The Taken (21 page)

“Oh, my. Tears at a charity ball. That won’t do.”

The voice popped up behind them, smooth as whiskey poured over ice, and Kit turned to find a handsome man with silver hair, a dark tuxedo, and a gaze that was both open and calculating at once.

“Mr. Chambers,” Kit blurted, tucking the cloth away. Sniffling, she nodded at the petite woman next to him, and gave a small smile to the young girl on his other side. “I’m Kit Craig. This is my date, Griffin Shaw.”

“I know who you are, Ms. Craig. Read your paper every day,” Chambers said pleasantly. He then turned his blinding smile on Grif, who managed a sort of grimace in return. “Pleasure, Mr. Shaw. This is my wife, Anabelle. One of my girls, Charlotte.”

Though she was chic in black, with golden hair as glossy as her lips, the hand that Mrs. Chambers offered Kit was as insincere and brittle as her smile. Charlotte, who looked to be around thirteen, ducked her head and gave a soft hello. She, too, was in black, and though the dress was age appropriate, she was swimming in it. She wriggled at the introduction, a bit nervous, a bit bored, and it was clear to Kit that she’d been introduced to people all night.

Kit smiled at the little girl. “You have six daughters, if my research is correct?”

“Research, is it?” Chambers laughed, and even that was warm and rich, like hot chocolate. “Actually it’s six daughters and two boys now. Another on the way.”

“Congratulations,” Kit said to Anabelle, surprised. The woman was so thin she wouldn’t have guessed. But what do I know, she thought, kicking herself mentally. Mrs. Chambers, who—research showed—had four children by the time she was Kit’s age, was the expert. Not her.

The woman placed a hand over the near-imperceptible bump rising beneath her plain tunic. “We’re very blessed.”

“But why the tears, dear?” Chambers asked, shunting their blessings aside, his voice dripping concern. “I saw you dancing, looking happy enough, only minutes ago.”

“Well, she had a friend who liked to dance, too,” Grif said, getting right to the point. Kit would have kicked him if she could’ve done so without being seen.

Chambers’s smooth brow furrowed. “Oh?”

Kit cleared her throat. “My best friend, a photographer at the paper, died earlier this week.”

“Murdered, actually,” Grif clarified, and while Chambers’s attention was on him, Kit saw his wife’s face briefly crumble, then clear. Chambers, though, remained as implacable as before.

“Oh, yes. I read about that. A lovely young girl, if the photo was any indication. What was her name again? Rocky, Rockson—”

“Rockwell,” Kit said, still following Grif’s lead. This time she was grateful. “Nicole Rockwell.”

Tsking, Chambers shook his head. “Do the police have any leads?”

“No,” Grif said. “But we were hoping you might provide one.”

Now Anabelle let out a surprised gasp. Charlotte inched closer to her mother and grasped at her hand. A frown appeared between the slim brows, and it was clear she understood there was something else going on here, even if she didn’t know what.

A flicker, the slightest irritation, flashed in the older man’s eyes. “I can’t see how.”

Kit laid a hand atop Grif’s arm. If he was playing bad cop, she would play good. “Your name was on a list that was delivered to us, that’s all.”

A silver brow raised in surprise. “Any idea who sent the list?”

“No, but the names on it are rather remarkable. In fact, most of the men on it are present here tonight.”

“So let me get this straight,” Chambers said, eyes narrowed. “You’re
not
really here to support my charity for children in need?”

“Not here for the canapés, either,” Grif said coolly.

“Mama,” Charlotte clutched at her mother, holding her by the forearms as the woman’s face drained of color, and she staggered back.

The look Chambers gave Grif this time was downright hostile. Progress, Kit thought, even as he turned smoothly to his wife. “Please take Charlotte upstairs now. She may have some ice cream before she goes to bed.”

