he hung up with Bobby, Mick dialed Caro's number while zipping through the pre-dawn traffic back to his apartment. “Caro, pick up,” he said when the answering machine clicked on. “C'mon, now, baby. Don't be mad. What was I supposed to do?” He waited a few seconds for her to pick up the receiver. When she didn't, he continued. “I told Bobby the same story, so the mouse thing is now the official version of tonight's events.” He paused again. “Baby, please. Pick up.” He pictured her lying on her bed, arms crossed with a scowl on her pretty face, listening to him beg. Fuck it. “I had a good time tonight,” he murmured low and silky. “Real good. And I know you did, too. I can't wait for tomorrow night. Remember what I promised to do?” His cock stretched, recalling her excitement at his whispered suggestions, imagining what it would be like if he really could do the things he'd promised her. Wouldn't happen at Brimstone, of course; they'd be thrown out of the place. But surely he could come up with somewhere else to take her. He came to a stoplight and remembered the phone in his hand with a start. “Don't forget to bring my ID wallet and Berretta in the morning. I left them in the bedroom. Gun’s under the pillow.” No biggie—they were his dup and personal. Then he added, “Oh, and Caro? Remember, no panties.” He hung up, wishing like hell he didn't have to wait another eighteen hours to sink himself into her lush heat again. Well, a long run would cure that. When he got to the apartment he parked, swung by the dumpster to dispose of the night’s protection, then

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jogged up the stairs to change for his run. He was a bit early today as he did his circuit past the crime scenes and the surveillance teams, who shook their heads as he cruised by. Still no one suspicious. Damn. He needed a credible suspect the brass would buy. Someone on whom to direct all the anger and frustration the entire police force was feeling over not having a single clue to these brutal slayings other than the theoretical psycho-babble spouted by the FBI profiler. Hell, if you listened to that guy's description, the best suspect in town would be Mick McGraw. He laughed quietly as he jogged past the last crime scene. Of course, no one would ever believe that. After his run, it took Mick only about forty-five minutes to shower, change and get down to the station. Naturally, the first person he ran into on the way in from the parking garage was Julio Martinez. By the look of him, the man hadn't had any more sleep than Mick. “You look like hell, Martinez. Out hassling hookers all night?” “Chingate, cabron,” Martinez snarled with surprising venom even for him, adjusting a pair of reflector glasses over his shadowed eyes. Mick gave him a considering smile. “No need. I've got your ex-partner to do that for me.” Julio swung around, blocking his path to the door. In the morning light, Mick saw a light tinge of blue just below the left mirrored lens. “Caroline is still my partner, McGraw. And you'll answer to me if you even think about hurting her.” “Who said anything about hurting her?” Mick replied, tamping down hard on a bone-deep irritation. “So what you gonna do, sic your abusive lover on me?” The other man's jaw visibly tightened. “Just remember, I'm watching you, McGraw.” With that, Julio spun on a heel and stalked up the stairs toward SIS.

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Yeah, yeah. Mick was definitely terrified. Shit. Like he didn't have enough to worry about without Caro's psycho gay pimp threatening to beat him up. He mashed his fingers into his eyes and headed for Bobby's desk. His friend looked up, a wry grin playing across his drawn face. “Holy crap, man. What the hell are you doing with that woman?” Mick exhaled, and tossed him a file. “Here's the list of names from the club to run. Sorry, I'm not interested in discussing mice.” Bobby grinned wider. “Small potatoes compared to what's been coming down from LAPD.” Mick cursed inwardly. So the buzz had already started about him and Caro. He'd have to play it even cooler than usual. And find out who'd ratted. “Cody called?” Bobby shook his head. “Someone in forensics has a cousin at LAPD. Apparently the cousin was an inside man at Brimstone last night.” This time Mick swore aloud. “Inside? As in part of the operation? And he talked about it?” Again, Bobby shook his head. “Not about the operation. Just about how you and your lovely new slave were carrying on. Any truth to the rumors?” “Depends. Christ, Bobby, we were on a job. What did you hear?” Bobby's brows shot into his scalp. “You saying you actually did those things to her?” Mick shrugged. “Like I said, depends.” He tapped the file as he turned toward his own desk in the Lieutenant's office. “Let me know if you turn up anything on these guys. Oh.” He stopped and returned to lean close to Bobby. “What do you know about Julio Martinez?” he murmured. “Caro's partner?” “Ex-partner. Yeah. Specifically, who is he involved with?” Bobby frowned. “No idea. Why?” “He came in with a tune-up this morning, and looked

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like he hadn't slept in a week.” “Worried about him?” Bobby asked with obvious amusement. Smart ass. “I worry about all my fellow officers,” Mick responded evenly. Bobby nodded. “Yeah. Sure you do.” Mick ignored the sarcasm and went to his desk. Damn he was tired. He really should carve out an hour or two for a nap this afternoon. He put in two good hours of work before Caro blew across his mind again like a hot wind. Where was she? He glanced at the clock. Almost nine. The morning briefing would begin soon and he hated tardiness. He'd have to punish her when she finally deigned to join them. Sans panties. Oh, yeah. The thought had definite possibilities.

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Chapter Twelve Caro took a good look in the mirror that morning, and was vaguely startled by what she saw. She looked perfectly normal. Nothing in her face hinted that anything unusual had happened the night before, or that her entire universe had been turned on its axis, leaving her life careening through uncharted territory toward a black hole of unknown destination. True, she looked pale and tired. Who wouldn't, after so little sleep for two days running? Mick might be able to pull that off without a crease in his perfect GQ appearance, but Caro's took more of a beating. Still, how could she appear so calm and...unemotional...after she'd practically had sex in a public place, and then been raped in her own living room? No, that wasn't really the truth. She didn't look unemotional. She actually looked...content. She dropped her forehead against the mirror with a dull thud. What kind of a weird pervert had she become? She'd actually enjoyed doing those things! She could have stopped either at any time, and had chosen not to. Of course, Mick hadn't raped her. Not exactly. He'd warned her beforehand what he intended to do. They'd even discussed it, for crying out loud. By letting him into the house, and not using her safe word, as violent as the encounter had been, she'd given him permission. It was a strange paradox. By her very choice the act had become consensual. His asking and her choosing had negated the evil nature of the deed and made it into something quite different. Didn't it?

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Or did it merely acknowledge Mick's determination, and set forth to accept the outcome ahead of time, regardless of how she felt about it? She jetted out a breath. No. That wasn’t it, at all. She couldn’t blame this on Mick. Tim had pegged it exactly right in his explanation. Last night had been about living out her deepest, darkest fantasies. About relinquishing control to someone she trusted to take her places she'd never dared dream of, and keep her safe doing it. She didn't trust Mick one lick when it concerned relationship matters, but sex was a different story. His obvious experience, and the respect he held for her personally, made her certain he would never hurt her physically or demand things of her she didn't crave in some deep, hidden place. A place he somehow instinctively understood better than she ever would. Too bad his relationship skills were polar opposite from his sexual prowess. She couldn't believe he'd just up and left her last night after...everything. Again! What kind of jerk bastard would do that to a woman? At least he'd called later to apologize. Sort of. Though the message had sounded more like phone sex, and she didn't recall the word 'sorry' anywhere in his broody monologue. She squinted into the mirror again. However, if he actually thought she'd go in to the station without panties on, he was truly stuck in his Master-slave delusion. Hell, if she had any kind of brains, she'd stop this insane relationship, or whatever the hell it was, before it sucked her even deeper into Mick's over-the-edge fantasy world. If it weren't for the Teddie case, she'd close the door in his handsome face the next time he came around tempting her with his outlandish, kinky games. Honestly, she would. Her shoulders sagged. No. She wouldn’t. Who was she kidding? She liked what he did to her. It was thrilling and exciting, and there was nothing she wanted more than to continue sleeping with him. She wanted him. Even if he offered her nothing but the chance to experience his wild, out-of-control passion.

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But he had offered more. He’d actually offered her the opportunity to fulfill her personal goals, if she accepted his deal. Her body in exchange for her dreams. Could she do it? Well, why the hell not? She was a modern woman. Sex didn’t have to be about emotions. She could have the experience of a lifetime with Mick, and advance her career, too. If she were a man she wouldn’t hesitate. Would he keep his end of the bargain? She thought he would. Mick was all about honesty. Even when it was uncomfortable. So what if he was a little dangerous? His demands a little risky? She could take it. She could control her emotions as well as he could. She’d be okay. Wouldn’t she? A shiver traced up her spine. Okay, maybe she should think this through a bit more. He was a very powerful man, a man who’d already shaken her world to its foundation. But his apparent need to control her set off a red flag. Reminded her a little too much of her father. So far, Mick had only made sexual demands. But would that change? Did she really want to go further down that road with him? This was not a decision that should be made lightly; it was one that could easily affect the rest of her life, in more ways than one. Better to take it slow. At least give herself the whole day to consider it, before he demanded an answer tonight. In the meantime she‘d better get down to the station and do her job. If she could stay awake that long. Even a cold shower hadn't woken her up completely, and her eyes felt gritty no matter how much Visine she squirted into them. She inhaled two cups of coffee, poured another in a go-cup, and was stuffing Mick's badge and Beretta into her purse when she noticed her outfit from last night peeking out from under the couch. So that's where her skirt and bra had gone. She scooped them up and shook her own

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badge out of the back pocket. A small white card dropped out along with it. Funny, she didn't remember getting anyone's business card at Brimstone. Frowning, she examined it closer. Made from fine white linen paper, the card bore the barest shadow of a watermark showing a naked woman bound to a St. Andrew's cross. There was just one other thing printed on it: an elegantly embossed website address. Odd. How on earth had it gotten into her pocket? Someone in the crowded club must have slipped it in there last night. Had he felt her badge? Surely not. The thin leather wallet would have prevented that. Besides, she certainly would have noticed someone rooting around that much in her skin-tight pockets. She'd have to show the card to Mick when she got to the task force meeting. It could be important. Suddenly it hit her. Oh, my God! Maybe this was the way the killer made first contact with his victims—not following them home! Excited by her discovery, Caro hurried to the station. Despite her reservations over her relationship with Mick, she was eager to share her new theory with him. She was right about the card. She just knew it. Before Caro got to the conference room, she met Agent Woodruff on the stairs going up. She greeted him with pleasant surprise. Nobody used the stairs except her. “Hey, Tim. Heading up for the meeting?” “Eventually. Have to go to the third floor first.” “The Crime Analysis lab?” “Yep. I left a few parameters for them to run through the computer, see if anything local pops out.” “Unsolved cases, you mean?” He nodded. “Cases, parolees, the works. All your local wack-jobs and hack-jobs.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds delightful.” At the second floor landing he put his hand on her arm to stop her. “How's it going with Detective McGraw?”

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She could tell by the way he asked that he guessed exactly how it was going. “Intense,” she answered, studying the linoleum under her feet. The word echoed around the enclosed stairwell like it would in a cartoon. “You sleeping with him?” She crossed her arms. “Nothing like beating around the bush, Woodruff.” He smiled, but didn't take it back. “That would be against department rules.” One eyebrow hiked. “Fine.” She held up her hands in surrender. “Yes. But sleeping's not exactly the word I'd use.” “Are you okay with it?” She hesitated, and he didn't rush her. Lord, did she really want to get into this subject with a virtual stranger? “If you mean am I a willing participant, yes, I am,” she finally allowed. “And what if that's not what I mean?” She sighed. He wasn't going to let her off that easy. Well, what the hell. If she couldn't level with an FBI psychologist, who could she level with? “All right, I’ll be honest. He's showing me a side of myself I'm not sure I like. It’s...scary.” Tim regarded her seriously. “I was afraid of that.” “Of what?” He leaned back against the cement wall of the stairwell. “Part of my routine when I'm called in to help on a difficult case is to do a kind of profile on the lead detectives involved. To find out if they have any personal baggage or history which could bias their investigation— consciously or unconsciously.” Incredulous, she asked, “You profiled Mick?” “Just a sketch, based strictly on information already in his file.” “And?” “And I found some things that...concern me.” Great. This couldn't be good news. Not that she was surprised. A complex man like Mick had to have lots of hidden depths—good and bad. “Such as?”

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Tim rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You realize, I can't divulge anything that's not public record, no matter how much I might want to. Not unless I thought you were in imminent danger.” She blinked. “What are you talking about? You think I'm in danger from Mick?” He shook his head. “Please, don't misunderstand. I don't necessarily think—” He swore under his breath. “Okay, for instance, did you know Detective McGraw's father is in prison? Or was, until a few months ago. For killing his mother and her lover.” Shock glued Caro to the spot. “You're kidding me.” “The father caught them in bed together and shot them both with his hunting rifle. Then he carved up the guy pretty good. Mick had been outside playing, but came in and was standing in the door. He saw the whole thing.” She got her mouth to work—barely. “How old was he?” “Ten.” “Oh, God.” She dropped to the top step and sank her head back against the rail, staring up at Tim. “Oh, God.” “There were some other things that came out at the trial...” “I'm not going to want to hear this, am I?” “I think you should, at least what I'm allowed to tell you. McGraw's background was rough. His father rode with a really tough motorcycle club which was big-time into leather and some serious bondage.” “You mean like at Brimstone?” “Brimstone is just play time dress-up. This was the real deal. Things apparently got ugly on several occasions. The father has a pretty foul rap sheet, which grew longer even after they put him in Corcoran prison. Assault and spousal abuse are just the tip of the iceberg.” A dawning horror seeped through her. “What about child abuse?” “He seems to have been indifferent to the kid.” Thank God. Caro sat in silence for several minutes, digesting all the information and its implications. “And you think Mick has the same tendencies for violence as his

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father?” Tim's gaze didn't waver. “You tell me. Does he?” “Of course not. At least...” She lapsed into thought again. This explained so much about Mick. His carefully controlled, almost anal by-thebook behavior on the job, his impenetrable emotional barriers, his predilection for edgy sex. He had so much to prove to society, so much to overcome within himself. He definitely had his share of inner problems. But violent and abusive? She shook her head. “No. He's not like that. He would never—” “Then what happened last night? And don't even try with the mouse thing, because I just plain old don't believe it.” Oh, God. He wasn't going to like this. She clasped her hands together to prevent them from shaking. “It was a rape fantasy.” “He raped you?” “No! Well, yes, but—” In an instant, Tim was sitting next to her on the step. “Caro, listen to me. This is serious. If he—” “No, no, no! It's okay, I let him do it. It was even kind of my idea, in a way.” Tim's expression was riddled with doubt. “Your idea.” “Yeah.” She sighed deeply. “What you said yesterday, about being tied up by someone you trusted. Being able to let go and have all the decisions made for you. It was kind of like that.” “Tell me how, exactly.” “Honest to God, Tim, from the beginning I didn't want to be involved with Mick. I didn't want to be on this case with him, I didn't want to sleep with him, I didn't even want to be in the same room with him. He's totally out of control, sexually. But he's the Iceman—doesn't show his emotions and definitely doesn't want a relationship. He's wrong for me. Wrong, wrong, wrong.” “But...?” “But I can't keep my hands off him. I crave him like a

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bad addiction. Every time he touches me, my body melts at his feet. Along with my willpower. I want him.” “So you can't say no when he wants you, even though you know you should.” “Exactly. Last night it was a real rush to be able to fight him as hard as I could and still know he'd win. Took away the guilt.” She felt her cheeks grow hot and glanced away. “Jeez, I can't believe I'm telling you this.” Tim smiled. “I'm a psychologist. It's my job to pry secrets out of people. Did he hurt you?” Not a chance she'd tell him about being spanked. “No.” “Ever?” “No.” “Emotionally?” She looked away. “We agreed from the beginning to keep emotions out of it.” “I see. So you feel safe with him?” “Yes,” she answered. “No. I don’t know.” “What are you afraid of?” An old, familiar sick feeling suddenly knotted the pit of her stomach, an ancient tenseness she hadn't felt in ages. Not since she'd banished it by walking out of her father’s house ten long years ago. She didn't like it. A childhood of being bullied and controlled was more than plenty to endure for one lifetime. “Tell me,” she said aloud. “A man who likes to dominate a woman sexually...does it stop at that? Or will he eventually demand more and more control over her life, emotionally and intellectually?” Tim gazed at her consideringly. “Sometimes. Certainly not always. It depends on his reasons for dominating her, and his psychological pay-off, as it were. Some men are just plain abusive. They get off on hurting people, women in particular. They are sick individuals and don’t think or give a damn about the other person’s feelings. They’re on a power trip. Out to boost their own self-worth by subjugating others’.” “Like Mick’s father,” she said. And her own.

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“Not much doubt about that. But for others, dominance comes from a whole other place. That kind of man is what’s called a conscious dominant. His pay-off is the gratification he gets from fulfilling his partner, and by revealing her true nature to her.” “What do you mean?” “In our culture, we are taught to value independence and self-sufficiency. If a person enjoys, or even needs, to be connected to and directed by another, she is called weak and needy. But if she finds a man whose satisfaction and fulfillment come from doing those things for her, who’s to say it’s wrong? For that couple, dominance and submission is a conscious choice. A way of life that is happy and symbiotic.” She thought about the woman last night on the St. Andrew’s cross, and realized she’d been right about her. “And so sexually,” she said, “bondage isn’t about subjugation either, but about fulfilling the needs of the submissive.” “Exactly,” Tim said. “And by doing so, the needs of the dominant as well.” Mick obviously had a fierce need to control her— sexually at any rate. A thing, if she were painfully honest, she found inexplicable pleasure in. It was one of the most disconcerting aspects of their relationship. She was a smart, normally assertive woman, and found this deep inner satisfaction at complete sexual surrender to a man hard to reconcile with her unrelenting independence in all else. Of course, there was only one man who made her feel that way. Anyone else, she'd tell exactly where to get off. The problem was, would it stop there? “So, how can you tell where it will all end?” she asked. “How far he’ll go in his control?” Tim gave her a wry smile. “There’s no way of telling. Unless he’s very self-aware, or has been trained in the lifestyle as a Master, a man will likely have no idea how much control he truly craves over a woman until he sees the chance to take it.”

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That sounded dangerous. Mick didn’t strike her as the type of man who’d want less than total control of everything around him. Including her. “Be very careful, Caroline,” Tim said, echoing her own thoughts. “It sounds like you’re being sucked into something you could easily lose control over. Given Mick’s intelligence and background, he could be very adept at hiding his true self, and manipulating you into his influence. What he is underneath may not be what he appears to be.” “A wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Tim scowled. “More like a monster in wolf’s clothing.” But for some reason that image didn’t ring true, either. “I’ll be careful,” she promised. And she would be, too. All this stuff was very uncomfortable. Some of it was downright scary. Trained as a Master? Good grief. The thought actually gave her chills. Was a transfer to Homicide worth dealing with all this? On the other hand, what Tim was talking about sounded like long-term problems. With Mick, she was only talking short-term—maybe only as long as the case lasted. “If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to call me,” Tim said, putting his hand over hers. “Thanks.” She gave him a half smile. “But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Mick might want my body, but he doesn't want that kind of commitment. And he sure as hell doesn't need me, as his slave or anything else,” she stated flatly. “He never will. He doesn't need anyone.” “So what you're really afraid of is, if you continue to see him, you'll grow to need him.” She stood, brushing off her skirt, reaching for the door. “No,” she said. “That’s not going to happen.” She took a deep breath and gave Tim a confident smile. “Because I won’t let it.” Mick walked into the conference room, took his usual spot at the head of the table and spread out his papers.

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Around the room, veiled grins and amused glances were aimed at him from the task force members who, for some strange reason, all seemed to have arrived on time for once. All except Caro, of course. He looked up. “What?” A staccato burst of “Nothings” accompanied a raft of overly innocent faces. Something was definitely up. “Good. Let's get started. Officer Reed, can you take notes until Officer Palmer gets here?” Someone snickered. “Sure, boss,” Eddie Reed answered, pulling out a yellow legal pad. Mick fired a warning glare around the table when there were more snickers. “Let's start with you, Benedict.” As the various reports were given, he discovered his mind wasn't totally on what was being said. Not that there was anything of value being imparted—just the usual lack of news. Instead, his thoughts kept veering off onto Caro. Or rather, her absence. For which he was getting more aggravated by the second. Finally, forty-seven minutes into the meeting, she walked in. He didn't have to turn. He knew her scent. “You're late, Palmer. Again.” There was a pregnant silence, during which eighteen pairs of eyes bounced from his face, over his shoulder and back. “Yes, well, as you may recall, sir, I was up till practically dawn this morning.” “So was I, and I managed to show up on time. In fact, I was early.” “What can I say, you're a paragon, Detective McGraw,” she said with an edge of impertinence, and tossed her stuff down at a vacant chair. The other task force members held their collective breath in visible shock. “No, I just take my responsibilities seriously.” Caro halted as she pulled out the chair. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, and you're saying I don't?”

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What was she so ticked about? She was the one in the wrong, here. “Being late to an important meeting two days in a row shows a lack of commitment. If you expect to work with me in Homicide, you'll have to follow the rules.” Her eyes flared at the word “commitment.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Your rules, I assume.” “You catch on quick.” Bobby cleared his throat loudly. Mick ignored him, adding, “And my rules say be on time.” “Or what?” He tilted his head, meeting the challenge in her eyes without qualm. He was in charge here, and nobody sassed him. Nobody. He shrugged. “You're the one who wants to be in Homicide.” She gazed at him for a taut moment, then straightened the stack of files she'd put on the conference table. He caught a glint of her silver slave necklace under her high collar and felt a prurient spurt of power. She was his. She would submit to him. She had no choice. “So fire me,” she said calmly. He stared at her in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. I need you,” he heard himself say. Her mouth dropped open for a nanosecond, but she quickly recovered. “Well, then. I guess you’ll have to put up with me being late. If I’m going to do you any good undercover, I’ll need more than five minutes of sleep. Or maybe you want me yawning at Brimstone?” She gave him a pointed look. He knew exactly what she was saying between the lines, the little witch. And he’d actually told her he needed her. The woman was worse than a menace. She was so going to pay for this insubordination. Mick slowly leaned back in his chair. Too bad there were too many witnesses at the moment. Meanwhile, the better part of valor was retreat. “All right, Palmer, you can come in an hour late.”

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He looked up and saw the surprise on her face. He also saw the entire task force hanging on their every word, all of them grinning like idiots. Fucking hell. “Can we get back to work here by any chance?” Mick muttered. “Sure, boss,” Denny said. “Anything you say, boss.” He scanned each person at the table, one by one. The fact that Caro had so easily bent him to her will— something no one else had ever done on the job—was far too revealing He had to be careful. Mick drummed his fingers on the table. “Obviously I need to say something about the rumors circulating about myself and Officer Palmer.” And not let the true nature of their relationship come out. Or they’d be fucked. “Remember, this undercover thing isn't fun and games for either of us. It's a job. A hell of an important job. Just please bear in mind that whatever Officer Palmer and I are doing together, however unorthodox our methods, whatever you hear, it's all for one reason and one reason only. To catch the psycho killer who is terrorizing our community.” Not exactly the truth, but his words had the desired effect. Everyone looked suitably sheepish and chastised. The Iceman strikes again. Mick pointed firmly to the next person up to continue the reports and the meeting was resumed. Unfortunately, the rest were as meaningless as those before the interruption. That was, until they came around to the Chief of Forensics. “We may have something,” Maria Rawlings announced. Every head at the table snapped to, including Mick's. “What, Maria?” “Orange silk fibers,” she said. “Two, to be exact. The M.E. discovered one in Wendy Tailor’s eyebrow and sent it to me for analysis.” “Her eyebrow? Think it was from a blindfold?” someone asked.

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“Very likely. Wendy Tailor is a blonde, so the orange color popped. The M.E. then went back and rechecked the other victims. Sure enough, there was also a tiny one on the Connors woman.” “Orange silk?” Mick said neutrally. A sudden prickle of tension shot down his spine. This was it, then. “He uses an orange silk blindfold on the women?” “Apparently. Nothing was found on the men.” Mick stared at his colleague, drowning in a powerful visual of Caro running from him, a slash of bright orange silk across her eyes. Along with other, less pleasant memories. With a monumental effort, Mick kept his gaze steady on Maria and banished the images. “What about the Atkins woman?” She shook her head. “Nothing. But the good news is, that same type of silk would also be consistent with the ligature marks we found on all the women. Including the strangulation marks.” “That’s huge,” said Reed eagerly. “I’ll say. Can you trace the fibers?” Bobby asked. “The dye is pretty distinctive. From India. Get me a sample and I can tell you if it's a match or not.” There was a murmur of excitement through the group. This was exactly what he’d been waiting for, Mick reminded himself. Where he’d worked so hard to get. He pointed to the sergeant in charge of the twostripers leading the investigative team. “Find every retail source of orange silk within a five mile radius of the crime scenes and get samples. Then go out to seven miles. Keep going until we find a match. “You got it, Mick.” It was a needle in a haystack for them, he knew. But it was the only needle he had at the moment to send them after. Caro looked at him, then quickly away. So she remembered. He'd hoped she wouldn't. Last night had been his first and only mistake. Before he could decide what to do about that

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particular complication, the conference door swung open and Tim Woodruff walked through carrying a short computer printout. With a flourish, Woodruff handed him the printout and announced, “Houston, we have a suspect.”

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Chapter Thirteen The room erupted in questions as Mick gestured for Agent Woodruff to take the chair to his right. Motioning for quiet, Mick swiftly scanned the ID and photo on the printout. Then slowly let out the breath he was holding. He didn't recognize the man. Or the name. Although...there was something vaguely familiar about the man's photo.... He frowned. That unknown something that had bothered him at the last crime scene returned to niggle at the back of his mind now. What was it? Nothing, that’s what. He should be elated. He’d needed a suspect, and Woodruff had just handed him one on a golden platter. “Give us the details,” he said. “Suspect's name is Rodney Smythe,” Woodruff said. “Got out of Corcoran prison about six months back, where he was doing twenty for aggravated sexual assault and intent with a deadly weapon.” Mick came to full alert. “Corcoran prison?” What the hell...? “Yes, he was released after ten by going through an intensive psychological and behavioral rehab program. The prison psych pronounced him cured.” Woodruff tisked. Mick forced himself to pay attention. “I take it you don't agree.” “Smythe was a suspect in two other sexual assaults besides the one he was convicted of. Guys like that don't reform. They repeat. And escalate.” Mick couldn’t agree more. “He wasn't convicted on the other cases?”

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“Never charged. No evidence. He's careful about leaving traces. The only reason they got him the last time was because a boyfriend walked in on the assault in progress and could ID him later.” “So, why do you think he's our man?” Mick asked. “I think he could be our man,” Woodruff corrected. “Because of the nature of the assaults. He tied the women to the bed at knifepoint, but didn't rape them physically. He stripped them, blindfolded them, and proceeded to interrogate them about the particulars of how they had sex with their boyfriends, while he touched their bodies— wearing some kind of leather gloves.” There was a general murmur of disgust around the table. Mick had heard a lot worse. “Go on.” “Then he recited for the women exactly what he intended to do to them—which according to the victims was some pretty kinky stuff. But he never followed through. Apparently talking was enough. If he got off, he took everything with him. He left the victims on the bed, tied up.” “Unharmed?” “Not a scratch. He even covered their bodies with a sheet.” “Except for the last one.” “That's right. The boyfriend walked in while Smythe was still at the touching stage. Jumped him, but was no match for Smythe's knife. Got cut up pretty badly and barely made it.” Mick closed his eyes briefly, wondering how two killers could possibly have such similar MOs. “This guy sounds exactly right,” Mick said. “Most of the elements are there and those that aren't could be explained by a dime behind bars.” “True. He didn't fare well in prison. He must have offended someone early on, because he was singled out for repeated sexual assault. Then one of the gang leaders was brutally knifed in the stomach and died. Smythe was never accused, but after that they left him alone.” Strangely lightheaded, Mick rose, along with the entire

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cop portion of the team. “Let's pick him up.” Woodruff lifted a hand. “Unfortunately, it won't be that simple. He seems to have disappeared. Hasn't checked in with his parole officer in two months, and his last known address doesn't exist.” Why did that not surprise him? Mick let out a succinct curse and sat back down. “Any leads at all?” “A few. This guy's smart, though. We have to be very careful how we approach him.” “Then it's a good thing we have Detective Staunton. He's the very definition of subtlety.” Bobby smiled sinisterly. “You know it.” Mick recognized the ominous gleam in his partner's eye. Bobby wanted lead on this suspect in the worst way. Which was good. Mick shouldn’t get close to him. Not until he figured things out. “We need to have Smythe in the bag before the press gets wind of this,” he said. “Not a problem.” Bobby went down the table pointing to a small handful of cops. “You, you, you and you. With me.” As one, the group swarmed out the door. Mick smiled grimly after them. He almost felt sorry for Smythe. He wouldn't want to face that crew, not even in a good mood. Which they weren't. “Anything else?” he asked those remaining. Caro looked up and opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Officer Palmer? You have something?” “No. It's not important.” “Okay, everyone pass your reports to Palmer, who'll get today's summary out asap.” Caro stood to gather papers. “I'd like to request starting tomorrow everyone email me their reports, in addition to hard-copying them here,” she said. “It'll make things go faster.” “Good idea,” Mick agreed, and adjourned the meeting. He needed to go somewhere quiet and think. But first he had one other situation. “Palmer, stick around. I

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want to hear what wasn't important.” It took forever to clear the room. When he was finally alone with her, Mick allowed the tension and weariness to wash over him and let his shoulders sag. He rubbed his hands over his face, wondering how he should deal with what was surely coming. Maybe if he ignored it, it would just go away. Yeah, sure it would. Caro was a woman, and if there was one thing that could be relied upon from the opposite sex, it was that showing emotion only made her demand more. Which he wouldn't give. Couldn't give. Obviously his best defense would be offense. He drew himself up to his full, intimidating six-foot-four. “I didn't appreciate being put in that position, Caroline,” he stated. Surprise flitted over her. “What position?” He strode over and got in her face. “Airing our bed linen in public.” For a moment she looked as though he'd slapped her. Then she smiled tightly. “Is that what it was? Bed linen?” “Do I have to remind you what I said?” he asked irritably. “What else would it be but bed linen?” Her expression became sardonic. “Are you saying you need me in your bed? And here I thought you just meant on this case.” “Of course I need you in my bed. I thought that was obvious.” She took a step back, lifting her chin. Uh-oh. Here it comes... “And what about beyond that?” she asked. “Don't push me, baby,” he warned. “You said yourself you're not interested in anything beyond that.” “So I did,” she agreed firmly. “And I don't. I just needed to know exactly where we stand. In order to evaluate your offer.” His offer? He couldn't decide if she was lying, or blind, or just in major denial. This had nothing to do with his offer of a transfer. She was already his for the taking. And

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what they had already went miles beyond mere sex. She had to see that. Mick wouldn't allow himself the luxury of emotions—that would be far too dangerous for both of them. But it didn't mean he wanted her to deny the feelings she had for him. Oh, no. He wanted her totally, helplessly, irrevocably in love with him. Bastard that he was. Dream on, McGraw. He grasped her by the arms, swung her around and held her so she couldn't escape him. “Very well. Here's where we stand. You’ve already accepted my offer, baby. At the station, I'm your boss, and you'll do as I say. Undercover, I'm your Master, and you'll do as I say. In bed, I'm your lover, your top, and you’re my bottom and you'll do as I say. How's that for clarity?” Her cheeks blazed scarlet. “You really are a fucking arrogant bastard.” “I believe we've been through this before and you're still right. I also believe that's what you like best about me, which scares you to death. And it’s why you're in love with me and will do anything I ask—which scares you even more.” Her expression was priceless, if not exactly what he'd hoped for. “You're on drugs, McGraw.” But she didn't pull away. “We'll see about that.” He gazed down at her. “So. Are you wearing panties?” Her eyes darted to the door. “Yes I am, and I have no intention of—” “You're being a very naughty slave, Caroline.” Mick let go one of her arms, trailed his hand over her throat and nudged her chin up. “You promised to obey me.” “Only at Brimstone.” “That's not how I remember it.” “You can take ginseng for that, you know.” He slid his fingers down over her slave collar, caressing the cool metal links. “Impertinent, too. I'm going to have to punish you, Caroline.” He felt a tremor travel through her other arm before

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she tried to jerk it from his grasp. “That line is getting old. Let go of me.” He drew her closer. “Just as soon as you promise to go right to the ladies room and take off your panties.” He glanced at her legs. “And lose the panty-hose, too.” She squirmed against him. “No.” He felt a tiny spurt of anger and smiled. Slipping his fingers to the back of her neck, he wound them tightly in her hair, holding her head immobile. He released her arm and slowly slid his hand down her hip, gathering her skirt in his fist as he went. “Then I guess I'll just have to take them off for you.” “Mick, don't,” she whispered. He pressed closer still, working her skirt up to her waist. “Are you going to take them off?” “For godsakes, Mick, someone could come in.” “Would that bother you?” He tucked one finger under the elastic waist of her pantyhose, then two. Three. And tugged lightly. The very tip of her tongue peeked out and swiped over her lower lip. “It will when they fire us.” His balls swelled painfully. “You're exciting me, Caro. Tempting me. If I didn't know better, I'd think that was a dare.” He yanked down on the elastic, hard. “No!” she squeaked, wriggling against him. “Please, Mick. This isn't like you.” “Ain't that the truth,” he drawled. “See what you do to me? Right now I don't really care if we get fired.” “I care.” “Then what are you going to do about it?” Her eyes implored him, but he wasn't in the mood for mercy. After what she’d done earlier, he wanted her total obedience. Nothing less. She ground her jaw. “All right, fine. I'll take them off. Now let me go before someone comes in.” Satisfaction surged through him. But he wasn't ready to relinquish her. Not just yet. He wanted to savor his victory. “Are you wet?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

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Her lips pouted with the slightest trace of belligerence. “Yes,” she answered. Even in submission she was giving him attitude. He took in the blush on her cheeks, her full, inviting mouth, her sparking eyes, absorbing every sensual detail. And couldn't help the smile that crept up on him at her sauciness. God, she turned him on. “Good,” he said, and let her go before he swept the papers from the conference table and took her right there. “When they're off I want you to bring them to my desk and hand them over.” “Why, don't you trust me?” His lip curled. “Whenever I miss you, I want to reach into my pocket and feel them there, still warm from your heat.” Her temerity dissolved and he almost broke down and kissed her when her mouth parted and inched toward his. “Not at the station,” he admonished. Giving her ass a good smack, he avoided her return punch and propelled her toward the door. “Get out of here before I do something we'll both regret. Be at my desk in five minutes or I'll come looking for you.” And God help them both if he did. Caro fled from the conference room, ablaze in fluster and confusion, and rubbing her bottom in annoyance. Dammit! She'd done it again. Succumbed to Mick's persuasive ability to seduce the brains right out of her head. She had to admit, his strategy had been masterful. To confess he needed her—now that was genius. She practically ran down the corridor toward the ladies room. Good thing he hadn't meant it. Not in a deeper sense than sexual gratification, anyway. At least... He hadn’t, had he? No, his little speech was all about power. His power over her—at the station, undercover and in bed. Power she wasn’t ready to relinquish. Well, except maybe the bed part.

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And she wasn’t in love with him. No damn way. She crashed into a bathroom stall and locked the door with a loud, comforting snick. She closed her eyes, smelling the remains of some flowery perfume, and tried to get her heartbeat under control. Nothing wrong with sexual gratification. What worried her was, for some unfathomable reason this unreachable, unobtainable demi-god of the netherworld made her want more. More than sex. Covering her mouth, Caro stifled a groan. No, no, no. She wasn't cut out for love. Wasn't equipped for it. Didn't want it. Truth be told, she was scared to death of love. Especially with a man like Mick McGraw. She pressed her back against the cold metal of the stall, a comforting contrast to the warmth streaking her cheeks. There. She'd said it. The root of all her problems with men. And no doubt the reason she was so attracted to such an inappropriate one. One who took no prisoners, gave no quarter, and demanded everything she had. Fear. How ironic that she'd fallen for a man who was even more frightened of love than she. She let out a short laugh. “You've really done it this time, Palmer,” she murmured. And looked down at her legs. Now. What to do about the current dilemma. Should she, or shouldn't she? Did it really matter? Probably. Mick seemed a bit testy about the whole being late to work thing, and how she’d forced the issue in front of the whole team. Probably not a wise move on her part. The least she could do was submit to him on this. It was harmless enough. Besides, she’d love the satisfaction of driving him crazy with his need to possess her. She would delight in pushing him to the limit of his endurance.

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Making him acknowledge it was her he desired. That he would risk all to have her. That feeling was more exciting than anything she'd ever experienced. Last night when he'd lost all his civilized veneer, it had been thrilling beyond her wildest fantasies. And just now, when he'd wanted her so much he didn't care if they were fired, it had been nearly impossible to maintain her reason in the face of such a declaration. She’d wanted to cave. Because, as hard as it was to admit, there was nothing more powerful than seeing the look in Mick's eyes when she finally submitted to his will. “You've got it bad, girl,” she whispered, shaking her head. And reached down to take off her panties. It felt weird. To walk through the police station with no stockings or underwear on was harder than any undercover hooker stroll Caro had taken out on Colorado Blvd. Even harder than last night when she'd let Mick have his way with her breasts in front of all those people. No one can tell, she reminded herself on the way to Mick's desk. How could they? Just as they couldn't see the slave collar locked solidly around her neck. In his office he greeted her with a slightly raised brow. “Here's that file you wanted,” she said, and handed him a manila folder she'd hidden the panties in. She glanced around, relieved to see Lieutenant Fredrickson wasn't there. Outside the glass partition, the few detectives who were at their desks hardly looked up since they'd gotten used to her presence in Homicide. “Just in time,” he said, smoothly slipping them into his jacket pocket. “I was about to hunt you down.” She hrumphed. “In the ladies' room?” He just smiled in that way he had that sent chills down her arms. The one that said such details wouldn't slow him down for a nanosecond.

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“Not at the station, McGraw,” she mimicked. His comeback was forestalled by the lieutenant walking in. “Just the two I wanted to see,” Fredrickson said, striding past them to his desk. “Front and center.” She exchanged glances with McGraw, who didn't seem particularly concerned. She was. What if the lieutenant had heard rumors...? “Fill me in,” the L.T. said. Mick took ten minutes filling him in on news from the task force meeting, and another five outlining their movements from last night at Brimstone—omitting the juicier details. Still, Caro's face had heated considerably by the time Mick finished his update. “You two going back to Brimstone tonight?” Mick nodded. “Everything set up with Cody?” “Yeah, but we'll touch base again before going in.” “Right.” The lieutenant drew a bead on Caro. “How are you holding up, Palmer?” “I'm fine, sir.” He jerked his head toward Mick. “This guy making you uncomfortable?” She clasped her hands behind her back, resisting the urge to adjust her slave collar. Or smooth her skirt over her pantyless hips. “I can handle him, sir.” “I know this case is demanding over and above from you. If things ever go too far—” his gaze bored into her “— and I do mean ever—I want you to walk away, and come to me. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” She stood straighter. “We're going to catch this skell. I'll do whatever it takes.” He contemplated her for a moment longer, then smiled. “Good. Mick, take the afternoon off and get some sleep. You look like crap.” “But—” “No buts, that's an order. Palmer, remember what I said. Now, go find the fucker,” the lieutenant said, and they were dismissed.

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Mick was deep in a scowl, mentally re-arranging his day under obvious protest, so Caro headed for the door and the report summary that still needed doing. “Oh!” she said, suddenly remembering the mysterious business card, and turned back. “Mick I forgot to tell you. I found this in my pocket this morning.” She handed him the card. “I thought it might be important, but when Tim came up with a real suspect—” Mick took one look at it and instantly demanded, “How did it get in your pocket?” She explained her theory, under his intense scrutiny. “This could be the break we’ve been looking for,” he said. “I thought there was something familiar about Smythe's picture. Maybe he was at Brimstone. Here, take a closer look.” He flipped a file open to the ID photo in the printout Tim had given him. “What do you think? Recognize him?” She studied the picture carefully. “Maybe. The eyes—” She shook her head. “I don't know, Mick. There were so many people, and it was so dark.” “It's okay. We'll know who to look for tonight.” He gave her an unexpected we're-in-this-together smile that warmed her to the very core. Then he reached into his pocket, and the character of his smile changed. He was touching her panties. The ones she wasn't wearing. Whenever I miss you, I want to reach into my pocket and feel them there.... Suddenly she wanted to run. Hide before she did something totally inappropriate, like have her legs give out. Or kiss him on the mouth, right there in front of the L.T., Homicide and the whole world. “Get on this as soon as the summary's done,” he said, handing the card back to her. “Go up to the third floor and have one of the computer people help you. Find out who owns the site. Follow all the links, dig up everything you can.” “Maybe someone else would be better—” “No, Caro. You do it. You might spot something no one

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else could. Because of Brimstone. Because of what you've experienced. Because you're good at your job. You do it.” She swallowed down a big lump that suddenly materialized in her throat. “All right, Mick. I'll give it a whirl.” “Since I've been ordered home to sleep, I want you to bring your results to my place.” He looked at his watch. “Say, four o’clock.” She shot a glance at the lieutenant, who was busy shuffling papers. “Um—” Mick pulled his hand out of his pocket, producing a key which he held out for her. “We can go over everything, grab something to eat, then I can drive you home to get ready for tonight.” She stared at the key as he pushed it into her hand when she didn't take it. He was giving her the key to his apartment. Ho boy. He scribbled the address on a piece of paper and stuck it next to the key burning a hole in her palm. “Come directly from work and don't be late.” Without a word she rushed out of the office, seeking the calm and order of the task force room. At her desk, she fired up her computer and gingerly placed the key in her purse, handling it as though it were made of molten lava. Somehow she finished the daily summary and had it sent out, then made her way up to the third floor. When she explained her mission, the woman in charge called over a thin, red-haired kid with thick glasses. “This is Peter. Nothing about the Internet this man doesn't know or can't find out.” “Perfect.” She handed him the business card and told him what she needed to do. “Any chance?” Peter cracked his knuckles and led her to an open computer. “Child's play,” he answered with a grin. “Watch and be amazed.” When the soft knock came, Mick checked the time.

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Three o’clock. She was an hour early. After a minute, he heard the key in the lock. Hesitant, unsure, carefully quiet. He smiled and closed his eyes again, playing possum. What would she do? Come and wake him? Slip into bed? Sit in a chair and wait for four o’clock? Search the apartment? He lay there on top of the covers, stripped to his BVDs, and listened for a clue. Silent footsteps approached the bedroom, recognizable only by the familiar squeak of ancient hardwood floors. He felt a stirring and hoped his anxious cock wouldn't give him away. For a breathless moment all was soundless as a tomb. Then the footsteps retreated. He waited for the scrunch of a leather cushion, or the scrape of a chair, but none came. Instead, there was another creak of floorboards, and another. So, it was to be a search. But how thorough? Letting himself seep back into the twilight world of unconsciousness, he wondered what her expression would be, how she'd look at him when he awoke. And how much he'd have to explain....

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Chapter Fourteen Caro bit her bottom lip as she peered in at Mick. He was still asleep. Naturally. She'd known she was an hour early when she left the station, but she'd been so excited by what she and Peter had come up with that she hadn't been able to wait a minute longer to tell Mick. Seeing him now, sprawled across his king-sized bed sleeping peacefully, she didn't have the heart to wake him. She also resisted the urge to join him in the invitingly masculine bed. If he woke up, there'd be no more sleeping, and at the moment that's what he needed most. She backed out of the room, wincing when the floor chirped like an angry cricket. With a last glance at Mick, she quietly closed his bedroom door and turned into the living room. Sunlight poured in through windows whose designer blinds had been pulled all the way up, reflecting off a glass office building across the street and onto the room's white walls, muted blue furniture and several colorful paintings. For a bachelor pad, the place was immaculate. Everything was just so, no clutter, no dust, not a thing out of place. Thinking about her own home, she imagined them trying to live together, and almost laughed out loud. Never in a million years would that work. She'd drive him to strangle her within days with her untidy ways. Good thing she had no ambitions in that direction. Wandering to the bookshelves lining one entire wall, she smiled at titles she recognized on the upper shelves. Douglas, Harris, Moffatt, Ressler, Rule, all arranged in alphabetical order. The next few shelves contained a

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variety of tattered paperback murder mysteries and thrillers, many of which she'd also owned over the years. She pulled out a few authors she hadn't heard of and read the back covers. They sounded good. Picking one, she strolled to the kitchen, intending to find something to drink and read for an hour. She stopped short at the sight that greeted her. A small square table was precisely set for two, with real china and sparkling silver and glassware. There was even a vase of flowers and a candle that had never been lit. As she stood there, the oven clicked on, apparently set by timer. Her jaw dropped. She never dreamed that “grab a bite to eat” meant he planned to cook for her. Astounded didn't come close. She eased out the breath that had stuck in her lungs and stepped backwards out of the kitchen, too. She didn't want to touch a thing. It was all too perfect. The living room furniture was upholstered in leather, which looked elegant and sophisticated—and noisy. She could just imagine the crackling if she sat down on the couch or easy chair. He'd wake up for sure. Glancing around, she spotted another door and opened it. Shock slammed into her so hard she had to grab the door frame. Newspaper clippings and crime scene photos were pinned helter-skelter onto four corkboard-covered walls: gruesome before-and-after shots of smiling faces and bloody corpses. A high-tech desk spanned two walls and a corner, every square inch of it littered with computer, radio, video and photographic equipment, discs and tapes, papers, files...and more photographs and newspaper clippings, all scattered like snowdrifts. Everything around her referred to just one subject— the Teddie Murders. Her heart stalled for a long second. The room was so much like something out of a bad stalker flick, where at the end of the movie the cops break into the bad guy's house and find a candlelit room dedicated to the poor

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woman he'd been terrorizing. She let out a nervous laugh and shook herself mentally. There were no candles, and of course Mick would have a room like this at home. He was lead detective on this case, obsessed with it, living and breathing the Teddie Murders. If he got up in the middle of the night with a new idea or angle, he'd want to check it out immediately, not wait to drive to the station. Silly. She approached the desk, impressed by the sheer volume of clippings, reports and crime scene photos covering it. Her own summaries sat right next to the keyboard. Skimming a finger over a complicated-looking scanner and state-of-the-art printer, on the shelf above them she saw a row of assorted reams and boxes of paper, everything from photo paper to post card and business card blanks to 20 weight printer paper in every color of the rainbow. What on earth did he use all this stuff for? At the end of the desk was a police scanner, pre-set to the main PPD channel. Again not surprising. She didn't have one herself, but she knew many cops who did. Especially the unmarried ones. She glanced around again at the creepy room. There was no way she could read in here, with all those lifeless eyes staring down at her. About to retreat back into the living room to brave the crackling sofa, she spotted the red gym bag Mick had carried with him last night sitting on the floor. His 'kit' he'd called it. So what exactly was a kit, anyway? If she was going to be in Homicide, she should probably find out the difference between the black crime scene kit and this red one. Lifting it to a corner of the desk, she unzipped the bag. And gasped. She dropped the handles in surprise. Okay. So, not a Homicide kit, then. She peered into the bag, half scandalized, half dying of curiosity. Gathering her courage, she reached into its depths and removed the top object. It was the flogger

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Mick had worn at his side at Brimstone. The strands felt surprisingly soft to the touch, thin strips of supple leather. The grip felt good in her hand. Powerful. She gave an experimental slap on her palm. It stung, but very softly, more like a sharp tingle. It reminded her a bit of the spank Mick had given her last night. A second of pain, then the soothing rush of heat and the erotic caress of his hand to intensify the sensations. Hmm. Maybe the woman on the St. Andrew's cross wasn't so crazy, after all. Yeah, right. Caro dropped the flogger to one side and opened the bag wider. Next came a couple pairs of police handcuffs. Then several orange silk scarves. She held one up and nibbled on her lip. A very weird coincidence that both Mick and the killer used an orange blindfold for their...activities. No wonder Mick had acted so strangely when Dr. Maria announced her findings at the meeting. That must have come as quite a shock. Setting aside the cuffs and scarves, she gingerly reached for the next items, a trio of— Oh, God. Dildos. She'd never actually seen one in the flesh before—as it were—but their shape and purpose were unmistakable. Holy crap. She turned the largest one over in her hand. It felt...real. In fact, it looked exactly like...well, like Mick. Same impressive length and thickness, same distinctive helmet, same excited color. She felt herself tighten and moisten in all those places which knew him so intimately. Without panties on, her body's recognition was impossible to miss. She squirmed at the slick flesh-on-flesh feeling of her rising desire and set the dildo aside to pick up the others. They were both vibrators, one a smaller, narrower version, the other long and thin, made of smooth plastic. She frowned. Weren't vibrators something women used? Setting them down, she explored further, pulling mysterious things out of the bag one by one until a row of objects reposed along the desk.

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There were two leather paddles, a length of nylon strapping, several fleece-lined leather buckle-cuffs in varying sizes, and a bunch of things she had no idea what were. Some vibrated, some were long and thin, some short and stubby; a handful were small leather rings of various construction that snapped closed, several other objects were too complicated to figure out. There was a pack of condoms of assorted textures, and even two silicone sheaths that were completely covered with bumps and ribs. Heart beating wildly, Caro stared with growing consternation at the intimidating array of implements in Mick's kit. Did he intended to use them on her? A coil of terrified excitement wound through her center and tightened painfully. Did he mean to tie her to the bed and work his way through these mysterious instruments of pleasure on her body, willing or unwilling? “Find something you like?” his deep-rough voice sounded behind her. She let out a cry of surprise and whirled. He looked stunningly sexy standing there all sleeprumpled, wearing only his boxer briefs. He gazed at her from half-lidded bedroom eyes, sex and power oozing from every pore of his towering body. Her own trembled, the blood in her veins slowing and thickening to molasses. “I'm not sure,” she answered, trying hard to keep her voice steady. “Why do you have these things?” His lip tipped up. Moisture slid down her inner thigh. Wordlessly, he picked up the orange scarf from the desk and tied it over her eyes. Excitement sang through her, squelching any urge to resist. She wanted this. Oh, God, she wanted this. “Come,” he said, and took her hand, leading her out of the room. She didn't know where they were when he stopped, but she suspected it must be the sunny living room because the orange of the scarf lit up like a brilliant sunset. Her heart sped. He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her a

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quarter turn, and said, “Wait here.” The short zip of a blind being lowered matched a slight dimming of the orange before her eyes. Footsteps padded around the room, then stopped. “Mick?” “Walk toward me,” he said. “It's okay. I'll be your eyes.” “Say something so I can follow your voice.” “Not necessary. You'll feel where I am. Come.” Even though she was blindfolded, she closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she was surprised when she caught a trace of his scent. Trusting her instincts, she walked in the direction the scent was strongest. Right into his arms. They wrapped around her and his mouth came down on hers. He tasted minty and musky and so incredibly good. She moaned and they spun slow circles around the room as they exchanged a long, hot, eating kiss. “Touch me,” he murmured, pressing her hands to his chest as he nipped her lower lip. Greedily, she ran them over his well-defined pects and crisp whorls of chest hair. “You feel so hard. So strong.” His kiss deepened even more. She plucked at his kernelled nipples, eliciting a moan from him. She ran her hands down the hard muscles of his abs and around to his butt, where she slid them under the elastic waist of his underwear. And pressed, so his hard length lodged firmly against her center. He tore his lips from hers. “Do you want it?” “Yes.” “Where?” “Inside me.” She pulled his boxers down and felt him kick them away. “Touch me first,” he ordered softly. “Take me in your hands.” She did so, cradling him in her palms. But there was something— Small leather bands circled the base of his cock and the top of his sac. Like a tiny harness. “What's this?”

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“To keep me hard for you.” Wishing she could see it, she traced around the tight rings several times, exploring the device with her fingers, finally recognizing it from the toy kit. “You feel...huge.” “You like that?” She licked her lips. “Yes.” She caressed the silky steel of his magnificent erection, running her fingertips over the popping veins and rigid head. Wanting it in her even more. She guided it toward her. He let out a harsh oath and jerked her away. “No.” He moved behind her, holding her close back-to-chest, so she couldn't reach him. “Your turn.” Taking his time, he reached around and unbuttoned first her suit jacket, then her blouse, letting his fingers wander over her breasts and shoulders until she shivered with desire. When he got to her bra, he unhooked it in the front, and pulled all three layers aside. “Do you like when I feel your breasts?” he asked, fondling them, gently dragging his fingernails over them, squeezing them. “More than anything,” she said with a gasp as he pulled at the aching tips. “Anything?” “Well—” She sucked in a sharp breath when he rolled her nipples between his fingers. “Almost.” Her clothes slid down her arms and suddenly she was bare from the waist up. She felt the rays of a sunbeam warming her skin as Mick's hands heated her insides. She could still taste his tongue and mouth on hers, and smelled his desire, musky and arousing, mixed with her own. “Take off my skirt,” she murmured, wanting his arousal pressed stiff against her bottom. “Sure?” “Yes.” “That's what you want? To be naked with me?” “Naked under you,” she corrected. He licked her ear, his arms banded firmly about her

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waist. “What if I have something else in mind?” “Like what?” His hand prowled around and between her legs, his fingers teasing the swollen, sensitive folds. “Do you like surprises?” She parted her thighs slightly, giving him easier access, wanting him to touch her more. “No.” “Do you trust me with your pleasure?” She hesitated and he nipped her earlobe. “To know what excites you? What will make you come harder than you've ever come before?” She thought about the daunting array of sex toys in the next room and a shiver of trepidation sifted through her. Or was it anticipation? “Yes,” she whispered. “I trust you with my pleasure.” He growled low, and lifted her up by the waist, bringing her down perfectly onto his cock. “Lean forward, baby, let me support you.” She groaned as she did so, wriggling her bottom against him, working herself as far onto him as she could manage. “You feel so good.” He clamped his arms tight around her, caressing her breasts with one large, muscular hand, her clit with the other. “I can feel better.” “Im-possible,” she gasped as he slowly drew out, then impaled her again. His finger worked in slow circles around the center of her dazzling need. She opened her legs wider. “Take off your blindfold.” She tore it off and dropped it, winding her arms back around his head as he nuzzled her. “Open your eyes, Caro.” She did, squinting against the brightness, taking a minute to realize— She and Mick were making love right in front of the window! And the blinds were open! They had only been lowered about a foot, exposing her whole front from the lips down. She cried out, and tried to escape Mick's grip. To no

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avail. He wouldn't let her budge an inch. Except to drive her back down on him so hard she felt it clear to her throat. She cried out again, this time in exquisite pleasure. “Don't worry, they can't see your face. Just your beautiful body,” he murmured. “They can see you're fucking me,” she shot back. Catching her breath, she took a good look out the window below the blind, but saw only the sidewalk and the first floor of the— “My God! The whole office building across the street can see us!” The ground level had no windows, but the other five floors were practically all glass. He drew her closer still, painting his tongue along her slave necklace. He pulled out and quickly thrust back in. “How many people do you think are watching us?” Mortified at the very thought, she couldn't understand the bolt of arousal that slammed through her. He pinched her nipple. “How many?” “I don't know!” “Why don't you check?” She whimpered, knowing he'd already won. Her body was on fire, and it wasn't all from his expert touch. How did he know these things about her? Things she'd never have dreamed she could feel? “Crack the blind, Caro, and count the people standing in their windows, watching us fuck.” His finger paused on her need. “Please, Mick.” “Count.” She couldn’t bear to have him stop. She reached up to the top part of the blind that was hiding her face and spread the slats, like Mick was spreading her. She could see at least— She swore, fighting the delicious excitement building low in her body. “A dozen or more.” He eased out and ground back into her, swirling his finger at the same time. “Start from the top. Tell me what they're doing.” She panted, torn between perfect pleasure and

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perfect mortification. She compelled her gaze upward. “Penthouse. One guy. He has a telescope!” He swirled again, nearly making her knees give out. “The old pervert. I've been thinking of busting him.” A laugh tried to escape, but turned into a long moan as he circled her again. “Go on.” “Top floor, two men at a window...with drinks.” Another swirl. Her clit throbbed like a tympani, begging for more. She closed her eyes. “Faster, Mick.” “Next floor.” She forced them open. “Four at one window, two at another.” He teased her with a light brush. “Any women?” “One. With the three men.” She writhed, seeking his hand. “How does she look?” “Worried.” A deep purr sounded in her ear, like a lion's warning growl. “Maybe they'll pin her to a desk and take turns.” He swirled harder, squeezing a moan from her. “What if she doesn't want to?” she panted. He pulled out and drove into her twice. “She'll say no.” The first tingling of orgasm drove everything else from Caro’s mind, centered her entire being on what Mick was doing between her legs. The slats of the short blind slipped from her fingers. She grabbed for his thigh. He stopped and held perfectly still. “You're not done, Caro.” “Please, Mick.” “How many on the next floor?” Her urgency ebbed to burning frustration. He wouldn't let her come until he was sure of his control over her. And that damned device he was wearing guaranteed he wouldn't come until he was good and ready. She shuddered out the breath she'd been holding and pulled down a slat. “The floor just above us, they're all at one window. A whole group. Women. There must

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be...five, six, no seven.” “Doing?” “Just standing. Watching.” He swirled her lightly. “How?” In sublime frustration she searched their faces, squirming in his tight grip, wanting to make him ram deep into her. “One's about to faint, two are giggling. One has her finger in her mouth, backing away from the group. The rest look—” He thrust hard. “Like they want to take your place?” She moaned, writhing onto his hard thickness. “Yes.” He rubbed his hand over her breasts, squeezing and fondling them till they ached for his mouth. “Are you lucky to have me?” “Do I?” she asked in sudden desperation. “Do I have you?” His fingers spread across her, caressing the place where they were joined. His thumb rested on her clit and pressed. “As long as you need me,” he whispered in her ear. A low sound of yearning came unbidden from deep within her. Before she realized what she was saying, she whispered back, “I'll always need you, Mick.” Instantly horrified, she expected his reaction to be swift and negative. To her shock, he murmured, “I’m glad. Now tell me where the woman went. The one who left.” It took a moment to collect the chaos of her thoughts, hanging there in his strong arms, his powerful length sliding in and out of her like a slow, unstoppable piston; a dozen strangers watching him skillfully shatter her will to resist anything he asked of her. “The woman, Caro,” he murmured, as though he knew she needed to be pulled from a burgeoning panic. She swallowed heavily and searched the windows for the woman who'd walked away, feeling his hot, forceful body surrounding her, holding her tightly, filling her completely. He felt so right, so secure. How could he be so— There!

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“Oh!” “Where?” “Downstairs. The mailroom? There's a man—” Caro gasped. “Doing what?” “He's grabbing her. He's kissing her.” Mick's thumb glided around Caro's pulsing, aching, quivering need. She inhaled sharply, suddenly so close she could taste it. “And?” She struggled to focus on the woman, and not on Mick's exquisite torture. “He's lifting her skirt, pulling down her— unzipping— Oh!” she groaned as Mick plunged into her. Once, twice. “He's fucking her.” She sucked down a breath. “On a table. Her legs are— ” she cried out as he circled again “—wrapped around—” and again “—he's pounding—” and again. She felt the first spasms take hold, prayed he wouldn't stop. Either of them. “Oh, God.” “Watch them, baby.” Mick's thumb rubbed right over the center of her need and she almost screamed. “Keep talking.” “She has...omigod...her head thrown back. His hair...oh, Mick—” Her body started to tremble. “His hair?” She panted. “Flies up every time he...” She held her breath, the pressure building unbearably. “He what?” “Rams into— Oh, God, he's covering her mout—” Her vision blurred and a freight train of pleasure crashed into her at the same time as the couple in the window. She dropped the blind hiding her face. Her body detonated into an explosion of pleasure. His fingers were relentless and she shook with the waves of shocking sensation that pulsed through her. She screamed. And just as she thought it would end, he swiftly pulled out, wrenched her a quarter turn and bent her over so she was forced to grab the back of a chair she'd barely

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noticed there. When she didn't move fast enough, he slapped her hard on the ass. This time the pain didn't even register, instantly turning to blinding pleasure when he scythed into her and hilted. He groaned loudly. The rings were gone. He held nothing back as he hammered into her over and over, grunting with the effort, going deeper and deeper with each thrust until he roared like a beast and took her over the edge one more time.

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Chapter Fifteen Caro clung to his easy chair like a condemned woman to her last hope. Mick jerked the cord to the blinds and they crashed down all the way over the window. Show over. Mission accomplished. He didn't dare let her go. No doubt she'd crumble like a house of cards in an earthquake. He wasn't feeling all that steady, himself. He swept her off her feet and into his arms, grateful for the long morning runs and hours in the gym that gave him the last ounce of adrenalin needed to get them both to his bed. Laying her down, he detoured to the bathroom to flush the condom then flopped next to her, working his feet to get the blood out of his groin and back into his leaden legs. “Oh, God,” she moaned, covering her face with trembling hands. “What have we done?” He closed his eyes. That didn't take long. “I believe it's called fucking each other's brains out.” “How can you joke when all those people—” “All those people what? Just got the biggest thrill of their lives? Along with you, I might add.” She went silent. The only sound in his bedroom was the ticking of his old-fashioned alarm clock and her hard breathing. Fuck. No. He wasn't willing to let her off so easily. “Admit it, baby, you got off on doing it in front of all those people.” She didn't respond, so he turned on his side and rubbed his hand over her sweat-slickened body. “There's nothing wrong with what we did. It didn't hurt anyone, did

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it?” “No,” came her muffled response, “but—” “In fact, we probably brightened their day considerably.” She lifted her hands and turned toward him. “Damn it, Mick, how could you make me do something so outrageous?” Like he said, blind, lying, or in major denial. “Because I knew you'd like it. Almost as much as you liked last night.” He moved closer, bringing them lip to lip. “I liked it too, Caro. I liked showing off your beautiful body. Showing everyone you're mine. Showing them how incredibly sexy you are when you submit to me.” Her gaze slid away. “I'll bet every one of those men will fantasize about you for years,” he whispered into her mouth. As he would. She smiled weakly. It broke his heart how, deep down under that independent, sassy façade, she was so unsure of her own desirability. “Might drum up some business when I get kicked back to SIS, I suppose,” she murmured. “You go back to SIS over my dead body. I told you I’d make sure you’re transferred and I meant it.” He kissed her long and hard so there wouldn't be any further talk of SIS or leaving him. And kissed her once more because she tasted so good. And then because, just like that, he wanted her again. He'd just rolled on top of her when the oven buzzer started blaring. He muttered an oath and sighed. One of them would have to get up to shut off the damn thing. So much for round two. He kissed her one last time. “Hungry?” On cue, her stomach rumbled. At last a smile. “Seems so. It smells great whatever you're cooking.” “Just frozen lasagna.” “Not homemade?” He jacked a brow. “You're kidding, right?”

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Her smile turned wry and she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss, filled with such longing he almost broke down and gave in to the incredible temptation of this amazing woman's love. How he wished he could love her back. Wished he knew if he even had a future beyond next week. “The neighbors will call the police if we let that buzzer go much longer,” he said, pulling away. “Twice in twenty-four hours would probably get us in trouble.” She let him go, brushing his cheek with her hand as he eased up off her. “I really hate what you do to me, you know.” “Yeah. I know,” he said with a wink, and headed for the kitchen. He insisted they eat naked. He loved how she looked wearing only his silver collar with its symbolic dangling lock. He also loved how being nude made her wriggle in her chair. She'd come a long way in a short time, yet still had so many charming, innocent qualities. It was one of the things that most turned him on about her. Hell, there were a lot of things that turned him on about her. Too many. He better be careful or he could easily see himself falling for this woman in a big way. If he fell for women, that is. Which he didn't. “This is great,” she said after scarfing down half of her lasagna. “I had no idea frozen food had come so far.” He smiled and took another slug of beer. “You ever need heat-and-serve meal advice, I'm your man.” Just then the phone on the wall rang. “Damn telemarketers. There ought to be a law.” He'd turned off his cell phone on purpose so they wouldn't be disturbed unless it was really important. There were only a small handful of people who had his unlisted home number, but he must have gotten on some marketing list. “I'm not buying,” he grumbled into the phone.

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“Not buying what, sugar snap?” an amused voice purred. “Lauren,” he said in annoyance before he remembered Caro was sitting two yards away and could hear every word. Shit. “I tried to call you all day at the station,” his former partner said, mild accusation in her voice. “Yeah, I know. Busy day.” “When you said to call, I assumed you wanted to talk to me.” “I do, sweet pea.” “Just not now, huh? You've got company? Your little slave girl?” “Yep,” he said, and flashed a smile at Caro, who looked like she wanted to rip the phone off the wall, but was doing her best to disguise it by sipping her red wine. She smiled back, but it didn't even reach the corners of her mouth. “I wanted to let you know that Caro and I are working an undercover gig at Brimstone.” “So I heard. Lucky little slave girl. You never dressed up for me,” she said with a pout in her voice. “You know leather was never my thing.” “But it suits you so well.” “Lauren...” he warned. “Sorry, I forgot. Then it wasn't true, what she said about beating her.” “You know me better than that, sweet pea.” “I thought I did. But then I thought I knew Paul—” He cut off the subject of her ex-husband with lightning speed. Paul Adams was the last person on earth he wanted to discuss. “Look, this really isn't a good time for me.” “Okay, okay. She's probably sitting there all doe-eyed wondering if you're sleeping with me.” “Bye, Lauren.” “When can I see you, Mick? We really need to talk.” “Could be a problem. You know I'm lead detective on this Teddie Murders thing.” “Yes, I know. Are you really living with her?”

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He jetted out an impatient breath. “It's complicated.” “That I get. I'll be in touch, sugar snap.” “Please Lauren, don't call me here—” but she'd already hung up. He pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the phone in annoyance before turning back to Caro. She had finished her meal and her wine and was rinsing out the dishes in the sink. “Sweet pea?” she said, back turned. “Baby, we were young when we were partners.” Younger than he'd ever been before or since. How could he ever explain to Caro how much he'd needed Lauren at that time in his life? Fresh out of the Academy, they'd both had something to prove—him to the police department, that they hadn't made a mistake hiring the son of a murderer, and she to her husband Paul, who hadn't believed she had it in her to be a cop. Paul was wrong, but had ultimately won the argument through brute strength and intimidation. Something which had reminded Mick a little too vividly of his own father. Much to the detriment of his career. Paul Adams had been a lieutenant in the LAPD back then, now a captain. “And now sweet pea's back, all grown up,” Caro mocked. He walked up behind her and ran a hand down her back, which stiffened like a bristly cock. Gone was the soft, pliable woman he'd just been kissing. His body stirred at her jealousy, even knowing it should anger him, not turn him on. “Baby, I made you a promise about other women. You can believe it or not.” “Right. You promise you'll save her till you're done with me. How very nice of you.” “Dammit, Caro—” The phone rang again. He yanked it off the hook. “I told you not to call me here,” he snapped. “Well, if you'd turn on your damn cell phone I wouldn't

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have to,” Bobby said. After a second of surprise, Mick went on alert. “What's happened?” “Two more victims have been found. Teddies.” Mick let out a precise curse, spinning to meet Caro's gaze. “Are you sitting down?” Bobbie asked. “What the hell?” “You're not going to like it.” “So what's new? Just spill, Bobby.” “The bodies. They're in your building.” Mick fell back against the kitchen wall. Oh, God. That was one twist he hadn’t seen coming. “Tell me this is a bad joke.” “I wish, bro. I'm on my way as we speak, along with half the force, FIS and the coroner's office. Better get your ass up there. Apartment 508.” Still dazed, he mumbled, “508. I'm on it.” “Hey, Mick?” “Yeah?” “Do I have to call Caro?” He grimaced. “Um, no.” “Then be sure to pick up the furniture, partner. See ya in three.” Mick stared at the receiver, his thoughts closing in like a bad dream. Damn. He’d made one mother-fucker of a mistake. Damn damn damn. And now he was seriously fucked. Shit. He had to think. Hard. Was there a way to control this situation? “Get dressed,” he ordered Caro, already on her way to the living room to pick up her clothes. “More Teddies?” she asked. “Yes,” he answered, striding for the bedroom, swiping up the condom wrapper from the floor as he went. “Upstairs.” “What? Here?” “Everyone will be arriving any second.” He turned to look at her. “Caro?” She paused in pulling on her skirt to

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meet his eyes. “I'm really sorry.” They were greeted with obvious relief by the young officer who'd been called to the scene by a neighbor concerned about the foul smell radiating from apartment 508. He’d been let in by the building super and discovered the bodies. “You got here fast.” “Live downstairs,” Mick answered, pulling his badge and tape recorder out of his suit pocket. How he was able to dress so sharp so quickly, Caro couldn't fathom. She herself looked like a woman who'd been fucked up one side and down the other then pulled out of bed for a pop quiz on algebra. Jeez. She flashed her badge and hoisted the real Homicide kit up so Mick could grab hats, gloves, and booties for them. “That's convenient,” the officer said, giving her a sidelong glance. “Living in the same building. Both of you.” As she pulled on her gear, Mick inspected the door. “No signs of break-in.” “Nope,” the officer said, watching him consideringly. “The deadbolt was locked. Figure the doer must have taken a key.” Neither of them commented, and were spared further curious glances by the arrival en masse of Bobby, the M.E. and the FIS crew. This time she was at least familiar with the routine so she managed not to get in the way as the forensics guys and photographer moved quickly to their tasks inside the apartment. Mick and Bobby interviewed the young officer and three neighbors who were home while she looked on. “Damn, it stinks,” she muttered after the interviews were done and they were waiting for Forensics to release the scene. “Better grab some menthol gel,” Bobby said. “It's going to be really nasty inside.” Ignoring their conversation, Mick continued to pace back and forth in a lather. She'd never seen him

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so...agitated. Frankly, she was worried about him. Ever since his weird apology, he'd been a million miles away. “It was pretty nasty last time,” she replied, bringing her attention back to Bobby. “Couldn't possibly be worse than that.” Mick paused in his pacing and both men looked at her with sympathy. Hell, at least it wasn't condescension. “What?” she said when they exchanged a glance. “Baby, this one's been around a while.” She saw Bobby's eyes widen at Mick's uncharacteristic endearment before she realized the implications of what he'd said. “You mean...?” Maria Rawlins came out of the apartment grimacing. “Looks like we’ve got our first victims, boys and girls,” she said, and jerked her thumb behind her. “You can go in.” Wordlessly, they pulled on their booties and descended into hell. Caro thought she'd try being macho and not use the gel, but realized quickly there wasn't an ice cube's chance she'd make it past the foyer without it. Even with the pungent smell of menthol streaming into her nose, it was a real test of willpower to take that first step inside. “Caro, you're on the dining room, Bobby, take the kitchen,” Mick directed as he strode to the bedroom. “What am I looking for?” she asked with guilty relief that she wouldn't have to confront the horrors of the actual bodies. Yet, anyway. Mick halted, looked at her distractedly. “Right. I forgot you're a rookie. Go with Bobby. He'll show you the ropes.” With that he disappeared down the hall. “He's sparing us, you know,” Bobby remarked, watching him go. “Yeah,” she said. “Thank God. Sometimes I think the man's a...” His words trailed off and he pulled out a notepad. “An Iceman?” she offered. He just blew out a breath.

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In the dining room he showed her what to do and look for, what to take note of, what might be important later. As expected, there was a chair missing from around the dining table. Unable to shake Mick from her mind, she followed Bobby to the kitchen and started her inspection. “He watched his father kill his mother when he was ten,” she said, and saw him nod. So he knew. “Right there in front of him.” Bobby opened a drawer, checking the contents. “And he's blamed himself ever since.” She glanced up. “Why?” Bobby shrugged as he perused a wooden block on the counter containing kitchen knives and made note of an empty slot. “The usual reasons. Kids'll take on the burdens of the world if you let them.” “And nobody told him otherwise?” “Not until it was too late. Why do you think he's so driven in his work?” She stood there, letting Bobby's words sink in. “Relieving his conscience, you mean?” “Or sublimating his desire for vengeance. I understand he was very attached to his mother, undeserving as she was.” “The sole angel in a world of biker devils,” Caro murmured, shaking her head. “Poor Mick. It's a wonder he turned out as well as he did.” She forced herself to concentrate on the job, not wanting to miss a single detail that might be important to the case. Yet, her thoughts kept returning to the man in the bedroom. Apparently Bobby's did, too. “So, you were with him when I called?” She studied the inside of the refrigerator extra carefully. “Uh-huh.” “Reviewing strategy for tonight?” “You think we'll still be going?” she evaded. “After this?” “Two more bodies just makes it more important to catch the sick-o.”

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“Any luck tracing Rodney Smythe?” “Several solid leads. We're getting close.” The fridge's yellow interior light suddenly took on an orange glow and just like that her body was engulfed in the memory of Mick's powerful arms around her, bright silky flames dancing before her eyes. “And the two fibers?” she asked, hanging onto the fridge door as she slammed it shut. “Reed’s team has come up with seven stores that sell orange silk, so far.” “They should concentrate on the ones that sell readymade scarves.” He straightened. “Why's that?” “Unfinished edges would drop a lot more stray fibers. And I can't see this guy having a sewing machine.” She looked over and Bobby was grinning at her. “Come on, that's a no-brainer.” “No wonder Mick wanted you.” Her cheeks heated instantly and she busied herself inspecting the cooking range. He didn't mean it that way. “Please.” “Smart and sexy. An unbeatable combination.” Okay, so maybe he did. She made a face at him. “Are you hitting on me, Bobby Staunton?” “Maybe. Would it do me any good?” She returned his grin. “What do you think?” “I think McGraw always has all the luck,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “And don't forget it,” Mick said from the doorway. “You two better take a look at the victims while I call Agent Woodruff. He probably needs to see this.” It was the maggots that finally got to her. The scene in the bedroom was so ghastly the whole thing took on an unreal, horror-movie quality. Which allowed her to follow Mick's discussion with Tim fairly impassively. Bobby's steadying hands on her shoulders helped, too. She'd really thought she could make it through this one without puking.

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There were a lot of differences between this crime scene and the subsequent ones. Classic first kill, with clear evidence the murders hadn't been planned: signs of surprise, struggle, and improvisation. And yet the basic elements of the killer's signature were the same. The woman tied and posed post-mortem with a white nightie draped over her, the man in the chair stabbed and nearly eviscerated. Though it was all much sloppier than at the later scenes. He'd even left a flogger lying on the end of the bed. Intellectually, Caro was fascinated. But the maggots had been grim reminders that these people and this situation were all too earthly real. When one of them had crawled across the woman's eyes, Caro had to flee or shame herself. She spun from the bedroom and ran all the way back to Mick's apartment, fighting down the revulsion. Thank God his key was still in her jacket pocket. Even a scalding shower couldn't wash the stink from her hair and skin. And there was no way in hell she'd put on those clothes again as long as she lived. Heading to Mick's bedroom, she opened the closet, looking for something else to wear. His closet was as perfectly organized as everything else about him. Immaculate blue, black and gray suits were lined up on their hangers like policemen at a funeral, snowy white shirts hung next to them like sailors standing at attention. Other than dark blue, there wasn't a splash of color anywhere, or a piece of clothing out of place. The only thing that struck her as remotely out of order was a row of video tapes that marched along the closet shelf, each with a different label. Porno flicks. After an initial start, Caro figured it made perfect sense for Mick to enjoy such fare. Despite his cold outward façade at work, she knew better. At heart, Mick McGraw was totally, completely a sexual being. He walked sex, he breathed sex, he oozed sex. He loved sex and everything about sex. No surprise he liked to watch it,

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too. Her brow lifted a bit at some of the handwritten titles, but, hey. To each his own. She selected a clone from the pool of identical white dress shirts and took particular pleasure in rolling it into a ball and smushing it to a wrinkled mess, then slipped it on. The arms were too long and shoulders miles too wide, but otherwise it fit all right. She studied herself in the mirrored closet door, turning up the sleeves, and smiled weakly. Not bad. Nice legs. She felt almost...human again. She sighed. And wondered if he had any jeans around. In case he brought Bobby with him when he returned home. Wandering to the massive highboy dresser, she hesitated before opening a drawer. Invading someone's closet was one thing, but dresser drawers often held secrets they didn't want discovered. What would she find that he didn't intend to share? Nonsense. What secrets could Mick possibly have that she didn’t already guess? She yanked open the drawer and found...underwear and socks. Feeling ridiculous, she let out a nervous laugh, scolding her overactive imagination. And pulled out the next one. T-shirts and polo shirts, white, all neatly folded and stacked with precision. Did the man not own any jeans? He did, though. He'd worn a pair that first night, and some black ones when they'd gone shopping for leather. Dragging out the third drawer, she hit paydirt. Several pairs of jeans and some stylish khaki shorts. “Oooh, a walk on the wild side,” she muttered, and leafed through the stack of denims. Most could have been brand new, for all the wear they showed. She wrinkled her nose and reached for the top pair, only to halt at the sight of a framed black and white photo tucked under them. She sucked on her bottom lip for a second before easing it out and taking a look.

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The photograph was many years old, of a thirty-ish woman lying on her back on a towel at the beach. She was wearing a white, old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit and had her hands folded over her abdomen. Her eyes were closed in restful repose, a smile on her pretty face, her pale hair blowing in a light breeze. Around her neck was tied a scarf. A scarf someone had later colored in orange crayon. Caro stared. A wash of goosebumps ran down her arms. If she didn’t know better... Quickly she stuffed the frame back into its hiding place, not wanting to be caught with her discovery. Who was the woman? And why was Mick hiding her picture? Carefully she replaced the jeans. She'd seen sweats in his overnight bag. Better to try and find them so he wouldn’t ask questions. She opened the last drawer, smiling in relief when it was filled with gray running sweats. “Yes.” But then she spotted one pair of soft, faded jeans stuck in at the very bottom. Bingo. She grabbed them and held them up for inspection. Suddenly another photo, this one unframed, dropped to the floor from between the folded fabric. She gasped. It was... A photo of her.

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Chapter Sixteen “Find what you're looking for?” Mick's deep rumble sounded from the doorway. She whirled, badly startled. “Yeah.” She hefted the faded jeans in her hand, her heart pounding. He glared at her, and caught sight of the photo on the floor. Angrily, she stooped to pluck it up and glared back at him. “But perhaps you can tell me what, exactly, this is doing here?” His gaze turned impassive and he began stripping off his suit. “There are more.” “Huh?” She glanced down at the floor and saw the corner of another photo sticking out from under the dresser where it had apparently dropped as well. Actually, there were two more. She picked them up, taking a good look. And practically fell over. All three photos were sizzlingly provocative. The top one had been taken at the local supermarket in front of the glass door to the ice cream case. Caro’s finger was in her mouth and she was studying the different flavors with lustful anticipation. The second was out on Colorado Blvd. Dressed as a hooker, her expression one of sinful temptation, she was on one of her stings for SIS coming on to a john. A john that— “Hey, this guy looks just like you!” she exclaimed in disbelief. How was that possible? She would have remembered if he'd been out on the Boulevard. “He does, doesn't he?” Mick replied, stepping out of his boxer briefs and putting the whole stack of crimescene soiled clothes, including her own, into a large

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plastic trash bag. But it was the third photo that really caught her attention. She was lying on the beach, in a pose that was practically identical to the picture she’d put back in the jeans drawer, down to her one-piece bathing suit. The look on her face was nearly the same. Only the scarf was missing. Caro swallowed down a flutter of some emotion she dared not name. “Where did you get these?” she asked, waving the photos shakily at him as he disappeared into the bathroom. “I took them myself.” She followed. “But I haven't been to the beach since last summer!” He opened the shower door and turned on the spray. “And your point is?” “Mick! What the hell is going on? Were you stalking me?” He turned on her, face stormy. She took a step back, suddenly unsure of their relationship. “Me stalking you? Do I have to remind you that a year ago, you arrived from Traffic and immediately started coming on to me? Yeah, I stalked you. I wanted to find out who you were and what your agenda was.” “Any conclusions? This I'm dying to hear.” He stepped into the shower. “I decided you were harmless,” he said, raising his voice above the water. “Besides, you stopped flirting. Which was good because I wasn't interested in playing games with a rookie from SIS.” “Oh, really?” She practically choked on her indignation, fuming her way out of the bathroom to tap her foot in the master bedroom until he emerged again. “So what changed your mind?” He stopped rubbing his hair with a towel long enough to pin her with a furious gaze. “Pure, total insanity,” he spat out. “I should have listened to myself. Followed my own rules. If I had, I wouldn't be standing here expecting a call any minute from Chief Trujillo, watching my career go up in flames for the second fucking time!”

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With that, he grabbed the photos from her hand and flung them onto the bed. “I know better than to become emotionally involved with a woman. I know better!” Her jaw fell so far it was in danger of dragging on the carpet. She didn't have a clue how to respond, or even what to think about first—his career going up in flames, the call from the chief, or the fact that he'd actually said out loud he was emotionally involved with her. “What on earth are you talking about?” She figured he could take his pick. “What am I talking about?” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the living room window where they'd made love. He ripped up the blinds. “That is what I'm talking about,” he said, pointing to the clutch of police vehicles lining the street below, then at the office building across the street. “I don't—” “As we speak, they're interviewing everyone over there with a view of this complex. How many minutes do you suppose it'll take them to figure out just who it was fucking each other in this window?” “But that has nothing to do with the case!” “Don't be naive! How long do you think it'll take the press to get hold of that juicy little tidbit? Lead Detective on Teddie Case Caught in Kinky Sex with Junior Officer.” He set her firmly aside. “It doesn't matter that it has nothing to do with the case.” The phone rang. “McGraw,” he said curtly into the receiver, was silent for a moment, then, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He turned to her, his face transformed once again to the cool mien of the Iceman. “We're fucked, baby. Plain and simple.” His father should have gone ahead and killed him when he was ten and had the chance. Would have saved Mick a lot of useless years hoping he could change the course of fate. Along with all the agony of the past two months. He and Caro stood at attention in front of both Chief

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Trujillo and Lieutenant Fredrickson. They'd been summoned to the commander's office on the third floor. Behind the desk, the Chief studied a sheaf of papers while the L.T. looked anywhere but at them. The silence was deafening. Mick awaited his sentence with the detachment of one who'd been preparing to face this moment his entire life. “Sir—” Apparently, Caroline didn't share his composure. The chief held up a hand for quiet. After what seemed an interminable interval, he looked up and slowly inspected them. “Interesting reports here,” he stated with deadly calm, gazing at Mick. “Sir—” Again he held up a hand at Caro's interruption. “Any truth to these reports, Detective McGraw?” Nothing to be gained from beating around the bush. “No doubt every word, sir.” Trujillo's brow rose a shade. “Indeed.” He pretended to peruse the top report again. “My ranking detective and his subordinate officer seen...uh—” “Fucking,” Mick helpfully supplied. A muscle twitched in the chief's cheek. “As you say, in front of an open window for all the world to watch.” “Sir—” “I'm talking to the detective now, Officer Palmer. You’ll get your chance.” “I take full responsibility,” Mick said. “I should have remembered to close the blinds.” Fredrickson's eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. Fuck. If you're going down anyway, you may as well go down with panache. “Do the words sexual harassment mean nothing to you, Detective?” “I didn't mind her harassing me in the least, sir,” Mick said with a studiously straight face. “As it turned out.” The L.T’s lips twitched. “Sir!” Caro said insistently. “I need to—”

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“Will you please wait your turn, Officer Palmer? I'll be with—” “No, sir! What I have to say can't wait.” She sliced Mick a withering glare. “The fact is, the whole thing was my idea. I did it on purpose.” All three men froze for a full second before recovering. “Your idea.” the chief said distinctly. “To...fornicate...with Detective McGraw in front of a whole office building full of people?” “Exactly, sir.” “On purpose.” Mick rolled his eyes. “Don't listen to her, sir, she's—” Caro jammed her finger in his bicep. “Shut up, McGraw. I don't need you taking the fall for me.” She turned back to the chief. “Offends his gentlemanly sensibilities, you know, letting a lady go down for him.” She pursed her lips. “Well, other than...you know.” Mick was suddenly so angry he could feel the tips of his ears burn. What the hell was she doing? Both of them getting canned was unnecessary. They only needed one scapegoat. She crossed her arms and eyed him suspiciously. “Or maybe you're trying to steal the credit? Thanks, Detective. After all I've done for you on this case.” She hrumphed. “Just like a friggin' man. I shoulda known.” Whatever the hell she was doing, she deserved an Academy Award for the performance. The audience was entranced. “Look, I don't know what she's trying to pull, sir, but— ” “Personally, I'd like to hear what she's trying to pull,” Chief Trujillo said, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Go on, Officer Palmer. Please.” “It was for the Teddie case, sir.” Stunned, Mick swallowed a breath of air wrong and started coughing. Trujillo scowled. “Sorry.” In amazement, he turned to watch Caro. “The Teddie case?”

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“Yes, sir. This guy, the Teddie killer, he's a voyeur, right? He sits on a chair and watches the victims make love, for God knows how long, before he kills them. He's also super careful. He seems to know police procedure inside out, and somehow, he's always a jump ahead of us.” She had definitely gotten the chief's attention. Along with the L.T., Trujillo was bent forward, hanging on her every word. To be honest, so was Mick. But not for the same reason. How had she figured out— “Detective McGraw and I were pretty sure he hadn't followed us home last night, but...well, we can't really be certain, can we? So I thought—” She glanced down at the floor. “You thought...?” “I thought, if he is watching us, he must know by now we're cops. And our cover is blown. But—” she looked up “—if he thought we genuinely fit his victim profile, even though we're cops, he might just go for it anyway. In fact, especially if we're cops. He thinks he's invincible, smarter than we are. It would be an irresistible challenge for a guy like this to fool two cops. But the key is making him believe we're really...like that.” Everyone stared at her. Mick couldn't believe it. He simply could not believe it. They were actually buying her story. And the really obnoxious part was, she was absolutely right. “So, that's why I seduced Detective McGraw in front of the window.” She turned to him and shrugged. “Sorry, McGraw. Nothing personal.” His mouth opened but no sound came out. Not a peep. He didn't know whether to smack her silly or leap on her and kiss her to within an inch of her life. Instead, he got even more angry. He did not want her saving his ass. Whenever a woman got involved in trying to save him, it always, always, turned out badly. If he wanted ass-saving he'd damn well do it himself. What was the point, anyway? It didn't matter how good

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her reasoning was, that kind of behavior would not be condoned. Summoning his best outward sangfroid, he said, “Not a problem. I commend your inventiveness, Officer Palmer,” and returned his attention to the Chief, waiting for the ax to fall. “So what do you suggest we do now?” Trujillo asked Caro, to Mick's shock. “I guess the main thing is, be sure the press knows. Then just say “No comment,” or “We're investigating,” when they ask about it. That way they won't let it alone, and even if he wasn't actually watching us, the killer is sure to hear about it. Either way, we've got him hooked.” The chief turned to Fredrickson. “What do you think, Dave?” “I think no matter what we do, the PPD is going to take a black eye. But if it helps catch the Teddie killer, we can spin it afterwards and come out ahead. I say go for it.” “The press is going to look up your butt with a microscope, McGraw. Can you handle it?” He clamped his jaw. “Do I have a choice?” “Not this time. It's going to be dangerous, Palmer. Even more dangerous than before,” Trujillo stated. “I know, sir. I'm willing to take the chance. Just let us catch this bastard,” Caro said. “All right, you'll get your chance. But Palmer, next time let us in on the plan first.” The chief squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “On second thought, never mind.” “You won't regret this, sir.” “I already do. Now get the hell out of my office before I change my mind and toss you both off the force.” “Thank God that went well,” Caro said, as she and Mick made their hasty escape from the third floor. “You can thank me now.” Mick said nothing, just glared at her and yanked open the door to the stairs. Why the hell was he so damn mad?