If his curt tone or lack of comfort bothered Anabelle, she didn’t show it. Instead, she turned on her sensible heels and steered Charlotte stiffly through the crowd. Or was it the other way around? Kit wondered, watching them carefully. They headed directly up the right side of the staircase splitting the room, nodding at guests but never stopping. And if Kit wasn’t mistaken, there was a perceptible relief in Anabelle’s shoulders, and yes, there it was. Charlotte took the lead, guiding her mother instead of the reverse. Kit frowned . . . but by then Chambers had whirled back around.

“I don’t know what you two are after, but that was entirely inappropriate. This is not the time or place for gross accusations.”

Grif tilted his head. “There’s a time and place for those?”

Chambers grew so still the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Then he leaned close. “Some nosy little girl gets taken out by bad guys in a bad place she had no business being, well . . . I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“She was investigating a prostitution ring,” Kit said, just as pointedly, if louder. “A source told her that you, and many of the men here tonight, were involved.”

“Then maybe she should have been a bit more selective about her sources.” He straightened his tux impatiently. “I’ve been the target of rumor, innuendo, and extortion for too long to get worked up by some young reporter’s overactive imagination. But when I’ve invited you into my own home, for a holiday charity event, then I expect you to bring your manners along with you.”

He gestured to someone behind them. Kit had an image of being escorted out into the dark by Schmidt, and her heart jumped.

“Kicking us out?” said Grif, reading at least part of her thoughts.

“On the contrary,” Chambers said, as a hostess arrived with a tray full of drinks. He removed two fresh flutes and offered them to Kit and Grif. “Make yourselves at home. Enjoy the festivities while you can.”

He turned, but paused in his retreat to stare her down. Kit’s mouth dried, her pulse quickened, and she had to concentrate just to hold on to her champagne flute. Had she ever been looked at in such a way before? Like he was seeing her and not. Like she was an object that had been propped in the wrong place.

“If you ever have so-called evidence linking me to a horrific crime again, I suggest running it by the police before you go running your mouth. Or you might find yourself on the losing end of a very large lawsuit. And I don’t believe your little family newspaper needs that, do you?” Then he straightened, blinked like he was coming out of a trance, jerked at his jacket lapels, and walked away as if they didn’t exist.

“Was that a veiled threat?” Kit asked Grif, ignoring a pointed glare from Paul as he headed directly toward Chambers.

“I didn’t see any veil.”

Neither had Kit. Sipping from her flute, trying not to shake, she looked around again for Schmidt, but saw only other guests, most now eyeing them warily.

“Notice he didn’t ask exactly what kind of list he was on,” Grif said. “Grocery list. Mailing list. Prize chump of the year list.”

“I did notice. But we still have no evidence linking him to the Wayfarer.” And now she was also on the bad side of the most powerful man in the city.

Grif tsk-ed insincerely, jerking his head at Paul, who’d finally caught up to Chambers, though he looked like he wished he hadn’t. “And with his reputation at stake, too.”

“It’s not funny, Grif.” Kit whirled to the windows and placed her flute on the sill so she could cover her face with her hands. Outside the wind ripped around trees that had no business being in the desert, the sound as foreign to Kit as an ocean rushing the shore. For a moment, she imagined herself far away.

Then Grif’s arm slid over her shoulders, and he pulled her close. “Hey, now. It’s all right. I don’t think you were going to make his Christmas card list this year anyway.”

Kit knew he was right, but was suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of what she was doing. She really could lose it all—her reputation, the paper . . . her life. Who the hell was she? And what was she trying to prove? “This whole thing is a catastrophe.”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?” A disbelieving snort escaped her. “Shouldn’t an angel be better at cheering me up?”

Grif removed his arm, making her wish she hadn’t swiped at him, but then he lowered his elbows to the sill and joined her in looking out at the dark. “I can tell you one thing.”

“What?” Kit asked, not sure she wanted to know.

“Top-secret angel stuff. Gotta promise not to put it in print.”

“Shaw.”