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She'd just salvaged both their butts, hadn't she? He stopped dead, making her run into him on the landing. “Do you have any idea what is about to happen to us?” he demanded, grabbing her arms to prevent her from toppling down three flights of steps. “The press is going to have a field day with this, not to mention our esteemed colleagues. Life's going to be a living, breathing hell, do you understand?” “It was going to be anyway. This way at least we still have gainful employment,” she returned, shaking loose and trotting down the stairs. “Only if we catch the killer. What if your so-called plan backfires? What if all the publicity scares him off instead?” “Not a chance. Tim says—” Suddenly, she was caught from behind and pressed roughly against the stairwell wall. “Tim? You've been talking to Agent Woodruff?” Mick's angry face stared down at her. “While you were home sleeping I consulted him on a matter- - Oh!” She'd never told him her news! “Mick, listen! I found something on that website. The one on the business card—” “You were working with Woodruff on that?” “No. Peter.” She waved off his scowl. “The Internet geek from Analysis. Listen to me! We found an Easter egg—a secret, hidden link—unmarked and really hard to spot, buried down in the bowels of the site, and it lead to a secret page with photos taken at this private house where they hold bondage parties. Invitation only parties. It was called the Tether Club. There was a schedule.” “Caro, stuff like that goes on all the time. It's no big deal. Besides, those parties could be anywhere in the world.” “It says the Tether Club is here in the L.A. area. But here's the clincher, Mick. We checked the dates of past parties. Three of them coincided exactly with the nights of the Teddie Murders.” His grip briefly tightened on her arms, his pale blue

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eyes turning the color of dark steel. “Did it say how to get invited?” “There's a code word.” “When's the next party?” “Tomorrow night.” So, she’d found the Tether Club. Just one more day before it was all over. Mick let Caro go and beat back a slow spurt of panic as he followed her out into the deserted second floor hallway. It would be okay. Everything would turn out for the best. But no matter what happened, he couldn't let Caroline get hurt. “I need to be at that party. What's the code word?” he asked, striving to sound perfectly composed. “Beeswax candle.” She halted and turned. “I? Don't you mean we?” “I don't want you there.” “Excuse me? You don't have an option.” “It's too dangerous.” This time it would be for keeps. “I don't want you hurt.” “I won't—” “I'll bring Cody. Or Bobby.” “Sorry, sweetheart,” she said, her expression mutinous. “Masters and slaves get in free. Single male guests pay a cover of a thousand bucks. I’d like to see you get that requisition past accounting.” “I'll pick up a willing pro on Colorado Blvd,” he said, unfazed. A man could find anything he wanted on the street. And he knew just where to look. “In that case, I'll be Bobby's slave.” With that, she turned on a toe and marched through the door to Homicide. “Caroline!” he shouted, bursting into the room after her. “Don't even think ab—” All at once chaos erupted from every direction. Cat calls, whistles, whoops and raunchy comments assaulted them like a rain of bullets from the detectives at their

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desks. “Everyone shut the fuck up!” Mick ordered loud enough to cut a swath through the mayhem. “Until I hear differently, I'm still second in command here, and you'll have a little respect!” “They didn't fire your ass?” someone called back. “Your bare ass,” someone else snickered. “I really hate to break it to you jerks,” Caro informed them with a derisive snort. “But it wasn't us in that window.” All around there were murmurs of disappointment— and no doubt of disbelief. “Who was it then?” “Some pervert neighbor,” Mick answered stiffly, and shut the door behind them. He wanted to shake her until some sense penetrated that incomprehensible brain of hers. Unfortunately, the whole squad could still see them through the glass partition. “Why the hell did you say that?” he demanded. “Bought us a reprieve, didn't it?” “You think they don't know you're lying?” She tipped her head in a dare. “Want to kiss me now and put an end to the speculation?” “Maybe I should do more than that,” he warned, taking a step toward her. She crossed her arms. “Hmm. I don't think the killer is here in Homicide to watch us, but I s'pose you never know...” “You calling my bluff, woman?” “If I am, will I be your slave at the Tether Club?” “No.” “In that case, forget it.” She looked at the wall clock. “It's late. We still going to Brimstone?” He glared at her, counting to ten, twice. Never before had he felt such an irresistible urge to take a woman over his knee. Obviously nothing else worked to tame her. He flexed his itchy fingers. Brimstone would provide the perfect venue to give vent to his fury with the woman.

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“Absolutely,” he said, and smiled through his teeth. “Shall we go home and change?” “Well, so much for anonymity,” Mick said after watching the breaking news report on TV as Caro dressed. “I can't believe we made CNN.” “My parents are going to kill me,” Caro said, looking slightly shell-shocked. “Or they would if they were still speaking to me.” “What's with that?” Mick couldn't imagine anything Caroline could possibly have done that deserved not being spoken to by her own parents. At least, not until very recently. “A cop pretending to be a hooker day after day isn't my father’s idea of an acceptable career for a girl,” she said, and shrugged. “Especially his daughter.” “Oh? And what did he have in mind?” “No career, of course. Except for a husband, kids, and spending every waking hour volunteering at his church.” Mick adjusted his leather harness in front of the mirror. “His church?” “He's a minister.” He stared at her reflection. “You're kidding.” “I’m afraid not.” He whistled. “And full of Christian charity, too.” She smiled wryly, but he could tell it bothered her more than she let on, probably even to herself. He knew all about that kind of self-deception. “Forget about them. They don’t deserve you,” he said to cover the sudden impulse to take her in his arms. “Ready to go?” “As ever,” she said with a sigh, and drew back to give him a final inspection. “But you're not.” “I look like a damn executioner,” Mick said as he checked the rearview mirror for the tenth time since leaving the triple-X adult store on Sunset. They were in the Brimstone parking lot, about to go into the club. He was still in a piss-poor mood and Caro

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was fast running out of patience. “Not a bad analogy,” Caro muttered, batting his hands away from the black leather half-hood they'd just purchased for him. “Look. There are the clowns from last night,” she said, pointing out two men leaning against the same car as yesterday. “Is Cody going to be here, too?” “Same set-up as last night all around. Cody's on his way, the clowns are out here and two undercover cops are already inside the club.” “And Denny and Brady have been at their post watching my place since the shift started,” she concluded. Mick tugged again at the hood, which covered his hair and came down to the tip of his nose. “Do you really think this is necessary?” She hiked a brow. “After our pictures have been plastered all over every news broadcast since six o'clock? Yeah, I think so.” “Not fair,” he groused. “Oh, grow up. Can I help they used my Academy photo?” The shot they'd shown of Caro didn't resemble her in the least any more, especially in heavy club make-up, but the one of Mick had looked just like himself. “You want to find a killer, or would you prefer the circus when everyone recognizes you? Your choice.” He stared out at her from twin holes in his black hood. “My choice? In that case, I choose to strip you naked and chain you to that wall inside, then spank you until you promise to stop messing with my life.” His ice blue eyes raked her up and down. She ground her teeth. Well. At least he was focusing. “You know they won't let you do that,” she said, and got out of the car, her irritation rising by the nanosecond. “And you spank me again and all deals are off.” What was his problem? He had no reason to be angry with her. Fucking in front of the window had been his brilliant idea. She straightened her skirt, plumped up her breasts in

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the demi-bra, fluffed her hair and took two strides toward the club entrance. “Forgetting something?” She ground to a halt, simmering. Damn. The goddamn leash. She plastered on a smile and turned. “Forgive me, Sir. Your word is my command.” She forced herself to walk calmly back to where he'd taken up residence, propped against the Camaro's trunk. “Get out my kit,” he commanded, nodding at the red bag that had appeared on the front seat. “And finish dressing me.” Not the Homicide kit. She glanced from the toy bag to his harness, leather pants and boots. All present and accounted for. “You are dressed.” “Not quite,” he said with a Machiavellian smile. He crooked a finger. “I believe I'll want some of my tools with me tonight.”

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Chapter Seventeen “Tools?” Caro glanced at the bag nervously. Mick's smile disappeared. “To punish you with.” Her heart stalled. The man looked serious. Ever since the meeting with the chief, he'd been on some kind of major toot. “For what?” she asked, incredulous. “Saving your damn job?” “I'm the Master. You should have let me take care of it.” She let out a snort. “Yeah, and you were doing so well. Had them really convinced. That we were guilty.” “We were. That story you came up with—” “Worked, didn't it?” “The point is,” he said with jaw clenched, “I don't need a woman to take care of me! I wear the pants in my relationships.” “Of all the—” She planted her hands on her hips. “Then it's a damn good thing we aren't in a relationship, isn’t it?” The neon parking lot sign flashed on and off, on and off, reflecting blood red in his hooded eyes. He looked just like the devil's executioner, come to earth to collect reluctant souls. “Ah. But we are,” he refuted with the equanimity of one who knows the devil is never denied his due. “You've given yourself to me, and I mean to keep you. But I'll have your obedience. Now, get me the bag.” She silently regarded him, nerves humming. So here they were. Crunch time. She didn’t like that word, obedience.

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How much of his performance was real, how much the fantasy they were creating for the benefit of the killer? Again, did it really matter? The game they were playing had already gone far beyond the fantasy, beyond the case, beyond the personal boundaries she had always assumed were inviolable. “Yes, Sir,” she said levelly. Letting her annoyance with him go. He was right, she’d made her choice. For tonight at least, she was his, and she wanted to please him. She fetched the bag and presented it to him for his perusal. “Handcuffs,” he directed. “Two pair. The flogger, of course. And the long, narrow paddle.” He showed her where to tuck the cuffs and attach the other two implements at the bottom of his harness, to one side. She wasn't meek or submissive, or even particularly gentle as she worked. But she had to admit, it was nice to touch him. There was a kind of satisfaction in preparing him, for battle as it were, like an altar boy would a priest, or a squire a knight. “A scarf,” he said. “An orange one. Tie it around my biceps.” She met his gaze, which was impassive as ever. “Are you sure?” “You question me?” “No. I just— It's so blatant. Like taunting him.” “Think it'll work?” “Yes. I do.” And suddenly she was scared to death. Not for herself, but for Mick. He was the one the guy wanted to stab and eviscerate. “Especially if he knows we're cops.” “Want to back out?” “Of course not. Like it or not, I'm watching your backside.” He snapped the leash to her slave collar. “Then I hope you like the view.” “Oh, I do,” she murmured, leaning into him. Setting aside her fears and frustrations, she rubbed her hands down the front of his broad, harnessed chest. “From every

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angle.” Whatever else, that much was true. She only had to see his body and she was ready to accept it into hers. He wound his fingers in her hair and kissed her. Hard. She could feel the power and strength flowing through his hands, barely tamed, held in check by the force of his will and nothing more. He folded her in his arms, between his legs, and possessed her, every bit as much as he had in front of that window. Not with his cock, but with the sheer intensity of his intrinsic dominance. “This is how I like my woman, pliant and tractable,” he murmured, sliding a hand under her leather skirt. “Mmm, no panties. Perhaps you've learned to obey me, after all.” “Perhaps,” she murmured, enjoying the feel of his fingers probing her folds. Completely forgetting where they were. “In that case, I'll have to reward you—” his finger slid along her valley, slipped into her “—for this small acquiescence.” “Rewards are good.” She moaned softly at his practiced touch, already swelling for him, slickening, needing. He smiled as he kissed her again. “You are greedy, aren't you, sweet baby?” She wrapped her fingers around the latigo of his harness and pulled him close. “Only for you.” She didn't want to think about how true that was. Or how it had happened in just four short days. She couldn't bear the thought of being without him. Without the taste of him on her lips, the smell of him in her bed. Being without his scandalous demands. Being without this. Her eyes shot open when she felt something small and hard push up into her. She jerked back, but his tight embrace prevented her from going anywhere. “What is that?” She wriggled, attempting to avoid his fingers sending it even further up inside her. “Your reward. Your punishment,” he said in a gravelly voice. “And a way for me to communicate with you.”

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“I don't—” Her breath sucked in sharply when the object started to vibrate. Her eyes widened. “Like it?” he asked, grinning like the demon he was. “How does it feel?” She shimmied between his thighs, trying to make it stop. Impossible, of course. Only he could make it stop its wicked intercourse. “Turn it off!” “Why?” “Because—” she licked her lips, already feeling the tightening of her muscles in pleasure “—because it'll make me come.” His brow lifted. “A moment ago I almost made you come with my hand. I noticed no objections.” She gave him a moue. “That's different.” “How so?” She squirmed again. “Because it was you doing it.” “But so is this. Look.” He lifted his hand for her to see the small remote he wore like a ring, facing down. “It's my thumb controlling your pleasure. Just as you like it.” He switched it off and an involuntary sound of protest escaped her. “See? Already you miss its caress.” “You are a beast, you know.” “And that’s why you love me. Now, one short vibration means yes, two means no.” He demonstrated. To her chagrin, it worked rather well. “Several short blasts means watch out, something's happening.” He tried that and she nearly crawled up his chest. “Enjoying yourself?” she gritted out. “Immensely,” he answered with another devil smile. And kept the vibrator going on and on and on. “And what does that mean?” she asked, losing her breath. “One long one?” “That I'm hard as a steel pipe and want to put you against a wall and ram myself into you.” Her nipples zinged with need. His blue eyes glittered from behind his executioner's hood. He looked so

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irresistibly evil she was forced to kiss him. “I promise I will find a way to pay you back,” she whispered with as much menace as she could dredge from under her unbounded lust for him. He laughed and set her away. “I look forward to that.” He grasped her leash and clipped the end decisively to his harness. “It's showtime.” It was amazing how quickly one became accustomed to decadence. Was it really just twenty-four hours ago that Caro had been shocked senseless upon entering the demimonde of Brimstone? When she thought of all that had transpired since then, the whole scene before her tonight seemed somehow...tame. What a difference a day made. Music blared as the dense crowd danced around them, once again dressed in all manner of fetish clothing and everyday business suits, along with the occasional member who’d been stripped to their underwear. The room was hot as Hades, criss-crossed by wait-slaves in shorts and skimpy tops with drink trays held high. Tonight she could concentrate more on the people behind the provocative costumes rather than the costumes themselves. Even the activities the people were engaged in seemed much less exotic and kinky. This time she understood what was going on. Caro and Mick hadn't been inside the club more than two minutes before Rick the security man cleared a path to them. “Well, if it isn't the stars of the evening news,” he said with a lecherous grin. Oh, great. Mick slung an arm around Rick’s shoulder and leaned in so he could be heard above the din. “I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't spread that around. If folks know we're cops, we'll never meet anyone interesting, know what I mean?” “Sure, buddy. I get it.” The creep winked at her, his gaze slithering to the orange silk tied around Mick's

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biceps, then to the paddle and quirt hanging at his side. Oh, gross. The man had on eyeliner! “Use your little slave girl to attract the perverts, then wham! You arrest them.” Mick shook his head with conviction. “No. This part of our lives has nothing to do with the job. We just enjoy...well, sharing our hobby with others of like mind.” Rick snickered, looking up again. “Shared your hobby with a whole lot of people this afternoon, what I hear.” “Unfortunate timing,” Mick grumbled convincingly. Caro looked closer at Rick's face. Very subtle, and in the dim, flashing lights of the club it was difficult to see. But she was pretty sure—yes, he was wearing makeup. More than just eyeliner. “Want me to hang around? Make sure no one gives you any trouble?” he asked. The shape of his dark eyes had been changed, his cheekbones sharpened, the hollows beneath them deepened. And...was that long black hair really a wig? She strained to visualize his face without enhancements. And remember who he reminded her of.... Mick turned to her. “What do you think, baby? Want Rick to tag along?” The tiny vibrator inside her buzzed once. She jumped. What did it mean again? One for yes, two for no. She clung to Mick's arm and gazed up at him adoringly. “Whatever you wish, Sir. I know you like being watched.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “What about you? Do you like it?” She wound her arms around his neck and gave him a long, thorough kiss. “I like what you like.” The pale blue of his eyes turned dark as indigo. The vibrator started humming deep within her, a steady, erotic sensation against the sensitive passage that ached for his solid, taming presence. The loud techno-music surged around them pulsing in time to the throbbing inside her body. She could smell him, warm and musky. She closed her eyes and kissed him again, surrendering to their hidden secret. Letting herself surrender to her desire for him.

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The buzz stopped when the kiss ended. “Sure, hang with us for a while,” Mick called to Rick. “See what happens.” It took her a second to re-orient herself. Brimstone. People everywhere. Rick. The killer. Suddenly the picture clicked. The image she'd conjured of Rick's face without makeup reminded her of...Rodney Smythe! She couldn't be completely certain, but— Oh, God. She had to tell Mick! She buried her nose in the crook of his neck. “It's Rick!” she whispered urgently. “He's Smythe!” Mick pulled away and shook his head questioningly. “Can't hear you,” he yelled over the music. “Come on, let's go to the seraglio. It's quieter there.” He led her past the cages, where today a woman in her underwear was being fondled by three men from outside the bars. Her expression was blissful. The wall was full, too—at the moment only men were shackled to it, facing both forward and backward, all in various states of undress. Caro slowed to admire the scenery. Mick tugged at her leash. “Interested in any of them?” She slid her tongue over her bottom lip, savoring the testy tone of jealousy. She liked that he was jealous. It excited her, confirmed the power she held over him, even in her subservient role. “Maybe.” She thought about baiting Smythe and glanced back at the men shackled to the wall. “Would you let one of them watch you fuck me?” Mick's eyes flared briefly in surprise. She held his gaze, trying her damnedest to silently communicate her fears. Why hadn't they put a vibrator in him, too? “Let me watch instead,” said Rick, right behind them. Heart thundering like Niagara Falls, she whirled to contemplate the man who was probably a vicious, remorseless killer. “Sorry,” she said. Shouldn’t appear too anxious. She recalled the color of his hair in the prison photo. “Sir prefers blonds. Even his men.”

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Mick's lips parted slightly, then pressed together. The vibrator buzzed on-off, on-off, on-off, like a bee hitting a window again and again. She smiled tremulously, locking her thighs together. “Don't you, Sir?” “What I prefer is obedience. I'll decide who watches and who doesn't.” Rick smirked, his eyes devouring her flesh like a ravenous animal, then to her shock, treated Mick to the same, lingering on his by now sweat-slick abs. Damn. Her skin crawled just thinking about the man watching them make love. And felt a huge spurt of nausea at a mental image of the eviscerated victim she'd seen front-on, transposed with Mick's face. “Sorry,” she whispered, and hugged his body close, unable to shake the horrid, bloody vision. She trembled, and he gazed down at her searchingly. But Rick was watching them closely, so she couldn't say what she wanted to shout in his ear. Instead, she kissed him and pulled herself together. She couldn't protect him by being a wuss. What the hell was going on with Caro, Mick wondered as they made their way toward the seraglio. She looked like she was going to faint any second, or puke—though she was hiding it well. But he knew her intimately enough, the precise tone of her skin, the relaxed slope of her shoulders, to know when she was about to lose it. What had spooked her so badly? He'd never seen her like this. Except maybe at the crime scenes. He scanned the room, searching for something that could have set her off. Nothing, except Rick following behind like a faithful hound dog. He knew she didn't like the man—hell, he didn't like the man—but such a drastic change from last night? No, it must be something else. They slipped through the thick velvet curtain into the room beyond. Exotic music tinkled softly, a welcome relief from the strident metal beat that blasted through the main club area. As always, it was nearly dark, only the

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lighted stage shedding a pale glow over the room. Tonight, the cool fog that swirled around guests seated at low tables smelled of oranges. Slowly, the three of them passed through more doors, sinking deeper and deeper into the dark warren of sinful dens, each with its own peculiar brand of entertainment. Mick was looking for Jakob Robbins, the blood-letter. He felt a feminine hand slither up his leg. “Is that you under that ridiculous hood, sugar snap?” Fuck. This was exactly what he did not need tonight. “How's it going, Lauren?” Not that he hadn’t been expecting her to show up. Her relentless phone calls had told him she was bent on renewing their acquaintanceship, he suspected on a quite different level than before. He shook his head at her and kept moving. Or tried to. Like a talon, her grasp tightened on the leather of his pants. “Hang on. There's someone I'd like you to meet.” He stole a glance at Caro before turning back to Lauren. Caro’s smile was sharp enough to cut a man to ribbons. Double fuck. “Yeah?” he asked Lauren, and started lazily winding Caro's leash around his palm, so she was forced to move closer to him. She fought him all the way. “This is Rebecca,” Lauren said, indicating a woman lounging next to her. They were both wearing nothing but... white silk teddies. “What the hell are you playing at?” Mick growled, ignoring the introduction. “This is sick and dangerous, Lauren. You should know better than to play with fire.” He hauled Caro close so she was standing right in front of him. She leaned back against his chest and the tall spike of her heel ground into his boot toe like a sharp nail. “I, on the other hand, love your teddies,” she purred. “Wherever did you get them?” What the— He pushed the vibrator control twice, then twice again for good measure. No, no, no. This was not a topic to be discussed. “At Robinson's,” Lauren answered with a sly smile.

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“Caro, isn't it? You don't think they're too over the top, Caro?” “Oh, no,” she cooed. “I've been thinking of getting one myself. What fun!” Caro turned at his continued buzzing and leveled him a challenging look. “What is it, sweet pea? Not man enough for that particular fantasy?” Her gaze landed on Rick, who was following the whole exchange as though mesmerized. “Or maybe I need to find myself a new Master. One who's not so—” Mick grabbed her shoulders and shook her once. “You find a new Master you won't need a white teddie,” he spat out. “I'll kill you myself. You're mine. Got that?” Wide-eyed shock stared back at him for a brief second. It vanished, but her arms quivered lightly under his hands. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered. His stomach clenched. Damn, damn, damn it to hell. It was starting. Despite his best efforts and vigilant inner warnings, he'd fallen for her. Gotten himself emotionally involved. And now it was all starting, just as he'd known so well it would. The irrational jealousy. The violent urges. The blinding fear. Everyone was staring at him. At them. He couldn't back down from the role now. He relaxed his grip. Smiled forgivingly. “That's better. There'll be no more talk of leaving. Right?” Just in case, he buzzed her once. She started badly. Then replied, “Yes, Sir.” “You don't really want to leave me, do you?” When she didn’t answer immediately he buzzed her twice. “No, Sir,” she responded. Still, he hadn't heard enough. “You'll always do exactly as I say. And never betray me.” This time she answered on her own. “No, I'll never betray you.” He pulled her close. “Because you love me,” he insisted.

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She swallowed heavily. “Yes.” She was still resisting. He could feel it in her tight muscles, in the way she fought his hold on her. “Say it, baby. Say you love me.” He knew he was being a class-A bastard. This wasn’t part of their script. There was no reason to force her to say the words he longed to hear spill from her mouth of their own accord. No reason at all. Except his neurotic, perverse need to know she was his. Beyond wisdom, beyond logic, beyond any sense. His and his alone. The muted stage-lights swam in her eyes, small points in a sea of shiny desperation. “I love you,” she said, and put her forehead to his shoulder, as though she could no longer bear to look at him. “My, my. Isn't this touching,” Lauren muttered with a dose of disgust in her tone. “Well, sugar snap,” she said, casting a look around, spotting Rick standing close by, “if you’re done with your revolting display, maybe you'll introduce Rebecca and me to your friend?” Caro wrenched from his arms. “No!” Her gaze arrowed to Mick’s. “I mean...he’s with us, isn’t he, Sir?” The almost frantic look in her eyes was like nothing he had seen before. Jealously crawled through Mick’s veins like fire ants, injecting its venom so he could barely see straight. He ignored her plea. “Sure,” he said. “Lauren, Rebecca, this is Rick. He works security here at the club.” With that, he grabbed Caro’s leash and left them, quickly stalking his way back through the labyrinth of rooms, tugging her along in his wake. She yanked on the tether and called his name a few times, but he refused to turn. He couldn’t face her now. He had to separate himself from her presence, get his perspective back. Calm down. This was not the time to lose it. Which he was, bigtime. When they emerged into the main club, he took a deep, cleansing breath and hailed a mini-skirted wait-

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slave. After a few words, she led them to the room’s dominatrix. It was the same woman as yesterday, tonight dressed in scarlet latex and thigh-high, spike-heeled boots, complete with ornate whip. “I’ll need a cage for this one,” he simply said, indicating Caro and showing the dominatrix his member card fished from a pocket. The dominatrix’ lips curved up. Caro’s jaw fell. “No!” she cried against the din of the metal music. “Mick, you have to listen to m—” “Silence, slave!” he ordered. A little space would do them both good. The cage might not be comfortable, but she’d be safe in full view of the whole club, and Cody was sitting right at the bar. She’d just have to deal with it. “Certainly, Master Michael,” the dominatrix said, reading his name from the card. She led the way to a cage that was just being emptied of its captive. “Mick!” Caro hissed, and he silenced her with a bruising kiss. “Get names,” he said into her mouth, “Everybody who approaches you. I’m going to find Jakob Robbins.” He easily lifted her into the cage, despite her kicking and yelling. The dominatrix locked the door and handed him the oversized, gilt skeleton key. He gave her a twenty. “See that nobody lets her out of the cage but me. Nobody.” He eyed Caro’s outraged face. “No matter how much she begs.” “I understand,” the dominatrix said with a malicious smile. “You can rely on me, Master Michael.” He took a last look at Caro, standing splay-legged in the narrow cage, hands fisted around the black iron bars, shaking them like a prisoner slated for execution. “Let me out, Mick!” she yelled. “You’re making a mistake!” Frankly, he’d expected more rage. Maybe something about cutting his balls off, or such. That would be more like Caro. As it was, she seemed less angry than...afraid. Which vaguely surprised him. But it didn’t change his mind.

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He turned on a heel and headed back to the seraglio. He’d find Robbins, cool down, then come back for her. Even without the need to get away from the emotions she aroused in him, he realized this was a good strategy. They’d made their presence known in the club; now it was just a matter of being available to the killer. So he could approach them. Maybe he felt more comfortable one-on-one. Or she, Caro would remind him. For some reason, the image of Lauren lounging in her white teddie flitted through Mick’s mind. The woman was definitely a sick agent, dressing herself and her friend like that. She bore careful watching. But first things first. Keeping to the shadows and the wall, he slowly prowled through the maze of small, crowded rooms, searching for the stage where he’d find Jakob Robbins and his depraved sideshow. Deep in the darkened bowels of the very last den, on a black-draped stage against blood-red walls, he was rewarded. Jakob was wiry and muscular with light, military-short hair. Dressed in olive camouflage pants and no shirt, in his hand he held a huge hunting knife, obviously razor sharp. He bent to his task with steady concentration. His blindfolded victim was tied wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew’s cross, his back to Robbins. It was a man. The top of the man’s back was already scored with bright red cuts carved into his skin in a chevron pattern. Thin rivulets of blood dripped and dribbled down from the slanted lines, pooling in the waist of his white boxer shorts. The crowd was hushed, rapt. Mick felt his stomach lurch. He turned away, gagging, and sucked down a gulp of air to clear the bile. When he turned back, there was a tall man standing next to him. A man dressed just like him—right down to the black executioner’s hood. A punch of sick recognition slammed through Mick’s body, nearly bringing him to his knees.

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The man in the mirror. He was older, more grizzled, more tattoos. If possible, with a nastier expression smeared across the visible half of his face. But there was no doubt who it was. Mick felt an anguished scream start deep in his entrails, leaping to strangle the breath from his lungs. He throttled it savagely. “Well, if it ain’t the whore’s little mama’s boy,” the man drawled in the familiar smoker’s voice that grated against Mick’s soul like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Tryin’ to pass for a man.” For a brief, horrifying moment he regressed to a cowering six-year old, grappling the wall behind him for support. “What are you doing here?” he managed to croak. He had to get hold of himself. Everything, his whole future, depended on what happened at this meeting. The man sneered. “Been lookin’ forward to this moment for a long, long, time, boy-o. Twenty-five years, to be exact.” His malevolent gaze studied Mick snidely from head to foot. “Gotta say, I never figured you’d wanna be just like me.” That made two of them. On both counts. Quelling the shiver in his limbs, Mick forced himself to stand tall. And confront the monster who had spawned every nightmare he’d ever had, and not a few daylight horrors. “That’ll be a cold day in hell, Dad.” He set his jaw. “A real cold day in hell.”

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Chapter Eighteen Caro counted to thirty forward and backwards, twice, as she moved her body to the beat of the pulsing music, shooting death glares at the velvet curtain Mick had disappeared through twenty minutes earlier. What the hell was he doing? She didn’t know what was worse, her anger at being locked up against her will in this preposterous cage, or her fear that Rick would talk Lauren and Rebecca into leaving with him and they’d end up in some Pasadena bedroom, dead. And here she was, powerless against both situations. “Hey, honey, why don’t you spread those sexy legs of yours and let me see what you’ve got?” a business-suited man standing at the foot of the cage called up to her over the loud music. She sighed through gritted teeth. She was pretty sure Rick was Smythe. But was Smythe the Teddie Killer? Likely, but not by any means certain. She was stuck here until Mick deigned to return, so her best course of action was to continue working the case. Which meant dealing with all potential suspects. Including the asshole groping at her leg. “What would you do if I did spread them for you?” she called back. He leered up at her. “I’d stick my fingers up your cunt and rub your pussy until you come. Then I’d lick your juices off them one by one.” How creative. Thankfully, also not the killer’s MO. She leaned down in the cage so only he could hear, her

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breasts threatening to spill onto his spellbound face. “You should be more careful, big guy. What if I have a terrible disease?” She winked. His change of expression was priceless. Needless to say he scurried away without another word. She resumed her dancing. After deflecting—generally with outward flirtatiousness—several more indecent male advances that didn’t fit the killer’s profile, it occurred to Caro that these sex games were no fun with anyone but Mick. She didn’t want to flirt with or provoke or enflame anyone but him. With Mick, pushing the envelope of sexual behavior excited her. With other men, the thought of doing those things turned her stomach. But she was here to attract a killer’s attention, not to enjoy herself. So she continued to flaunt her body and move sinuously to the raucous techno-rock blaring through the club, running her hands over her curves and making eye contact with every man who approached her. She learned several names, discounted nearly all of them. Cody was across the room sitting at the bar sipping beers, and had been watching her intently the whole time. She’d tried subtly to motion him over a few times, so she could tell him about Smythe, but either he hadn’t understood or he’d ignored her signals. Nevertheless, it was good someone was catching her back. God knew, Mick was taking his sweet time in the seraglio. It was over half an hour he’d been gone. She slipped into annoyance, thinking about the arrogant Detective McGraw, then realized with a start that a man lingered next to her cage, just outside her peripheral vision. His hand smoothed over the back of her leather skirt, his touch so light it took her a moment to realize what he was doing. “Did you get my invitation?” he asked in a low, cultured baritone. She whipped around and met his eyes head-on. They were clear, shrewd, confident.

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“The business card,” she said, instantly alert, but cautious not to appear too eager. “With the website address.” He nodded once. She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “My Master and I have never tried...beeswax candles...before,” she said, deliberately using the password Peter had discovered on the hidden web page. “What can we expect at the Tether Club?” The man smiled. His appearance was amazingly nondescript—average height, average build, average coloring—except for that Cheshire-cat smile. It spoke volumes. “You can expect an experience unlike anything you’ve ever done before.” “Such as?” He gestured around them. “Brimstone is merely children’s games and dress-up. At The Tether Club, we have the genuine article.” The way he said “the genuine article” made a shudder snake down Caro’s spine. She wondered what he meant by it. Brimstone seemed pretty damn real to her. She bit her bottom lip, disregarded the blast-off of her pulse. “We’d like to give it a try. What should I do?” The smile widened. “Excellent. The festivities start at ten p.m. tomorrow night.” He paused. “By the way, there is a dress code.” “Oh?” “Appropriate formalwear for Masters and onlookers. Collars and shoes for slaves.” “With any kind of dress?” His eyes slid over her. “You misunderstand. Just collar and shoes. Nothing else.” Shock rocked through her. “As in, naked?” “This is a Male Dominant/female submissive event. How better to show off that dynamic?” Then he smiled and walked away, dissolving into the crowd. In an instant he’d disappeared completely. No clothes? Oh, God. No way.

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Not a chance in hell. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was so not going to that party tomorrow night nude. “Are you all right?” a masculine voice said from below. She popped open her eyes. It was Cody. “Uh, yeah.” “You look upset.” Shaking off her embarrassment, she gave him a wry smile. “No, really? What could I possibly be upset about?” “Oh...” He stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced up at her almost shyly. The poor man didn’t quite seem to know where to look. His gaze skimmed up her bare torso, which by virtue of the cage being suspended a couple of feet above the dance floor was poised at eye-level, did a quick circuit over her barely-there leather bra, then lifted his gaze to hers. Thank goodness he couldn’t see up her skirt. “I guess that depends on how you feel about Mick,” he said. “In general or right now?” she asked with a snort. He shrugged. “You tell me.” There was just enough space in the cage to drop to her knees, which she did so she was nose-to-nose with Cody. That way they wouldn’t have to raise their voices above the music. Much. She clutched the iron cage bars and he stepped closer, grasping them right below her hands. His handsome face was gentle, placid, his expression filled with calm concern. For some reason it unnerved her. “Cody, I need to talk to Mick. Do you know where he is?” “Is there something wrong? You have a suspect?” “I’m not sure. I—” Just then a drunk in his underwear lurched up. “Hey, beautiful! You interested in—” “Get lost,” Cody said loudly, searing him with an intimidating glare. “I’m talking to the lady.” “Okay, okay,” the drunk muttered, and backed off. Cody returned his attention to her. “You’re not sure of...?” “I think Rick the security guy is Rodney Smythe.” He took in a breath of surprise. “Rick?”

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“He’s wearing heavy make-up, and that long hair’s a wig. Under it, he looks just like Smythe’s prison photo. I’m certain it’s him.” Cody whistled. “I’ll have him picked up when he leaves the building.” “He might be with Lauren and Rebecca. You know, Mick’s old partner and her friend? He introduced them, and I’m worried—” Cody’s eyes widened. “My God! You don’t think—” “Two women aren’t in the Teddie Killer’s MO. But who knows what Smythe has in mind...and they’re wearing those stupid white teddies.” She shook her head. “Just asking for trouble.” Cody scanned the room for a few seconds. “Speaking of which—” He leveled his gaze on her. “Was that really you and Mick this afternoon? What in God’s name is going on with you two?” She felt her cheeks heat. Seeing the story of their window sex splashed all over the TV news hadn’t been nearly as awkward as facing the friends and cops she respected. Julio had been aghast this afternoon when she’d run into him at the station. He’d been convinced Mick had drugged her, or somehow otherwise forced her into compromising herself. When she’d confessed she’d enjoyed what she and Mick did, a strange expression had come over Julio’s face. Really strange. Sort of like Cody’s now. “Yeah, it was us,” she said, feeling the pulse of the room’s strident music in her throat. Cody grunted. The smell of the dancers’ sweat and perfume and the sound of their pounding feet swirled around her. “Whose idea was it?” “His.” Cody’s voice moved to a low rumble in her ear. “Did he tie your hands?” he asked. She closed her eyes, leaned into the bars. Closer. “Not that time. He blindfolded me.” Warm breath wafted over her cheek. “You were

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naked?” “Yes.” “And him?” “Just a cock-ring.” Cody groaned softly. “And he fucked you in front of the window, but you had a blindfold on so you didn’t know.” “He made me take it off and count the people watching us.” “How many?” Cody asked, and suddenly she realized his hands had moved up to cover hers as they grasped the iron bars of her cage. Her spilling décolletage brushed the cotton of his T-shirt and her nipples tightened. “How many?” he repeated. “Sixteen.” Deep inside her, the hidden toy came to life with a sputtering vibration, then continued as a steady hum in her slick passage. Caro tipped her head back with a moan. “He’s watching us,” she said. “Mick?” “Yes, Mick.” “What would you like me to do?” “I belong to him.” “He’s using you.” “We’re using each other.” “He’ll leave you.” “Eventually.” “You don’t mind?” She opened her eyes and gazed at Cody. “I don’t have a choice.” “About what?” It was Mick’s voice, coming from behind her. “About loving you,” she replied, and Cody’s lips thinned. The cage door swung open and Mick hoisted himself up through it, pulling her to her feet, filling the tiny confines of her prison with his towering body and powerful presence. He’d taken off his executioner’s hood and tucked it under one of the latigo straps of his chest

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harness. His hair was disheveled and his eyes blazed with fire. Inside her, the vibrator buzzed excitedly. His arms came around her, his hands covering her breasts, squeezing. “Tell him,” he said from behind her, glaring down at Cody. “I love Mick,” she said. He squeezed harder. “Tell him again.” “I love Mick,” she said with a gasp. “He’s my Master and I’ll do anything he asks.” The hidden capsule had settled low, right against her G-spot, tightening her muscles in a steady throb of pleasure. She wriggled against Mick, hungering for his touch in her secret places. “Ask him to share,” Cody growled. Mick laughed huskily. “Why should I?” He turned her in his arms, pulled her close and kissed her hard. His hands sought her bottom, slipped under her miniskirt and kneaded her bare flesh. She rubbed up against him, feeling the steel ridge of his erection press into her belly. She was aware a crowd was gathering, pointing at them and whispering, but she couldn’t help herself. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Long and wet and lustful. When Mick broke the kiss, Cody was gone. But the crowd was gathering closer, and she heard their names being passed around in hushed tones along with bits of the news report. She didn’t care. “Turn it off,” she murmured, her legs starting to shake. “What?” “The vibrator. Turn it off.” “Why?” “I’m going to come,” she whispered, mortified. She didn’t know what was wrong with her body since she’d been with Mick. It had grown willful, intractable, insatiable. All at the most inappropriate times. “Come, then,” he murmured, sliding his fingers into the valley between her legs, smearing the wetness that

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had gathered there. She moaned, seeking relief in his strokes. What the hell. She’d already done it in front of sixteen witnesses that afternoon. But he kept his fingers away from the spot where she craved them most, instead gliding wetly over her back entry. She sucked in a quick breath, tried to pull away. He laughed, low and rough, and gave her a sharp spank. This time she succeeded in jerking away. “Ow!” She struck out at him but he caught her wrist easily. His smile was sinful; in his gaze she saw a multitude of wicked desires. He seemed somehow different. Harsher. More unrelenting than he’d ever been. More remorseless. What had happened in the seraglio? She thought of Lauren and her heart quailed. She caught hold of his harness. “Do you love me?” He moved his thumb and the vibrations stopped. “I’m not capable of love,” he said, and turned to the door. Away from her. “Let’s get out of here.” He jumped from the cage and lifted her down by the waist. She fought his grip, the hurt of rejection cascading through her frustration. It was no more, no less, than he’d always told her. But hearing it spoken aloud so coolly, so finally and indifferently, was brutal. Especially after he’d insisted on her declaring her own feelings to the whole world. Or had that just been part of the script? “Let me go!” she hissed as he grabbed her arm to lead her toward the exit. He spun and caught her leash, just under her collar. “Never.” He pulled it, pulled her, close to his face. “You’re mine. Mine. I’ll let you go when I’m dead.” He turned and stalked toward the front entrance, towing her along in his turbulent aftermath through the gawking crowd. “Then why not love me?”

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He ignored her, waved to the tattooed ticket lady at the door and the bouncer on the outside, practically dragged her to the parking lot. “Why not love me?” she asked again, a little louder, tripping over the uneven pavement in her heels. He stopped dead, fisted his hands on his hips, turned slowly to face her. “I saw my father tonight.” Confusion temporarily overpowered the pain in her heart, the weakness in her limbs. “What?” He jerked his chin at the club. “My father. He was here at Brimstone tonight. Inside.” Her lips parted. “But—” “He got out of prison two months back, you know. He’s been awol ever since.” “What did he want?” Mick’s expression hardened. “To remind me of who I am.” A car horn blasted on the busy street behind them making her jump, but he didn’t even blink. “And who are you, Mick?” “The man you don’t want loving you.” “What if you’re wrong?” “We agreed, baby. No strings.” She jerked on her leash, still firmly locked to his leather harness. “What do you call this?” “Sex,” he spat out. “Pure physical gratification. I like fucking you and you like being fucked. Simple.” She ground her teeth. He was such a damn liar. He might not love her. Might not want to love her. But he knew damned well what they had with each other went deeper than simple fucking. Far deeper. “No strings?” she asked. “That’s right.” “In that case, you won’t mind if I let Cody fuck me.” A muscle ticked over his eye. “Do you know what my father did to my mother?” She flinched. “He shot her.” “And her lover.”

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The image of his mother from the drawer flashed through her mind, followed by her own photo, and she began to tremble. “Is there a point to this story, McGraw?” He unhooked the end of her leash from his harness and tossed it at her. “The point is, you don’t want me in love with you.” “Too dangerous, you mean?” “Yeah. Too dangerous.” “What did he really want, Mick? Your father.” His eyes blazed. “To gloat.” “Why?” “He’d seen me...us...on the news.” Mick stabbed a hand through his hair. “He wanted to welcome me into his world. And laugh at me when I denied it. He said it was just a matter of time before I started hurting you, and started liking it.” Caro let the awful words sink in and tried to digest them. “And you believed him?” “He’s out for revenge, Caro. For me ratting on him and sending him to prison. He’ll take it any way he can.” Mick climbed into the Z and slammed the door, looking incensed and yet...terrified. Like a furious little boy, impotent against a fate decided by everyone but himself. The man was off his rocker if he thought he was anything like his murderous father. And it was about time he realized that. But how could she show him? She regarded his stormy visage on the other side of the windshield, then walked to the front of the car. Crawling onto the car’s hood on her hands and knees, she pouted at him through the windshield glass. He burrowed into his bucket seat, face grim and arms tightly crossed, watching her warily. “What are you doing?” She couldn’t hear him and pretended she couldn’t read his lips. She sat back on her heels and spread her knees so he could see right up her skirt to what she was offering. She pointed to her ears and turned her palms

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innocently skyward. The automatic window glided down with a purr. “What the fuck are you doing?” Spreading her knees wider, she reached into her back pocket and extracted the business card she’d gotten and waved it at the windshield. “Trying to decide who to take to the party. You or Cody.” He glanced between her thighs, but didn’t take the bait. “What party?” “The one I’m invited to tomorrow night. At the Tether Club.” He straightened in a motion, at once all business. “The guy who left the card in your pocket last night? He made contact?” Mick was out of the car in a flash. “And you didn’t tell me?” “You were too busy being a prick.” “I haven’t begun being a prick. Let me see that.” He snatched the business card from her fingers. “It’s the address where the party’s being held.” She studied him studying the card. “Too bad we won’t get a chance to go.” “Why not?” “Because the case will be cleared by then.” “What are you talking about?” “Rodney Smythe. I found him. Cody’s probably calling Bobby as we speak, and arranging to have him picked up.” “Smythe? He was at the club?” She nodded. “He’s our friend Rick.” “Rick is Smythe?” Mick’s expression suddenly went deadly still. “Rick.” He cursed succinctly and virulently. “That’s the link I was missing,” he muttered, then cursed again. “What are you talking about?” He looked at her as though he’d forgotten she was there. “Nothing,” he said, and shook his head once. Then suddenly he said, “Shit! Lauren!” “Don’t worry,” Caro said, laying a hand on his arm before he could rush off to the rescue. “Cody’ll take care of your little sweet pea.”

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His jaw tightened as he swiped a hand through his hair. “I’m getting a little sick of hearing that man’s name come out of your mouth.” “Yeah, well—” she slid off the hood “—you disappeared and left me locked in a fucking cage. Who was I supposed to tell?” She strode to the passenger side and waited for him to open her door. Instead of opening it he pressed her up against it, the tension of moments before gone, replaced by something else. “I saw you with him. Saw what you were doing.” She pushed his chest. He didn’t budge. “And what was that?” “Flirting. First with your tits in his face, then on your knees. Christ, he was practically—” “I told him I belong to you.” “He wants me to share. Should I?” “Would you share me?” He exhaled harshly. “No.” “Then there’s no problem, is there?” “Maybe you’d like him to fuck you.” “Maybe you’d like him to fuck you.” This time when she shoved he gave way. “Maybe you should bring both of us to the Tether Club.” “So you could do what?” Mick’s lips curved in a sinister smile as he opened the door for her. “I guess you’d find out, wouldn’t you?” “Sorry. The case will be over by tomorrow.” She got into the car. “So?” “So, we won’t need to go to that party.” He stooped down, leaned in close to her ear, and whispered, “Maybe we should go anyway.”

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Chapter Nineteen “Take off your bra,” Mick ordered Caro before they’d driven out of the parking lot. He was feeling angry. Angrier than he’d ever felt before in his life. Angrier than when he’d watched his dad beat his mother senseless. Angrier than when his father ignored him every day of his childhood. Angrier than when he’d called the cops on the bastard for making a ten-year-old see his mother murdered in her bed, covered in blood, and the body of a man who’d always been nice to him savagely mutilated. Angrier than when he’d almost lost his career trying to protect a partner when he saw the whole cycle repeating itself. “My bra? Why?” she asked. Yeah, he was angry. Angry because he was falling in love with Caroline Palmer, and he’d never get the chance to enjoy the feeling. Angrier because she refused to be afraid of him. “Because I said so,” he snapped. He’d show her afraid. He’d scare her so badly she’d run back to her preacher papa and boil pot roasts for the rest of her life. Instead of trying to fix what had no prayer of ever being fixed. Not after these past two months. Not after tomorrow night. She shot him a look. “Yes, daddy.” “Yes, Sir. I’m not your fucking daddy.” “That’s for damn sure.” She unhooked the black bra and flung it into the rear seat, then leaned back against the car door. “There. Better?” The Z was low-slung, giving passing cars a clear view

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inside. “You have such pretty breasts. I like showing them off.” Her expression was surprisingly composed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a pervert?” “All the time. Now the skirt.” “What?” “You heard me.” She must have sensed he was spoiling for a fight. “All right,” she said calmly, unzipped the leather skirt, and wriggled out of it. Leaving her completely bare from her slave collar down to the tops of her stockings. “May I get dressed to walk into the house? I don’t want to give Brady and Washington heart attacks.” “Change of plans. We’re not going to your house.” Her eyes whipped to his. “Where are we going?” “A friend of mine’s place.” “Why?” “I feel like a change of scenery.” And equipment. “Mick, everyone’s expecting us to go to the duplex. That’s where the tail is set up to follow us, where the surveillance is in place, where the alarms are activated.” “Yeah, I know. And my apartment building is crawling with crime scene cops and probably five hundred reporters. That’s why we’re going to Su’s.” “I don’t understand you. In case you’ve forgotten, this guy is planning to kill us!” She looked so sexy sitting there naked he couldn’t take her objections seriously. Besides, he had a lesson to teach her. “He’s also always one step ahead of us. The Teddie Killer knows who we are, what we are, and where we live. There’s not a chance in hell we’re fooling him with any of those precautions.” After tonight he knew that with dead certainty. “But—” “Besides, you tracked it yourself, he always kills on the night of the Tether Club party at the mansion. We’ll be fine for tonight.” She puffed out an exasperated breath, but didn’t

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argue any more. “So who is this Su person?” “An old friend of mine. She’s spending the summer in Cheyenne.” “Wyoming?” “She likes cowboys, what can I say.” Caro crossed her arms below her breasts, making them perk up even nicer. “How does she feel about homicide detectives?” He glanced over at her sharp tone. “Jealous?” “Fuck you, McGraw.” “Soon, baby.” He smiled inwardly as he made the turn up the onramp for the freeway heading toward Pasadena. And flicked the on switch to her vibrator. Her eyes drifted shut and her nipples peaked. She made a sexy little noise, unfolded her arms and relaxed back against the car door. “Mick?” “Yeah, babe?” “If I find out you’re fucking Su or Lauren or anyone but me, I’ll cut your balls off.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You do that.” Several minutes later she bounded up from her blissful silence. “Oh, shit! I need to call Bobby.” “What’s the problem?” “We should make sure Cody got hold of him about Rick—Smythe—and Lauren and Rebecca.” Mick handed Caro his cell phone, admiring her professionalism at being worried about a woman she was convinced he was cheating on her with. “Speed dial 1.” She punched the button, wriggling her bottom. “Shut this thing off, will you?” He decided not to. He got perversely aroused seeing her squirm with pleasure while trying to conduct business. Bobby picked up immediately. “Did you get him?” she asked, froze at the answer, then darted a worried look at Mick. “How the hell did he slip past everyone?” She listened briefly. “Shit, shit, shit.

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What about Lauren Adams and her friend?” She closed her eyes. “Thank God.” Bobby said something else and she suddenly blushed deep red. She glanced around at the cars driving in their proximity, licking her lips. “Who’s tailing us?” Mick grabbed the phone from her, hearing the last part of a name he recognized as belonging to an officer from SIS. “What’s he doing in our operation?” Mick asked irritatedly. “Everyone’s been pulling overtime, bro. We take who we can get, wherever we can get them.” Bobby paused. “She’s topless?” “Yep.” “This is so not fair. I hope to hell she sues your ass for sexual harassment.” “We’re working a case, bro. You can’t catch a sexual predator without showing him a little sex.” “Oh, and you getting laid is just a side benefit?” He looked at Caro, wriggling in her seat beside him, all flushed and tempting and on the brink of exploding his whole world. “You got it,” he said. “Listen, call off the hounds, Bobby. We’re not going to Caro’s place, we’re making a little detour tonight.” “Where?” Bobby asked, sounding alarmed. “Never mind. We’ll be okay. Our man won’t be hunting until tomorrow night.” “You willing to bet your life on that? Ever hear of escalation?” “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” Hell, he was in the middle of it. He darted a glance at Caro. Her fingers were gripping the bucket seat. “Tomorrow is escalation. It’s only been four days since the last couple, remember? Besides, you’re going to catch Smythe tonight, right?” Bobby sighed. “Right. But what if the Teddie Killer’s not Smythe? What if it’s not any of our suspects? What if it’s someone we haven’t even thought of? What if he changes his pattern?” “Then I guess we’re screwed. But he won’t.” “How can you be so sure?”

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“Talk to Woodruff.” At the mention of the profiler’s name, Caro’s half-lidded eyes sprang open. Mick stomped down another claw of jealousy. “Trust me. People don’t change. Especially violent ones.” He clicked the off button. Conversation over. “What about Tim?” She was watching him, trying to concentrate, but he could tell the effects of the vibrator were taking their toll. Her hips were unconsciously grinding into the bucket seat, her breasts were peaked and swollen. “Why? You want to fuck him, too?” “Too?” “Him and Cody. Maybe we should have a little ménage à trois. Hell, I could invite Bobby, make it a foursome.” He didn’t care for the tiny smile that came to her lush lips. Her nipples were tight as kernels and a light sheen of sweat covered her forehead. “Mmm. I wonder if they all have cocks as big as yours?” He fought not to be pleased by her backhanded compliment. “Fuck you, whore.” “Back at you, sugar snap.” Touché. She worried her bottom lip and pressed her knees together with a low moan. She was doing her best not to come. Fine by him. He had other plans in that direction. He switched off the vibrator. She gave a little groan as her body slumped. “Bastard.” He smiled. “You’re finally catching on.” He veered the Z off the freeway, flying down the offramp that would take them to Su’s home in the small community of San Marino, tucked into the southeastern edge of Pasadena. “You’re sure your friend is in Cheyenne?” “Positive. I keep an eye on her place for her while she’s gone.” “She won’t mind us staying there?” “Nope. It’s part of our deal.” “Deal...?”

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“You’ll see.” She frowned. “What are you planning, McGraw?” “To show you the real me.” “It hasn’t been the real you so far?” she asked, brow raised sardonically. “The scary real me.” Her expression turned serious. “Mick, you aren’t your father. You have to know that.” “You’re wrong, Caroline. And it’s time you understood just how wrong.” “Don’t even try, Mick. You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t. You couldn’t.” “I will.” “Only when you leave me,” she said evenly, glancing away as he pulled up to the tall, black, wrought-iron gate standing sentinel before Su’s gazillion-dollar Spanish-style home. He punched in the code and the gate glided open with barely a whisper. “You sure?” She sighed. “So, how do you propose to scare me into believing you? “By playing a game.” “What kind of game?” Pulling into the covered, brick-paved parking area behind the house, he brought the Camaro to a stop and turned off the engine. “A role-playing game. Sound fun?” “Maybe. Who are we going to be?” He released his safety belt, turned in his seat toward her. Reaching out, he stroked his fingers over one of her plump breasts, toying with the nipple. He smiled when it ruched tight in response. He looked up. “I’ll be the Teddie Killer,” he said. “You’ll be my victim.”

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Chapter Twenty Brushing aside her tingling nerves, Caro followed Mick through the living room of his friend’s incredible mansion. He still had her on the leash, or she would have stopped to admire the gorgeous furniture and the paintings on the walls, flip off her four-inch heels and sink her tired feet into the plush pile of the luxurious rug. Somewhere a clock chimed 1:00 a.m.. They’d left the club early. Maybe they’d actually get some sleep tonight. It was obvious Mick was familiar with his surroundings and knew exactly where he was going. Carrying the red kit bag he’d brought from the car, he led her up a highly polished wooden staircase to the second floor, flung open a pair of solid double-doors and announced, “The playroom.” Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She tried to back out of the room, but Mick held her leash firmly. “Where are you going, my lovely pleasure slave?” he murmured. “Change your mind already?” In the depths of his eyes she read his wicked intent. She tore her gaze away and looked around her. Jutting out from one of the corners of the large room was a huge wrought-iron bed, bolted to the floor. Everywhere, chains of diverse length dangled from the ceiling. Various pieces of wooden and metal apparati where a person could be tied up were placed all around the remaining space. Giant, square video monitors were mounted in the center of each of the walls, and around them hung a clutter of clothes, jewelry, and dozens of every imaginable type of restraints, whips, paddles, handcuffs, feathers, quirts...and a large number of items she had no

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idea what were. Along a low shelf marched an awesome array of packaged items: dildos, vibrators, sex toys, and mysterious bottles of liquids. Playroom? This was a bondage dungeon. Fear welled up inside her. No, not of Mick, but of all...this. Things were going way too fast. Yes, she wanted Mick desperately. And she’d already acknowledged to herself that she enjoyed the edgy fantasies and outrageous sexual acts he had compelled her into experiencing with him. But this was different. If she consented to this, she would be tied up or strapped down and helpless against anything he wished to do to her. Anything at all. I’ll be the Teddie Killer... A vision of Mick’s face as he’d told her he was too dangerous to love blazed through her mind. Could she trust her own judgment, that he would never hurt her? That he would stop when she shouted “Detective” if he went too far? And just how far was too far? Completely unnerved, she managed to whisper, “What will you do to me?” Mick tossed his kit bag under a sink in the corner, then stepped close to her, put his hands on her bare skin and ran them over her body slowly, caressingly. “Anything I want.” She shivered. She wanted to run like hell. But some indefinable thing within her soul stopped her. Something ravenous and, yes, needy. For him. He rubbed the backs of his fingers over the tips of her breasts, catching the nipples between his knuckles. “Scared yet?” He squeezed. Streaks of lightning shot through her from his fingers to her clit. “Yes,” she admitted. She wanted to run so badly she couldn’t understand why her feet simply refused to let her.

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“Good.” God. Because she wanted this. Wanted to experience what it would be like to be completely in another person’s power. In Mick’s power. Something deep and dark within her trembled violently, a tiny voice asking, do you really trust him? Do you trust him with your body? With your life? Yes, she answered. She did. “This way.” He took her arm and led her to a door in the corner. “Ladies lounge,” he said. “Get ready for a long night.” He tipped her chin up. “I want you in scarlet lipstick. There should be matching nipple rouge. Use it.” She swallowed, fighting down her panic over her decision—one he’d given her no time to consider. “I’ve never—” He cut her off. “You have ten minutes to prepare yourself.” The door snicked shut behind him and she found herself alone in the opulent bathroom. It took her a full minute to gather herself enough to move, another five to hurriedly freshen up. That left two to locate the right shade of lipstick in a cabinet stocked with packages of new cosmetics and apply it. She knew if she didn’t obey Mick he’d punish her. The thought of all those instruments on the wall made her heart pound like thunder. What would he do? She rooted shakily through the unfamiliar tubes and pots of erotic make-up to find nipple rouge. She’d just taken the wrapper off the correct color when Mick walked back in. He looked different. His latigo harness was gone, his chest bare. His skin gleamed as though rubbed with oil. He’d changed his pants, too. The conservative leather trousers had been replaced by a pair of black rawhide motorcycle chaps, meant to be worn over jeans. But under Mick’s chaps was just...Mick.

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His genitals hung free between his legs, large and proud as a stallion’s. A thick band wound around the root of his balls; a network of narrow, studded straps caged the length of his penis. Already thick, it began to stir at the sight of her. “Defying me so soon?” he asked. She shook her head, dragged her gaze from his rising cock, saw him looking at her breasts. “No!” she rushed to say. “I— I—” She held up the small pot of scarlet paste. He indicated the mirror. “Go ahead.” She turned to the glass, opened the jar, tried to still the shaking of her hands. “I don’t— I’m not—” “Shall I do it for you?” Her voice cracked when she whispered, “Yes.” He came up behind her, close, close. The rough, splitcowhide of his chaps scratched against her bottom and the backs of her thighs, catching on her silky thigh-high stockings. They’d be ruined. She didn’t care. He put his arms around her waist, eased the paint pot from her trembling fingers. His stiff shaft eased into the cleft between her buttocks; the round metal studs on the cock strap poked into her sensitive flesh. He was hot as a brand, thick as the double barrel of a shotgun. Her backside tingled with frenzied excitement, eager for its probing. She wriggled forward to escape the unfamiliar, embarrassing feelings. He pulled her back. And held her fast. It reminded her of when he’d held her at the crime scene, just like this, when she was puking. Even in her misery she’d been acutely aware of his hard body pressed up against her spine, had felt the unyielding ridge of the erection he’d pretended he didn’t have. And wanted nothing more than to have him shove it into her. “Tonight you’ll deny me nothing,” he said, and spread a dollop of scarlet on the tip of one nipple, then the other. She quaked. And knew he was right. “N-No.”

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“No, what?” “No...Sir.” He grunted and plucked a short-bristled paintbrush from the counter, held it just over a nipple. He looked at her in the mirror, making certain she was watching. He rubbed his cock deeper into her cleft, up and down, then touched the tip of the brush to her areole. An agony of bristly pleasure burst through her as he stroked it around and around her pink nipple, turning it the color of a bullfighter’s cape. He reloaded and started on the other. She sobbed out her breath. “Mick, please...” His eyes flicked to hers. “Stop?” “No.” “What, then?” The brush tickled over her, back and forth, around and around. The words froze in her throat. He considered his artwork in the mirror, turned her to face him. “You have such pretty nipples. But you’re so excited, they’re half their normal size. I think I’ll make them bigger.” He sat her on the cold counter, dipped his brush, leaned over and worked on her breasts with delicate strokes like an artist at a canvas, enlarging the appearance of her areolae. It was all she could do to sit still. “You’ve done this before,” she said breathlessly, pique overtaking fear. “Once or twice.” “With your friend Su?” He inspected her again, then gently blew on her breasts. “Su and I aren’t lovers.” “Just friends,” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “No. She’s my teacher. Hold still.” He smeared a sweet-smelling gloss over her reddened nipples, eliciting a moan. “What’s that stuff?” “To set the color. So it won’t lick off.” She groaned in anticipation. “But you’ll try, I hope.” “Stand up.” She did as she was told. “Bend over and

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grab the edge of the counter.” She did that, too, watching his reflection behind her. This position never failed to fill her with lust. Make her want the man standing behind her to— He pushed her feet far apart with a boot, spreading her legs wide. “What does she teach you?” she asked, partly to distract herself, so she wouldn’t beg. He slid his fingers between her legs, and into her. “She’s a dominatrix,” he said, shocking her. His fingers probed her deeply, and pulled out the small vibrator. Then he fisted his cock and slid it slowly, deliberately, inside her. She moaned in instant pleasure. The cool bumps of the metal studs and the crisscrossing leather bands scraped into her with strange, erotic sensation. “You let her whip you?” she managed. He hilted roughly, making her cry out in a storm of pleasure-pain. “No. She lets me watch.” She gripped the counter, white-knuckled, struggling to hang onto her concentration. Because she sensed this was important. “Watch what?” He pulled out, pushed back in. She groaned deeply, her focus beginning to crumble. So good. He withdrew completely and her empty passage throbbed with loss. She instinctively moved to follow, but his hand on her spine prevented her from straightening. “I watch while she disciplines her clients,” he said, jerking her back to the subject of his teacher. “Why?” she asked, bent at the waist, clutching the counter, her derrière presented to him as she dreaded his answer. Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings, awaiting the pleasure of his whim. Awaiting the words she knew were coming. “So I can learn,” he said. “To be a good Master to you.” Her heart zinged and her body felt suddenly weightless, swept through with an overwhelming feeling

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of inevitability. Unless he’s been trained as a Master... “For me?” “You knew,” he said. “All along you knew. You saw me watching you. Waiting. Knowing one day you would belong to me, body and soul. And now you do. You’re mine, Caro. To do with as I will.” Terror streaked through her heart. Along with a sense of rightness. Frightening, petrifying rightness. “Do you trust me, Caro?” She wanted to cry. “Yes. I trust you. You know I do.” Her knees were like liquid. “That’s good,” he said again. “But I’m going to make you prove it to me.” “H-How—?” He picked up a tube from the counter and squirted some of its contents into the valley of her bottom, then slid the small vibrator through it, up and down, soaking it with lubricant, spreading the slickness through her cleft. “What ar—” “Shhh,” he ordered. “Relax.” The smooth plastic capsule paused as it kissed her rear entry. “Mick!” “I take it this is your first time.” Panic assailed her as he applied steady pressure to the capsule. She tried to wrench away. He slid his hand up her spine and grasped the back of her neck firmly. “Don’t struggle, Caro. Enjoy it.” He turned the vibrator on and she gasped. “No! I— Oh!” He pushed harder. She didn’t want to like how it felt. But she did. She moaned as the steady erotic hum slowly relaxed her tight muscles. He rubbed the blunt tip over her, probing deeper each time. Oh, God. She couldn’t help herself, she lifted up to meet its thrust. With a cry, she felt it breach her, sliding into her forbidden passage. “That’s right, baby, let it in.”

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Her body pulsed, her nipples ached, her bottom felt like a thousand velvet insects were crawling through it. It felt strange, it felt outrageous. It felt so incredibly good. For a moment he let her lean there against the counter weak-kneed and panting, then he wound his hand in her hair and lifted her to stand up straight. The vibrator continued its sinful stimulation within her. She clenched at it tightly. “Walk to the other room.” She obeyed him, but reluctantly, her whole body steeped in a hot flush of guilty embarrassment. She didn’t want to walk with that thing in her. She didn’t want to move at all. She just wanted to stand bent over the counter and let it make her come. He pulled her to the wall of restraints and picked out two pairs of fleece-lined cuffs with clips attached to the buckles. “Put these on your wrists,” he directed, handing her one pair. He didn’t allow her even a second to think about what she was doing, how she was voluntarily giving herself over to him so completely. “Tighter,” he ordered when her fingers fumbled and she fastened them too loosely. Her bottom was on fire. Aching for...something more. Kneeling, he attached the other pair of cuffs to her ankles. As he buckled each one, he held her foot on the thigh of his chaps inches from his cock. She watched hungrily as it bobbed rhythmically between his legs, long and angry, trapped in its harness, the purple head erupting like a helmet from the top, dripping with his essence. His swollen testicles looked as though they would burst out of the finger-wide band that constricted the neck of their sac. Licking her lips, she lifted the pointed toe of her high heel and stroked up his prick, smearing the glistening drops that leaked from its tip with the point. “Stop,” he hissed, and stood. “You’ll get your chance to taste its bite.”

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He grabbed her wrists and roughly clipped her cuffs onto the ends of an aluminum pole about two and a half feet long. There were soft handle grips for her to hold onto, and in the middle of the pole was a ring. He clipped it in turn to a chain hanging from the ceiling, adjusting the height so her arms were stretched high above her head. All this in seconds. Before she knew what was happening, she was helplessly bound, suspended from the ceiling. The pole and chain supported her weight so it was impossible for her to fall—or to move except in a tiny circle. She was at his mercy. Her limbs were like molten lead. Her clenching muscles had worked the buzzing vibrator deeper inside her; she could feel it in there, creating havoc with her pleasure-center. Her clit twitched with exquisite need. She couldn’t deny the secret thrill humming through her, knowing her body was totally in his hands and under his control. “What are you going do to me?” He didn’t answer, but walked to a concealed panel on the wall. Inside was a keypad. He tapped a series of buttons, and the four oversized monitor screens lit up. Her image came into focus on the screens, larger than life, each shot from a different angle. Suddenly she was staring into her own anxious, terrified face. He punched two more buttons. Music started playing. Something classical. Baroque, maybe. And her face disappeared from the screen in front of her, replaced by the back of her head and a full rear view of her body. She yanked at her bonds, turned away, only to see another view of her bound, nude flesh. Wherever she looked, she saw her own writhing image from different angles. She spun to him. “What will you do to me?” she repeated, suddenly unsure, panic creeping into her voice. He stood before her, clasped his hands behind his back. He should have looked ridiculous in those chaps, his

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flagrant erection jutting out from them like some ancient mammothly-proportioned fertility statue. But he didn’t. He made her mouth water. And her heart quail. “What would you like me to do to you?” “Let me go,” she answered. But that was a lie of desperation, and they both knew it. In the background, the classical music picked up its pace, mirroring the blood in her veins. “What are you most afraid I’ll do to you?” he asked quietly. Oh, God. She felt a drop of moisture trickle down the inside of her thigh, graphic evidence of her body’s acceptance, and enjoyment, of Mick’s tortuous game. Evidence that eventually he’d break her and get anything he wanted from her, willingly. Eagerly. Anything and everything. “Fuck me, Mick,” she said, to distract him from a purpose she’d rather not face yet. “I want you to fuck me.” “Where?” The vibrator hummed inside her backside. Her muscles were growing tired of their resistance. Thick pleasure pooled all along her cleft, front to back, more insistent than she’d ever experienced. But she wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t. “Not there,” she said, reading the curl of his lip with a spurt of dread. “Liar,” he returned, and strolled around behind her. She looked up at the monitor. His back had eclipsed her from sight. His broad shoulders, trim waist, muscular thighs captivated her. But best of all was his tight butt, framed in all its naked glory by the cut-away chaps. The powerful muscles in his glutes rippled as he tipped his pelvis toward her, away from the camera. “Not that one,” he said, grasping her face and twisting it toward the side view monitor. “Watch this one.” Her lips parted. She could see them both, him standing behind her, his cock in his hand. Her swollen breasts seemed huge, pushed out by the position of her raised

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arms, the nipples bright red and distended as though he’d just been suckling her. His hand leveled his cock, aimed the tip at her back entry, and stepped forward. She spun away. The chain yanked her backwards again. His free hand clamped on her waist, then slid over her abdomen to hold her firmly between the legs. His middle finger skidded over her clit and plunged deep into her, anchoring her fast so she couldn’t move away. His knee wedged between her legs from behind, spread them, and he held her feet wide apart with his boots. She panted, struggled against his hold. “Mick, no.” But it was no use. “Watch,” he ordered. The vibrator stopped. Her bottom felt suddenly achingly empty, her clit ready to explode, teased to frustration by his immobile finger. She felt slick, with lubrication and her own juices. She turned to the monitor, panic growing exponentially. He fisted his cock and brought it to her derrière, eased the head into her slippery cleft so the tip licked at her forbidden entry. She whimpered. “Mick, please...” “Please what, baby?” He rubbed the tip against her, up and down a fraction, moved it in tiny circles. He felt blunt and silky, and oh, so hot. She tried to squirm away, but his hold was like iron. He pushed gently. She tried to resist. She couldn’t. She gave way a little. He pushed again. She gave way a little more. On the screen, his face was a mask of concentration. His eyes were glued to his task, every muscle rigid with restraint. “Will you let me in?” he asked, rough and raspy. “No!” He pushed a fraction. She gave. “Let me in, baby.” “No.”

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“Do you trust me?” “God, no.” But she did, and he knew it. Her body knew it, too. Against her will she felt her muscles surrender completely, rings of acceptance radiating from the point of his pressure. He slid in. Just the head. She gasped a deep breath, bracing for more. He held perfectly still. She could feel the throb of blood pulse at their connection. Felt the scrape of leather straps and metal studs against her outside rim. His finger moved within her other passage, sending a wave of clenching hunger zinging through her. “Where do you want me?” he demanded. She’d already lost. She’d already won. He was in her. She’d had no choice. She’d wanted no choice. “Deeper,” she said. “All the way.” He pulled out. “No!” He tightened his hold around her, leaned his mouth close to her ear. “I can’t. Any deeper and I’d split you in half.” “Then why?” she cried. “Why make me say it?” Why make her want it? “You need to know your desires.” “Not if you won’t fulfill them.” “I will. Just not tonight.” He rubbed his stubbled chin against her cheek. “Now you’ll be ready for me.” She exhaled with a quiver of displeasure. “I don’t like this game.” “No?” He withdrew his finger, caressed her clit lightly. She saw stars. The thumb of his other hand slicked through the ample wetness in her cleft, paused where he’d so recently invaded her. “I thought you were going to be the killer,” she said, sizzling with frustration, needing something to happen

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besides this...this torture. “First I have to be the husband.” He caressed her again, with both finger and thumb. “Be still,” he ordered when she writhed against him. “No,” she said, and moved closer, seeking to prolong his touch. “I won’t.” A swift spank stung her bottom. “Ow!” she squealed, then cried out again when he pressed his thumb deep into her back passage. “Oh!” He massaged her need with his finger, drew out his thumb slowly and rimmed her. “Oh, God!” Her body went slack. Her whole consciousness zoomed in on what he was doing. “Oh-Godoh-God.” She felt the first tingling of orgasm shiver through her. “Don’t come,” he warned. “If you come, I’ll stop.” “Too late,” she sobbed out. Mistake. He pulled his hands away. “Will you come?” “Yes.” He stepped back. The tingling stopped. Without a word, he left her hanging there in a blizzard of frustration and casually walked to the corner of the room, to the stainless steel sink where he’d left his kit bag. He turned on the water. “Mick.” “Yeah, babe.” “What the hell are you doing?” “Washing up.” Stunned, she watched him do just that. His penis, his hands, the vibrator she hadn’t even realized he’d removed. “That’s it? You’re done?” “Hardly.” “But...” “Patience, my slave. Trust your Master.” She sent him a moue of dissatisfaction. “I want to come.” He grinned. “Me, too.”

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She glanced at his cock, still huge and flagrantly aroused, and knew a short moment of recompense. But not enough. “Well, then.” His brow hiked as he dried his hands, unzipped his kit and dropped the vibrator into it. “Let me down from here and I’ll take you for a ride you’ll never forget,” she tempted. His lips curved, his eyes incongruously sad. “I’ll never forget any of the rides you take me on.” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Pretty words.” “For a bitter truth.” And that’s when she realized. “Oh, my God. You’re going to leave me, aren’t you?” she almost sobbed. “After the case is over. After all this.” She couldn’t believe it! She’d known they weren’t destined to be together forever, known he didn’t want a real relationship. But she’d thought... Ah, hell. She hadn’t thought. That was the problem. “Why?” She yanked at her bonds. But they were as impossible to escape as the love for him growing in her heart. His expression filled with a grim bleakness, then he turned away and walked to one of the walls. From a shelf he picked out a slim bottle. When he turned back to her, his face showed no sign of emotion. “Now I think I’ll have to spank you,” he said.

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Chapter Twenty-One “What?” Caro’s eyes widened. This was not going the way Mick had planned. She was supposed to be afraid of him, not begging him to fuck her. And definitely not asking why he planned to leave her. “I’m going to spank you,” he repeated. She jerked at her wrists, trying to free herself from the bonds he’d imprisoned her in. “No!” “Yes,” he insisted. “Why?” He was growing weary of that question. What she didn’t realize was that those bonds had nothing to do with the cuffs on her wrists. And his reasons for leaving had nothing to do with his desire to keep her. But he wasn’t in the mood to discuss either. “It’s what you’re most afraid I’ll do, isn’t it? Spanking you?” “What makes you think that?” “It’s what you react to most.” She yanked again. “You’re on drugs.” “Tell me about being spanked. The time that still scares you to think about.” “You’re wrong. There’s nothing to tell.” He smiled knowingly, admiring her lithe body, her sweet curves, her smart-ass attitude. All his. To do with exactly as he wished. For now, anyway. “Tell me and I won’t spank you.” Maybe. Then again, maybe he would. “Go to hell.” He shrugged, went to the wall, set down the bottle of massage oil he was holding, and picked up a long leather

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slapper. One that looked like it would really hurt. At least she’d think so. “That’s not spanking,” she squeaked. “Spanking’s with your hand.” He shrugged again. “Details.” He flexed the paddle, tested its weight. Smacked it on his palm. She jumped at the sharp sound. “Wait!” He paused, looked at her. This was more like it. He wanted that spark of fear in her eyes. No, on second thought he wanted full-fledged terror. Then maybe she’d realize what a mistake she’d made in trusting him. “Tell me who spanked you,” he commanded. She gnawed her lower lip. “A man—he was a friend of my father’s.” Mick set his jaw. He hadn’t anticipated that. The friend part. He picked up the massage oil and walked back to her, tucking the slapper under his arm. “How old was he?” She watched him warily. “Not very. Mid-twenties maybe.” “How old were you?” “Around eleven. No, twelve.” Fuck. Excessive parental punishment, that’s what he’d expected to hear about. Not sexual abuse. He wondered briefly if he should stop this line of questioning. But no, she seemed more upset by the thought of an actual spanking than by the story she was telling. “Go on,” he ordered. Flipping the lid of the bottle, he opened his hand and poured a stream of oil onto his palm. It smelled of lavender and honeysuckle. Standing behind Caro, he set the paddle aside, rubbed his palms together and began spreading oil all over her beckoning backside. It took everything he had not to grab his cock and push it back in her. “What happened?” he asked. “Hmm?” “You were twelve.” “Oh. Yes.” He smoothed the oil down over her hips, and up again.

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Taking his time. Savoring the feel of her. Letting her take her time. And enjoy the feel of him. “He was a visiting minister. Just out of seminary.” He stroked around her ass. Around and around. God she felt good. She started to move with his hands. “Go on.” “He stayed with us for a week. I’d given him my room.” He dipped his fingers between her legs. She moaned. “Was he nice?” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “I liked him. He was handsome and funny.” “So you didn’t mind giving him your room.” He flicked over her clit. Her body jumped. Her breathing quickened and she let out a moan but she didn’t answer. “Did you?” he said, and removed his fingers. She spread her legs wider for him. “More,” she pleaded. He smacked her ass. “Did you?” She gasped. “No, I didn’t mind!” “Go on.” “Please, Mick.” He picked up the slapper. “All right! It was a Sunday morning. My parents had already left for church. I’d forgotten something and came back for it.” “What was it?” “I don’t remember.” He rubbed the flat of the paddle against her butt, teasing. Threatening. “What was it, Caro?” “I said I don’t remember!” He moved to her side and lifted the slapper, ready to bring it down on her plump flesh. “Nothing!” she blurted out. “I didn’t forget anything. I just wanted to go into my room and look at his things. His brush, his coat. Smell his cologne.” “Then what happened?” He almost didn’t want to know. If she’d been sixteen,

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fine. But twelve was too young for pretty much anything she could say next. “I dropped it. His cologne. The bottle broke and it spilled everywhere. He came in and saw me.” Mick took a deep breath. Tried to keep calm. “Was he angry?” “Very. He said it was expensive.” “So he spanked you?” Mick rubbed the paddle over her ass, hoping like hell that’s all the man had done. She licked her lips, tried to move away. “First he told me to lift my dress and pull down my panties.” Mick stilled, fought to control a surge of anger. “Did you?” A blush ripped across her face and chest. “I had to obey him. Father would have been furious if I hadn’t obeyed a minister.” “So you pulled your panties down. In front of a man. A twenty-five year-old stranger.” “Yes.” Horrified, fascinated, explosively furious, Mick carefully set the paddle aside and cupped her bottom with his hands. It was hot to the touch, like she was embarrassed. Or like she was excited. “What did he do to you?” “He made me lean over and grab the bedpost.” Mick stifled a curse, searching for a trace of trauma or distress in her voice. Found them only in his own. “What then?” “He stood behind me and raised my skirt up over my back. I could feel him staring at my nakedness. At my body.” Sliding his cock between her thighs, Mick ground his teeth together. He was aching to plunge it into her. Ram it home again and again until he rid himself of the sick feeling in his stomach. “At that moment, everything changed,” she murmured. He held her woman’s body against his, slid his hands

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over it, up to her ripe breasts, and enveloped them with his fingers. “What changed?” “Inside me. I was young. Innocent. I’d expected punishment. Instead I got— I didn’t know. But suddenly I wanted him to touch me. With his hands. With his tongue. With the thing I knew he had between his legs.” Mick held perfectly still. “Did he?” “No. He spanked me. Hard.” “And?” “And I came.” Shock thundered through him. “You came?” She came? Suddenly it all made sense. The strict and religious upbringing, the handsome dominant stranger, the unexpected sinful urges. This had been her sexual awakening. And what a wake-up call. His nausea fell away, replaced by a stunning need to take the paddle to her ass. Wake her up even more. “I didn’t know until years later what had happened. All I knew was it felt good and I never wanted him to stop.” Mick’s throat made a choking noise. “Jesus H. Christ.” “When it was over, he knelt behind me. I was sobbing and he thought it was from pain, but it was really from confusion. He touched my bottom and...he kissed it. Twice. Then he made me pull up my panties and he took me to church. I could barely sit down. I never saw him again.” But she’d never forgotten. Mick’s prick throbbed between her legs like a hammered thumb. “Christ,” he repeated. “The horn-dog hypocrite.” “Anyway,” she murmured. “That’s why I don’t like men swatting my butt.” “Because you’re afraid you’ll come.” “No, because it’s painful.” Mick let out a long breath. And smiled. Then he bent

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at the knees, thrust upward, and scythed into her. She gasped, moving to accept him fully. “I’m definitely going to have to spank you now, my naughty little slave.” “Don’t you dare.” She felt so good. Like a hot, wet, velvet vise on his cock. “That makes two things for you to anticipate.” He reached for her clit. “Better do them fast, the case will be over tomorrow.” His fingers halted. “So?” “So you know what that means, Mick.” Damn. Yeah, he knew. Only too well. He almost groaned. He’d done it again. He’d been mere seconds away from ripping off his cock-rings and pounding into her till she screamed with pleasure. Hell, till they both did. Once again he’d lost control of the situation. Of her. Of himself. Good thing she’d reminded him of the ugly reality of the situation. He pulled out and spun her to face him. “Let’s say I don’t know what it means. Suppose you tell me?” She hung there in his chains, handcuffed, panting with need for him, her gaze darting between his eyes and his cock. “Come on, Mick. Put it back in.” “Fuck that.” “My thoughts exactly.” She lifted a knee, crooked her leg around his thigh. Rubbed her mound against him. The woman had come a long way in four days. He nearly weakened. He stepped back. “Tell me about tomorrow, Caro.” “Very well.” Her gaze pierced him. “You don’t need me. Or want me. You don’t love me. You’re not interested in a relationship. You as good as told me you’re only using me, amusing yourself by corrupting me in order to attract the Teddie Killer.” Her chin went up. “And when he’s

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behind bars you’ll be done with me,” she said as a parting challenge. Daring him to deny it. He couldn’t. He balled his hands into fists. But she was so damn wrong. “It’s not true. You don’t understand.” “On the contrary,” she said, her voice shaking now. “I understand perfectly. You have this “rule” about cops. But the truth is, you’re just afraid of love. You’re trying to scare me away with kinky sex and threats of violence. But it won’t work. I like the sex and I’m not afraid of you. So don’t expect me to go away quietly.” He stared at her, every muscle in his body rigid, wanting to shout at her, wanting to shake her till she cowered with fear, wanting to fuck her until she begged for mercy, then wanting do it all over again. Something in his expression must have done the trick. Her eyes slowly widened. She tried to back away from him, was stopped by her restraints. She tugged at the chain, fumbled with clumsy fingers to reach the buckles on the cuffs. He forced himself to stand absolutely still as she succeeded in freeing first one wrist, then the other. Her arms fell loose and she hugged herself, glancing around for a possible escape route. He was between her and the door. Not that she’d ever get past him. He took a step toward her. She almost fell, backing away. He lunged. “No, Mick!” she cried, fighting him, scratching, clawing as he carried her over to get the kit bag, then to the bed. He easily held her by the waist despite her thrashing and screaming, and unzipped the red bag with one hand. He groped through it, pulled out the items he was looking for. He stood her up, grabbing her wrists, pulled them above her head. She was a tall woman, and strong, but no match for his own height and power. He kicked off her four-inch heels with his boot before she could use them on his shins, and grabbed the handful of white silk he’d taken

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from the kit. “Mick, please! Whatever you’re planning, don’t do it.” “I told you what I was going to do,” he growled. And pulled the white teddie over her head. He heard a strangled gasp when she realized what it was. He tugged it in place but didn’t button it down below. He wanted her open to him. Tossing her on the bed, he ripped off her black stockings. Better. He fell on top of her, quelling her struggles. “Your pretty red nipples look sexy under the white,” he murmured in her ear. She whimpered. “Mick, this is crazy.” “Don’t call me crazy, baby. I’ve told you before. It makes me mad.” He held her down with his body while he tied her wrists to the bed with orange silk scarves. Her eyes went even wider when he looped one around her throat. “You used these even before you knew about the killer, didn’t you?” she said shakily. “I told you. I like orange. So sue me.” “Where did you get them?” “Rasheed’s on Fair Oaks Ave. There was a sale a couple of months back and I bought a dozen. Now, shut up before I use one as a gag.” He put his lips to hers. “Which would be a shame because I have other plans for your mouth.” He poked his stiffened tongue between them. And felt the tip of her tongue brush his. “Whore,” he whispered. “Sodomite,” she retorted. If she thought that was an insult she was sadly mistaken. He slid his hands down her thighs, grasped her knees and spread them wide, as wide as he could. She kicked, tried to twist away. She didn’t have a chance against him. He felt the blood surge through his veins. He eased himself down her body, holding her gaze as he lowered his face between her thighs, covered her with his mouth and sucked. Her hard little clit shuddered and quaked as he licked and bit at it. He stuck his tongue deep

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inside her, tasting her, tasting him in her, smelling her desire, feeling her need for him. Her muscles contracted around his tongue, began to quiver. He pulled away. “No!” she screamed. “Not again. Please, Mick!” Her legs thrashed up, threatening to take his head off. He grabbed her ankle, clipped its fleecy cuff securely to the bed post, then hooked the other on the one opposite. “Bastard,” she spat out. “Bastard-fucking-Icemanprick-tease!” She bucked under him, tied by all fours. Helpless. “You can do better than that,” he said, and started unsnapping the cock-harness from around his prick. He flung it aside, then ripped the collar from his balls. Pain stabbed through him as the blood redistributed itself in his genitals. They swelled near bursting. He needed relief. He rose to his knees. Crawled up her body. Held himself right in her face. She swallowed. He smiled. And pushed his cock into her mouth.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Caro moaned as Mick’s massive penis slid into her mouth clear to her throat. His salty taste flooded her, his satin and steel flesh stretched her till there was not a place in her mouth he didn’t fill. Even so, she couldn’t take even half of him in. She felt the tops of his balls brush her chin, taut, smooth, hard as marble. He grunted, grabbed the headboard with one hand, his cock with the other, and changed the angle of his assault. Downward. She swirled her tongue over the rim of his head, then sucked him in. He groaned like a tiger purring. “That’s right, baby, suck me hard.” The slick valley between her splayed legs pulsated with need. She wanted him there. His hard shaft. His soft tongue. His clever fingers. Anything. Everything. She tipped her head forward, seeking to take him deeper. Moaned at the rush of dizzy want that inundated her along with the drops of liquid oozing from the tip of his shaft. Never mind. This was good, too. So good. She worked him with her mouth, pulled back and laved him with her tongue till his moans echoed through the room. His grip on his cock weakened and it flipped out of her mouth. She reached for it, frustrated by her bonds, unable to get it back. He switched hands, laid his forearm against the wall, fingers spread for purchase, then fed himself back to her with the other one. She took it eagerly between her lips. Let him push it in and ease it out, let him guide it to where he wanted her to lick and suck. Let him take himself to the brink and back till his voice was hoarse with need. But she wouldn’t let him go over the edge.

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She glanced in the monitor. She was supine under him, bound hand and foot, and he was kneeling around her shoulders in a pose of complete domination, forcing himself on her, into her mouth. Anyone watching would think he was in control. They’d be wrong. She closed her eyes and tasted him, savored the feel of his power over her, of hers over him, relished the sensation of being wanted this much. Crazy much. Nothing-else-matters much. To-die-for much. As she wanted him. “I’m about to explode,” he rasped. “Make me come, baby.” “No,” she said, and licked up his whole length, light as a wisp. Then stopped. “Make me come and I’ll give you something sweet.” “I’ve already got something sweet,” she pointed out with a swirl at the tip. They both knew he could come anytime he wanted without her help. He was playing her game because her defiance turned him on. She suddenly understood that. It turned her on, too, to disobey him. To see how far she could push before he simply took what he wanted. What she wanted. Then pushed him even further. “Make me come, Caro. Now.” “Say you love me.” The words left her lips before she could stop them. He froze, glared at her. “Don’t do this,” he said, his tone rife with warning. But now it was out in the open, she wasn’t about to back down. “Say it, Mick.” “I’m telling you, don’t go there.” “I know you love me.” “You’re confusing lust with love.” “Am I?” She searched his eyes, his desperate, ice-blue eyes, for the truth.

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“Fuck!” he roared, leapt from the bed and crossed to the wall in two strides. He grabbed a thick wooden paddle with two hands and brought it crashing down on a nearby metal bondage frame. The wood shattered into a hundred pieces. His muscles bulged, sweat dripped from his rutted brow. His expression was murderous. He cursed again. Wide-eyed she watched him seize a thick leather strap, whirl, and beat the crap out of what looked like a pommel horse standing next to the frame. When the cover and padding were ripped to shreds, cotton batting, slices of suede and splinters of wood littering the floor at his feet, he turned on her. Her pulse doubled. Tripled. His chest heaved, his jaw clenched; he snapped the strap once between his hands. She’d never felt so naked. So vulnerable. So certain. “Say it, Mick. Say you love me.” He threw the strap to the floor. Wordlessly, step by step, he stalked over to the bed. He raked his gaze over her, paused on the juncture of her spread legs, flicked up the white teddie that had bunched around her waist, lingered on one scarlet nipple that had slipped out from it, then met her eyes. With white-knuckled fingers, he gripped the two ends of the silk scarf he had looped around her neck, then climbed on top of her and sat on her thighs. He exhaled, carefully winding and unwinding the fabric around his fists. Finally, slowly, he pulled them taut across her throat. She could smell the scent of his desperation, feel the feathery weight of eternity against her windpipe. She waited, heart pounding. Trusting him. The fabric loosened and his hands moved up, grasped her face, and he leaned down to brush a kiss over her trembling mouth. His fingers trailed down her throat, glided over her shoulders bringing the teddie’s spaghetti

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straps down with them, till they reached her breasts. He bent to kiss each of the crowns, moving gently over them with his lips and tongue. She moaned, and he looked up, then straightened. He was still erect. She could see his sex, large and livid between his thighs, feel his solid sac suspended between her legs. “All right,” he said. “I love you,” he said. In a motion he untied her bonds and swung off her. He peeled off his chaps, dropped down on the bed beside her and closed his eyes. “Now go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.” Stunned, Caro lay still for a long time, not believing what had just happened. Had he actually said it? Then turned over and gone to sleep without...without so much as another word, or a kiss or...finishing what he’d started? This had to be some kind of punishment. Punishment far worse than if he’d turned that leather strap on her. Okay, maybe not. She was grateful he’d taken his anger out on the pommel horse, or whatever that thing was. It confirmed her trust in him—that he’d never hurt her. But why was he so angry? It was almost like the minister. As if she’d awakened feelings in him he’d been horrified by, and just like the minister, he was punishing her instead of acting on them. Which in this case made little sense. She’d never expected to fall in love with Mick, certainly hadn’t wanted to, but as long as it had happened to both of them, what was there to be angry about? You just accepted the situation and dealt with it. What was going on with him that she didn’t know about? Was his job that important to him that he would let her go in order to protect it? Somehow she knew that wasn’t the answer. Or was he that frightened of love? Of the consequences of bonding with another human being? Or maybe she’d been right when she’d accused him of simply using her, amusing himself until he moved on.