He smiled slightly as he lifted his gaze to the stars. “You can’t quit, Kitty-cat. You call this a catastrophe, but take it from me, the line between a catastrophe and a miracle is a fine one.”

Kit shook her head. “You say the damnedest things, Mr. Shaw.”

“Thank you, Miss Craig.” Straightening, he offered his arm. “Now, come on . . . there’s got to be someone else in here we can piss off.”

“Yes.” Kit sighed. “We seem to be very good at that.”

Chapter Sixteen

G
rif and Kit remained at the ball despite a sudden and clear non-grata status, a state made more apparent when the waitresses ceased offering them drinks. But Kit redeemed herself by participating in the auction, doing brief battle with another woman before winning a spa package for two to some chichi Strip resort, earning an acknowledging nod from Chambers.

There was something about the man, Grif thought, studying Chambers’s demeanor as he moved, too smooth, through the room. Ignore the monkey suit, the moneyed air, the constant ass-kissing that Chambers had to practically swivel to avoid. Forget that they’d just met. Grif
knew
this guy. He reminded him of a fighter who’d once sucker-punched Grif in the ring. Neither the largest nor the strongest, the man had a meanness to his eye that Grif had been on the lookout for ever since. Chambers had it, too.

Grif was so focused on him that Kit’s low whisper didn’t register at first, though her body heat did. “I think we’re going to have to split up.”

“Not a chance.”

“Look around, Grif. There’s something else going on here. For example, have you noticed a distinct whiteness to this crowd?”

“Mormon,” Grif pointed out.

“This isn’t a Mormon function,” she returned. “And even the servers are all white.”

Not to mention female. At some point the male waiters had all been dismissed, and only the hostesses remained behind.

“And did you notice that the men are disappearing in clumps? Most aren’t heading back to the tram, either.”

He had noticed. There’d been a slow, intermittent exodus to a doorway tucked beneath the split-V staircase, clearly guarded by a man with an earpiece and battle guns for forearms.

Kit bit her wide bottom lip and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Something else is going on, and I think it’s behind that door. But I don’t think I can get there.”

“Well, I’m not leaving you.” Grif had seen the look Chambers had given her. It had him looking for plasma. And for Schmidt.

“Look, I’m too well-known for anything to happen to me here. Besides, we haven’t even seen Schmidt. So what do you say I stay here and you go storm the castle.”

He eyed her coolly. “You’ll stay here?”

“We need to know what’s going on behind those doors, and I can’t do it.”

Grif wasn’t even sure he could. But five minutes later, when Chambers completed his final round with the remaining guests, the man’s implacable smile slipped as he nodded at the door’s guard, and Grif had to watch, frustrated, while he disappeared inside.

“Stay in plain sight,” Grif ordered Kit. “I mean it.”

Kit saluted as he headed across the ballroom. “You’re the alpha angel.”

Smart-ass. That’s why he was already scowling when he approached the guard.

“Your ticket, sir?” the man said, before Grif had even come to a stop.

“I gave it to the girl out front,” Grif said, taking a step forward.

As expected, the guard intercepted. “I mean the other ticket, sir.”

Grif had no idea what that meant. “Guess I misplaced it.”

“Well, I hope you find it soon.” And the guard folded his arms in front of him and looked away.

Grif huffed, and tried another tack. “Look, Mr. Chambers is expecting me.”

“Not without a ticket, he’s not.”

Grif was mulling over his options when the door behind them reopened, and Chambers himself appeared. “It’s okay, Trevor. Mr. Shaw is one of our invited guests.”

“Of course, Mr. Chambers.” Trevor moved aside and Grif resisted patting him on the head as he followed Chambers inside. He shadowed him through a winding hallway, low-lit, carpeted, whispering of privacy.

“Is there a camera in here somewhere?” Grif asked, knowing there was but still surprised by Chambers’s easy nod. How else would the man have known Grif was outside the door?

But why did a man need cameras in his own house?

“No women allowed back here?” Grif asked, still probing.

Chambers’s glance was smeared with a smile. “What kind of party would it be without women?”

“What kind of party is it now?”

“You’d know if you had a ticket,” Chambers said, smile growing.

“Well, I’m an invited guest.”

They were circling, taking jabs, feeling each other out. Looking for tells, and waiting for the other to show a weakness. What Grif didn’t know was, were they opponents or just sparring partners?

Chambers came to a stop with his hand on another closed door. Music and laughter seeped through the cracks, and Grif relaxed fractionally. “Yes, you are a guest. And as such I expect your utmost discretion regarding the activities behind these doors. If it were to get out . . .”

“Yes?” Grif raised a brow.

Chambers smiled. “Everyone would want a ticket.”

Grif inclined his head.

And Chambers pushed open the door to reveal a curtained vestibule holding a dark, gilded podium. A woman stood behind it, wearing slim gold heels, perfume that reminded Grif of citrus on a hot wind, and the most revealing lingerie Grif had ever seen. Grif swallowed hard and she responded with a smile almost as blinding as the jewels around her neck.

One point for Chambers, Grif thought, feeling the man’s eyes on him. “Mr. Shaw, meet Melody, your personal concierge. Melody, this is Griffin Shaw. It’s his first time at the dance.”

Melody couldn’t have been a handful of years out of her teens, but slipped to Grif’s side with a well-practiced sway. She had large eyes in a heart-shaped face, and a tiny nose with the slightest dusting of freckles. Her dusky hair was shot through with subtle blond streaks, and her firm skin wore a color that could only come from the sun. But that adornment stopped there.

Her negligee skimmed the top of her thighs, and shimmered over the peaks of tight, smooth breasts. Leaning into him, she pressed jutting, gold-tipped nipples against his arm, and linked her slim fingers with his. Her warm, orange-grove scent washed over him again as she purred, “At your service, Mr. Shaw. If you see anything you like, anything you want, you need only give the word. I’m here for you.”

Grif cleared his throat in response.

Snorting, Chambers turned toward a wall with parted curtains, and another woman appeared instantly. So the vestibule was also heavily monitored, Grif thought. And this woman was most decidedly
not
Mrs. Chambers. Blond as Marilyn Monroe, with similarly lush curves, she, too, was impossibly tan. Surprisingly, she wore even less than Melody, and she clung to Chambers’s arm without reserve, face turned adoringly up to his.

The world’s shortest skirt, ostensibly white, skimmed her upper thighs, though like the bikini top, it was utterly transparent. The skirt swirled as Chambers guided her around, revealing red palm marks on her behind as she quickstepped, fighting not to topple over in her heels. Grif got the feeling that Chambers was parading her, trying to provoke another reaction.

Grif was a red-blooded man, so there was definitely a reaction, but he was also a gentleman, so it was involuntary. Chambers still shot him a knowing look, then looped an arm over the woman’s shoulders and began toying with her exposed nipple. When Grif just lifted his chin, he said, “Shall we?”

The ballroom had been grand, the slim passageway private, but this room was opulent and rosy, with a thickly carpeted floor, silk-papered walls, and damask curtains hanging from ceiling to floor. Hurricane lamps offered the room’s only light, providing shadowed alcoves and niches where men and their dates could repose in private.

Not that most of them bothered.

Grif now expected the women, scantily clad, but what he didn’t figure on was for them to be draped across every surface, vertical or horizontal, some spotlit or uplit, others dripping shadows. Some were dancing, or moving to a beat that matched someone’s idea of music, while others writhed on pedestals that looked like blocks of ice. Alone or in pairs, they were all smiling and taking requests from the men who were gathered around in groups—smoking, drinking, even reaching out intermittently to sample the golden, embellished flesh.

The largest platform was located in the room’s center, where not one but two women were performing for a cluster of men. The two kissed, sliding their hands up each other’s slim wrists and arms, cupping their soft faces and necks, taking turns tipping their elegant heads back to allow access to their lips, necks . . . breasts. One of the women slipped pink manicured fingertips between the other’s legs, who arched back in response.