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She shuddered out a sigh. This was insane. It was useless to try and figure things out tonight. Better to wait until the case was truly over. She let the exhaustion of so many nights without real sleep creep over her. And made herself a promise. She would have him, she vowed. One way or another, Mick McGraw would be hers. A man’s shout pulled her from an uneasy slumber. “No!” Mick. She came awake at once. “Please,” he growled. He was clutching her in his arms, gripping her tight to his chest. Almost desperately. “No. No, don’t—” “Mick.” She tried to move out of his death grip, to shake him. “Baby, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.” His eyes flew open. For a split second he stared at her in terror, then they cleared and focused, Iceman calm. “Sorry.” His arms dropped away and he rolled to his back. “It happens...once in a while.” “No problem.” She watched him take in a deep breath. “Your mother?” His gaze shot to her. “What do you know about my mother?” “Not a lot. Just what you told me. And Tim mentioned some things.” His expression turned sour. “Good ol’ Tim. I’m getting a little sick of his meddling.” “You could have told me yourself, before he felt compelled.” “I don’t need your pity.” “No. You need my love.” “I don’t need anyone.” But his eyes told her differently. His posture. The way he wasn’t jumping out of bed and running for the hills. “You need me.” She nestled at his side. “You want me.” She put her arms around his rigid torso. “You crave me. You crave my body. You crave my passion. You crave

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my love.” His gaze drilled into her, pinioned her. “Yes, I crave all that and more.” She canted on top of him, lying her body over his like a protective shield between him and the world. “So why are you so afraid?” “Leave it alone, Caro.” “Is it because of work? Because of your promise? No one has to know, Mick.” “The world knows, Caro. We fucked in front of an open window at a crime scene, and admitted it to the brass. They’re not idiots, and they’ll never let us work together after this.” “If not work, then what?” “You’re forgetting, I’m the Iceman. Nothing can melt me. Not even love.” “I don’t believe you,” she said, and kissed him, long and tender. “I’ll show you how easily you melt,” she murmured. And proceeded to do just that. He resisted at first, but his body betrayed his readiness as she mounted him, sheathed him and made them one. She made love to him, pouring her love over him like a salve, praying she could heal his wounded soul. In the end, they came together in an intense, aching climax. Then he rolled her under him and lay atop her, silent as a corpse except for the sound of his labored breath. “It’ll be all right,” she murmured. “I won’t make demands on you.” Not too many, anyway. “You’ll see. This won’t change anything.” “You’re wrong,” he whispered, drawing a finger over the curve of her slave collar, touching the edge of the silk scarf still coiled around her throat above it. “This changes everything.” Mick didn’t go back to sleep. Caro wouldn’t let him slide off her, so he waited until her embrace went slack and her breathing under him deep and regular. It didn’t

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take long. She was a wreck, physically, not accustomed to the long, grueling hours of the task force combined with his demanding carnal use. Not to mention the psychological strain she was under. Too bad for her that part was only going to get worse. Once she fell asleep she was out for good, so he was able to gather up the condom wrappers, straighten the bed and the room, gather his things, put on gym shorts and sneaks, and even brush his teeth, without waking her. He pulled a chair to the end of the bed and straddled it, watching her sleep for a moment. She was so pretty sprawled across the big four-poster, hair all disheveled, limbs gracefully posed. He loved the way her painted nipples stood out against her pale skin, contrasting with the white innocence of the teddie. Like her. Purity and decadence. The virgin whore. Every man’s wet dream. What would happen when she was no longer so innocent? When he no longer had anything to teach her about sex and her own secret desires? He watched the tension slowly relax in her face, her sweet lips curving in a smile. He’d love her all the more, he realized. Finally, there would be someone with whom to share both his dissolute fancies and his strict personal code. Someone who understood him. Someone who wanted him, not despite them, but because of them. His worst nightmare had come true. He’d found his soulmate. And he couldn’t keep her. He’d understood that last part all along. But seeing his father again tonight had brought it home with a fierceness that still razored through his heart. Brought back all the terrifying memories. The rage, the despair. And sealed his fate more surely than a coffin lid. Dear old dad was back, bent on vicious revenge. Revenge on Mick, for what he’d done. Revenge on everything and everyone he loved. He stood abruptly, went to the bed, touched Caro’s

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face. He let his fingers trail down the pale, tender column of her throat to the wisp of orange silk, felt the pulse beating steadily in the delicate blue vein under it. So vulnerable. So trusting. His father would not go away. He’d haunt Mick and taunt him, goading him, constantly reminding him of how alike they were, how he was bound to end up, no matter how much he fought against it. Until the violence erupted and one of them ended up dead. Of course, he had known that from the second his father walked out of Corcoran prison a free man. He’d counted on it. What he hadn’t counted on was Caro. Mick ran his hands softly over her body, smoothing the teddie into place, snapping the bottom snaps between her legs. Letting his fingers linger in her warmth, still moist from their lovemaking. And sighed with regret. For so long, he’d been able to redirect the violence within himself, by joining the police force and channeling it toward doing good. Keeping a rigid code of behavior, avoiding potentially dangerous entanglements. For all that time—except for the short lapse with Lauren and her abusive husband—he’d kept it together. Fooled himself into thinking a predilection for kinky sex was as far as it went with him. But deep down, he’d always dreaded that one day the house of cards would come crashing down around him. And now it had. In spades. He’d screwed himself and he knew it. Soon everyone would know it. In a weird way, he relished that fact. It upheld his belief in the order of things, the inevitability of fate. Crushed those few ludicrous hopes and dreams he’d secretly harbored for all those years—that he could crawl out from beneath the rock his father had buried him under from day one, and make something of himself other than a violent jailbird. That he might somehow be permitted to keep just one person he loved. Foolish, foolish fantasies. He carefully placed Caro’s hands on her abdomen and

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folded one over the other. She looked so beautiful. Like a fairytale princess sleeping on the beach. He leaned over her and kissed her lips, her nose, her eyelids. He was the wrong man to awaken her. He was the dark, evil prince, not the one on the white steed destined to make her his queen. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered. “For what I have to do to you. I love you.” He left her. Took his things, got in the Camaro and drove past the iron gate. It was best this way. He waited till the gate closed behind him with a solid clang, then pulled out his cell phone, got Julio Martinez’ number from dispatch and dialed it. “Yeah?” a muzzy male voice answered. “Detective McGraw for Sergeant Martinez.” The receiver clattered and the voice said, “I told you not to let your fuck-bunnies call here.” There was the sound of a hard smack. Mick’s brow lifted. “You really have to get rid of that guy,” he said when Julio came on the line. “Before he kills you.” “Who is this?” “McGraw. I need you to do something for me.” He heard rustling, a curse in Spanish, then, “It’s fourfucking-o’clock in the morning, McGraw. This better be about Caroline.” “She’s in San Marino. Got a pencil?” More rustling. “Digame.” Mick gave him Su’s address and the codes to the gate and the alarm. “The task force meeting starts at 9:00 a.m. sharp,” he said, “I’m counting on you,” then hung up. He decided not to wake Bobby, but dialed his voice mail at the station instead to leave a message. “Hey, partner. It’s a little before five and I’m heading out for my run, and then home to change. I’ll try to get past the reporters without too much damage and be in by

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seven. Listen, I wanted you to be the first to know, I saw my father last night at Brimstone. Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I’m hoping you’ve found Smythe by now. They were both in Corcoran, you know. See if they ever connected, okay? I’m betting cellmates.” He closed his eyes briefly. Wondered if he should say any more. No. “Plan on going to the party tonight at the Tether Club. I’ll pay for you myself if the department won’t. I’m going in, regardless of what happens today, and I’d like you there. But remember, I don’t want Caro within a mile of the place. I have a bad feeling. Keep her away, Bobby. I mean it.” He opened his eyes when a car behind him honked. “As for anything else... You do what you have to do, bro. I’ll understand.” He punched the off button. And mentally ticked one more item off the morning’s to-do list. It was so early, only the die-hard reporters hung about the entrance to his apartment building when he steered into the parking lot through the back alley. He pulled his PPD baseball cap low over his eyes and slipped out of the car, setting out at a slow jog toward bungalow-town. No one spotted him. He did his usual circuit, past the Connors’ craftsman with its manicured lawn and magenta azaleas. The cop on watch at the end of the block waved, yawning, and lifted a pad of paper to the window. He must have gotten a long list of license plates tonight. Mick gave him a thumb’s up and proceeded on past the Atkins place. There, too, the officer watching from the back of his camper in the neighbor’s driveway indicated he’d had a good night for suspects. This was where he should head down Elizabeth Street toward the Taylor/Slocum house but, instead, he detoured over to Caro’s duplex. He spotted Brady and Denny’s car a few lots down. Making a quick decision, he jogged up, opened the door of their unmarked car and dove into the back seat, ducking down.

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He looked up into the muzzles of two service revolvers. “Morning gentlemen,” he said with a grin. “Good way to get you’self killed, Detective,” said Brady, holstering his weapon. “I’m feeling lucky today. Anything interesting last night?” “Just the rumors,” Denny answered with a cough. “’Bout you and Officer Palmer.” Mick rolled to his back, catching his breath. Hard living was catching up with him. He usually hadn’t even broken a sweat at this point in his run. “Misinformation,” he assured them, “to fool the killer.” “Figured as much,” Brady said doubtfully. Yeah, right. “Any reporters hanging around?” “A bunch last night. Neighbor dude ran them off.” “Roger?” The sneaky little man who’d called the cops on him and Caro. “How?” “Threatened to shoot them for trespassing. Got out his shotgun an’ everything.” “Maybe you should look over his background check again,” Denny suggested. Mick pretended to consider, out of politeness. “The guy’s a weasel. But I doubt he’s our man. Doesn’t fit the profile.” “No harm in a closer look.” “Good point. So, how many plates you get tonight?” “Nine or ten,” Brady said. “More’n usual.” “Same with the others,” Mick said. “Must be because it was a Friday night.” “Maybe we’ll get the right one today,” Denny said. “God willin’,” Brady said. “We need to catch this fucker soon.” “We will,” Mick said with authority. “Listen, send the list of plates to Bobby, okay?” “Why not you?” He opened the door. Jetted out a breath. “There’s probably going to be some reorganization on the task

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force this morning.” With that, he jogged off before they could ask any more questions. He headed for his next stop and then up Mountain Ave to the main leg of his run, down the Arroyo and through the Rose Bowl, where he could work off some of the nails and acid churning in his stomach. Today was going to be one bad-ass bitch of a day. The perfect climax to a lifetime of bad-ass bitch days. He ground his jaw, picked up speed. And if it was really, really bad, he might even live through it.

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Chapter Twenty-Three “Madre Dios! Querida!” Caro heard the exclamation from far, far away. Slowly she came to consciousness, felt gentle hands on her wrists, her throat, seeking... seeking... a pulse? “Julio?” She opened her eyes. “What are you doing here?” She glanced around, expecting to see her own room. “Where—” Ah, yes. “Where’s Mick?” “Guadalajara by now, if he’s smart,” Julio seethed. “I can’t believe— He’s not going to get away with this. I’m sorry, Caro, this time he’s gone too far.” Damn, Julio was serious. She dragged her thoughts from where Mick might be, to focus on her partner. Former partner. Whatever. “What are you talking about? If you mean this place, I can ex—” “The place is bad enough,” he interrupted. “But look at you! My God, Caroline, just look at yourself, at what he’s done to you!” “What?” She raised her head off the pillow and glanced down at her body, trying to remember. Instantly she realized what he meant. She really couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “Okay, it’s a bit theatrical I’ll admit, but—” “Don’t you dare dismiss this, Caroline Palmer! It’s sick, it’s perverted, it’s...sick. He deliberately sent me here, wanting me to think you were dead!” “Julio, calm down. Please.” “Don’t you tell me to calm down, chica. He arranged you in exactly the same way as the Teddie victims! Same outfit, same pose, same...makeup. There’s even a chair at

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the end of the frigging bed!” Julio’s horrified gaze caught sight of the orange scarves dangling from the bedposts. “Jesús! You let him tie you up?” “For a minute or two.” She definitely wasn’t about to elaborate. Julio would go postal. “Jul, trust me, he’s just trying to get into the killer’s head.” “He’s over the edge, querida. After what he made you do yesterday— I don’t care what you say, I’m reporting this to Internal Affairs. For your own good. The man’s a psycho. He should be put away.” IAB? Hell. “I told you. He didn’t make me do anything.” She regarded her partner calmly, seeing a new bloom of bruises on his beautiful olive-skinned face. “And at least Mick doesn’t hit me.” Julio snapped back as though she had. “Tell that to the jury after he strangles you!” “Don’t be silly. He’s not going to strangle me.” “I’ll have you know, there’s a rumor going around the station this morning. That the Teddie Killer is a cop.” “Why would they say that?” “The way he’s eluding us. The fact there’s never any evidence.” “He might just watch the Discovery Channel,” she said wryly. Everyone was a forensics expert these days thanks to cable. “They found fingerprints, Caro.” She sat up. “You’re kidding.” “I’ll give you one guess whose.” Shock slammed into her momentarily. “Mick’s? I don’t believe it. Where?” “At yesterday’s crime scene.” Her breath whooshed out. “Big surprise there. He was all over the place as lead detective! Hell, he probably just picked something up.” “Wasn’t he wearing gloves?” “Of course.” “Shoots that little theory, doesn’t it?” She thought back. Yes, they’d both put on gloves outside the apartment, as soon as they’d arrived from his

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place. “Maybe he took them off for some reason.” But she knew he hadn’t. Why would he? Damn. What the hell was going on? “There’s a perfectly plausible explanation,” she insisted, climbing out of bed. “Yeah,” Julio said. “There is. Mick McGraw is the Teddie Killer.” Caro indulged her former partner as he spun out his absurd theory in detail on the drive to her place to change into her work clothes, and then to the station. On the surface, he made a pretty convincing case. Of course, she didn’t believe it for a nanosecond. Yeah, Mick certainly had his dark and dangerous side. But a serial killer? Please. She’d made love to the man. Held his body inside hers, kissed him until she didn’t know where she stopped and he began. It wasn’t possible he could do the things the Teddie Killer had done. But it was possible he’d somehow known he’d become a suspect, and that was why he’d tried to push her away last night. She was grasping at straws, but nevertheless her spirits buoyed. He had to know she’d stick by him through thick and thin. Let him try to send her away. She wasn’t going anywhere. When they got to the station, it was surrounded by reporters. “Any comment on Detective McGraw’s behavior yesterday with Officer Palmer?” one called out as the car inched through the throng. “Should they resign from the Teddie Murders task force?” another shouted. A third stuck her microphone up to the car window. “What do you think of the theory that McGraw is the Teddie Killer?” “That’s it.” Caro reached for the button to lower the glass and give the reporter an earful.

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Julio punched the window lock before she could get to it. “Forget it, querida. So far they haven’t figured out who you are. Let’s keep it that way.” He parked in the underground lot and they went into the station through the back entrance. She felt like she was taking a perp walk. Though the reporters couldn’t see her, every police officer they passed either stopped to stare or turned away and wouldn’t look her in the face. “Ho-kay, then,” she muttered. “Guess California isn’t so liberated, after all. Least not the cops.” “Don’t pay any attention to them.” Julio took her arm and escorted her all the way to the conference room in Homicide where the task force meeting was due to start in a few minutes. At the door she kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for the ride. And the support. It means a lot, you sticking by me.” He gave her a hug. “You know I’d do anything for you.” Something in his voice made her say, “But...?” “Walk away, Caro. From the man. From the task force. Getting into Homicide isn’t worth your reputation and your career. Maybe even your life.” She squeezed him back. “I know what I’m doing, Jul. We’re going to catch this guy, Mick and I. It’s the only way.” “Just don’t lose yourself while you’re doing it, querida.” Caro said goodbye to Julio and went into the conference room. The place was packed. Every cop who’d ever worked the task force was there, including Woodruff and Cody propping up the wall to one side. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the din of conversation stopped dead, like someone had pushed a mute button. Mick was at the head of the table as usual, Bobby in the first chair to his right. At his left elbow sat Brady Washington. They both smiled as she approached—two of

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the few who did. Mick didn’t turn. Further down the table where she always sat, her chair remained empty. She hesitated. She wanted to be closer to Mick. As though reading her mind, Brady got up and offered her his seat. “Thanks,” she said, and sank into it. With a start she noticed Lt. Fredrickson sitting across the table next to Bobby. It was the first time the L.T. had attended a task force meeting that she knew of. Was it because of the fiasco yesterday? Or because of the fingerprints Julio had mentioned.... Mick’s expression was blank and unreadable. Ignoring her, he leaned over and whispered something to Bobby. Bobby glanced at her and nodded grimly. “Okay, let’s get started,” Mick said, cutting through the thick atmosphere of the room. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the last crime scene has produced a lot of evidence.” “Detective McGraw,” interrupted Seth Johnson, the sergeant in charge of the canvas team. “Aren’t you going to address the rumors first?” “Rumors?” Mick asked. The sergeant’s face turned beet red. “Well, about...um, what the news is reporting. The window thing.” Caro felt her cheeks go hotter than they already were. Ah, shit. Here it goes. “I thought we cleared that up yesterday,” Mick said levelly. She couldn’t believe he could keep such a cool demeanor when she felt like sinking right through the floor. Even Tim and Cody were smirking. “But they’re still reporting—” “You believe everything you hear on TV, Sergeant Johnson?” “Well, no, but—” “Good. Let’s move on, then.” But Johnson wouldn’t leave it alone. “So it’s not true?”

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Mick exhaled. “Does this have a bearing on the Teddie Murders?” “It could.” “And how’s that?” Mick asked, his patience obviously wearing thin. “Because of the fingerprints, for instance.” This was so unfair. Caro wanted to shout they were all crazy to suspect Mick of anything. Just because they didn’t like his hot-blooded sexual practices didn’t make him a cold-blooded killer. “I’m not sure I follow your logic,” Mick said. “But forensics is as good a place to start as any. Maria, would you give your report?” The chief of Forensics shot a glance at Fredrickson, who nodded slightly. “All right, Detective,” she said. “Unlike the other crime scenes, this one contained a relative abundance of forensic evidence. We found fingerprints from eleven individuals apart from the victims, including a clear left thumb and forefinger plus two right partials. Both of which were identified as belonging to you, Detective McGraw.” There was a moment of silence while Mick stared at Maria. “There’s no mistake?” She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. They’re a perfect match.” “Where were they found?” he asked. Maria glanced at the L.T. again. Fredrickson gave his head a nearly imperceptible shake. Caro gritted her teeth with outrage. Withholding details so he could incriminate himself by knowing them. “On an object,” Mick stated, ever the seasoned veteran detective. “A portable object. Am I right?” Maria nodded. “Let me guess. Something found behind or beneath the bed, or some other place I couldn’t accidentally have dropped it yesterday. A condom wrapper?” Caro gasped along with everyone else at the table. Maria’s eyes flashed. “How did you—” She cut off, no

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doubt coached by the lieutenant beforehand. Mustn’t elicit a confession without issuing Miranda rights first. Sticky in court. Caro wanted to jump up and smack the woman—and the L.T., too. “Don’t say anything more,” he said brusquely. “We’ll question you later about this. For now, let’s just move on.” Mick stood up. “Under the circumstances, I think it best if I resign from the task force.” A wave of murmurs rippled through the room. In their eyes, she knew it was an admission of guilt. No way was she going to stand by and idly watch him deep-six his career. “This is nuts!” she practically yelled at him. “You can’t possibly be the Teddie Killer and everyone in this room knows it!” She got to her feet and scorched the others with a deadly scowl. “If Detective McGraw’s resigning, so am I,” she declared. Not that that was any big deal, but still. Everyone stared, but the only objection was from Mick. “No, Caro,” he said, again with that chilly demeanor. “That isn’t necessary.” “Yes, it is!” “You aren’t suspected of anything more than poor judgment. Bobby needs your help on the case.” The chill wavered for a split second. “Tell her, Bobby.” “If you want to clear Mick,” Bobby said, watching her intently, “the best way is to work with me. And help me find the real killer.” “We already know who the real killer is. It has to be Smythe. Why else would he have gone into hiding? But you can bet he’ll be at the Tether Club tonight.” She leaned over and placed her hands flat on the table. “Please, Lt. Fredrickson, let Mick go to the party with me tonight. We’ll get him. I promise.” “No!” Mick said emphatically. “I told you I don’t want you at that party. It’s too dangerous.” The lieutenant watched their byplay, swiped a hand

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over his mouth. “Detective Staunton and I will make that decision later, after questioning you both. Meanwhile, I’ll accept your resignation from the task force, Detective McGraw. You’re confined to desk duty until further notice. Don’t leave the station without telling me.” Mick nodded stiffly, darted her a lethal warning look, and stalked from the room. She sank back onto her chair. “This isn’t police work, this is a witch hunt,” she muttered. “Mick spent hours combing through that crime scene. Finding his prints there means squat.” Up and down the table, people shifted in their seats. “Evidence doesn’t lie,” Maria said quietly. “No cop likes accusing one of our own. Especially someone with Detective McGraw’s record. But there are legitimate questions. Not just about the fingerprints.” “Such as?” Caro challenged. “Such as fibers,” Johnson said. “We were able to match the orange silk fibers found on the victims,” Maria explained. “They all came from a type of imported scarf sold at a shop on Fair Oaks called Rasheed’s.” Caro’s heart sank. She’d had a feeling that coincidence would be a problem. Johnson continued, “The owner remembered a man who bought a whole dozen of those scarves. A man named Michael.” “Common enough name,” Caro said. “The owner had a credit card receipt. The card belonged to Detective McGraw.” “So what?” she said, exasperated. “Everyone at Brimstone saw him wearing an orange scarf tied around his arm last night. He was trying to attract the killer’s attention.” Johnson looked at her with a trace of pity in his eyes. “The receipt was dated almost two months ago.” She folded her arms across her chest. “If that’s true, the killer must have known he bought them, and deliberately used the same kind of scarf.”

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“Why?” Lieutenant Fredrickson asked skeptically. “To implicate Detective McGraw, of course!” Caro exclaimed. “That would explain the fingerprints, too,” she said. “The killer must have planted them as well, which is why he used something portable. We already know he must have taken a key because the deadbolt was locked from the outside, so planting evidence after the fact would have been easy.” “The only way your scenario is plausible,” Agent Woodruff interjected, stepping forward, “is if the murders are somehow directed at McGraw personally.” The L.T. frowned and said, “What possible motive would the killer have to do that?” “To distract us! Lead us on a wild goose chase. We’re getting close and he knows it. Who better to implicate than the lead detective on the case?” Tim nodded. “That would make sense, psychologically at least. Our killer is very smart and extremely organized. He definitely has the mental capacity to toy with his pursuers like this.” “Thank you,” Caro said, grateful for the profiler’s support. It had to count for something with the doubters. She turned back to Maria. “Did you find any orange silk fibers at the crime scene yesterday?” The forensics chief shook her head. “Not yet, but as you know, it will take weeks to sift through all the evidence. The lab is pretty backed up from the other scenes.” “What about on the body?” Caro asked the assistant medical examiner, who’d been watching the debate with interest. Benedict also shook his head. “We did examine the eyebrows first thing, since that’s where the fibers were found on the other victims. Nothing has shown up as yet. But again, it’s just preliminary at this point.” “There! You see!” Caro said, satisfied despite his caveat. “There were none on the Atkins woman either! The pattern changed with his third set of victims—after the papers announced Mick was lead detective. Our guy is

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a control freak. He’d have done his research on the man assigned to stop him.” “The research part is no doubt true,” Tim said. He glanced at her apologetically. “But then, by all accounts, Detective McGraw is also a smart, organized, control freak. He could easily have set all this up. And his background... well, to be honest, it fits the killer’s profile nearly as well as Smythe’s does. The only thing McGraw doesn’t have is priors, which admittedly one would expect.” Traitor. “What about motive?” Caro blurted out. “As you know, serial killers don’t need a specific motive to kill. There only has to be predisposition, a longstanding fantasy and a sufficient trigger.” “Trust me,” she said, “Detective McGraw’s fantasies are not about murder. His nightmares, maybe.” “Which are sometimes the same thing.” She glared at Tim. “You know it’s not him. Why are you doing this?” “Do I? The simplest explanation is usually the right one. And frankly, your opinion might be a tad...biased.” Once again she felt the heat of embarrassment. She squeezed her lips together before responding, “Maybe because I know him better than anyone else. He couldn’t do this. I’d stake my life on it.” The room hushed, and Tim said quietly, “I think you already have.” “Can I see you a moment?” Caro turned from gathering her things after the meeting broke up to see Tim standing next to her. “I’m not sure,” she said, still fuming. “If this is another lecture...” “No. I promise. I just want to know how you’re doing. A lot has happened since our last private talk.” “I’m fine,” she assured him. He believed Mick was a serial killer. No way she was confiding in him about another blessed thing.

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“Caro, for what it’s worth, I’m not absolutely convinced Mick is guilty,” he said. “Absolutely” being the operative word. But she had to give him credit for trying to keep at least a partially open mind. “Oh, really?” “I’m willing to reserve judgment, although I don’t like the guy, and I hate what he’s doing to you.” “He’s not doing anything to me. We’re doing it together.” Tim leaned his hip on the conference table. “Tell me, what exactly are you doing together?” She straightened her stack of files, weighing her answer. If she could just convince him of Mick’s innocence, maybe the L.T. would ease up on him. Let him go to the Tether Club tonight with her. Because one thing was for certain. She was going, even if she had to go alone. Catching Smythe was the only way to clear Mick. “Look, Tim. I don’t pretend to know what’s going on with us. In fact, our relationship scares the hell out of me most of the time. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never even heard of anything like this before.” “Like what?” “A person wanting to belong to someone else. Not just temporary bondage but being completely submissive to their will. I’m—” A deep scowl shot across Tim’s face. “You mean voluntary slavery? Surely, you haven’t—” “No. God, no. I haven’t become his slave. Not really.” She fingered the links of her collar. “What do you mean by not really?” “For the case, you know I agreed to act as his pleasure slave. But the roles seem to suit us in real life, too. So, we’re... exploring that whole scene.” “Sexual slavery? What kind of scene?” Tim demanded, and Caro almost smiled. Most people would simply be horrified. Tim knew to ask about degree. “Please, tell me you haven’t done something really foolish.” “No. I’ve only agreed to be his pleasure slave,” she

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said mildly. “Nothing more.” The look of relief on the profiler’s face was evident. “Thank God. Swear to me you’ll never take it any further. That you won’t ever agree to a total power exchange, or even a partial one.” She’d never heard the term before, but the meaning was obvious. Complete submission in all things. “No worries. I’m too stubborn and independent for that. Besides, I lived too many years under my father’s thumb for that lifestyle to hold any appeal whatsoever.” “So it’s just about sex.” She met his gaze. “Yes. It’s all about sexual fantasy, like you said. And letting go. And trust.” He didn’t look away. “You like having a man own your body? Having him use you as his sexual vessel? Letting him take complete control of your flesh and your sex?” He said it quietly, but with a trace of huskiness in his voice. “I like Mick controlling my body,” she corrected softly. “I like it a lot.” Abruptly, Tim stood. “That’s all well and good. But be careful,” he admonished her. “There’s a thin line between pleasure and danger. Remember that.” He gave her a chilling look. “Especially tonight.” Mick waited patiently at his desk in the glass office, ignoring the covert glances and the rampant speculation going on out in the squad room while the task force meeting concluded next door without him. Afterward, Lieutenant Fredrickson came out and led him to Interrogation, playing chief inquisitor, though he was obviously uncomfortable with the chore of crossexamining one of his own detectives. A union rep sat in one corner, along with a stenographer, but Mick had waived his right to an attorney. Bobby was there, too, peeling bits of Styrofoam from an empty coffee cup as the video camera whirred and Mick failed to explain the unexplainable. They didn’t keep him too long. Maybe an hour in all. No doubt he’d get a worse grilling when the rats at IAB got

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hold of him. “So you admit it’s your condom wrapper?” the L.T. asked reluctantly. “It’s the same brand I use,” he admitted without hesitation. “And you have no idea how it could have gotten behind the bed at the crime scene?” Several times Mick was tempted to tell the lieutenant what he wanted to hear. That he was guilty. Just to get it over with. This was one of those times. Hell, there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d be found guilty anyway, regardless of whether or not he confessed, or was in fact innocent. Great odds for a lottery. Unless you didn’t want the prize. But then he thought about his life, and how hard he’d worked to escape the sins of his father. He recalled the sick desperation of that day two months ago when he’d heard his mother’s murderer was out of jail prematurely. The blind rage and resulting two-day binge, the uncontrollable feelings of helplessness. Then pulling himself out of it by planning his own private vengeance. And finally, the irony of a few weeks later being assigned the one case he had no business touching, let alone leading. Most of all though, he thought of Caro. Sweet, trusting Caro. Another thing he had no business touching. Of everything done over the past two months, falling in love with Caroline Palmer was the one completely unexpected development. The single thing he could never have predicted, no matter how well-thought-out his plans—even when those plans spun hopelessly out of control. So he kept his mouth shut. “No, sorry,” he said. “I have no idea how the condom wrapper got there.” Maybe he could pull this off. Just maybe. Lieutenant Fredrickson pursed his lips. “Officer Palmer seems to think it was planted by the killer.” He looked up quickly. The woman was a constant

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source of amazement. “She insists you’re innocent. That you’re being framed.” Hell. So much for scaring her off. “Stockholm Syndrome has also been suggested. Or that you’ve brainwashed her.” He finally recovered his power of speech. “Why? So I can kill her, too?” The L.T. leaned back in the metal chair and grimaced. “Martinez filed a very interesting report with IAB this morning.” Mick carefully folded his hands. “I thought he might.” “What the fuck were you thinking?” Bobby burst out, frustrated incomprehension sizzling in the words. “Are you trying to get yourself thrown in jail?” Mick quirked his lips in a humorless smile. “If that’s what it takes.” “For what?” Mick hated the hurt and betrayal he heard in Bobby’s voice. He’d been a good and loyal friend. “You’ll have to trust me on this one, bro.” “And what about Caro? Do I trust you with her, too?” He aimed a sharp gaze at his partner. “Caro’s a big girl. She can decide for herself.” But if Mick ended up in jail, where would she end up? In his best friend’s bed? He forced back a deluge of jealousy. Fredrickson broke the tension. “Not in this case, McGraw. The Chief nixed you going to that party with her tonight. She’ll have to partner with—” “No!” Mick interrupted, not sure what motivated him more, jealousy or concern. Both were about to overwhelm him. “Please, don’t send her in. I’m serious, Lieutenant. It’s a sure bet the killer will be at the Tether Club tonight. After everything we-—everything that’s happened, if he finds Caro and I’m not there—” He couldn’t go on. The images were too awful. After a short consideration, the L.T. said, “Agreed. I’ll order her to stay away from the party, too. Bobby can

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go stag.” “I’ll take Cody,” Bobby said. “He’s asked to come along.” Figured. Mick’s old friend Cody had taken to Brimstone like a man with a new sex toy. Mick nodded. “Good.” “Once everyone’s in place inside, we’ll be ready with the SWAT team to deploy anywhere at a moment’s notice. Bobby, you need to target Smythe and make friends if you can. Get him to talk. We’re after a confession or the location of physical evidence, like trophies or the bloody sheets; either will put him away for good. If he’s not forthcoming, we’ll follow him and whatever unlucky couple he chooses, and catch him in the act. There’s no way the bastard gets away from us this time.” Mick’s throat tightened and he swallowed a sudden knot of fear. It was finally happening; the end of the tunnel was in sight. But he had a sick feeling it wasn’t Smythe they’d be arresting. “Listen, Lieutenant,” he said. “I might as well tell you. I’m going in tonight. With or without the chief’s blessing, I will be there when the killer is caught.” At his announcement the lieutenant sighed, but Bobby looked relieved. Bobby was a fine cop—hell, a great cop-— but this thing was out of his league and his partner knew it. Not because the killer was smarter than Bobby, not so, but simply because of the way he thought. Bobby was a good guy. It took a bad guy to “get” someone like the Teddie Killer. Mick knew the Teddie Killer as well as he knew himself. Lt. Fredrickson officially took him off the case and stripped him of the Teddie case files. While awaiting the official fate of his career, he was sent to sift through photos and statements on a robbery-homicide that had happened day-before-yesterday on Orange Grove and been largely neglected. At least the L.T. hadn’t threatened to haul him off to jail. Good. He didn’t want to have to go AWOL until tonight.

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But Mick was useless for work. The demons were too busy dancing around in his head. He slipped off into a small, empty conference room at the end of the hall and around a corner, far from the bustle of the squad and task force. Closing the door firmly behind him, he tossed the robbery jacket on a battered metal table and rolled the room’s lone chair away from a computer. He sank into it and drove his fingers through his hair. “Fuck,” he said, and stared out the room’s single, dust-streaked window. Doubts assailed him from every direction. About what he’d done, about what he was doing. About what he wanted to do. Principal of which was to call Caro on the intercom and get her in here so he could throw her on the table and bang her until he lost consciousness. He growled in frustration and tugged the ends of his hair. Not very Iceman-like. On the other hand, the ol’ Iceman image was pretty well shot to hell thanks to Caroline Palmer. Holy crap. What had he gone and done? No. He had to stop thinking about everything that could go wrong. Concentrate on something else. Anything else. There was a knock on the door and Caro peeked her head in. “Mick?” Like the answer to a prayer. “Yeah, babe.” He swiveled the chair to take her in. She looked so beautiful it made his head spin. She was dressed in one of those silly suits she wore when she was trying to look “professional”. This one was light pink. A homicide cop in pink. He almost grinned. “What’s up?” She took a step toward him. He held up a hand. “Don’t come any closer.” A frown sketched across her forehead. “Why not? Did the L.T.—” “No, nothing like that. I just want to look at you.”

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He could see his words pleased her, yet frustrated her because he could tell she wanted to touch him. Nevertheless, she paused where she stood. “Open your jacket,” he said, deciding on the most distracting game he could think of. She glanced at him uncertainly, but he kept his expression shuttered. She opened her mouth, then closed it again and unbuttoned her jacket. Good girl. She was learning. He nodded expectantly, and after a slight hesitation she pulled the two sides of her jacket apart, showing him her blouse. Meeting her gaze, he said, “Unbutton it.” Her lips parted. Realization of what he intended flooded through her eyes. “Mick...” she whispered warily. He didn’t answer, simply raised one eyebrow. Her tongue peeked out, slid over her lower lip. He watched it, his hunger growing by the second. Slowly she unbuttoned her blouse. And held it open. Oh, yeah. Her pale white flesh beckoned, the sumptuous curves of her breasts above her lacy bra gleamed in the stark fluorescent light of the room. He gripped the arms of his chair and forced himself to stay in it. “I hear you think I was framed.” Her gaze focused on his. And seemed to look right through the wall that had been there for a lifetime. Seeing things he’d never intended any living person to see. “Is that what this is about?” she asked evenly. “Because if it is, I think it’s only fair to tell you, you can do whatever you like to me in this room but it won’t change my mind about your innocence.” “You are a stubborn little slave.” “One would think you’d have noticed that by now.” He felt a cheek muscle tick. “One would think.” She started toward him again. “Mick—” He held up his hand more forcefully. “Choose carefully, Caro. Leave now while you still have your—” He

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cut off, unwilling to continue that train of thought. Too late. She was like a scent hound on the trail of a cadaver. “My what, Sir? My dignity? I think we disposed of that in front of the window yesterday. My job, perhaps? No, by now the department shrinks will say I’m not responsible for my actions.” She tipped her head. “Or...maybe you mean...my life?” She was taunting him. The little bitch was playing with him. He set his mouth in a thin line. “No,” he said. “I’m talking about your clothes.” He glared at her and firmly ordered, “Unhook your bra. Now.”

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Chapter Twenty-Four Caro drew in a breath of surprise. And relief. At least he was still acting true-to-form. Which meant she should, too. “Why should I?” she asked defiantly. “Because when they lock me up I want the taste of your breasts in my mouth,” he growled. “And because I told you to. You’re still my slave.” Then with slightly less vehemence, “Aren’t you?” The last two words were tacked on almost as an afterthought. It melted her heart completely. Wordlessly, she undid the front hook of her bra and pulled the sides apart, exposing herself to him. After a moment he lifted his half-lidded gaze. “I fucked you all night. I don’t understand how I can still want you this much. You have anything on under that skirt?” “No panties, if that’s what you mean.” She’d grown to enjoy the decadent feel of bareness between her legs. The erotic knowledge that at any moment he could unzip his pants, lift her skirt and take her. It kept her on the edge of excitement all day. “Someone could come in,” she observed. “Would you mind?” She never got the chance to answer. Suddenly there was a quick knock and the door flung open behind her. “Been looking for you two.” It was Bobby’s voice. She didn’t dare move as Mick glanced over her shoulder and answered, “Come on in, bro. And close the door.” She heard the quiet snick of the door.

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“What’s going on?” Bobby asked. Caro sent Mick a wide-eyed appeal. “Better lock it, too,” Mick said, and raised a warning finger at her when she moved to pull her jacket closed. Her hands stalled half-way there and wavered. Her body flooded with conflicting instincts. All she had to do was say, “Detective,” and Mick would cease whatever game he was playing. Then she heard the swish-click of a lock turning and it was too late. Heat washed through her whole body. Except for her naked breasts. Suddenly they felt chilly. Her nipples tightened, and a rash of goosebumps prickled over her skin. “Did you bring something for me?” Mick asked Bobby, who was still behind her. She could smell his after-shave. Lime. “Yeah. The L.T. wants you to take a look at this case when you’re done with the Orange Grove robbery.” “Sure.” Mick held out his hand to her, his eyes meeting hers. Caro blanched. She didn’t utter a word. She was too flustered. Any second now Bobby would— She felt the whisper of his jacket on her arm as he came up beside her and handed Mick the file. “So why’d you want the door-—” His words choked off. “What the—” She felt his gaze on her breasts—first shocked, then lingering, then hot. “Jesus, Mick.” She risked a glance at Bobby’s face. His neck was red, the skin around his eyes taut. “Jesus,” he repeated, this time more softly. “You are both certifiable.” But he didn’t look away. “Go on, baby, turn so he can see you better,” Mick urged, settling deeper into his chair, as if to keep himself from lunging out of it. He crossed his arms tightly, hands fisted. Where was this going? “Is that what you want?” she asked. “For him to see me better?”

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Mick’s jaw worked. “It’s what I want.” Was this some kind of test? “Why?” she asked him again. Instead of answering her, he turned to Bobby. “See her collar?” Bobby nodded uncertainly. “It’s a slave collar. Caroline is my slave. She’ll do anything I tell her.” “Pleasure slave,” she corrected. “I only obey in things sexual.” He inclined his head. “Pleasure slave, then.” Bobby swallowed, flicked his gaze first to her, then to Mick. “Yeah, huh?” “Yeah. Caro, show the man your breasts.” Face burning, she decided to play along. Mick was after something and she wanted to know what. She turned. “You see?” A shade of triumph colored Mick’s tone. “Uh-huh,” came Bobby’s near-strangled reply. “I see.” “Anything else you want me to tell her to do?” Caro’s nipples screamed with an electric jolt that shot straight between her legs. Oh, God. Bobby let out a long, intense breath. His Adam’s apple jerked violently. “Yeah. Tell her to button her jacket.” She almost sagged with relief. Not that the thought of Bobby touching her was all that awful. He was a great guy, and she’d even occasionally wondered what he looked like taking a shower. But then Mick would walk into the room and she’d forget all about Bobby. Mick shook his head. “Sorry, bro. It pleases me to have her exposed.” It wasn’t even the idea of being touched by two men at the same time that frightened her. Wasn’t that a fantasy nearly every woman had? “Tell him to take a hike, Caro,” Bobby murmured. “You don’t have to do this.” “I know,” she said, torn between running from the room in embarrassment, or grabbing Bobby’s hands and

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placing them on her breasts just to see Mick’s reaction. “I enjoy what he does to me. He takes me places I’d never have the courage to go on my own.” “Even if he told you to sleep with another man?” After a slight pause, she answered truthfully, “I’m not sure.” “You assume I’ll give you a choice,” Mick, who’d been silent during their exchange, interjected. She turned to him, her body up until now a willing participant in his every urge. “Are you telling me to sleep with Bobby?” Mick’s hot gaze pierced her, probing, judging, testing her will for weakness. “No,” he finally said, and she knew she’d won the game. Or so she’d thought; but his next words were, “I’ll leave that for Bobby to decide. If I go to jail, I’m giving you to him, to be his pleasure slave, to do his bidding as you’ve done mine.” With that, Mick stood up and took his key chain from his pocket. Unfastening the tiny silver key that unlocked her collar, he handed it to her. His ice-blue eyes glittered with an indefinable emotion as he said, “Take it. You may choose to go with him now, or you can wait. It’s up to you. But if they arrest me, you are to give him this key. Do I have your word?” “No, Caro, this is crazy,” Bobby protested. “You have my word,” she said to Mick. His eyes narrowed. “So easily?” “They aren’t going to arrest you, Mick.” She pressed the key back into his palm and slid her arms around him, pulling him close to her body. The familiar smell of him enveloped her, the press of his chest against her bare breasts filled her with the need to feel more of his power, filling her, taking her. It was unthinkable that this man whom she’d just found be put behind bars, denied to her for years, maybe their whole lives. “They can’t,” she said. “You’re innocent.”

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She reached up to kiss him, opened her mouth and tasted his tongue on hers. A drift of lime wafted in the air. Then Mick’s hand slid under her skirt and she forgot everything else but the sensation of his touch. “Ah, baby,” he whispered in her hair, “I’m the furthest thing from innocent.” The next thing she knew, her back was to the wall and he was thrusting inside her. She moaned and moved her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and gave herself up to the pleasure of his body battering into hers. She bit her lip against the urge to cry out, and when she lost the battle he covered her mouth firmly with his hand, grunting low with each massive thrust into her. She climaxed with a violence that shook her to her very soul. When she came to, gasping for breath, she couldn’t get her legs to work. Mick was holding her up and breathing heavily against her temple. He kissed her hair, her neck. He rolled them so his back was to the wall. “Damn,” he stammered between gulps of air. “Damn.” She felt like a well-loved rag doll, but he sounded upset. “I can’t believe we did that,” she murmured, panting against his shoulder. “Bobby—” “Left a while ago.” Mick’s mouth found hers and latched onto it, saturating her with the taste of him. His tongue pushed deep inside, making her moan anew. Still within her, his cock thickened. The man was a satyr. She tried to raise her knee, to give him better access, but her muscles wouldn’t cooperate. “I can’t move,” she said with a tiny laugh. She felt his chest expand, then he jetted out a deep breath. “Just as well. I didn’t mean to go this far. Not at the station.” She smiled up at him. “I’m glad you did.” He smiled back, a rare smile, but it seemed tinged with sadness. His arms tightened around her. “You shouldn’t be. I’m so sorry. I should never have dragged

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you into all of this.” He set her aside firmly, then readjusted his slacks and fastened them. Her skirt slid back down around her thighs. With a sigh she did up her bra and blouse. Mick fished a comb from his inner jacket pocket and ran it through his hair. That quickly, he’d reverted back to his neat, cool, buttoned-down appearance. Except for a few wrinkles in her clothing, you would never guess they’d just indulged in earth-shattering sex. He hesitated before depositing the comb back in his pocket and his gaze flew over her hair. Another smile, and the comb disappeared. Instinctively, she reached up. “Am I a mess?” “Beautiful as always.” He walked to the window and set his butt on the sill. “There’s something you should know,” he said, sliding his hands in his pants pockets. Before she could reply, the door opened again and Bobby looked in. “You two finished...conferring?” he asked, voice gruff. “I can’t imagine what you mean,” Mick said, motioning him in. Bobby sent him a withering look. “Just came to get Caro. Fredrickson’s ready for her.” Mick nodded. “Go on, baby. Oh, and tell the lieutenant I’m taking the afternoon off,” he added. “Will I see you later?” she asked. “Hard to say.” He looked at Bobby. “Good luck tonight, partner. Remember what I told you.” With that, Mick rose from the sill and turned to stare through the window. Caro tamped down a spike of irritation over being summarily fucked and dismissed. She made herself remember that the case Mick had worked his butt off for two months had been ripped out from under him, and tonight the bad guy would go down without his help. Possibly, he would be in jail himself before the day ended. Who could blame him for being a bit testy? She could, that’s who. He wanted to shut her out after all they’d shared? Not

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a chance. She went over and slid her arms around his waist. Giving him a hug, she whispered, “I love you.” Then she retraced her steps and walked out the door. “What’d you say to him?” Bobby asked as they headed for Homicide. “The look on his face...” “I told him he’s a prick,” Caro said. Bobby chortled. “I think you hurt his feelings.” “The Iceman? Please.” “Amazing as it sounds...” He halted in the hall outside the squad room. “Anyway, the L.T. is one very unhappy camper, so I advise you to tread lightly.” “I’ll be a perfect angel. By the way,” she said, “I’m sorry if...well, if you were embarrassed earlier.” “Not a problem.” His gaze dipped briefly to her breasts. “Listen—” She waved a hand in his face. “Forget it, Bobby.” He looked guileless. “What?” “Whatever it is you’re thinking. Just forget it.” With that, she yanked open the squad room door and headed for the lieutenant’s office. The interview—or whatever you wanted to call it— went fairly well. Bobby was there, and the lieutenant, of course, and he insisted a union rep also be present as an observer. In answering the L.T.’s questions, she just told the truth. Basically. Okay, maybe she changed a few insignificant details. Such as why Mick was chasing her around her apartment that night Roger called in a domestic on them. They didn’t need to know all the gory details. Just that she and McGraw enjoyed a healthy and imaginative sexual relationship. Which was a huge violation of departmental policy, she acknowledged. There was a big rule about commanding officers not having sex with subordinates.

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Sexual harassment. It was a good rule, and she understood it perfectly. But she and Mick were different. She managed to talk Fredrickson into believing they’d started their affair only because they were both trying to get an edge on the Teddie Killer and his victimology. Which was actually true. Pretty much. They would never have slept together in the first place if it hadn’t been for the case. They wouldn’t have been thrown together like they were, wouldn’t ever have had the opportunity. Unless, of course, Mick had happened upon her alone in the parking garage late one night. Or she’d caught him taking covert pictures of her... But Fredrickson didn’t need to know the extent of their fantasies about each other. The fact remained, it was the unusual nature of the case that had led to their relationship as it now existed. That much was absolutely true. The lieutenant understood that. And he accepted it when she assured him pursuing their affair had been a mutual decision. Not sexual harassment on either part. Including their more...outrageous activities. Still, when he reminded her if she continued her liaison with Mick she had no chance of transferring to Homicide, she took a deep breath to stave off her blinding disappointment. “I’m afraid it’s one or the other,” the L.T. said. “I understand the policy,” she said unhappily. How could she ever make that choice? Mick or her life’s goal? Luckily he didn’t ask. Besides, right now the only thing that mattered was getting the bad guy. Everything else could wait. “Of course, the question may be moot,” Fredrickson continued with a sigh. “If Detective McGraw’s brought up on charges, his career in law enforcement is over.” “Even if he’s innocent?” she pointedly asked. “No. Not if he’s completely acquitted and exonerated.” The L.T. gazed at her searchingly. “You still think he’s not the killer.” He wasn’t asking, it was a statement.

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She nodded. “I don’t have a death wish, Lieutenant. If I thought there was any possibility it could be him, trust me, I’d say so.” “What about the evidence? Do you really think it’s a frame job?” He gazed at her intently, obviously taking her opinion seriously. “I do.” “But the condom wrapper...” Fredrickson drummed his fingers on the table. “How could the killer have gotten hold of something so personal?” “Maybe the killer’s a woman,” she suggested wryly. “An ex-lover with a grudge?” The image of Mick’s former partner drifted through her mind. An attractive thought. Not. All three men lifted their eyebrows skeptically. “No, me neither,” she admitted. “I don’t know...unless...” “What?” “It may not mean anything, but... Well, Mick is always very careful about using protection. But the thing is, the next morning I never find any wrappers. Not in the wastebasket, or anywhere. He must gather them up and take them with him.” “So...?” “So, maybe one fell out of his pocket on the way home. Or maybe he disposes of them in a trash can outside his apartment. Or...well, you get the idea.” Fredrickson nodded. “Yeah. I’m surprised he didn’t mention that. I’ll ask him about it.” “And another thing,” she said, warming to her subject. “Those silk scarves. When I saw a couple at his place, he told me about buying them.” Fredrickson glanced up. “He did?” “He said they were on sale at Rasheed’s, and he liked the color. Rasheed’s is just down the street from his apartment.” “When was this?” She thought back. “The first time I saw one was Thursday, the day before Dr. Rawlings reported

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discovering the fibers. I didn’t ask Mick about the scarves until later. But he didn’t try to lie or hide them or anything, which one might expect if he was guilty of strangling women with them.” “I suppose so,” the lieutenant said, mulling it over. “Lieutenant, get a warrant and search his apartment. The only epithelials you’ll find on those scarves will be mine.” On an inspiration, she dug in her purse, producing the key to his apartment, which she still had. She plunked it onto the table. “Better yet, just go get the scarves and have Maria run them. They’re in a red gym bag in his spare room.” The L.T. regarded her for a long moment, then reached out and slid the key back to her. “That won’t be necessary. I’m the first to admit the evidence against Detective McGraw is all circumstantial, and certainly equivocal.” “In other words, it won’t hold up in court. Which is why you haven’t arrested him.” Fredrickson’s eyes narrowed. “Before I take a step like arresting one of my own men I need to be one-hundredpercent convinced of his guilt. Your firm belief in his innocence is enough to make me hold off for now. After all, you have the most to lose if he’s not.” He had no idea. “I know I’m right. And after tonight everyone else will, too. Bobby’s going to get the real killer.” “Which you think is Smythe.” “I’m praying it is.” “But?” It still bothered her that the Teddie Murders were so similar to the way Mick’s mother was killed. And then there was that damned photo of his mother in that white one-piece.... “Has anyone looked at Mick’s father for this?” Instead of the incredulity she expected, both Bobby and the L.T. regarded her with mild surprise. They glanced at each other guiltily, then Bobby said, “As a matter of fact, we have.”

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“Agent Woodruff pointed us in that direction several days ago,” Lt. Fredrickson said. “Naturally we kept Mick out of the loop.” “And?” “The father has an alibi for one of the nights in question.” “It holds up?” “We’re still checking it out, but so far, yeah.” “Damn.” Disappointment sifted through her. “There’s something else, though,” Bobby said. “We confirmed a different connection today.” “Between?” “The father and Smythe.” “What is it?” “They shared a cell in Corcoran prison.” The rest of the interview went by in a blur. They’d shared a cell! This was unbelievable! If Smythe and daddy McGraw had discussed their crimes in detail with each other... They held such similarities, it gave plausible reason why Smythe’s fantasy might have evolved and escalated to include murder, and therefore why he killed in exactly the way he did. Not to mention an explanation for specifically implicating Mick in the process as a scapegoat. Mick had, after all, turned in and testified against his father, who was bent on revenge. Wasn’t that what Mick had said last night at Brimstone? “Have you told Mick about the connection?” she asked Bobby after they’d left the lieutenant’s office and were walking down the hall. He shook his head. “Didn’t have to. He was the one to suggest checking on it.” Caro glanced at Mick’s partner and best friend. “Strange. He never said anything to me.” “He wouldn’t. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never once mentioned his father. But he’s been pretty grim about this case from the very beginning. Like he took every aspect of it very personally. I’ve never seen him so

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obsessed about anything.” He sliced her a look and grinned. “Well, at least until you joined the task force.” She halted as Bobby leaned over the water fountain to take a drink. “Look. I know you promised Mick you wouldn’t take me to the Tether Club tonight, but—” “Oh, no,” he interrupted, wiping his mouth. “Don’t even try.” “I need to be at that party, Bobby. Surely you must see that.” He held up a hand. “No. I agree with Mick. It’s too dangerous for you.” She bristled. “But not for you and Cody.” He had the grace to flush. “Caro, we are both seasoned veterans in Homicide. Your experience is limited at best. It has nothing to do with your gender, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Yeah. She believed that. “Bobby, the killer is not looking for a man. He’s looking for a couple. What if he goes off with someone else and two innocent people end up dead? Is that what you want?” He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “It wouldn’t work. Smythe knows you and Mick are an item. He won’t go for you and me, or you and Cody.” “You don’t know that. It depends on what his trigger is. If he’s looking for specific behavior from a committed couple, no. But if it’s something else, say, something visual or verbal, or a specific aspect of our interaction with him, we could be okay. I don’t know. Agent Woodruff would have better insight.” Bobby sighed. “Unfortunately, we can’t ask him. He was called away earlier, on another case up in Oregon.” “Great.” They had arrived at the task force room where she still had the daily report to get out. “Bobby,” she said with her hand on the door knob, “I’m going to that party tonight. I have the mansion’s address and the password for the gatekeeper, so there’s no way you can stop me.” She met his scowl with

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equanimity. “The only question is, will you pick me up, or am I going in alone?”

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Chapter Twenty-Five Caro stayed at the station as long as possible that evening doing paperwork—and avoiding going home. Just after eight o’clock she broke down and decided she couldn’t put it off any longer. Bobby had said he and Cody would pick her up between 10:30 and 11:00 p.m.. She had to prepare herself. Mostly mentally. She hadn’t forgotten about the Tether Club’s dress code. Or why she was going. She had a killer to catch. Both her and Mick’s careers depended on it. Maybe even his freedom. Unfortunately, to have a chance at success she had to get naked. Not that she’d told Bobby or Cody that little detail. The Teddie Killer hunted Master/slave couples. To have a prayer of luring him into the open, she had to play the part of a slave, regardless of who played her Master. And regardless of her feelings about going naked in a crowded room. Her being naked might even be part of the killer’s trigger. Didn’t he always kill after this party? Roger was watering the geraniums on his front porch when she pulled into the driveway. Before she even got out of the car he sent her a really evil glare, turned on a heel and stalked through the door to his half of the duplex, slamming it loudly. Guess the reporters must have been ugly to him last night. And their articles about her had probably shocked the socks off him. Too bad. Caro was fine with what she’d become over the past week—finally letting loose all those uncomfortable needs she’d carried hidden inside for as long as she could remember. If that didn’t suit someone

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else’s narrow so-called moral code, it couldn’t be helped. The only person’s opinion she cared about was Mick’s. And he liked her this way. She had to save him. What would her life be worth if they put Mick in jail, never to touch her or fill her again? Never to love her? She didn’t even want to think about it. She tossed her purse onto the sofa and went straight to the wet bar to pour herself a drink. A nice glass of wine might settle her nerves. The bottle clattered against the glass as she poured it, and some of the ruby liquid sloshed onto the counter. Her hands shook as she lifted the wine to her lips and took a long sip. She was going to have to walk into the Tether Club tonight with Bobby and Cody, without a stitch of clothing on. Oh, God. Could she do it? Could she really face dozens of strangers staring at every inch of her body? Worse, men she knew and worked with...men she knew were already attracted to her? Cody had come right out and asked Mick to share her last night at Brimstone. And Bobby... Well, Bobby had been a gentleman this afternoon, but how would he react to her nudity, especially after Mick had supposedly gifted her to him? Would he tell Cody? Would they— Best not think about it. She had no choice. To clear the man she loved, she must do this. And do it convincingly. Convincingly enough to trap a vicious murderer at his own game. Whatever she had to do, she would. God help her. She missed Mick desperately. She needed him, needed his strength to help her get through this. She wondered where he was now. Several times she’d tried calling his apartment, his cell phone, and had gotten no answer at either. Maybe they’d already arrested him? Surely Bobby

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would have told her if they had. Was it possible Mick was on his way to the party, despite Chief Trujillo’s express command forbidding it? No. She didn’t think Mick would disobey the chief. Not when he wouldn’t even defend himself against this stupid accusation. Caro wasn’t disobeying the chief, just the lieutenant. Big difference. Besides, the way she saw it, if she didn’t catch the Teddie Killer she could kiss her career good-bye, anyway. Without a big win in this case, her behavior with Mick would no doubt land her back in Traffic for about three hundred years—if it didn’t get her fired outright. Mick would be furious to know she was going to the mansion tonight when he’d repeatedly demanded she not go. But despite their serious game of sexual Dominance and submission, he did not own her. She made her own decisions. In this, she would not give him power over her. He might be willing to throw away his career and years of his life by stepping away from their undercover operation, but she wasn’t. She loved her job too much. She loved him too much. She was going to get the Teddie Killer, or die trying. Walking to the bedroom, she removed her suit and hung it up in the closet, then took off everything else, too. She stared at her bare body in the vanity mirror. Heart thumping wildly, she tried to imagine walking into a roomful of men like this. Shoes, the guy had said. She could wear shoes. She slipped on her black fuck-me pumps and considered her reflection again. Shit, this was even worse. Now she looked like a stripper. Well, except for— Suddenly it came back to her, the personal details from the female victims Mick had mentioned that first night he’d arrived at her apartment and they’d gone over the autopsies. The women all had wax jobs. At the time it had seemed like just a strange coincidence—after all, how could the killer have known such intimate details before

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he chose his victims? Now she knew. She exhaled resignedly. And her, never having had so much as a bikini wax. She grabbed her wine and went into the bathroom, closing the door firmly. Then she locked it for good measure. It was too late to buy wax now, but she had a pretty good shaver and lots of new blades. Now all she had to figure out was how to stop her hands from shaking long enough to do the deed. After getting out of the Z, Mick made a last minute adjustment to his silk tie, hefted his red kit bag in his left hand, walked up the marble steps to the ornate front door of the private mansion where the party was being held, and knocked sharply. It was opened immediately by a tall, refined-looking older man who might pass for a butler on some old BBC series. “Looking for beeswax candles,” Mick said, using the password Caro had given him yesterday. The butler glanced behind him. “Are you alone?” “Yeah,” Mick said edgily, and handed him ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. For now. Taking them, the butler stepped back and swept his hand toward the foyer. “Welcome to The Tether Club. You may put your bag here until you need it.” He indicated a large Victorian-style piece of furniture that took up an entire wall of the foyer. A dozen or so other kit bags already occupied the shelves. Many Doms took their kit with them everywhere, and none would think of coming to an Event without it. Carrying a kit separated the serious participant from the spectators, of which there were also always plenty. The times Mick had attended this type of party he’d mostly been an observer himself, so he knew they were welcomed; spectators heightened the pleasure of those who were scening. Mick nodded and stowed his bag on a high shelf, already aware of numerous eyes on him, sizing him up. He’d come alone, with a kit, which meant he was there to

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find a partner and play. He ignored an approaching woman and jogged down the three steps from the foyer into the library, where the bar and hors d’oeuvres were set up. Drinking was a no-no if you were into anything other than watching—the point with bondage scenes was not to give true pain, but pleasure-pain, and to do that you must perceive where the subtle line between them lay. Mick definitely needed all his faculties intact tonight. But he was so furious, he needed a drink even more. Bobby had called an hour ago and told him Caro insisted on coming. Short of trumping up charges and putting her in jail there was no way they’d stop her, Bobby had said. It shouldn’t have surprised Mick that Bobby and Cody had caved. They’d both been sniffing around her all week like two junkyard dogs. He’d hoped she’d be sensible. Prayed she’d obey him and stay away. But in his gut he’d known better. He’d taught her well. The activities at The Tether Club wouldn’t scare her, and she wanted to be in Homicide badly enough that the danger wouldn’t either. Now she’d be right in the middle of the unrestrained sex, the rampant temptation, the uncontrollable danger. And dead center in the killer’s crosshairs. Tamping down his ire, Mick accepted a glass of champagne from a nude bar slave and wandered out to survey the rest of the mansion’s first floor. It was huge and open, a generous contemporary floorplan with lots of blond wood that winked in the semidarkness, and even more glass. A series of low steps telescoped the room down to a black marble fireplace and the two-story floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows flanking it. The house was situated high up on Gold Hill at the foot of the San Gabriel mountains; the view outside was spectacular. The lights of the whole valley below and two or three beyond sparkled like fistfuls of diamonds strewn across the forest-green landscape. The sinuous red and white curves of the 210 and San Berdoo freeways snaked along in the distance, always packed, always moving.

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Music played in the dimly lighted room, hard rock, loud enough to hear, but not too loud to stifle conversation or mask the tantalizing sounds of whips snapping and chains rattling. Even now, moans drifted down from the upstairs bedrooms where the serious bondage equipment would be located. Scattered about here on the first floor were more modest apparati, sleek restraining devices deliberately designed to blend in with the rest of the contemporary furniture, and meant to deliver a jolt of explicitness to an otherwise mundane party setting. The collection of stylishly-dressed people might have been at any upscale gathering, except for the ones with no clothes on. Seven or eight slaves stood with their Masters, naked but for collars and high heels. Because this was a MaleDom/femsub party, the slaves were all women. One was buckled to an armchair by her wrists and ankles, her legs spread just enough to see between them, being discreetly observed or outright ogled by the single men chatting around her. One was casually fondling her breast. It was still fairly early—not even midnight. The novelty would wear off as the night went on. As more participants paired off and started having sex, as more clothed women were claimed by a man and placed in bondage, more of them would be stripped of their fancy dresses. Mick usually liked this stage best. He enjoyed the visual shock of seeing a lone, naked woman standing in the midst of a group of men in tuxedos. Everyone was still on their best behavior, trying to impress each other. They hadn’t gotten loud, or greedy for their pleasure. That stage had its charms, too, but Mick liked the edge of anticipation of the early hours best. Usually. Tonight, however, he had no appreciation for the erotic undercurrents. He was too angry at Caro for her disobedience. Too disquieted by what was to go down here later. Too worried that it would all go to hell. Where the fuck was she? A rush of cool air from the foyer drew his attention.

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He turned, saw a couple enter the front door. The butler helped the woman off with her coat. Her bare skin shimmered gold with some kind of tinted body oil that matched her gold slave collar. The men below let out a collective “Ahhh.” Her Master escorted her to the top foyer step leading to the main rooms, and announced, “This is slave sara. She enjoys being taken from behind.” He paused meaningfully and men all around examined her with calculation in their eyes. She lowered hers. Those familiar with the routine knew it was an open invitation to all; first-timers would soon realize it. A private bondage party was nothing like Brimstone. Brimstone was pure entertainment, a kinky floorshow put on for the titillation of people afraid or unwilling to go further than arousal. At Brimstone, actual sex was forbidden. At the Tether Club, sex was expected and encouraged on all levels. Male Domination and female bondage was the theme, the way to get you there. But sex was the ultimate goal, one way or another. The Master said, “Turn around, sara,” and she did. “Bend over,” he ordered, and again she did, showing her plump ass to the crowd. The man slapped it, eliciting a small cry from her. Then he unzipped his trousers, quickly slid on a condom, stepped behind and penetrated her. The crowd watched raptly. After a few hard pumps, he pulled out and zipped up. Then he took her hand, led her down the low steps to a narrow, padded pommel horse in the big room. He made her bend over it at the waist, then fastened her ankles and wrists to cuffs provided low down on the supports. She was forced to stand there with her legs spread, doubled over the padded frame, her ass tipped up and her sex accessible to all. “Something to keep you wet while you wait to be fucked?” her Master asked. From his jacket he pulled a large golden dildo, the same color slave sara’s skin was tinted. After smearing it with lubricant, he slowly pushed the phallus into her, pulled it out and pushed it back in. She moaned and met

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it with a thrust. Between her legs she glistened with moisture. “Gentlemen, feel free to indulge,” sara’s Master said to those around him. Leaving the dildo where it was, he walked away from her, toward the bar. The audience loved it. Nearly every man’s eyes were bright with lust. As they lined up, Mick turned aside, aroused but uninterested. He meandered over and leaned against a side wall where he had a good view of the room, the entry stairs, the foyer, and the front door beyond. And he waited. For Smythe. For Cody and Bobby. For Caro... His naughty, defiant pleasure slave. His pleasure slave. She should be with him, not Cody or Bobby. Did the three of them have any idea what they were in for tonight? Of the variety of kinky perversions they’d be free to indulge in at will? All in the name of catching a killer, of course. How would Caro be dressed? Her black leather Brimstone outfit would be inappropriate here. Would she instead be wearing satin and lace? Or a slinky silk sheath? Perhaps a tight, clingy gown? Whatever it was, he should make his pretty slave caroline take it off. Force her to strip down to her bare skin for disobeying him. She was his slave. Here, slaves went nude. Would Bobby object, as he had earlier at the station? Or would he be caught up in the thick, sexually-laden atmosphere of the private club? Would Cody make a move on her, press him to share her again? No way he’d share. But what if he ordered her to do other things? With him, to him, for him? To show them how far she would go to please him? He felt himself stiffen. What if he fetched a dildo from his kit and fucked her with it, as sara’s Master had done? What if he cuffed her

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to one of the bondage instruments, leaving her naked body exposed and at the mercy of the crowd, like the slave in the armchair? What if he took her upstairs and tied her to a St. Andrew’s cross, tested her tender backside with his leather quirt? Stroked and flicked and kissed her with its sting until she writhed and begged him to put his cock inside her and pound her till she screamed. Or maybe— His gaze jerked to the foyer. A man walked in. Bobby. With Cody right behind him. Both looked like they’d just stepped off a page of some glossy magazine Julio Martinez might read. Mick’s pulse jumped, hoping Caro had changed her mind and didn’t come. Hoping more she hadn’t. She stepped over the threshold, wrapped in a swath of red silk, her blond hair a wild mass of curls, her lips scarlet, her long-lashed eyes rimmed with artful shadow and black kohl. Already hard from his fantasies, Mick’s cock lurched violently. He’d never seen her so ravishing. It was the only word to describe her. He felt ravished. By her beauty. By her presence. By his own dark feelings at seeing her here. He elbowed his way through the throng that had turned to check out the newcomers, and strode to the center of the room, stopping below the entry steps. He saw Bobby hand the butler a clip of cash and exchange a few words with him. Then with Caro between them, Bobby and Cody each put a hand on the small of her back and walked her to the top of the steps. Mick barely stopped himself from marching up and snatching her away from his friends. She stood like a countess, tall and confident as she surveyed the room. But he knew her well, and discerned an edge of panic behind her exotic eye make-up. Saw the way her fingers crushed the edges of her wrap, the way her neat ankle wobbled above her red patent stiletto. Then she spotted him. A blaze of indefinable emotion flashed through her eyes and her lips parted a tiny sliver. Was it his imagination, or did her shoulders notch down a

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fraction? She murmured something to Bobby and Cody, then took a deep breath. The two men reached up at the same time and with a flourish removed her wrap. Suddenly Mick couldn’t breathe. Bobby and Cody froze in shock. For half a second there was absolute silence all around. Caro stood there, sinfully naked, her siren’s body exposed to the eyes of every man in the room. Her pussy was smooth and bare as ivory satin, her nipples hard and painted scarlet like her full lips. Her slave collar gleamed, the delicate links of her silver leash spilling from its tiny padlock to her hand. A voluptuary. A sensual vision of promised gratification. She looked like an odalisque. His odalisque. Mick stood rooted to the spot as she descended first one step, then the next. She came to a halt before him, looking up into his eyes with a gaze of complete submission. Handing him the end of her leash, she softly murmured, “Sir.” The crowd groaned. Silently, he took the leash from her. Never before had he felt the breath knocked from him like this. How could he be angry? With her actions, she had pleased him so exquisitely, so perfectly, that at the moment he didn’t know who was slave and who was Master. Somehow he managed to find his voice, but it was low and rough. “You defied me, little slave. You must be punished.” “Please, Sir,” she murmured, “I only wanted to be with you.” He felt her tremble as he ran a hand over her smooth, supple curves, down to the juncture of her legs. He touched her there, reveling in the unfamiliar satiny bareness of her sex. He wanted to kneel down and run his tongue over it, suck the newly exposed folds into his mouth, taste the exciting untried nakedness of her cunt.

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He slid his hand further between her thighs, pushed a finger up into her. She mewled at his invasion, and darted a selfconscious look at their audience. Bobby and Cody stood transfixed, their expressions somewhere between outrage and exhilaration. The whole crowd continued to watch his moves with eager, lascivious attentiveness. He probed her deeply, gratified at the ample wetness he found. She was as excited as he was. “She disobeyed me by coming tonight,” he announced to the gathering as he ground his fingers even deeper into her. “Whip her,” a man called back, voicing the crowd’s hunger for the carnal retribution Mick’s words promised. “Yes! Punish her!” She whimpered and tried to squirm away but he clamped his hand over her tightly. “No!” Plump and inviting, her breasts swayed as she struggled, the tips crimson rubies. “You came with my two best friends,” he accused. “Nothing happened, Sir,” she said breathlessly. “I swear. They didn’t even know I was—” “Naked and painted like a harlot?” he supplied. She licked her scarlet lips so they shimmered. “Yes.” “Yes, what?” “Yes, Sir.” He held her leash fast at her collar. And ran his honeyslickened fingers lightly over her breasts. She sucked in a breath as the red tips pebbled tighter. “Naked like a slave.” “Your slave. Sir.” He pulled her closer, right up to his face. “Would you like to feel my big cock in you?” he growled, wanting badly to claim what was his. So there was no mistaking she belonged to him. Her eyes flared. “Yes, S-Sir,” she stammered. “In that case—” he gave her a smile that brooked no protest. “Get on your knees.”

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OhGod-ohGod-ohGod. Inwardly, Caro quailed. What was wrong with Mick? Why was he suddenly being so...stony cold? Strange how the moment she’d seen his face in the crowd, everything else had vanished. The roomful of drooling men, her acute embarrassment at being naked in public, her fright. But now it all came rushing back. Fear zinged through her, hot and frantic, her nakedness stripping her to a state of terrifying personal vulnerability. “Mick, I—” “Do you disobey me?” he cut her off harshly. “Sounds like it to me!” a man called from the audience. “As to me,” Mick said, his voice a powerful purr. “No, Sir,” she said, forcing herself to remember her role. As his slave. “Then do as I say. Now.” She didn’t fight him when he grasped her shoulders, but clung to his forearms as he pushed her down in front of him. Her knees shook as they hit the floor and she shivered in trepidation, suddenly freezing. Her clit tensed almost painfully as she recalled that he’d once told her he would take her like this. On her knees before him. Posed exactly like in the dressing room that day when she’d been too terrified to let her true nature slip out and respond to his carnality. Back before he’d taken her every way a man could possess a woman. Back before she’d lost herself utterly and completely in the temptation of his dominance, in the seduction of his want. Before she’d willingly become his pleasure slave. Was it really less than a week ago? The men standing around let out a joint murmur of approval, moving in closer, anticipating the coming scene. Including Cody and Bobby. Their initial shock had morphed into rabid fascination. All of them watched Mick with envy gleaming in their sex-hungry faces. She could smell them, strong and male, like a pack of randy lions. She could

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smell herself, the acrid scent of fear combined with the unmistakable sweet musk of desire. She tried to gather her wits, drag her mind back to the job she was here to do, but concentration stubbornly eluded her. She didn’t want to think about killers or cops or jail—or anything but the here and now. The explosive, desperate knowledge that she knelt naked and helpless before the only man who could save her life, and her sanity. But only if she obeyed. Could she really do this? She looked up at Mick, desperately seeking reassurance. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered frantically. “I can’t even think.” His gaze captured hers, commanding her to be calm, bleeding the panic from her veins with the iron strength conveyed through his eyes. “Don’t think,” he said. “Just be my slave.” She swallowed. “Nothing more?” “Nothing less.” Forget everything else, she told herself. Mick would take care of her. He would take care of everything. She had to trust him. And do as he said. She had only to give herself over to his will, and all would be well. Deep in her heart, she knew it was true. Her nipples ruched at the thought of granting him total submission, and her blood flowed slow and heavy like liquid lead. Gazing up from her knees into his mesmerizing iceblue eyes, she saw his meaning, clear as crystal. It was time. “Lick me, baby. Take me in your mouth and suck me,” he said softly. Oddly, more like an offer than a command. And suddenly, she realized what he was doing. He was giving her control over him. Making himself the vulnerable one instead of her. Offering himself up to her; literally and figuratively exposing his soft underbelly to her and the world. Putting himself out there for her to take or reject, humiliate or even hurt...or to give him the

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pleasure he so obviously wanted. But it was her choice. He spread his feet, drilled his fingers through her hair, held her head fast. She couldn’t move away if she wanted to. But she didn’t. She wanted this. With the last fiber of her being she wanted to show him she trusted him. She took a deep breath. With pounding heart, she brought her hand to his waistband and reached for the tab of his zipper. The quiet rasp of metal teeth drowned out the sounds of the room and the whispering of her inner fears, zeroing her focus in on just one thing. Her lover’s pleasure. She grasped him, pulled his long, thick cock through the opening of his trousers, thrilling to its impressive proportions. A moan hummed through her throat as she parted her lips to receive him. She sent her tongue out to greet his flesh, sucked him deep into her mouth and felt his low groan vibrate through her body. It was all about fulfilling fantasies. And this was his. Showing her off, claiming her in the sight of others, making her prove her devotion in ways most women wouldn’t dare consider. And by doing all he asked, by submitting totally to the man she loved, she earned his unwavering devotion to her, and bound him to her as surely as did his collar locked about her neck. She wanted to own him, just as he already owned her— completely. The onlookers stood hypnotized, ravenously watching her every move. She knew each man fantasized that she knelt naked and adoring at his own feet instead of Mick’s, giving him the blowjob of his life. The sway she held over every one of these men was awesome. She craved it. She reveled in it. She felt it in the tight thread of burning desire that pulled like a hot coil from her nipples to her clit. She looked up, into Mick’s droop-lidded, sex-laden eyes, and posed for his visual pleasure. Knowing exactly

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what it would do to him. Between lips she’d painted his favorite shade of red, she extended her tongue and slowly licked up the hard ridge of his erection, gathering a heavy droplet from the very tip, letting it ooze over her taste buds. In her hair, his fingers shook. Wrapping one hand around his shaft, the other around his hard-drawn balls, she sucked him in and laved his steely cock for long minutes. Tasting him, breathing in the musk of his desire for her. Feeling the strength of his indomitable maleness. Knowing she controlled it all, even as he held her in his iron grip. Even as she was his slave. His nails dug into her scalp. A rumbling growl started far down in his throat. It built and lengthened as she lovingly stroked his shaft up and down, up and down, at the same time she suckled the distended head. And came out as a roar when she pulled him in as deep she could, gently squeezing his sac. The salty taste of him exploded into her mouth. For several moments there was again silence in the room, except for the harsh intake of Mick’s breath and the loud hammering of her heart. With a shiver, Caro swallowed his essence as he moved away. He took his time putting himself in order and straightening his pants while she wobbled there on her knees. Unsteady, yet strangely exultant. Tim had once said that bondage and domination play was largely based on the type of deep-seated erotic tension she was experiencing. The push and pull of control, the clash of wills. Who was top and who was bottom, and how those roles were gained and enforced. In other words, power sex. At the Tether Club the final outcome was a given, the order of things inherent in the rules. For the Dominant men and submissive women attending, the real fantasy was in getting there. Or in watching the exhilarating playing out of that struggle in others.

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She’d had no idea just how exhilarating it could be. Mick’s daunting eyes were still on her when she glanced up. Despite the overlay of languid satisfaction, they gleamed icy blue and sharp with awareness of everything around him. And told her he’d missed nothing. That he’d felt her fears and had seen her triumph. That he understood he was as helpless as she against whatever this thing was they were enmeshed in. But that he had no intention of relinquishing his position of dominance. He was Top. She was bottom. Regardless of her newfound insights. Caro shuddered and pressed her thighs together against a sudden, gnawing need to feel him there, deep inside her. Even greater was her need to show Mick she was truly his, body and soul. That she finally understood and accepted his liberating power over her. That she loved it, as she loved him. “Did I please you, Sir?” she asked, praying he would reward her with his own acceptance. She didn’t care how he did it, or if it was in front of a hundred witnesses. Her craving for his reassurance was physical, and achingly painful. He traced the line of her jaw as he considered his answer. “Your mouth pleased me,” he said, brushing her lower lip. “But this was scarcely a punishment for you.” She couldn’t deny it. She loved pleasuring him in this way. The taste of him, the sensation of him deep in her throat, never failed to bring her to the brink of orgasm. And he knew it. What he might not sense was the change in her. How she wished to submit to his possession. Her mind searched for the words to tell him. But before she could formulate the thought, the front door sailed open. Everyone in the room looked over to see who it was. Caro’s heart literally stopped in her chest as a man strode into the foyer, jerking her violently back to reality. Smythe.

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Chapter Twenty-Six Smythe. Their number one suspect halted at the top of the steps, leering down at the room like he owned the place. Behind him, two women approached and slid their arms around him. Shock coursed through Caro as she recognized Lauren Adams and her friend, Rebecca. They were both nude. Black shoes, leather collar and a pink-lipped giggle were Rebecca’s only adornments. Lauren had added a pair of handcuffs, both bracelets locked decoratively on her left wrist, but was otherwise identically undressed. Mick lifted Caro to her feet before the trio spotted them. In her peripheral vision she saw Bobby and Cody. Both tall, muscular and handsome, the two men were already surrounded by a bevy of adoring female supplicants. When they saw Smythe they came to attention. Bobby lifted his brow. Mick’s slight nod sent them off to lose themselves in the burgeoning crowd, presumably to enjoy whatever indulgences took their fancy as they shadowed Smythe’s every move for the rest of the night. To be sure the bastard didn’t slip through their grasp like last night. As he moved away, Cody sent her a searing look. She didn’t want to think about what it meant. She dismissed him and turned back to Mick, gathering herself mentally. His facial expression was unreadable as he glanced at Lauren and Rebecca, but the chill in his eyes could freeze a person in their tracks. What were they thinking? Lauren was an ex-cop; didn’t she sense how dangerous Smythe was? Hadn’t anyone told her that Smythe was their prime suspect? Even if they

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hadn’t, Caro found it inconceivable that Lauren couldn’t see past Rick’s friendly-security-guy façade to the evil beneath. Even before pegging Rick as Smythe he’d given Caro the creeps big-time. Was Lauren so ensnared in her vicious cycle of violent relationships that Smythe unconsciously fulfilled an ever-increasing sick need for abuse? Caro didn’t want to think about that, either. Mick turned to her and took her face in his hands, forcing her attention back to him. He gave her a long, demanding kiss. “Ignore them,” he ordered quietly, and kissed her again, letting his hands wander over her body, making her melt against him. “Let them come to us.” It didn’t take long. She felt their eyes on her, on her brazen nakedness, even before she heard their greetings. “Well, if it isn’t Master Michael and his little slave girl,” Lauren said in a teasing purr, sidling up to Mick and pressing her bare breasts against his arm. The whole situation was surreal. Caro and the other two women feigned nonchalance, like being naked sex objects in a room full of clothed, staring men was perfectly natural. The frightening part was, it did feel somewhat natural. And unbelievably arousing. Like making love in front of that window, except much more immediate. “I can’t get over how cute the leash is,” Rebecca said, running her fingers down the slim chain that spilled over Caro’s shoulder, tip-toeing over Mick’s hand as he held the end at his side. “So kinky.” She struck a flirtatious pose against Smythe while caressing Mick’s arm. “Looks like we hit the wet dream jackpot, pal,” Smythe said with a lecherous grin. He reached over and patted Caro’s bottom. She jerked back. “Don’t touch my woman without permission,” Mick said coldly. “You can look, but don’t touch.” Smythe stepped back in mock surrender. “Sorry, pal. But you feel free to touch my harem girls all you want. Though, I guess you’ve already done one of them, what I hear.”

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“You heard wrong, but I’m still not interested.” She felt the effort it took for Mick to relax his rigid muscles. “Got my hands full already, if you know what I mean.” He turned her in his arms so she faced the others. Showing her off. Despite his tenseness, she could also feel his excitement as he indulged in one of his favorite fantasies—displaying her, then claiming her, proving his power over her to all who watched. Which she knew also happened to be the best way to lure the Teddie Killer into their trap. Because playing the voyeur to that kind of power, then snuffing it out, seemed to be his favorite fantasy. She nestled back into Mick’s embrace, satisfied to let him run the encounter. But ready to reach out and kill Smythe with her bare hands to protect her man if need be. Mick had called her his woman. That ran both ways. Smythe’s greedy eyes slathered over her, loitering on her painted nipples and smooth mound. “I know just what you mean, pal. She’s real special.” Caro’s stomach turned. The man made her want to vomit—right after she pushed him under a bus. She eyed Lauren, wondering what her game was. Surely she couldn’t be attracted to such a vile dreg of humanity. Visions of the Teddie victims did a macabre dance in Caro’s head and she had to clutch Mick’s hand for support. “How sweet,” Lauren purred acidly, observing the movement. “The slave girl is in love with you.” Mick wound her leash around his palm, and calmly said, “Of course she’s in love with me. I’m her Master.” For a nanosecond, Lauren’s mouth tightened. Then she smiled. “How quaint.” A circle of observers was gathering. Three slaves with two men would attract attention anyway, regardless of the obvious tension zinging between them. “But is she obedient?” Smythe asked. Mick’s fingers stroked over Caro’s breast, squeezing it. “She’ll do anything to please me.” “Anything?” Mick leveled him a gaze, his hand sliding from her

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breast down her abdomen, to caress her mound. “If I tell her to.” Here it comes, she thought, squirming as he slipped his forefinger between her moist folds. “How about two other women?” Smythe asked. “Ever see three women go at it?” Caro stood perfectly still. Lauren cocked her head. Rebecca licked her lips and smiled. Mick stroked Caro’s clit. She jumped. For a second her mind swirled with confusion, made worse by Mick’s finger bedeviling her. No way. She didn’t do women. Besides, three women, or even two, was not the killer’s M.O.. The Teddie victims were all heterosexual couples. “Sorry,” Mick answered. “Not into watching women. Not really into watching at all.” Smythe grinned, his interest dipping between Caro’s thighs. “That’s right, you like being at the center of attention.” Mick lifted a negligent shoulder, and flicked her clit again. “I enjoy an audience.” “Sir,” she whimpered, wriggling. She tried to turn away from the ring of men surrounding them with avid faces. But he held her fast where she was, then started dragging her leash back and forth across her nipples. Her pulse pounded as her body reacted. She was helpless against Mick’s relentlessly skilled fingers. And he knew it so well. She wanted to mutiny. But didn’t. Just be his slave. “Take her through her paces, then,” Smythe said, draping his arms around Lauren and Rebecca. “And we’ll watch.” For a long, tantalizing moment, Mick rubbed and circled the burning center of Caro’s need. She moaned in pleasure, spread her legs wider, any embarrassment at her role vanishing in the sharpening sensations between

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her legs. Smythe’s eyes glazed over with lust and a glimmer of covetousness. Suddenly Mick’s fingers ceased their torment. “Maybe later,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Come on,” he told her. “Let’s go to the bar.” She gasped with equal parts surprise and frustration— the same mix as on Smythe’s face. “Y-yes, Sir.” He tugged her leash and led her off to the library. “What are you up to?” she asked nervously, taking the glass of champagne he fetched from a bar slave and put in her hand. “Trying to frustrate a killer.” She gave a moue. “Not just me, then?” He smiled his wicked smile, and said, “Maybe you should act more humiliated by what I do to you.” “But I’m not humiliated.” The smile softened. “I know. And that’s one of the many reasons I love you. You enjoy our games as much as I do.” For a second she was so stunned at his casual confession of love she couldn’t put a single thought together. “But it might turn our man on if you felt humiliated,” he said. “Maybe that’s his trigger.” Tipping his glass, he dribbled champagne down her breasts. Then he leaned over and lapped it up. She sucked in a breath of surprise. His tongue was hot, tensile velvet, gently insistent on her flesh. He got every drop, concentrating heavily on the sensitive tips. It felt blazingly erotic. And she loved knowing the crowd was there in the dimness, following the path of his tongue with avid eyes. How innocent she had been that first time at Brimstone! “Should I pretend I don’t like this?” she whispered as he reached up for a kiss from her lips. “Possibly. We need to push the killer’s buttons. Get him angry and frustrated.” “So he lets down his guard and makes a mistake.” “It’s the only way he’ll be caught.”

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Mick spilled more of the bubbly down her torso. A thought suddenly came to her. “What brand is this champagne?” “Coeur de Diable.” A shiver traced itself down her spine. The same brand as the other victims. Things were coming together in a terrible kind of symmetry. Suddenly what was once theoretical was becoming all too real. At the same time, reality was metamorphosing into something unrecognizable. Mick’s lips glided over her, melding the two. It was impossible to deny her enjoyment, even to trap their suspect. She shuddered, and held Mick’s head to her breasts, drizzling more from her own glass when he ran out. Once again, he withdrew. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, along with murmurs from their onlookers. “Shall I make you lie on your back and spread your legs, pour Coeur de Diable on your pussy and lick it off? Right here in front of everyone?” The idea made her whole body rush with excitement. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” “Yes,” she whispered, voice wavering. Realizing she wanted him to do it more than anything. “But you better not. The reports—” “Did I tell you how much I like you shaved all smooth and soft?” he interrupted. “You said I looked like a harlot.” “A sensual, tantalizing harlot. A courtesan for my pleasure.” “Not a little girl?” He looked momentarily shocked. “I’m not your preacher man, Caro. I like grown women, not girls.” “But—” “Men are turned on by seeing a woman’s body. Especially the secret, hidden parts. It has nothing to do with age, but about revealing the forbidden.” He caressed her bareness with a kind of tactile awe. “Stripping a

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woman down to her ultimate nakedness for the pleasure of her man’s gaze.” She watched his eyes as he touched her, desire burning in their depths. “I didn’t know,” she said breathlessly. She could feel every nuance of his touch against her tender exposed flesh, the rough pads of his fingers, the scrape of his neatly trimmed nails. She imagined his lips and tongue taking their place, and nearly lay down right there. He sent her a devilishly knowing look, and murmured in her ear, “And now, I think we should go upstairs.” Caro followed Mick to the foyer to retrieve his kit bag, then they headed for the play rooms on the second floor. Again he told her to empty her mind of everything else and just follow his lead. Bobby and Cody were tagteaming Smythe, and would let them know if he started acting peculiar or let anything slip in reaction to their performance. Or if he decided to target someone else. Her job was simply to obey Mick’s commands, and with any luck the rest would fall into place. Trust him. He must have seen her trepidation, for on the way upstairs he quietly repeated his earlier admonition. “Just be my slave, Caro. Bobby and Cody will take care of everything else. I’ll take care of you.” She was so far out of her league on this case, so tangled up in her own personal fallout, so distracted by her relationship with Mick, by her nudity, by the unbridled sex all around them, that she was relieved he didn’t expect her to think. She was grateful just to be the bait, the prize the killer sought to win. She trusted Mick and Bobby and Cody to do the rest and to keep her safe. Climbing the stairway, they passed a slave buckled into a shoulder-yoke, carrying a drink in each of her tethered hands. She smiled as she let them go by, graced with an expression of happy servitude. She must be one of those total power exchange slaves Tim had talked about.

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Amazing. A week ago Caro had no idea the practice of voluntary slavery existed in this country, let alone be able to distinguish the different types. Or fathom that she might choose such a path herself. That she would find incredible enjoyment in delivering herself, body and soul, into the hands of a man, to be used for his pleasure. True, not just any man. Only Mick. The Iceman. He urged her into one of the dozen or so upstairs rooms, telling her that each room was set up as a different themed play scene. In this one she found herself standing in a doctor’s exam room with three examination tables, complete with stirrups and metal trays to hold participants’ gear. Women were strapped to two of the tables, feet held high in the stirrups, being examined by a handful of lab-coated “doctors” who were testing and probing them with a variety of instruments, including their own bodies. Her shock must have showed. Mick pressed her into a wall by the door and dropped his kit on the floor. “You okay?” She tore her gaze from the women writhing on the exam tables, but couldn’t avoid hearing their moans of ecstasy. He wouldn’t. “Yes.” Her voice squeaked. “I’m fine.” His brows rose as he studied her. “Doesn’t sound like it. Feeling poorly, perhaps?” She shook her head vigorously. “Not a bit. Healthy as a horse.” “Horses are probably in one of the rooms down the hall, if you prefer that,” he said, a wry tilt to his mouth. “Huh?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Never did get that appeal.” She had no clue, and was somehow glad she didn’t. “I don’t recall Forensics finding any trace of horses,” she murmured. “Or anything else weird,” she added for good measure.