The men applauded.

Grif turned away. Score another point for Chambers, Grif thought, and while the other man didn’t gloat, it wasn’t because he was beyond it . . . it was because he was already leading Grif to a roped-off alcove with two chairs and a table draped in black silk between them. Once seated—once his fawning escort was kneeling beside him—he motioned for Grif to sit as well.

“So what brings you to Vegas?” Chambers asked conversationally, like there wasn’t a half-naked woman sliding a hand over his crotch.

Grif cleared his throat, trying to ignore Melody, who was clinging to him like her life depended on it. “Not this, that’s for sure.”

All these women. What were they doing here? And why? He could barely stand it for them.

“Fair enough. After all, women are a ubiquitous commodity. You can get this anywhere.” Eyes cold, he jerked his chin at Melody. “Mr. Shaw needs a minute to acclimate. Go get him a drink.”

“Of course.” She leaned over Grif, looming close so the gold-tipped cleavage was even with his nose. “Signal me when you’re ready, darling.”

Watching her saunter away, Grif wondered if vomiting on his shoes would be considered a signal.

Chambers’s girl made to follow, but he stopped her by grabbing a handful of hair. “Not you, dear. Back on your knees. And be discreet.”

Though her eyes were watering, and the strain showed in her neck, she managed a tight smile, which widened when she swiveled back around. Only then did Chambers loosen his hold on her hair.

“Always,” she managed, and made to kiss him on the lips. But Chambers turned his head, his expression sour, and the woman improvised with a quick nibble on his earlobe before she sunk out of sight. The tablecloth lifted, a zipper sounded, and Chambers held Grif’s gaze, unblinking. Then one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, and he held his right hand out to the side. Another concierge materialized immediately to hand him a cigar and snifter, before melting away. Without taking his eyes off Grif, Chambers slid lower into his seat.

Grif returned the cold stare. Opponents, he knew now. Not sparring partners.

“You really should try this,” Chambers said, puffing away. He wasn’t talking about the cigar.

“I’m here to talk murder, Mr. Chambers.”

“Hear that, Bethany? You’re going to have to work extra hard.” A blond head popped up to respond. One-handed, he pushed it back down.

“A woman was murdered after being provided a list with your name on it,” Grif continued.

“Among other names, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Others in this room.”

Eyes half-lidded, Chambers sipped. “And?”

“And she was investigating a prostitution ring.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Chambers laughed, a hearty, hard sound. “Look around. Does any woman here look like they’d be caught dead at a shitbox like the Wayfarer?”

Grif and Kit had never mentioned the Wayfarer, and Chambers realized it immediately. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

“This is
my
city, Mr. Shaw,” Chambers said now, carelessly flicking ash on the floor. “I have a vested interest in everything that happens here.”

“Then I’d expect you to be more concerned when an innocent woman is butchered.”

Chambers didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he slid further back into his seat, eyes glazing slightly. “What’s the big deal? Every woman plays the whore at one time or another. Nicole Rockwell just died while doing it.”

The cameras, and the beef at the door, were all that kept Grif from lunging. “You don’t like women much, do you?” he asked tightly.

Chambers laughed, and puffed at his cigar. “I’m surrounded by women. In my work, my family, my church. Outnumbered really. I know women better than most men ever do.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and wanna know what most men don’t?” Chambers asked, leaning forward. “That even you don’t seem to know?”

Grif raised his brows.

“They’re just one enormous, intractable problem after another.”

He smiled, leaned back, and tilted his head, eyeing Grif from the corner before closing his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Grif looked away, but there was nowhere decent to set his gaze. Nude, intractable “problems” lay everywhere. Was this what the world had come to? There’d been prostitution in his day—any day—he knew that and had never considered himself a prude. But this . . . these men weren’t just treating these women as objects . . . they were treating them as
other
.