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“Don’t worry,” Mick said, leaning down close to her ear. “Power is my turn-on. Not kink. And from the evidence, that’s what attracts our guy, too. Male power and lots of sex.” “Mmm,” she agreed as he kissed her neck. “He’s not the only one.” He painted up her throat with a wet tongue. “Too bad he’s not into licking. I feel like putting you in that exam chair and having at you with my tongue. Maybe I will anyway.” He was the very devil at teasing her. Threatening, but not acting. Leaving her in an agony of uncertainty as to whether he would or not. Making her ache for him to act out his erotic suggestions on her all-too-willing body. She knew he did it deliberately, to whet her appetite, to drive her to a frenzy of need so she was willing to submit to whatever he eventually demanded, regardless of what it was. She knew all that, but was helpless to withstand his wicked strategy. She felt his stiff cock slide between her legs and up, deep inside her. She moaned in surprise. He withdrew and thrust back into her, hard. “You know I can’t use protection tonight,” he said into her ear. She caught her breath. She’d never thought about that. The victim women’s bodies had all been saturated with their partners’ semen. But they’d also all been on the pill. He thrust into her again. “Are you okay with that?” She swallowed down a strange feeling, something between panic and elation. “Yeah,” she whispered before she could think about it. “I’m okay.” The idea that even now Mick may be planting his child in her womb made her knees turn to liquid. Waves of shock stole through her muscles, filling them with a heavy lethargy and a crazy helplessness. Her thighs fell further apart, like her body was encouraging him in his quest to own her totally. She knew he was exercising the ultimate male dominance over a woman, and it should make her

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kick and scream in anger, against him and his thick cock deep inside her, and the decisive power it carried within its velvet iron. But all she could do was lean back against the wall and pray he succeeded. At least if she got pregnant she’d have something to remember him by if the worst happened. “Remember, you’re mine,” he said, each word distinct and heavy with possession as he thrust again. “Mine.” “Yes,” she moaned. “All yours.” He grunted and gave one last, mighty plunge. She felt him contract and then explode, spewing his hot essence within her. She ground into him, reaching for her own climax, but she’d been distracted and wasn’t there yet. She let out a groaned, “No!” of protest when he quickly withdrew. “Mick,” she objected, panting, wriggling against the wall. Biting her lip. “You’re killing me.” He just smiled and adjusted his tux. “Let’s go see the other rooms.” A hot, liquid trail glided down the inside of her thigh. Her nether regions felt puffy, swollen to full bloom. Her clit was so engorged, if she looked in a mirror she’d surely see it poking out like a fat little stamen from its bed in the flower of her sex. Screaming for Mick’s attention. But he ignored it. The next room was set up like an office. A conference table and chairs filled one side and men sat “conferring” as two women circled the table handing them files and drinks, being fondled and sucked and pretending to resist being divested of bits of their clothing. On the other side of the room were a desk and a filing cabinet where a woman stripped to her garter belt and bra frantically alphabetized files while her “boss” paddled her reddened bottom. Mick tilted his head. “You finish the task force report today?” he asked casually. “Don’t even think about it, McGraw,” she said testily. “You know how I feel about that.” He tisked. “Sounds like you need to be cured of this

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unhealthy aversion.” She glanced around in alarm. “Oh, no—” The leash tugged and she found herself standing at the head of the conference table. The occupants turned to her expectantly. “Crawl up on the table,” Mick ordered. “Hands and knees.” Caro felt the blood drain from her face. “W-what?” “Obey my command, slave.” The blood returned in a blaze of heat. Her whole body was on fire. Trust him. She crawled up onto the top of the polished wood table. Her breasts hung like ripe peaches dangling from a tree. Every eye oozed over them as she waited on shaky hands and knees for Mick’s next order. “She says she doesn’t like being paddled,” he announced. “Time she learned to like it,” the man sitting to her right said with a leer. “Let’s see her ass,” said a man at the far end of the table. “To judge what kind of paddle would be best on her.” “All right,” Mick said from behind her. “Crawl to the other end, turn, and crawl back. Slowly, so everyone can see your ass. But she’s not to be touched,” he warned the men. “Only I touch her.” She licked her lips, and did as she was told, holding her head high. She knew how much it excited Mick seeing her like this, and knowing every man there would ram his cock into her if he’d let them. It excited her to be his weapon of power; it excited her to make these men’s erections grow and throb, spoiling for a single thrust into her; to own this fantasy for them and know each man would replay it later in his mind, imagining her making this crawl for him alone. She held Mick’s eyes as she crawled back to him, watched the pride of ownership and the heat of desire gleam in them.

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Which was the more powerful? The weapon itself, or the man who held it? Or did their individual power come only when put together? She reached the end of the table and waited patiently for his command, trusting that he had no intention of paddling her. He stepped closer and cupped her breasts with his hands, squeezing and rolling the nipples between his fingers the way he knew drove her mad. She groaned. “Well?” he asked the men around the table. “I say kiss her ass instead,” one said. Mick pretended to consider. She knew he’d wanted to get his tongue between her legs all night, though they both knew he wouldn’t risk it. “Or fuck her in the ass,” another suggested, and everyone snickered in agreement. “I have a better idea,” she murmured, her eyes seeking out his groin. She reached for his zipper. Mick’s lip quivered, wavering for a split second. Then he stepped back. “You must learn to obey,” he said sternly. “I decide what you are to do.” He motioned her to turn. “Turn around.” After a slight hesitation, she turned. “Back up a little and spread your legs,” he said, and she did that, too. “Now lay your cheek on the table.” This she wasn’t expecting. She balked, glancing back at him questioningly. “Now,” he ordered. She quickly dropped her arms onto the tabletop, putting her face to the cool wood. Mick held her hips so she couldn’t lower her bottom. When she was in a position that pleased him, she felt his fingers brush her prickling intimate flesh. She shivered at the electric contact, feeling the voltage clear to her toes. “Don’t move,” he admonished her. She managed an obedient “Yes, Sir.” What was he going to do to her? She heard a zipper’s rasp. But it kept going. Not his pants zipper.

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The kit bag. Her pulse shot sky-high. She stayed perfectly still as he rubbed his hands together, then spread an icy cold oil over her throbbing bottom and along the hot valley between. It smelled like...mint? Immediately her muscles clenched and tingled. She wriggled, and was rewarded with a sharp smack. She gasped. “Don’t move, I said! Or I’ll get the paddle.” She held perfectly still, her insides a mass of sudden confused, churning need, her skin icy and craving the heat of Mick’s touch. All at once she spotted Smythe, standing at the very edge of the room, watching her with an unreadable expression on his sweat-gleaming face. She felt Mick’s thumbs spread her folds and his fingers slide over her, pausing to dip deep into her, then out to circle her shivering clit. She gasped, forcing herself to hold still, even when she felt something glide along her crevice. Something that was not Mick. Murmurs of approval sounded from the men along the table. Suddenly, she felt something breach her back entry and push into her. She gasped again, contracting her muscles around the object, squeezing her eyes closed in mortification. What had he put into her? In answer, it began to vibrate. She whimpered. No. Not that again. Not there. She squeezed her eyes harder. She didn’t want to come now. Not in front of Smythe. She could feel his predatory gaze watching her body, watching her submission, and in his eyes her humiliation. Her frustration. For a second her breath stalled. That could be the key. Frustration. Her obedience and Mick’s withholding. It fit with the absence of oral sex on the victim women. There was ample evidence of the men’s satisfaction, but what of the women’s? That had always been taken for granted. Something big slid between her thighs and into her, pressing clear to her womb. Something thick and hard and

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long. Immediately, it, too, began to vibrate, distracting her from her chaotic inner dialogue. She cried out at the dual stimulation, shocked at the vividness of the sensations. Her fingers grasped at the table top, her cheek pressing into the slick wood. “Sir,” she moaned, every nerve in her bottom and cunt alive with electric pleasure. “Please, Sir!” What was she pleading for? She wasn’t sure, knew only that Mick was the only man who could give it to her, that illusive thing she craved like air and water. His fingers continued to explore her, sliding back and forth lightly over her clit. They teased, provoked, rimmed her throbbing forbidden entry like a flickering butterfly, and in-between reached up to pinch her nipples. The vibrations within intensified. Her thighs trembled, threatening to betray her. Her breath came in gasps with the effort not to come. She risked a look to see if Smythe was still there, and saw him glance at Mick, his face a portrait of hate and disgust. Cody was standing next to him, watching what Mick was doing to her with a purely lustful expression. Suddenly the vibrations stopped and the dildo slid out, leaving her excruciatingly still and empty. She groaned, teetering on the brink of climax. “Are you coming?” Mick asked, loud enough for the entire, by now crowded room to hear. “No, Sir,” she answered on a rough moan. “You’re sure?” She clenched her muscles, aching to climax. “Yes, Sir.” She stayed as she was, head down, bottom up, awaiting his next command. A moment later she felt his cock push deep into her. “Who do you belong to?” asked his voice, low, demanding. “You, Sir,” she answered threadily, fingers scrabbling on the polished wood for purchase. His cock throbbed within her, matching the thunder of her own heartbeat. “Just you.”

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He pulled out and after a few seconds lifted her off the table into his arms and kissed her. She sagged into him. Her body felt drugged by the combination of unfulfilled sex and adrenalin, embarrassment and raw pleasure. “Frustration,” she whispered, when she’d recovered a tiny fraction of her senses. “My frustration. That’s his trigger.” Mick kissed her again, slowly. “Maybe. Let’s move on,” he finally said, then urged her toward the door. He put his lips to her ear. “What’s Tim Woodruff doing here?” She shook her head. “He’s up north on another case.” “I just saw him walking down the hall.” She glanced up in surprise. “Maybe Bobby called him.” “Bobby would have told me,” he growled, then added a few more choice words under his breath. “What’s the problem?” Mick gave her a scorching look but didn’t answer. Grasping her leash he led her out of the room. “Never mind.” They glanced into the next bedroom which was equipped with several mechanical “bulls” with special saddles attached. Each bull’s saddle had a different kind of huge dildo built into it—or at least Caro figured that was the case based on the two that were unoccupied. Three others were being “ridden” by women in varying stages of excitement. At the far end of the room a naked woman was bound to the wall in shackles. A man in a cowboy hat whipped her with a long bull whip. Just the very tip licked her back and buttocks, but it was enough to make Caro shudder. Mick glanced at her inquiringly and she gave him an appalled look. A cowgirl was something she’d never aspired to. She’d much rather ride Mick. In the next room four St. Andrews crosses were set up, each with a woman bound on both sides. Two were being flogged by their Masters, one was having her clothes cut off piece by piece by a man with a pair of embroidery scissors. Three of the bound women were surrounded by

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groups of men taking turns fucking them. Lauren’s friend Rebecca was among them. She seemed to be enjoying herself. She writhed and pulled at her bonds, moaning, “More! Harder!” to the man who was fucking her. The man pounded into her, his hips working like a piston, his head thrown back as he shouted out his climax. It wasn’t until he stepped back and turned, adjusting his tuxedo pants, that Caro realized the man was Tim Woodruff. Why, the little hypocrite! Tim spotted her and halted abruptly, giving her naked body a shocked once-over. But he recovered quickly. A small smile curled the corners of his mouth as he walked up to her. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and said, “I was hoping I’d see you here, Caroline.”

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Chapter Twenty-Seven Mick had to stop himself from pulling Caro behind his back and flattening Special Agent Woodruff with a right hook. The man’s eyes had latched onto her painted nipples the moment he’d spotted her and hadn’t come up for air yet. “Thought they arrested you,” Woodruff said, flicking him a disinterested glance. Mick casually stepped behind Caro and pulled her against his chest. Woodruff always managed to bring out the caveman in him. Fine. He could use the added edge. “Thought you left town.” Woodruff gave Caro a knowing smile. “Didn’t want to miss anything.” Mick put an arm around her waist and held her closer. “Came back for the exciting climax, eh?” Woodruff chuckled and glanced back at Rebecca, who was well into servicing the next man in line. “I like finishing what I start.” “Me, too,” Mick said, and stared the other man down. Woodruff broke the deadlock, turning back to Caro. “You look absolutely beautiful, Caroline. Your body could lure any man to his fate. May I?” He reached out to touch her breast. At the very edge of his peripheral vision, Mick saw Smythe leaning against a wall, watching their exchange closely. Caro shrank back against Mick’s chest. He could feel her heart pound through her whole body as she looked up at him, expecting him to refuse Woodruff permission to

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touch her. Instead Mick shrugged. “If you want,” he said, and Caro sucked down a breath of surprise. “Oh, I do,” Woodruff said. Mick held her fast as the other man skimmed his fingers over one pretty nipple, then the other, making them pucker to tight scarlet points. She squirmed in his grip as Woodruff brushed them again, then closed his hands over both her bare breasts and squeezed. “Mick, what are you doing?” she whimpered in protest. “Trust me, baby.” He could feel her reluctance, but she stilled, allowing the other man’s touch. Because it was Mick’s will she do so. Conflicted by her blind trust, Mick grasped her chin, turned her face to his and kissed her. He caught her gasp in his mouth when one of Woodruff’s hands started wandering. She moaned, her body quivering as his fingers ventured lower and lower. Just as the other man’s hand reached the juncture of her thighs, Mick whisked her out of reach. “Sorry,” he said with a taunting smile. “Not there.” Woodruff’s fingers curled into a ball. “You’re going to stop me?” “Oh, yeah.” Mick turned Caro toward the door. “Count on it.” “We’ll see about that, McGraw,” he called after them, “when I throw your ass where it belongs!” Mick herded her quickly along the warren of upstairs hallways until he found a vacant bathroom. He pushed her into it. Slamming the door behind them, he grabbed her and held her still for a punishing kiss. Not that she deserved punishment. He did. For making her submit to another man without a choice. That wasn’t one of her fantasies. And it sure as hell wasn’t one of his. He didn’t want Woodruff touching his woman. He didn’t want anyone touching her except himself.

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With Bobby this afternoon it had been a test. To see if Mick could handle it without killing his best friend. Or her. Thank God he’d passed that one. Slowly, the anger drained from his churning blood, turning to worry instead. No, not worry. Fear. Caro’s tongue twined with his, caressing him, making love to him along with her sweet lips and mouth. Pure, blind trust. Trust he didn’t deserve. He pulled away, exhaling deeply. “This isn’t going to work. I want you to leave, Caro. Now, before anything happens.” Her mouth opened in surprise. “But Smythe—” “We can get him some other way. You have to go. I mean it. It’s getting too dangerous here.” “But the plan is working. Smythe hasn’t let us out of his sight since he—” “Fuck Smythe. It’s Woodruff who’s making me nervous. He’s up to something. I can feel it in my gut.” “He’s here to catch the Teddie Killer, Mick, same as we are.” “No,” he growled. “He’s here for you.” Her eyes widened. “You’re wrong. He saw Smythe watching. We both knew what you were doing.” “You’re certain about that?” She hesitated. “If you’re right, there’s even more reason for me to stay.” “Caro—” “He thinks it’s you, Mick. If we don’t catch Smythe in the act tonight, Woodruff’ll put you in jail.” “You sure it’s Smythe?” She stared at him, taken aback. “Are you saying it’s not?” He considered his words carefully. “Are you willing to take the chance? Don’t forget what the killer has in mind for you.” “You, too. And no, I haven’t forgotten.” Desperation crept into her gaze. “But if they put you in jail, he may as

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well go ahead and kill me. I don’t want to live without you, Mick.” “Ah, Caro.” He closed his eyes, completely undone. He put his forehead to hers, not wanting to hear her to say those words. Wanting nothing more than to hear her say them. “Don’t, baby. You promised me no strings, remember?” Better that way. Safer for her. “And you promised me no badges. Then look what happened.” “I know.” He held up a hand before she could list his infractions against her career. “But it’s your own damn fault. I used to be the Iceman. Now I can’t control myself worth shit around you.” “But you can control me,” she softly reminded him. “I need you to control me now. Use me to get this bastard before he kills again. And before he takes you away from me.” Mick set his jaw, battling to be strong. She was more important than his own future. “No, baby. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt.” The pleading in her eyes turned to determination. “Whoever he is, he knows where I live. Who’ll watch over me if you’re in jail? Bobby? Woodruff?” Mick felt a nerve under his eye jump. “You know just what buttons to push, don’t you?” he gritted out, knowing she had hit upon the one argument certain to prevail. Especially if his plans went to hell tonight. “I learned from the master,” she replied, wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. “So we follow the plan. Right?” His heart sank, knowing in some things his little pleasure slave would not be ruled. “Right,” he said, and understood what he had to do. He had to finish this, come what may. That was the only way he could keep her safe. Even if he ended up spending the rest of his life in jail. Or worse.

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“Come,” Mick said, and led Caro out from the bathroom and into the hall with grim determination. He needed to get back into the spirit of things. After the encounter with Woodruff and his subsequent nearpanic over Caro’s safety, Mick did not feel like playing, or scening, or even fucking. His nerves were shot. He just wanted to get the hell out of there, go back to his own bed, curl up in a protective ball around Caro and sleep for a week. Where the hell was his father? He’d expected him to show up long ago. Could he have miscalculated? Caro halted in front of a room and peeked in. Her jaw dropped, distracting him from his train of thought. He looked around the door and saw what had shocked her. A naked, blindfolded woman was strapped into a kind of streamlined exam chair. Her wrists were bound above her head and her thighs were strapped to the sides so her legs were splayed wide apart. Between them were positioned two mechanical arms, each tipped by a dildo. One was penis-shaped, long, thick and blue; the other was narrow and black, formed like a series of marble-sized balls placed end to end. At her knee, a man played with the dials on a remote control. The pneumatic arms moved back and forth at his command, sliding the dildos in and out of the woman’s passages, faster and slower according to the man’s whim. Each time she was penetrated she cried out in pleasure. Several other men were grouped around the chair, blowing streams of air over her body through their mouths. None of them touched her. “Would you like to try?” Mick murmured in Caro’s ear, halting her with a hand at her waist when she made to turn away from the room. “Think I’ll pass.” She pushed against him in an attempt to back out of the doorway. The man at the controls made the big dildo go faster. “Women say it’s an experience like no other,” Mick murmured. “The machine can go on for hours. Days. They say you can have a hundred orgasms in one session.”

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As if on cue, the woman in the chair started to convulse, screaming out her climax. “No, stop!” she cried afterward. But the man at the controls didn’t let up on her. He just made the dildos go even faster. “I prefer you,” Caro said, rubbing her backside up against him. He felt himself stir and grasped her nipples, pinching and pulling at them. Within seconds he was hard. He flicked the switch on the small vibrator he’d left inside her back passage. She gave a surprised moan and pushed harder against his groin. “Take me, Mick,” she whispered. He couldn’t resist her plea, though he knew he should pace himself better. He had more stamina than most men, but was no machine. Pulling her out into the hall, he placed her hands on the wall, bent her at the waist and slid his cock into her from behind. He groaned at the sudden blazing heat and the delicious buzzing sensation from the vibrator, separated by mere millimeters from the sensitive flesh of his penis. He thrust into her as deep as he could go, withdrew, and thrust again. She started making that whimpered, breathy feminine noise she always made just before coming. He pulled out. She gave a short, inarticulate groan. “Please, Mick!” He zipped up, switched off the vibrator and turned her, giving her a quick kiss—and noticing their audience. “I want you begging for it, little slave,” he said with an autocratic leer. “I am begging for it!” Her gaze faltered as she also saw the small clutch of men looking on. Including Smythe. “Sir,” she added, and licked her lips. “I’ll do anything,” she pleaded breathily. “Even the machine.” His erection lurched, fully awakened and ravenous again. He nearly weakened. The thought of her strapped to that chair, helpless and vulnerable as he controlled her pleasure, was seductive.

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But no. He had something else in mind. Something he’d been waiting for, for days. He took her hand and led her down the hall toward the far end. He could see a large sitting area with people lounging on comfortable furniture with drinks in their hands. Among them Mick spotted Bobby. About damn time his partner showed his face. He wondered what he’d been up to. Bobby and the others were watching something in one corner of the room. Mick hoped it was a stage. Sure enough, a low, round platform had been set up in front of the large windows overlooking the glittering valley below. On it, a solid-looking frame was bolted on the right side, a pommel horse to the left, and a floor-toceiling dance pole stood in the middle. In the generous floor space in front of the equipment, two nude women were going down on each other 69 style, moaning and gasping. Mick was stunned to see one of them was Lauren. Though she’d never before mentioned a preference for women, he shouldn’t be surprised. After her terrible marriage, it was no wonder she’d decided men were expendable. But in that case, why had she been pursuing him so doggedly for the past week? And why was she here at a Male Dom event? Cody strolled past him and took up a position near the stage, doing a double-take when he realized it was Lauren up there. He shot Mick a considering glance. Onstage, the moaning grew louder. “I’d love to be the meat in that sandwich,” a raspy voice sounded behind him. Mick turned and saw Rick—Smythe—watching Lauren and her partner going at it. Smythe’s eyes had a peculiar, glazed sheen to them. Mick felt Caro creep around behind him, putting his body between her and the security guard. Mick gripped her leash tightly. As if that could protect her. “Not my thing,” he said, and shrugged casually. Carefully testing the other man’s reaction. “I only want

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my woman to think about fucking one person. Me.” Lauren and her partner started panting and moaning loudly, their bodies writhing against each other as they approached climax. “There’s something almost pure about two women doing it,” Smythe said, the expression on his face anything but chaste. Mick jerked to look closer at the man. It was sickening. He could now see the make-up Caro had pointed out, beaded and oily from hours of lust and excitement, and the slack underlying features it altered and sharpened. Why hadn’t he seen it before? “Pure?” Mick said with a sneer. “Those bitches? They just need a strong hand and a big cock to teach them what they really like.” Smythe stabbed him with a glare. He didn’t say anything, but hostility rolled off the other man’s stiff body in waves; Smythe’s eyes narrowed, his quivering hands fisted at his sides. Like he was starting to lose control. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too difficult to push the man over the edge and get a reaction. But would it be the right reaction? That was the one thing he hadn’t quite figured out. Mick yanked at Caro’s leash, forcing her from her hiding place to stand in front of him. “Are you frustrated little slave? Do you want to come?” Her gaze darted nervously between him and Smythe. “Yes, please. Sir,” she murmured. The two women on stage collapsed with their final cries of orgasm. “Good. It looks like the stage is about to be free.” She watched uneasily as several men gathered around Lauren and her partner and lifted them down into the audience where they were deposited into waiting masculine laps. Mick turned to her and gave her a smile that brooked no protest. “Come on, baby. It’s time.” Caro swallowed silently and looked up at the now-

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empty stage, taking in the rapacious male audience searching the room for the next entertainment to present itself. She whimpered softly as Mick put a firm hand to her backside and pushed her forward. For some inexplicable reason she was suddenly nervous. And for the first time a little bit frightened of what might happen. He started the vibrator again. Her clit danced in pleasure and anticipation. “Please, no,” she whispered, fighting against her fear, trying to get her rebellious body and skittering emotions in check. Wondering what he would choose to do to her up on that stage. She knew he wouldn’t hurt or humiliate her, but she also knew whatever he had in mind would be something explosive and unexpected. Something that would push her to the limit. It had to be, to spring their trap. She broke out in a cold sweat, her fear of the Teddie Killer getting all mixed up with the vulnerability of being naked and carnally used in front of a hundred men, the helplessness of not being in control of her own body, and the merciless sexual fever Mick inflamed within her just with a touch. Her whole nether regions throbbed and pulsed from sexual frustration and the humming device buried within her. Or maybe she was shaking with terror. In this moment, everything that had happened over the past week came together in frightening symmetry. The case, her career, her relationship with Mick, her acceptance of her own sexual nature. She hesitated, suddenly afraid to take that final step into the dark unknown. “Get on the stage,” Mick ordered. His voice was soft, but his determination palpable. She would obey him. It was all she needed. Mick leapt onto the platform and pulled her up, and gave her a kiss, demanding her undivided attention. Then he turned her to face the audience.

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His arms held her up as his hands smoothed over her body for all to view. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sight of Smythe, Bobby, Cody and Tim, all there in the room, all watching her. She was rewarded with a sharp slap on the rear. “Eyes open!” Mick commanded as he enveloped her breasts and squeezed. Relax, she ordered herself. And obeyed. Mick understood her sexual needs better than she did herself. He’d been proving that since their first night together. She had only to block out everything but him, to give herself over to his will, and she would be liberated, gifted with untold pleasures—along with breaking the case if they were lucky. His fingers pinched at her nipples, skimmed over the ultra-sensitized skin of her abdomen, dropped to probe the drenched folds between her legs. Dozens of eyes followed raptly. She moaned, excitement flooding through her in hot waves. She moved against the pad of Mick’s finger, clenching at the inner buzzing, straining for the sweet shining explosion that hovered just out of reach. So close, so close. Suddenly her eyes collided with Bobby’s. They were burning hot and glittering, and locked on hers, not on what was going on between her thighs. She swallowed, panting now. Mick’s long finger slid into her, and out again, circling her need. She pushed herself toward it, craving its sweet bliss. Its drugging forgetfulness. All the while Bobby’s dark, possessive eyes never left hers. He wanted her, too. She wrenched her gaze to the other men watching her, among them Cody and Tim, and saw their lust, as well. The intimate stroking of their heated gazes between her legs felt as vivid as Mick’s finger on her flesh. They wanted her. Every last one of them. They would do anything to be the man touching her. Instinctively, she knew that. And suddenly she understood the enormous, seductive power of submission. By letting go her darkest fears and

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yielding to her most elemental fantasies, she could fulfill Mick’s deepest fantasies, too, and those of all these other men watching. She. Caro. Mick thought he was in control. But he wasn’t. Each time he commanded her to obey, he ceded control to her. For that single moment in time, she wielded a potentially greater power over every one of these men than she could ever imagine possible. All because of what Mick had taught her. Peace descended over her as she slowly released her fears. Abruptly, Mick spun her around, glaring down at her with jealousy blazing from every pore. She gasped in shock. “Please, Mick,” she whispered starkly. Her body was a mass of stinging nerve-endings, all clamoring for him. Just one fleeting brush of his fingers would send her to paradise. She wrapped her arms around him, rubbing her body against his. “I can’t stand it any more. Make me come.” He looked down at her, his eyes shimmering like heat on pavement. “How?” “However you wish.” “You’ll do as I say?” “Anything.” And it was true. She would do anything he asked of her. Anything at all, to prove her total surrender. She didn’t care about their audience, or Bobby, or even Smythe. Let Mick worry about all that. All she wanted was to lay herself bare before him. To accept his will as her own. To be his vessel. For in her submission came her strength. He traced a finger along her cheek and smiled. A smile of conquest. A smile of ownership. A smile that contained her past, present and future. And then he softly issued the order that changed everything. That made her his, forever. “If that’s true,” he said, “call me Master.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight “Master,” Caro whispered, and Mick felt a rush of emotion so strong he nearly fell to his knees. Finally. He’d become her true Master. Not for the case, or in fantasy play. This time for real. He saw the truth of it in her eyes. He felt the impact of it in her quaking body leaning against his for support. His whole being screamed out a warning. This was the worst thing that could have happened. But he would not relinquish her submission. Regardless of the consequences, he would not. So be it. If he was to have a chance at happiness, at a normal life, he had no choice. The events he’d set in motion must be fulfilled at any cost. Tonight. “You please me,” he whispered. “So much.” He pulled her close and sealed their new status with a long kiss. He tasted champagne and traces of himself in her mouth, sweet and strong and salty, and remembered all she had done for him, all she had learned from him over the past days. As well as the trust she had in him. He felt a surge of protectiveness for her that hit him right in the gut. Now. He must spring his trap now. Before he lost the nerve. Before he could think about what might go wrong. Before he started doubting his true objective in all this. He could feel the disturbance in the atmosphere caused by Smythe’s open hostility, standing there in front of the stage. Whatever Smythe’s trigger was, he and Caro were getting damn close to pulling it. And not a minute too soon. He wanted this over and done with.

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One way or another. “Say it again,” he commanded her, louder this time so all could hear. “Master,” she responded, tightening her grip on his fingers. He pinned her with a look. “You belong to me now, body and soul.” “I am yours completely,” she said tremulously. “I have no will, no thoughts save those you give me.” With his fingers he grasped her chin and kissed her. Thrust his tongue between her sweet lips and claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss for the crowd. She threw her arms around his neck, pulled herself up to meet him. Rubbed herself against him like an adoring cat. Reaching for control, he set her away. It was getting late and the party was in full swing, the whole upstairs area dense with people. Glancing around, the women he could see were all naked, serving as slaves to one or several men, some of whom had also shed their clothes. The scent of sex was thick in the air. Smythe continued his scornful survey from his place at the edge of the stage. From a nearby chair, Bobby watched the show with narrowed eyes, darting an occasional glance at Smythe. In the middle of the throng, Cody stood with a naked woman hanging onto his arm. He’d lost his tie somewhere and several shirt buttons were undone. Trying to be casual but not quite achieving it, he observed Caro like a man obsessed. Woodruff leaned against a back wall, his expression more circumspect, his hawk-like eyes fixed firmly on Mick. Good. All the relevant players accounted for. Well, most of them. But the other would turn up in time. He’d bet his life on it. Mick ran a hand over Caro’s lovely curves, gathering himself for the coming ordeal. “So, what shall I do with you, little slave? Now that you are so motivated to please me?” “Anything, Master,” she softly murmured, slanting him doe eyes, “Anything for your pleasure.”

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He had a sudden, gnawing need to please her, to fulfill her most hidden, powerful fantasy. One she wouldn’t ever admit, even to herself. So she would be forever in his thrall, as he was in hers. He thought for a moment, searching for just the right one. And then it came to him. Inwardly, he smiled. And knew exactly what he must do. “Don’t move,” he said. She nodded obediently. He whirled and pointed a finger first at Bobby, then at Cody. “You! And you! I see how you’re watching my woman.” Stunned at being singled out, they stared at him agape. “Get up here on stage!” Mick shouted at them. “Now!” For a second they just stood there, then their mouths clapped shut, as if they both suddenly remembered who they were and why they were there. Cody was first onto the platform, followed by a more reticent Bobby. “What’s going on?” he whispered under his breath. “Just do as I say,” Mick murmured back. Caro was also in shock. She took an involuntary step backward as the three men turned to her. “I said don’t move!” he snapped, and she hastily retraced her step. But she looked wide-eyed from Cody to Bobby. He could just imagine what was going through her head. She had no idea. He pointed at Cody. “You! Stand over there.” He indicated a place to the right and just forward of the slim wooden dance pole anchored in the middle of the stage. About the thickness of a muscular forearm, the pole was beautifully carved, resembling a post from a four-poster bed. “And you,” he ordered Bobby, “Over here.” He pointed to the left side of the pole. Then he picked up Caro’s leash and smiled at her. As

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beneficent a smile as he could conjure up. A saintly smile. Like the smile a minister might use on a young girl. She balked when he led her toward the pole—the first time that night he’d felt true resistance from her. “Grab the post,” he ordered. Her face drained of color. He could almost hear the thunder of her heart as the silent crowd held its breath. “Mick?” “Master!” he barked, and pulled at her leash, forcing her to the pole with her back to the audience. She shook her head. “No, Master. Please.” “You heard me! Bend over and grab the post, slave caroline. Bend over!” She gave her head a shake. A little one, like it was an involuntary reflex rather than deliberate. She looked at the wooden pole with wide, frightened eyes, then back at him. Her mouth worked but no words came out. “Shall I help you?” Deliberately, inexorably, he pulled the leash downward, bending her over even as she fought him. He guided her hands to the post, which they grabbed onto like a piece of flotsam in a tidal wave, hugging it close to her cheek. Whipping open his kit bag, he extracted two orange silk scarves, depositing one in his tux pocket and tying her wrists firmly in place with the other. In this bowed pose, her naked ass was artfully displayed to the audience. With a toe he pushed her high heels wide apart, giving them an even better view. Her knees shook and her ankles quivered as she struggled against the bonds keeping her thus. Unable to resist, he smoothed a hand over her bottom, feeling every delectable inch of its lush curves. Building his anticipation. And hers. He felt a quiver purl through her body. The crowd pressed closer, already suspecting his next move. Bobby and Cody shifted on their feet. “Do you know what will happen now?” he asked her. “No,” she said in weak, tremulous tones. “Liar,” he said silkily, and gave her ass a hard, sharp

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smack. She gasped, but he saw her cunt unfurl, pink and glistening like a dew-laden blossom. He slowly drew his index finger along the hot valley between its petals, gathering her sweet nectar, feeling the scorching heat of her flesh. He paused on her clit and gave it a fleeting caress. She writhed and the audience rumbled its approval. “Now, tell me what your Master has in mind for you.” He turned off the vibrator still embedded in her back passage. She gave a small moan and her bottom clenched. He knew she was feeling the sudden absence of sensation like a sailor who’d been thrust into the eye of a hurricane. Waiting, terrified, knowing what followed would be ten times more powerful and devastating than what came before. He pushed his finger deep inside her, all the way to her womb. Her muscles clamped around him, desperately trying to hold him there. He withdrew it and brought his hand down on her ass with a loud smack. “Answer me, woman!” “A spanking!” she blurted out. “What?” he demanded, wanting her to repeat the dreaded word. To feel it to her toes. “Say it so everyone can hear!” “A spanking,” she said loud enough to echo off the windows and walls. A predatory growl reverberated through male throats all around them, followed by a pulsing silence. They pressed in closer still, jockeying for a good view. Woodruff had pushed his way to the stage and was now gripping its edge with tense fingers. Smythe hadn’t budged. He stood stone-like in front, his face shuttered and dripping sweat. “That’s right,” Mick told Caro soothingly. “And do you know who is going to give you this spanking?” “You, Master.” “No. Not me.” He turned his gaze first to a stunned Bobby then to a smiling Cody, and said, “You’re to be spanked by the men you dared flirt with.” She let out another gasp and tried to straighten. “I

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didn’t—” But her bonds held fast. “Silence!” Mick roared. He walked around the pole and stood facing the other men and the audience so he was in front of her so his own hard-on was all she could see. She tilted her head and peered up at him, catching her lush lower lip between her teeth. Her face was shamelessly sensual—and flushed with guilty expectation. He wanted to bury himself in that look. Instead, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the other scarf. Wordlessly, he ignored the tiny mewl of alarm that skittered from her lips as he tied it securely over her eyes. “Gentlemen.” He motioned to Bobby and Cody to take their places beside her up-tilted ass. They both looked blissfully scandalized—and about to cream their pants. They obviously had no idea if this was all just an outrageous act on Mick’s part, playing a role to lure the suspect into their trap, or if Mick had gone over the edge for real this time. They glanced at each other and Mick saw the exact moment Bobby decided to play along. Cody, of course, he’d had from the start. Caro trembled like a leaf, but didn’t utter a protest. Accepting her silence as consent, the two men took up positions by her hips. Mick allowed himself a grim inward smile. Both men’s erections jutted out like long pokers in their tux pants. What was it about having a woman in your physical power that turned even the most enlightened male into a caveman? “Twenty strokes,” Mick ordered, moving in closer to her, so she could smell him, even if she couldn’t see him. He gave the signal. The first stroke was just a tap. She squeaked. Mick gave her punishers a disgusted look. “Harder,” he commanded. “She likes it hard. Start over!” Bobby looked dubious, but Cody’s lip curled up. He flexed his fingers, catching the excitement of the crowd.

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Together they brought their hands down. Though he could tell it was still not particularly hard, the sound of the smack rang through the room like a shot. Caro cried out, and clutched the post tighter. “Nhh!” she cried at the next stroke. By the fourth spank she was breathing hard with her exclamation, and on the sixth she gasped loudly. At eight she groaned and panted. Her face glowed rosy pink under the orange scarf, and her backside was by now bright red. On the tenth stroke Mick reached down and grasped her breasts. He squeezed her nipples just as the other men spanked her. She gave a strangled shout. The crowd grunted with lust. Cody looked like he was going to come any second. So did Caro. She sucked in a moaning breath, barely recovering from one before the next slap came. Mick squeezed again as the hands came down. She bucked. Bobby and Cody increased their speed, caught up in the fevered contagion of Domination. The thick scent of sexual desire permeated the room. Two dozen men stood transfixed watching the scene onstage, a few frantically fucking any slave woman within reach. Mick wanted to fuck Caro the same way. Fast and furious from behind, spilling all the pent-up desperation and anger of the past two months into her as he spewed his seed deep inside her hot passage. He could hear her climax start. In her panting, mewling cries, louder and more desperate with each smack on her ass. He could feel it in her breasts, in the tight kernels of her nipples and swelling of the flesh around them. Could see it in the way she writhed and bucked with every delivered stroke. And then she screamed. “Don’t stop,” he warned Bobby and Cody. “Not until she does.” He pinched and rolled her nipples, wringing more writhing, sobbing cries from her. Waiting for her legs to

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give out and her hands to release the pole. He caught her around the waist just as her knees buckled. “Mick,” Caro pleaded as Mick swung around and grabbed her. Pleading for what, she wasn’t sure. Support? Reassurance? Absolution? Something more? She should feel humiliated by what had just happened. Ashamed, or at the very least mortified. She felt none of those things. All she felt was devastating pleasure. Her limbs quivered from repletion, her bottom stung with spent arousal, her sex throbbed with lingering guilty fulfillment. Her mind refused to think about what she had just done, or deal with the creeping unease that her soul had been laid so bare at the hands of Bobby and Cody, and the rest of the men in the room. “Shhh. It’s okay,” Mick murmured. “I’m here.” Beneath her blindfold, she pressed her eyelids closed. “I can’t believe I—” “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are right now, little slave?” She felt him move behind her, and heard the metallic rasp of a zipper. “There isn’t a man in this room who wouldn’t lay himself at your feet right now and beg you to be his.” “I should never have told you that story,” she whispered half-heartedly, trying to be angry with him for bringing her to this new, amazing level of discomfiting self-awareness. But failing. “You knew I’d use it well. And now I own your spanking fantasy. It’s my face and body you’ll see, my voice you’ll hear from now on, not his.” He pushed into her, and she knew he was right. She moaned with pleasure as he hilted, filling her from behind with his thick length. “Touch her!” she heard him order Bobby and Cody

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gruffly. She sensed them closing in at her sides. She tugged at her bonds, writhing helplessly when their hands grasped her breasts and began caressing her flesh all over. “No,” she moaned. This was not fair! Her body was so lit up from arousal she didn’t stand a chance against the combined onslaught of their hands and Mick’s cock thrusting in and out of her. Pleasure slammed into her. “No!” she cried. Mick groaned loudly, and she knew he was starting to climax. He loved it when she resisted, and she loved fighting him. She struggled harder, yanking at the silk scarf tying her to the post, squirming away from her tormentors. Making Mick hold her hips in an iron grip. “Stop!” she screamed, feeling the first hot spew of semen against her womb. She screamed again as her own muscles contracted around him and catapulted her over the edge of bliss once more. “Noooo!” All at once the air was rent by a yell not her own. A vicious, animal-like roar of male outrage. “Leave her alone!” For a split second everything went absolutely still, except for Mick’s final thrust deep into her. Suddenly, he made a choking noise, a sound she’d never heard from him before, and his body was brutally yanked from hers. “Hey!” Cody yelled, and a furious scuffle ensued on the stage behind her. Someone hit the wooden floor with a loud thunk and a grunt of pain. Chaos erupted all around. Amid a cacophony of shouts and running feet, panic avalanched over Caro. She had to get this blindfold off! “Mick? What’s going on? Mick! Talk to me!” Totally exposed and vulnerable, tied to the post like a sacrificial lamb, she wrenched at her bonds, this time in earnest, picking frantically at the knot. “Mick,” she whimpered, tears stinging her eyes. If he would just say something! Anything! She bowed her head and tore off the blindfold with her fingers just in time to see Lauren jumping onto the

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stage brandishing her handcuffs. Caro wrenched around. Smythe was on his stomach on the floor, Cody sprawled over his back and Bobby holding down his flailing arms as Lauren struggled to put the cuffs on him. A bloody knife lay by his side. “Get the bastards off me!” Smythe screeched. “Lauren! How can you do this! I was saving her!” “Shut up, Rodney,” she snarled, snapping the metal ring in place. “We know exactly what you were doing. And this time you’re going to fry for it.” Frantically, Caro searched the stage for Mick. When she finally saw him, she screamed again. But this time in horror. Mick lay on his stomach, his tuxedo jacket splayed around him like a tattered flag, shredded by two long slashes. An oblong blood stain slowly spread across the center of his back. His fingers gripped the wooden floor of the stage in evident pain. “Mick!” she screamed. “He was raping her!” Smythe yelled, his voice highpitched and hysterical. “The bastard was raping her! They all were! I had to stop them!” Mick groaned and Caro pulled frantically at the last knot in the scarf, finally getting free. She ran to him, throwing herself to her knees beside him, terrified to hurt him more by touching him, but desperately needing contact. She laid her hand on his cheek as a man in a green jacket knelt on his other side, announcing he was the house doctor. “Baby, can you hear me?” she said above the din of the crowd. Cody ran over to them. “Get everyone out of here,” she cried. “The doctor needs quiet.” Cody nodded and began herding people away, giving the doctor space to work. “Help me get his jacket off,” he ordered. “I’m fine,” Mick said with another groan. “Just need to sit up.” “Not a chance. You’re bleeding,” Caro informed him, relief twirling through her like a top. He was cranky. That

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had to be a good sign. “Just nicked me,” Mick said, struggling up. The doc grabbed his arm and helped him sit. Together they peeled the slashed jacket down his shoulders and off. Caro let out a breath. Underneath, his shirt was hardly touched, save one ugly gash starting right behind his heart and ending at his waist. Blood oozed from the wound beneath, but it didn’t appear too deep. “Oh, sweetheart,” Caro said as tears flooded her vision. The doctor ripped Mick’s shirt away and she gingerly put her arms around his neck. She wanted to hold him tight and never let him go. “That was close. Too close.” “Tell me about it.” He helped the doctor peel the shirt completely off, wincing at the movement, then put his arms around her and kissed her. “But you did great.” “Hell, I was tied to the damn pole the whole time. But you got him, Mick. You did it.” “With a little help from my friends,” he said, glancing over at Bobby and Cody who were getting ready to haul off Smythe. But Mick’s smile didn’t even reach the crinkles around his eyes. Whatever the doctor was doing to his back must hurt like hell. “Will he need stitches?” she asked. “About fifty, I’d say,” the doctor said, and Mick groaned. “Small ones. Unless you want a big scar.” “Scars can be sexy,” Mick said in that stubborn tone men used when trying to avoid something they didn’t want to do. “Forget it,” she said. “No scars.” “Hey, I’m the Master here,” he reminded her gruffly. But she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. This time. “Yes,” she whispered nevertheless, and kissed him. “You can drop the act now, McGraw,” Lauren said, coming up and rolling her eyes. “Our guys arrested Rodney Smythe and he’s on his way to lock-up.” “What act?” Mick said mildly, his gaze holding Caro’s. “Our guys?” Caro asked, nestling possessively against

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his chest as the doctor finished bandaging his back. What the hell was Lauren doing here? She was still naked, but parading around like she owned the place, looking somehow...official. “FBI. That’s who I work for now.” Lauren sent an apologetic shrug to Mick. “Sorry, I couldn’t get hold of you to tell you.” “You work with Tim?” Caro asked incredulously, seeking him out among the small group of cops who had gathered around them. Woodruff, standing close by, stepped forward and slid his hands around Lauren’s waist from behind. “Different division. Special Agent Adams is undercover mostly...as it were.” Lauren spun from his hold, slapping his hands sharply. “Quit the jokes, asshole. And I told you, no touching.” “What about fucking?” “Drop dead, Woodruff,” she said, and stalked off in her spike heels looking confident, dangerous and sexy. The cops around them chuckled as Tim grinned at her rebuff, but every one of them watched spellbound as her pert little backside strode out of the room. In the hall Lauren greeted Rebecca with a kiss and linked arms as they headed for the stairs together. “She undercover, too?” Caro asked idly, trying to keep from laughing at the men whose tongues were practically hanging at their knees. What was it about lesbians that straight guys found irresistible? “No.” Woodruff cleared his throat and redirected his gaze to Caro, sweeping it appreciatively over her body. “You, on the other hand...” Suddenly she remembered she was also still naked. And recalled all the things she’d done tonight—in full view of Tim and all the other men in the room. “Touch my woman and you’ll need more than fifty stitches,” Mick said in a low growl, getting to his feet, pulling her up with him. Woodruff gave him an assessing glare. “I suppose it was too much to hope you really were the Teddie Killer.

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Looks like you’re off the hook for this one, McGraw. But that doesn’t mean I have to like you or what you’re doing to Caroline.” “But I do,” she whispered, wrapped her arms around Mick’s neck again, inundated with an overwhelming love for the only man on earth who truly understood her, and relief that he would be okay. That they had made it through this ordeal. She reached up and kissed him, so thoroughly the men got real quiet around them. And suddenly she realized she didn’t mind being nude in front of them. She enjoyed it. She loved the power it gave her over them, loved the way they looked at her, the fantasies she invoked in their minds. But most of all, she loved the lust her naked devotion aroused in Mick. It’s all about fulfilling the fantasy, she had told herself over and over throughout the past week. But what happened when the fantasy became real? Not just in the sense of sexual role-playing, but truly real? What, then, happened to reality? “Come on,” she said to him, giving him a last kiss, running her hands over the planes of his broad, muscular chest. Reality looked pretty damn good, that’s what. “Let’s go to the hospital and get those stitches over with.” “And then?” he asked. As if he really wasn’t sure what would happen now with them. As though he might actually believe her submission had only been an act. She smiled at his uncertainty. Loving him more with each moment that went by. Knowing she was truly safe with him. That she could trust him with her love. With her body. With her happiness. And that there was no one else on earth she’d rather spend her life with. “And then, Master,” she said, “we go home to bed.”

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Chapter Twenty-Nine Mick unfurled his body, stretched it out on top of Caro so he covered every inch of her, from their entwined fingers above her head, to her ankles, held firmly in place by the muscles of his lower legs. The slice in his back throbbed dully under the thick bandage, but not enough to stop him. They had made it through a night of hospitals, statements, a veritable media frenzy and even Captain Trujillo, after which Mick had brought Caro back to his apartment. The whole time he’d felt someone following them, lurking in the shadows, watching their every move. Ratcheting up his nerves. Now they were in his bed, and he was nervous as hell, restless as a caged animal. This was it. The final act. The place where his fate would be decided. What he had worked so hard for over the past two months. The final resolution of his guilt and his impotent fury. He looked down at his lover and tightened his hold on her. He wanted to cover her, to dominate her, to hold her down so she could never move out from under him. To subsume her body into his, her life into his, her soul into his. To keep her safe. He hated that he’d had to use her like this. Despised himself for putting her in danger, especially in this last unsuspected scene. But he was too close to turn back now. And she’d made her choice. As had he. Damn he wanted her. Putting his mouth over hers, he thrust his tongue into her. Tasting her sweet tension, her desire for him. Her eagerness for his possession.

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Nerves on fire, he rubbed his stiff cock against her clit and felt her squirm. “Who do you belong to?” he asked into her mouth. “You, Master,” she whispered, chasing him with her tongue. He allowed her to kiss him, her passion seeping into him like a powerful drug, calming his fears, then he tore his mouth away. “Who do you love?” he demanded softly. “You, Master,” she answered, breathless. “I love you.” He grunted in approval, feeling her tight little nipples poke into his chest. God, he loved that. But he wanted more. More. He teased her clit even harder, making her pant. “What would you like your Master to do to you?” She whimpered, low and sweet and pleading, just how he liked it. “Tie me up and fuck me, Master. Fuck me hard, so I can feel you deep inside me.” Her words dizzied him. He loved how Caro loved to be dominated. She loved to be tied up, and he loved doing it to her. He reveled in the power. Thrilled to the struggle she put up. Basked in her inevitable submission to his will. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, the tension in his muscles crackling anew. Perfect. This was exactly how he needed her. He wanted to control the situation totally, and this was the best way. The only way. Sitting up stiffly, he reached for the orange scarves from his kit bag next to the bed, but his elbow knocked the gun on the night stand to the floor. With a sharp oath he swiped it up and stuck it in its usual place under his pillow, then grabbed the scarves. “Wrists,” he ordered her, fighting to get his fingers to stop trembling. Caro lifted her wrists and gazed up at him expectantly. At her look, his heart swelled with feeling for the strong woman who’d chosen to become his pleasure slave. “Have I told you lately how much I love you, little slave?” he murmured, swiftly binding the scarves around her wrists. “How lost I’d be without you?”

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Her lips parted, her eyes suddenly vulnerable. “Really? Do you really love me, Mick?” He paused in his task. “I do, Caroline.” He took a cleansing breath. “No matter what happens, always know that I love you.” “What do you mean—” He cut off her question with a kiss, and finished binding her. “I’m tying this in a slip-knot,” he said, pulling at the scarf on her right wrist. Just in case. “But no fingernails in the back, all right?” She winced, eying the white bandage that wound around him, protecting his wounded back. “Your cut... Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” Unsmiling, he met her gaze. “I have no choice. And neither do you.” He yanked the knot taut on her left wrist, then threaded the two scarves through the spindles of the headboard and tied them behind it. Her tongue swiped over her lips. “Mick—” “Master!” he barked, making her jump. He leaned down close to her face. “I love you, but never forget, when we are in this bed I own you. You’ll do everything I say, exactly as I tell you.” With satisfaction, he felt a tremor go through her body and she went soft under him. “Yes, Master,” she whispered. After a slight hesitation, he whipped out three more scarves and tied one securely around her eyes. Then he bound her ankles to the corners of the footboard, leaving her close to helpless. “Is this—” “Do you question me?” he said sharply, causing her to shrink into the mattress. “No, Master.” “Good. Because if you question me I’d have to punish you.” Her knees splayed reflexively. “Yes, Master. If you think I deserve it.” “Spread your legs wider,” he ordered, and watched as she scooted down a bit and spread them far apart,

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exposing her smooth-shaved sex to his view. His cock jerked up, hard and hungry. “Stay exactly like that,” he told her, then rose and walked out of the room. He went to the dining table and fetched a chair, deliberately scraping its legs on the carpet as he brought it back into the bedroom and placed it at the foot of the bed with a thunk. “What are you doing?” Unable to see, she tilted her head toward the noise. Her hands flexed nervously. “I’m expecting company,” he said, and she caught her breath. “Who?” she asked. “Who would you like it to be?” he countered. She remained silent. “Bobby?” he pressed. “Or Tim? Or maybe Cody...” Her body undulated as she pulled at her bonds. “I only want you, Mick. Nobody else.” He felt a surge of gratification. Just before he heard a light click from the front door, which he’d deliberately left unlocked. To let in the shadows. Her head jerked toward the nearly inaudible sound. “Baby,” she said, her voice rising to a squeak. “What’s going on?” He swallowed heavily. It was time. “Just let it happen,” he said, and walked to his kit bag to fetch a pair of leather gloves. “Trust me.” Too late to stop now. Caro started to tremble. Small shivers coursed through her powerless muscles. Whatever was going on, she didn’t like it. Not after the events they’d already endured tonight. She wanted to be alone with Mick. To confirm for herself she hadn’t lost him now the case was over. That he truly loved her. What was he up to? “Let what happen?” she asked, but he remained mute. She heard him walk around the room, stopping at the open bedroom door. Then something rustled and the chair seat squeaked. Had someone else come in? After a moment

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stretched out in echoing silence, somebody approached the bed. “Who’s there?” she whispered, trembling even harder. “What are you going to do to me?” She tugged at the scarves tying her to the bed, scraped at her blindfold with a shoulder, but they didn’t budge. With an effort she held herself still, listening carefully as he—whoever he was—slowly circled the bed. She started to shake. “Please, whoever you are—” She caught a whiff of masculine aftershave. Not Mick’s. But it smelled familiar. Bobby’s? Or was it Cody’s? Frantically she tried to recall how each of the men smelled, but her brain was too frazzled to remember. Or maybe Tim... Suddenly something firm and buttery touched between her thighs and pushed up into her. She cried out and tried to close her legs but her ankle bindings held them wide apart. It pulled out of her then pushed back in. A finger. A gloved finger. “Ohhh!” she cried when it slid out and circled her clit. Her nipples spiraled to points and her knees jerked further apart. “No!” she called into the taut silence, a bundle of confusion. “I don’t want this!” But clearly her body did. And whoever it was knew it. His mouth closed over one of her aching nipples, sending her off the bed in a bowstring arch. He bit down on it, and flicked it with his tongue. She moaned. “Please,” she whimpered. “I want Mick.” Maybe it was Mick. She lifted her head, trying to reach him as he laved her breast with his hot, wet mouth. If she could just taste him, or smell his skin, she would know if it was Mick. But he pulled away, leaving a scented trail of aftershave and mint. She yanked on the scarves again as he started caressing her body with his leather-gloved hands. Suddenly, behind her ear a muffled, gravelly male voice asked, “Tell me how Mick fucks you.” She was too stunned to reply. Then it hit her. This was

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exactly what Smythe did to his victims. But...they’d just arrested Smythe! It couldn’t be him. And Mick would never— Her tormentor’s finger feathered over her clit. “Tell me how Mick fucks you.” The voice was too distorted to tell, as if he spoke through a thick layer of cotton or cloth. “Or I’ll have to fuck you myself to find out.” Unwilling arousal slashed through her like a flash fire. Did she want him to fuck her? Who was he? She licked her bottom lip. Was Mick there watching? He had to be. Sitting in the chair he’d brought in earlier, watching his friend threaten to fuck her. Was this turning him on as much as it was her? She licked her lips again. “He... He has a huge cock,” she whispered. “Louder!” he demanded, his muffled voice gruff. “He has a huge cock,” she blurted out, “and he puts it inside me.” Her tormentor’s finger circled her clit slowly while a large gloved hand grasped her breast and squeezed. “Where?” She was finding it difficult to concentrate. “Um...” The finger stopped. “Where?” “Anywhere he wants!” The finger started up again and the hand switched to her other breast. She felt her intimate folds blossom wide, inviting a more thorough invasion of her flesh. She moaned in trepidation at the uncontrolled licentiousness of her body. Was there no end to the lengths it would go for pleasure? But what could she do, tied up as she was, unable to deny this unknown man’s demands? “Tell me,” the voice coaxed with graveled authority. “My cunt,” she whispered. “Louder!” “My cunt! And my mouth. And my ass.” She writhed as his finger slid mercilessly back and forth over her clit and his other hand plucked at the tips

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of her breasts. His tongue lapped at her stomach, dipping wetly into her belly button. She groaned, pleading with him to stop. But for some reason the words got jumbled up and she realized she was begging him not to stop. He stopped. “Keep talking,” he said, gathering her breasts in his rough-gloved hands. He climbed on top of her, sitting at the nexus of her thighs. His legs were naked, and his tight, swollen balls squashed against her bare, blossomed sex. He grasped her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and rolled them until she cried out. “Talk.” Unable to help herself, she did, just to keep him touching her. As he caressed every part of her body with his rough velvet hands, she told him in dazzling detail about everything Mick did to her. She told him about how good Mick felt, how he used his fingers and tongue to make her feel untold pleasures, until she was panting with need. As she told him the things Mick did that she liked best, she realized he’d slid down between her legs. Then he roughly thrust his cock inside her. “No!” she sobbed, and struggled against him as he started to fuck her. She bucked and writhed, but he held her down, ruthlessly plunging in and out of her, again and again, panting and groaning, until she suddenly realized those were Mick’s pants and groans, and Mick’s unmistakable cock, and she gave another sob and let all the pent-up frustration and guilty arousal rush through her body. She thrashed again at her bonds but this time because she wanted to kill him. Instead, release thundered through her in a shuddering, throbbing, electric orgasm until she screamed Mick’s name and thought her body would surely tear apart from so much pleasure. He captured her mouth. Under the mint disguise the familiar taste of him flooded through her senses, hot and musky and claiming. She came all over again. “Bastard!” she panted. “Bastard!” But that just spurred him to hammer harder and faster

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into her. “You’re Mick’s slave and you’ll fuck anyone he tells you to,” he growled between thrusts. “No!” she cried, fighting against him. Knowing that was what he wanted. “I won’t! Only Mick!” His body jerked and stiffened and she felt his cock swell and pulse, semen spurting into her like molten lava. Over and over he convulsed on top of her, swallowing a strangled shout each time. He ripped off her blindfold and kissed her. Hard and soft and demanding and tender, all at once. “I love you,” tumbled from her lips. And that’s when she noticed the man lounging in the chair at the foot of the bed, watching them. A snarl was on his face. And a shotgun in his hand. Pointed right at Mick’s back. Caro gasped, her eyes suddenly popping with terror. This is it, Mick thought, seeing the change surge over her face. Desperately, he battled to catch his breath. Amazed he’d even been able to climax under the circumstances, let alone like that. Focus. His whole life had boiled down to this one moment. All he had set up. Everything he had done for the last two months. It’s what he’d lived for for twenty-five years. To watch the bastard die. He closed his eyes and bowed his forehead to touch Caro’s for a brief instant, then lifted it and took one last, deep breath. “Hello, Dad,” he said, and rolled off his woman to face the devil. “You should know better than to mess with me, son.” His father’s voice carried the same sneering disgust Mick remembered so well. Oddly, this time it didn’t make him tremble in fear. “You had to know I wouldn’t let you get away with it.” He’d known. He’d counted on it. He’d made it impossible for the bastard not to come.

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“What are you going to do, shoot me?” The old man shook his grizzled head and flicked the shotgun at Caro. “Nah. That’s for your whore. You, I get to carve up.” He indicated a large hunting knife strapped to his thigh and grinned. “Just like the Teddie Killer.” Mick forcibly restrained himself from jumping the man and pounding him to hamburger. “Let her go,” he said through clenched teeth. This was the part he hadn’t counted on. Caring more about Caro than killing the devil who’d spawned him. “She has nothing to do with this.” “She’s going first. So you can watch her die. Before I cut out your guts, like you—” Caro wrenched at her bonds. “Why are you doing this? To your own son?” The shotgun swung to aim at her head. “That piece of shit’s no son of mine! With his whore of a mother there’s no way to tell who got him on her.” Mick sat up, drawing attention away from her, shielding as much of her as he could with his body. “You’ll never get away with this. The cops will know it’s you. I’ve made sure of that.” His father jumped up from the chair. “Lies! You interfering little ass-wipe! Your tongue’s already cost me twenty-five years of my life, but no more. Cutting it out of your face is gonna to be a real damn pleasure.” He grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and threw them at Mick. “Put these on!” He glanced toward the bedroom door. Mick snorted. “Looking for your bitch Smythe?” That one had really confused Mick for a while. A knife in the back was not his father’s style. But because serial killers almost always work alone, it hadn’t occurred to anyone on the task force that it could be two men together, each feeding on the other’s sick fantasy. There’d never been any doubt in his mind that his sick and twisted father would kill again, giving Mick the opportunity to set up his revenge. Smythe was the surprise ingredient. “I’m afraid your lover boy won’t be coming tonight,”

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he said in a gloating tone. “They’ll be throwing away the key on him.” Fury slashed across the old man’s face. In a motion he was at the foot of the bed shoving the barrel of the shotgun against Mick’s throat. “And you’ll die slowly for that,” he growled. “Piece by piece. Now put on the handcuffs!” Mick swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple scraping against cold, hard steel. Hatred burned in his whole being like acid eating away at his flesh. He’d lived for this moment. Dreamed of it. Fantasized about it. He’d do anything to see the bastard before him dead. Anything. And if that meant dying himself, so be it. Behind him, he felt Caro move. He eased further in front of her. Praying it wouldn’t be asked of him. Or her. “Aw, now ain’t that just so sweet? Tryin’ to protect your little piece of—” “Shut up, fucker.” Forcing himself back into that cold, hard place he’d lived in for most of his thirty-six years, he put one of the cuffs over his wrist and pushed it closed. He slid the other one on, but the old man yelled, “No! Behind your back. Turn around!” Clamping his jaw, he removed the second cuff, looking into the face of the man he’d feared his whole life he would become. But he’d gladly become him to watch him die. He thought of his mother, and all the other women who’d been hurt because of the bastard. And knew he’d be forgiven. “Hurry up!” his father growled impatiently. He was getting madder by the second, ready to explode. “Make me,” Mick dared. The old man swung the shotgun from his neck to press into Caro’s left eye. She screamed, and Mick shouted, “Wait! Okay!” throwing his hands behind him, deliberately losing his balance and falling sideways onto the mattress. “Now, or she’s dead!” Caro screamed again. “Mick!” Lightning fast he grabbed the gun from under the pillow, swung around and pulled the trigger. And kept

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pulling even after the magazine was empty. The Beretta clicked uselessly, but for some reason the gunfire didn’t stop. It kept blasting away for another three or four rounds. “Jesus, Bobby!” Caro cried, “Stop!” He whipped around to see his partner pump one final shot into his father’s limp, bloody body, which fell to the floor with a finality that did Mick’s soul good. His eyes met Bobby’s, his wide with surprise and Bobby’s narrow with a cold determination he’d never seen before. His partner was still wearing the tuxedo he’d had on at the Tether Club, though the tie was gone and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. “Next time you might tell me what you’re up to,” Bobby muttered, and holstered up. “So I don’t have to follow you around, guessing.” “It’s been you trailing us all night?” Mick asked incredulously, his heart still pounding so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. Dead. The murdering son of a bitch was finally dead. And he was still alive. Bobby shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? Let him kill you?” His calm demeanor helped Mick get his violent pulse under control. “You knew?” “Fuck, yeah. That was a no-brainer. I am a detective, you know. No way could Smythe have been gutting those victim men. He’s strictly a stab and run kind of guy. Gutting was more your old man’s style. Glad I arrived in time.” “Yeah. Me, too.” Mick gazed at his partner with stark respect. He’d never underestimate Bobby again. Ever. “Guess I’d better call it in.” Pulling out his cell phone, Bobby’s focus shifted to Caro, who was still bound spreadeagle to the bed. “You both okay?” Mick whirled around to Caro. She looked a little shellshocked. “Baby?” He was feeling more than a little shell-shocked himself. Dead. He couldn’t believe it was all over. Well, almost over. His father was dead. As he should have been

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years ago. Would have been, if Mick had been less of a coward. If he’d just killed him instead of calling the police.... He reached for Caro’s wrists, to release her from the scarves, needing to feel her alive and vibrant in his arms. Her hands trembled in his. Or was it his own hands that shook? “You’re sure he’s dead?” she asked nervously. He and Bobby exchanged a glance. Between the two of them they’d probably emptied about ten to twelve rounds in his father’s chest. “Um, yeah,” Bobby said. “I’m pretty sure he’s not getting up.” Thank God. “Why don’t you get her ankles?” Mick suggested, taking a deep breath. He leaned over and gathered her close. She sat up, wrapping her arms around him. He held her tight. Bobby untied her foot closest to him, hesitated a moment, then stretched across the bed to undo the other one. He propped up on an elbow and his gaze wandered up her long, bare legs to her exposed sex. Mick watched his friend carefully. To his surprise, he didn’t feel like killing him. Not even after what had taken place at the party tonight. He must be more emotionally drained than he thought. Because it was nearly over. “I suppose this means you’re not giving her to me,” Bobby said philosophically, trailing his fingers over her ankle, where it was a little red from her bonds. “Not a chance,” Mick murmured. He scraped a stray curl out of her eyes, giving her a kiss. “Sure you’re doing all right?” She nodded, then glanced at Bobby, whose hand was still smoothing back and forth over her ankle. The man had to be hurting. The adrenaline from the shoot was still surging through Mick’s veins, and he knew Bobby had to be even worse off because he hadn’t been having sex all night. For a split second Mick thought about letting him fuck

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Caro. Which shocked the hell out of him. Because he was definitely not into sharing. Even with his best friend. What had happened to him tonight? “Figured as much,” Bobby said, and rolled off the bed. “You two better get dressed. I hear sirens.” He’d set himself free, that’s what had happened. And even if his plan failed in the last moment and the department didn’t clear the killing as justifiable, even if he went to jail for the rest of his life for shooting his father with premeditation, it had been well worth it. Mick let out a long breath and gave Caro one last kiss. “Yeah,” he said, and rolled off after him. “I hear the sirens, too.” Mick took hold of Bobby’s shoulders and gripped them for a moment. “Thanks, bro. For having my back.” “Always,” his partner said, and gave his biceps a quick punch with his fist. He sure as hell hoped so. That he hadn’t misjudged the other man’s interest in Caro. Because Mick was depending on Bobby to get him through the one last hurdle. The official review of the shoot. After that, unbelievably, it would be truly over. Just a few more days and finally he’d be able to let down his guard and stop looking over his shoulder. Maybe even let a woman into his life. If she’d have him...

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Chapter Thirty Caro had always considered herself to be a strong woman, but when Captain Trujillo suggested taking a week or two off, she’d never been so grateful. The events of the past ten days had left her reeling. Not to mention the avalanche of emotions swirling inside her for Mick— emotions that needed to be dealt with. Rationally. If she still had it in her to be rational about him. Which she had a sinking feeling she didn’t. “Thanks, Captain. I could use the down time,” she replied, holding herself straight and tall, despite the uncertainty roiling inside over her fate. “I understand you’ve gotten several other offers of employment,” he went on, steepling his fingers over his desk. An understatement. She’d been swamped with calls during the two days since she and Mick had succeeded in trapping the Teddie Killer—that is, Teddie Killers. She was still shocked that Smythe had been working with Mick’s father the whole time. Overnight, Mick had become the center of a media feeding frenzy. It wasn’t every day the lead detective’s own father turned out to be the serial killer and was shot down trying to make him the next victim. Along with her. Naturally, their personal relationship, especially their explicit sexual involvement, had been splashed over every tabloid in existence, and even the legit news magazines, too. As a result, they’d both had dozens of offers, everything from centerfold photo spreads in bondage rags, to every TV talk show in existence, to genuine offers of

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employment from various law enforcement agencies, mostly for undercover work. “Yes, sir, I’ve had a few calls. None I’m taking seriously, though.” He nodded, and paused before saying, “Perhaps you should take another look at the good ones.” Alarm skittered through her. “What are you saying, sir? Are you firing me?” Trujillo swiped a hand over his mouth. “No. I’m not, Officer Palmer. Thanks to you and Detective McGraw, our biggest case of the decade is closed. However, under the circumstances, it might be in your best interest to make a move. You understand how difficult it’ll be for you to work here....” No fucking kidding. Some of the more sensational details of her and Mick’s relationship had come out in the tabloid blitz, and there were people at PPD who had a real hard time looking her in the eye. Not that she cared all that much. “Yes, sir. But—” “You also realize there’s no way I can let both you and Detective McGraw stay in Homicide. We’ve talked about that before. And he has seniority. Even keeping you in the same building would probably be a mistake.” Which meant she was back to Traffic. Shit. She had harbored a secret hope the Cap would suggest a different solution. Wishful thinking, obviously. “I understand.” “So, if there’s a better situation for you somewhere else, you might want to consider it.” “I’ll do that,” she said. You couldn’t get a more direct order than that. Whatever. There were lots of other police departments in the LA area. Her goal all along had been to work Homicide. Not necessarily here. Not if she couldn’t be with Mick. “Captain,” Mick said, and stepped forward from where he up until now had been standing silently behind her. “I’ll resign if—” “No!” she cut him off vehemently. “McGraw stays. If I go, he stays. That’s the deal.”

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She turned to square off against him, meeting him eye to eye. No way was she letting him throw away his career at PPD. Not after everything he’d gone through to keep it. Unlike hers, his reputation would only be enhanced by what he’d done: the dangerous, mysterious Iceman, able to seduce naïve, unsuspecting preacher’s daughter into becoming his kinky sex slave and catching the bad guys, all in the space of a week. Talk about juice. Well, she may yield to his commands in bed, but not here. “Forget it, Mick,” she told him levelly. “This is my choice.” She could tell he wanted to argue by the way his jaw set. But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “If you’re sure.” “I am.” “She can come work for us,” Woodruff said from against the other wall, where he’d been standing. They’d all been called in together, she, Mick and Bobby, to receive notice of their upcoming formal commendations, along with one for Jeff Cody from LAPD. Woodruff was there to represent the FBI, which was also throwing in some kind of citation for the joint operation. “The Bureau can always use a good undercover operative.” “You mean like Special Agent Adams?” she said, barely hiding a smirk. She and Lauren, now that would be an interesting team. Not. “Yeah. Like her,” Woodruff said, his lips curving up at the corners. Mick started to move, but Bobby stopped him. “I’ll think about it,” she said. The FBI. Now that would be the ultimate Homicide unit. “Thanks.” “The official award ceremony will be held as soon as IAB’s formal inquiry into McGraw father’s shooting is completed,” Captain Trujillo informed them. “No more than a week, I’d guess. The press will be there in force. Pass the word to Detective Cody, will you?” Mick nodded. “Let’s try to keep this thing dignified and professional, people.” He picked up a file from his desk, a signal the meeting was over.

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“Yes, sir,” the three of them chorused, and filed out of the office, followed by Woodruff. As soon as the door closed, Mick turned on Tim. “She’s not working for you,” he gritted out. “So just—” She grabbed Mick around the waist and Bobby stepped between the two before they came to blows. “Baby, calm down,” she said. “Tim’s a profiler out of DC. I wouldn’t be working for him.” “You can’t seriously be considering—” “You heard the captain. I can’t stay at PPD.” “But the FBI—” “We’ll talk about this later, okay?” But the more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea. If they could work something out here in LA. He stared at her for a moment, then the Iceman chill descended, smoothing out his angry features. “Fine.” She never ceased to be amazed at how he did that. The same thing had happened the night of his father’s shooting. One minute he was a chaotic wreck holding her tight, the next, so completely the calm and in-control detective as he let the responding officers into the apartment, it almost scared her. She’d been a mess right up until this meeting, awaiting her fate. Now that it was over, she’d finally regained her strength and direction. At least regarding her employability. Her relationship with Mick was a different matter. They’d barely had a moment to themselves, let alone been able to talk about the future. It was almost as though he’d been avoiding her. Did they have a future? Woodruff handed her a business card, under Mick’s disapproving scowl. “Call me. I’m serious about the job.” Then he walked into the waiting elevator and was swallowed up. She looked at Mick as she slipped the card into her pocket, daring him to comment. “So,” Bobby said into the thick, broody silence, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What a case, eh?” She figured he’d start whistling next, if nobody said

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anything, so she did. “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Case of a lifetime. Career-making case.” Bobby grimaced and punched the elevator button again, now that it had safely stopped on the ground floor. “Sorry about you having to leave PPD. Rough break.” “Don’t worry about me. I’ll land on my feet.” Mick glanced at her sharply, his mouth a thin line. They got on the small elevator and Bobby looked down at her, his eyes snagging on the silver of the slave collar she still wore beneath her suit blouse. “You going to take that collar off her, Mick? Now that it’s all over?” he asked. She froze at the unexpected question. Mick reached out and grasped her by the arms, turning her to face him. His hands traveled up her shoulders to her throat and slowly he rubbed his thumbs over the braided ropes of her silver choker, warm from the heat of her body. Deliberately, he sought out the tiny padlock keeping it on her neck...keeping her with him. “I should,” he murmured. “I should let you go.” There was something dangerous about Mick’s expression, his stance, his harsh tone as he said the words. Something that waited to ambush her in a darkened parking garage, taking her from behind and— She closed her eyes against the vivid image and her nostrils flared, filling with the heady, musky scent of her lover. This was what she loved about him. That edge of danger... No one else would ever be able to do that for her, to take her to that place. She’d be lost without Mick. He’d taught her too well. “Do you want to?” she whispered, gazing up at him. “Let me go?” He’d said he loved her. Had he really meant it? Or had it all just been part of the game... He looked at her for what seemed like forever. The elevator hit the second floor for Homicide, the doors opened and Bobby walked out leaving them alone. Still Mick didn’t move.

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“No,” he finally said. “I don’t want to set you free. It excites me having you in my power, owning your sexuality. But—” He halted abruptly as the doors whooshed shut and the car lurched downward. “But what?” she asked, her pulse beating out of control. “What if I want more?” Her heart stuttered. Suddenly terrified of what he would ask of her, she thought of her mother. Of her bleak shadow-existence, subjugated to her overbearing father. Caro loved Mick, but she knew she could never become that person. At her hesitation, Mick’s mouth thinned even further. “Do you even want to stay with me?” “Of course I do. It’s just—” “There were a lot of men at the Tether Club who wanted you, Caro. Even Bobby and Cody.” Mick grimaced. “And Tim. You could have your pick of a hundred men. Would you rather be with someone else?” “Would you?” she asked, turning the tables. Because she needed to be sure, too. “Would you like someone else? Someone who’ll give you her total submission, not just in the bedroom?” “No,” he said with a scowl. “I like you just the way you are.” Relief washed over her. Thank God. “So you’ll okay with me applying for that job with the FBI if I decide to?” His jaw clamped. The automatic door whooshed open. “You can work anywhere you like. As long as you come home to me afterward.” Incredible joy blossomed in her heart. That was all she needed to hear. “Every night, baby.” She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. “You know there will never be anyone else for me but you.” “There better not be,” he murmured, pulling her close. “Because if you left me for another man I’d have to kill you both.” She smiled into his neck. She knew he could never hurt her. Ever. It was just his way of telling her he’d die before

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letting her go. Which was exactly what she wanted. She kissed him again. “In that case,” she murmured, “maybe we’d better leave my collar on.” “I was hoping you’d say that.” He led the way out of the elevator, took her hand and headed for the parking garage. “Wait,” she said, looking toward SIS. “What is it?” “I need to see Julio before we go. He left a message and sounded upset.” Distaste swept over Mick’s face. “You know he reported me to IAB, don’t you? For the way I left you at Su’s.” “He thought it was the right thing to do.” He snorted. “That’s rich, coming from him.” She stopped with her hand on the door knob. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I called him at home that morning to take care of you. His little lover boy beat him up for his trouble.” Her jaw dropped. “He knows I love you and would never hurt a hair on your head. But he still reported me. Then he goes home to a lover who beats the crap out of him every chance he gets.” Caro stared at him in astonishment, not sure what shocked her more, that anyone but she knew Julio was being abused, or the fact that Mick once again so offhandedly admitted he loved her. Suddenly, the door flung open and Julio himself walked through it. “Querida! I heard you were in the building. I was just— ” He spotted Mick, who let her go and leaned negligently against a nearby desk. “Oh,” he said, his eyes shifting between them. Ignoring Mick’s disapproval, she jumped into Julio’s arms and gave him a big hug. “How are you doing?” Julio hugged her back, and she could feel the tension in him slip for a moment. “Better, now that I’ve left Barry.” “Oh, Jul. I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known—”

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He shook off her concern. “Not something I liked sharing with anyone.” His gaze slid to Mick for a second. “The strangest thing happened though. Barry got waylaid yesterday by some thugs. They told him if he ever touched me again, they’d come back and kill him.” “Really? Who could have—” She caught the direction of his gaze and gasped softly. Mick had his arms banded across his chest, looking as belligerent as ever, but there was something in his expression that gave him away. “You! But how—” He pushed off the desk, put a proprietary arm around her and pulled her away from Julio. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I help the fucker who turned me in to the rat squad? Now, I hate to cut short your girl talk, Martinez, but Caro and I have things to do. She’ll call you sometime when I’m not forced to listen.” With that, she was propelled away and out of the station, into the parking garage. “I can’t believe you did that,” she said when they reached the Z and he opened the door for her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” “You’re hallucinating,” he said, leaning down for a kiss. “I know better than to get involved in other people’s affairs.” “Except when it involves violence,” she murmured, loving the taste of him, the feel of his strong arms around her. It seemed like it had been years since they’d been able to indulge in even a simple kiss without cameras flashing. She snuggled into his embrace, encouraging him to hold her tighter. “I know what you did for Lauren, when her husband was abusing her. That cost you years of your career.” She gazed up at him tenderly. “You may act tough, but at heart you’re just a softie.” “You have no idea how wrong you are,” he said, his eyes hard as blue ice. “Is it true?” she asked, inhaling the delicious scent of his skin, loving how the suppleness of her breasts pillowed against his rock-hard, muscled chest. “What you said?” “There’s nothing soft about me, baby.”

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“I meant what you said earlier, about loving me.” He grasped her chin and lifted it, capturing her with the intensity of his look. “I don’t know anything about love, Caro. I don’t even know if I’m capable of love. But if it means waking up every morning wanting you, and falling asleep every night still wanting you, craving your kisses and your sexy body, needing your love and adoration, your devotion and your faithfulness, desperate to keep you close and safe from all the bad stuff out there, then yeah. I love you. I love you and want to be with you for as long as you can stand being with me.” Her heart melted more and more as she listened to his words, until it was a small puddle at his feet. She never thought she’d ever hear those words from any man, let alone the one man on earth who attracted her in ways she’d never dreamed possible. The man who knew her better than she knew herself. The man who scared her and thrilled her, who made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt before. “I love you, too, Mick. And I’ll always want to be with you. Always.” “Then move in with me.” Her eyes widened speechlessly. “I’ll get a bigger place, a house, so all our things fit. Baby, I can’t promise you marriage, because frankly, the idea of that scares the shit out of me. But my collar around your neck means a hell of a lot more than any damn piece of paper, if you’re willing.” Her breasts tingled and a sharp craving settled at the apex of her thighs. The thought of being Mick McGraw’s sexual slave indefinitely made her weak with desire. To be possessed by him, fully, knowing he’d come home to her every night and take command of her body, filled her with a carnal longing so strong she moaned softly. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll live with you.” “You’ll do my bidding, and answer my body’s call, whenever I demand it?” The utter raw sensuality of his mouth, the indolent droop of his eyelids as he murmured the words low and

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rough, sent a shiver through her flesh. “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I’ll do anything you want, to have you inside me.” His answering growl reverberated through her whole body. He caught her up in his arms and kissed her. “It’s settled then,” he said. “I’ll start looking tomorrow.” “You sure you want to do this?” Mick asked one last time. He wanted Caro to be absolutely certain. She looked around at her furniture and the boxes of her belongings piled on his new living room floor, and nodded. “Yes. I’m sure.” She was naked, except for her slave collar. The movers had left five minutes ago and she’d just taken off her clothes—she liked being nude for him at home—and already he was hard like he hadn’t had sex in a year, instead of just a few hours. He glanced around in satisfaction. Perfectly restored, the house he’d bought was a hundred years old and large, with plenty of room for both of them, and more. His thoughts went to the fourth bedroom, upstairs in back and still empty, and the plans he had for that space. His cock lurched in sinful anticipation. Patience, McGraw. “I’m going on my run,” he said. He was several hours late, but it was Saturday, so it didn’t matter; he wasn’t scheduled to work this weekend. Since his father’s shooting had been cleared by IAB and he’d been reinstated to full duty, things had been a little crazy. The press still hounded him. Even if he and Caro hadn’t decided to move in together he’d have been forced to change addresses to escape the paparazzi weeks ago, but that was okay. His broker had been telling him for years he should invest part of his assets in real estate. His salary might not be the highest, but he’d lived cheaply and invested wisely. He’d paid cash for the house. “How long will you be gone?” she asked. “An hour or so.”

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He walked over and ran his hands down her silken body, pausing at her perfect rosy nipples, then stroked over her smooth mound. She’d started waxing down there, and he loved how she felt. Bare and completely exposed to him. It never failed to turn him on, seeing her like that. He slid his finger through her folds, gratified to find her wet and slick. “When I get back, be ready for me. I’ll want to fuck.” She moved against his hand. “Why don’t we fuck now?” He covered her mouth with his and kissed her hard, driving his finger deep into her. So he could carry the taste of her, the scent of her, with him as he ran. As incentive to get back quickly. He swatted her on the ass and strode to the door. “Do whatever you want with the house. It’s all yours.” He went out, calling over his shoulder, “Just be ready.” “Always,” she answered as he shut the door. He smiled, taking off down the path at a slow run. It was true. She was. Whenever. Wherever. However. And to think, three months ago he’d only hoped to survive his father’s vengeance—and his own—any way he could. Even if it meant giving up everything he’d worked for and dreamed of. And it had been a very close thing. How had he managed to turn the tides of fate? How had he ended up the hero, his job intact, with a woman who loved him in spite of the darkness that lived inside him? A woman who let him rule her body completely, and gave him everything he asked for, and much, much more? One who trusted him so absolutely that she had singlehandedly banished the rage and the violence from within him.... His heart dared to sing as his legs pumped along his new route toward bungalow-town. The case was closed, but Mick felt an inner compulsion, driving him to jog past the homes of the Teddie Killer’s victims, one last time. To recall their faces, to feel their suffering, so he’d never forget. Past the Connors he ran, noting the child’s tricycle and

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plastic toys scattered around the front lawn. A new family must have moved in. They had to know about the murders. What must they think tucking their child into bed in a place where so much evil had taken place? It was always the children who suffered most from the ripples of malevolence. He hoped their child didn’t have nightmares. At the Atkins’ place the grass and shrubs were long and scraggly, brown from lack of watering. A shutter had come loose and hung crooked over the window from one corner. The house looked deserted. As his own house had looked after his mother’s death. They’d taken Mick away, of course, and put him in foster care. But he’d already started running back then, and he’d jogged past that house, too, when he could. To keep the memory of her alive in his mind. “I did it, Mom,” he whispered into the breeze, allowing himself a short burst of gratification. “For you, I killed him.” He loped past Caro’s old duplex, waving to the Realtor who was planting a for rent sign in the front yard. Roger was peering out his window, the little weasel. Roger who’d nearly blown Mick’s plan sky high with his damn meddling. He wished he could catch him peeping where he didn’t belong, so he could throw his skinny little butt in jail. Mick drew in several deep breaths and turned his sneaks toward the Taylor/Slocum bungalow. His legs were burning now, punishing him for his ruthless pace. He’d been lazy lately, staying in bed with Caro rather than facing the dawn on his own two feet, keeping in shape. He’d even begun to wonder what the point of all this discipline was, now that— A car careened around the corner, nearly clipping him. He jumped back, jogging in place to watch it speed through the stop sign at the next intersection. Jerk. The adrenaline still pumping, he powered past the house of the last victims. This was where it had all started with Caro. Where he’d held her in that tiny powder room

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as she puked her guts out. And felt triumph that he’d chosen right. Not that there’d ever been any doubt in his mind. Not since the first time he’d seen her in the PPD lunchroom and she’d given him that shy smile. That shy, sly, dare-you smile. The woman had known exactly what she was doing. And he’d been hooked from that very second. It had only been a matter of time before he took what was his by right. Now she belonged to him. His father was rotting in hell, and Caroline Palmer was his slave. His beautiful, sexy love slave. Life was good. Finally. Suddenly, he realized he’d arrived at his old apartment building. He’d moved out last week, quietly shifting his things to the new house as soon as escrow had closed, and hadn’t been back since. He slowed to a stop in his usual spot in front of the dumpster, bending and stretching to keep from cramping up. Then he reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a tiny envelope. This was the last thing he had to do. The very last. After that they’d never know. He’d wanted to get rid of the key ages ago, but between the investigation and the press following him, the time hadn’t been right until things died down completely. It was probably not the smartest thing to dispose of it here. He of all people knew it was always the littlest things that took you down. But some inner compulsion called to him, to bring it all full circle. Probably the same one that made him jog past the victims’ homes. “Hi there! Nice day for a run!” He spun at the sound of the youthful, feminine voice, and clutched the envelope guiltily in his fist. “Hi. Y-yeah,” he stammered, caught by surprise at her sudden appearance. He recognized the woman; she’d lived on one of the floors above him and they’d bumped into each other in the elevator occasionally. She was a

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runner, too. Pretty. Flirty. And she knew exactly who he was. “Haven’t seen you around lately,” she said. “Not since—” She halted in consternation. “I mean—” He gave her his best smile. Never mind. He could work this. “Yeah, I’ve been a little busy.” She smiled back. “Catching that awful killer. I didn’t go out of the apartment for a whole week after you found those poor people down the hall.” She shuddered dramatically, then looked at him through lowered lashes. “You are so brave. I could never have done...” Her words trailed off as he pulled his T-shirt over his head and wiped his face and neck with it. Giving her a good view of his sweaty chest. “Do you happen to know if someone else moved into that apartment yet?” he casually asked. She nodded, mesmerized. “Yeah. Couple of weeks ago.” “They change the locks, you think?” She glanced up. “I would have.” He widened his smile. “Yeah. Me, too. Guess I can just toss this key, then.” He unfurled his fist, revealing the small envelope containing the carefully cleaned key to the first victims’ apartment. “Meant to give it back to the super after the investigation was over, but it slipped my mind.” He shrugged and tossed the envelope into the dumpster. “Well, I gotta get to work. See you around.” “Sure,” she said, watching him as he jogged off. “How about coffee sometime?” she called after him. He lifted his hand and waved without looking back. In five seconds, all she’d remember was his tight ass and broad back. He’d already forgotten her. His mind was on another woman. One with soft bedroom eyes and mussed blond hair, naked and waiting for him to come home and take her. How would he do it today? Long and slow, or fast and hard? Or maybe both? Would he lick her first, or make her lick him? Would he fuck her from the front or from the back? Or let her ride his shaft until she screamed with

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pleasure, making him so hard he could bring her to climax three times without stopping? By the time he’d run the rest of his circuit, his cock was straining and his balls were so full and tight he could hardly jog. He wanted her now. He burst through the front door and slammed it behind him, threw his shirt and shed his shorts as he crossed the room to where she was on her knees leaning over a cardboard box. Her head came up. The tip of her tongue touched her lip for the split second it took to fall to his knees behind her, grasp her hips and plunge his cock deep into her. But she was ready for him. “Oh, Mick,” she gasped, her slick, hot passage closing around him like a glove. She fit him perfectly. In all ways. How had he gotten so lucky? He pulled out and she gasped again. “Not here,” he gritted out. “I want you in my bed.” He swept her up and carried her out of the living room, striding purposefully toward their bedroom. When suddenly, in the hall, he saw something that made the blood drain from his head. He halted in his tracks in front of a small grouping of photos she’d hung on the wall. “What’s this?” “The pictures you took of me. Remember I found them that day in your drawer?” “I remember.” The three photos he’d enlarged out of the hundreds he’d taken of her over the previous year. While he was deciding what to do about her. “I found the frames at an antique—” “And the fourth photo?” he asked, interrupting. He didn’t care about the fucking frames. They both looked at the remaining picture hanging in the group. The one he’d kept hidden, even from her. Especially from her. Of the woman in the white bathing suit on the beach, with an orange scarf tied around her neck.

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Caro’s warm body shifted closer to his chest as she drew her arms tighter around his neck. He suddenly felt like he was suffocating. “She’s your mother, isn’t she?” He couldn’t answer. His mouth was glued shut. “I found it while I was putting some things away in the bedroom,” she murmured. “She’s so beautiful, it’s a shame to hide her picture away like that. Strange how it looks so much like the one you took of me.” That’s when it hit him square in the gut. She didn’t even have to add, “And the victims.” Holy fuck. She knew. She knew everything. He lasered in on her gaze in heart-pounding disbelief. Forced his mouth to work. “Not so strange,” he managed. “Does it scare you?” “No,” she said, the woman he’d enslaved to his every whim, who would never be whole again without him. She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “You loved your mother.” The part he hadn’t planned on was that he’d become just as enslaved as she. And to his unending surprise, was whole for the first time in his life, too. “I love you more,” he whispered. “I know.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Now prove it.” And he did.

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About the Author While at heart, stories of romance, Nikita Black's erotic fiction allows women readers to safely explore themes which go beyond broad shoulders and sweet kisses, into the dark world of forbidden fantasies. Nikita's first erotic novella, THE RENEGADE'S WOMAN, was listed #1 in both Romance and New Releases on the E-book Bestseller List for five months following its debut in April '99. It was named the #7 overall Bestselling Ebook for 1999. CAJUN HOT, Nikita's first full-length erotic romance, was the winner of several awards, including a Dorothy Parker Award of Excellence, given by The Reviewers International Organization (RIO). Her third and most anticipated novel, SLAVE TO LOVE, was released in January 2007.

"Needless to say, I am absolutely thrilled about receiving these awards. Erotic Romance is a genre that is generally not recognized iwth such high honors. My objective in writing the Nikita Black books is to explore the depths of the erotic fantasies all women have, which have so long been denied us, or trivialized by this country's predominantly male literary critics and analysts. Nikita's raison d’être is to show women it's okay to fantasize. That it doesn't make you a pervert. Women are hungry to hear that their secret fantasies are nothing to be ashamed of, that it's perfectly normal to fantasize and that the most powerful ones are often very politically incorrect." Under the name Nina Bruhns, Nikita is a bestselling romance author who writes award-winning novels for Silhouette Romantic Suspense and now also writes paranormal romance for Silhouette Nocturne. She has won

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such prestigious awards as the National Award, the Booksellers Best Award, and Maurier Award for Best Overall Romantic for an unprecedented two years, as nominated for a RITA Award.

Readers Choice the Daphne du Suspense Novel well as being

Her books have been named as the year's Best Series Book by Romance Reviews Today, and as the year's best Intimate Moments twice by Romantic Times BookClub. For information on Nina and her upcoming releases, see www.NinaBruhns.com.

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Spicy, sensual love stories which leave a reader breathless, intense plots, alpha males, strong heroines and sizzling dialogue—find it all at Whispers! www.whispershome.com

And Coming May 2008 The Seven Wonders of the World Anthology which will include Deep Encounter, The Way to Olympia, Selkie Skin, and Transcended in the anthology entitled:

Midnight Whispers In trade paperback only For more information, please visit our website at www.whispershome.com or contact us at [email protected].