Three Dirty Secrets (Blindfold Club #4) (12 page)

I’d barely made it one step before he wrapped a hand gently around my shoulder, causing me to flinch. Just his light touch made me ache for more.

“Where are you slipping off to?” His tone was warm and soft. It made it impossible to stay immune.

“The restroom?” I lied.

“Down the hallway, on the right.”

Once I was shut inside the cramped room, I put my hands on the sink and began to reconsider what my contingency plan should be if Roland didn’t come to the gallery. My hand went to the underwire of my bra where the microphone was threaded, confirming everything was still in place.

Who was I fucking kidding? The decision had been made the second I’d laid eyes on him tonight. It was a terrible idea, but fuck it. It would be just sex, that was all. One time, I told myself. I’d have to duck back in here after the showing was over and stash the wire in my purse.

When I exited the bathroom, the crowd had thickened and I didn’t see Joseph or Silas. I took the opportunity to wander the space and survey the art, blending with the crowd.

Silas had been right. Paulo’s stuff was edgy and dark, and although it wasn’t always obvious, the feel of Chicago was buried in it. In one tall canvas, the buildings were a sickly green with deeper tones in the shadows, hinting something sinister lurked there. The next piece was an older couple sitting on a bench, their faces weary but their hands intertwined. It was a sign of strength and loyalty, and the piece was moving.

I stepped back to take it in better, only to bump into someone. A man. He turned—

His eyes filled with pleasant surprise. “Enjoying the show?” Roland asked.

It was game time. I brightened my expression and pasted on a big smile. “I am. How about you?”

He nodded, glanced around, and then his focus came back to me. Well, more onto my breasts. “Yes. I don’t think we met last time. Kirk Roland.”

I shook his extended hand, dialing back my urge to be aggressive. I like the two-handed approach so I could establish dominance, but this wasn’t the right situation for that.

“Regan.”

He clasped my hand too long and it made my skin crawl, but I was sure none of it showed. Steering the conversation the way I wanted it to go wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but his attraction to me would definitely make it easier.

“Just Regan?” His tone was coy.

I eased my lips into a seductive smile. “Just Regan.”

Step one in building the mystery. The goal was to leave him with so many questions he’d go running to the club for answers.

“Are your parents big Republicans?” he teased.

“No, they’re fans of
The Exorcist
.”

Roland hesitated. “Really?”

“No, not really. They’re just Irish.” I began to move forward to the next painting, subtly getting him to follow. I was in control, leading him, both physically and mentally. “Did you see anything you liked for the congressman?”

“A few. I think this one here is the winner.”

The square canvas hung at a forty-five-degree angle, so it was shaped like a diamond. The bottom point was the dark city skyline, and the moon rose high in the sky above. Green fog glowed behind the buildings. With this collection, it fit in as ominous, but on its own . . . it was hauntingly beautiful.

“It’s stunning, and it definitely says Chicago.” The unmistakable spires of the Hancock building were visible.

“So, I guess I need to find the owner and ask how much it is.” Roland made an attempt to look for Silas, but his attention seemed fixed on me. “You know him. Is he a reasonable guy?”

Was he fishing for information on my relationship with Silas? “I don’t know him well, but he seems fair.”

“Oh? I thought you two were—”

“No. He’d just done a tattoo for me.”

Roland leaned subtly closer, his hands going behind his back. I clenched my teeth together so tightly I was sure I was going to crack my jaw, but my fake smile remained in place. Could he be any more obvious? I’d bet a million dollars he was tugging his wedding ring off so he could slip it in his pocket.

Too late, cheating bastard. I don’t miss much.

“I didn’t know he did tattoos.” Roland grimaced like he thought less of Silas, which was ridiculous. I had half the mind to take him upstairs and show him the beautiful photo of the tattoo hanging in Silas’s kitchen, but I couldn’t imagine either man would like that. Plus, I didn’t want to be alone with Roland, even if it would help my audio recording.

“Yeah, a friend recommended him,” I said. “How’d you hear about Silas’s gallery?”

“One of his paintings is in the federal building, a few floors down from my office. Turns out his sister’s a U.S. Marshal, and she gave me his name.” He finished the glass of wine in his hand. “So, Miss Regan No-last-name, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a sales assistant at an exclusive night club.”

I gauged his reaction carefully. The hesitation that appeared was quickly replaced with intrigue. “Exclusive?”

He hit on the keyword just as I hoped he would. Appealing to his pride and status was a surefire way to get him hooked. “Yes. We have to be selective about who can become a member.”

His eyebrows tugged together. “Why?”

“For a lot of reasons, one of which is our clients prefer discretion.” I let out a breath and leaned close, setting my hand lightly on his arm. “It’s so they can enjoy safely, without consequences or judgement.”

His voice was hushed. “Enjoy what?”

I made a show of glancing around, hinting I was letting him in on a big secret. “An experience you can’t get anywhere else and pleasure like you—” I drew back and pretended to be embarrassed. “What am I doing? I shouldn’t talk about it. We’ve got a lot of powerful members, but you work for a congressman.”

I weighted my words, acting as if I was impressed with Bennett’s office. There was a spark of desire in Roland’s muddy-colored eyes, not for me, but to be included in this mysterious and exclusive club.

“Don’t worry about that. Your secret’s safe with me.” His voice was tight with what I assumed was excitement. “I mean, as long as we’re not talking about something illegal.”

“No, we’re not.” This was true in a basic sense. The blindfold club was set up completely legit on paper. The girls never touched the money or negotiated purchase price directly, and the johns were instructed they were bidding on a bottle of wine. Whatever happened between the girl on the table and the purchaser after the sales assistant left was between them.

“But,” I continued, “the club isn’t for everyone. There are plenty of people who are closed-minded, and we don’t want membership to tarnish anyone’s reputation.”

I ran a hand through my hair, shaking out the kinks, and glanced around again, keeping up the guise I was suspicious. Then I dipped my hand into my purse and pulled out a business card, keeping it tightly hidden in my palm.

“I’m going to give you my card, but please promise you’ll tear it up if you’re not interested.” Now is when I chose to go in for the kill. How he reacted to my next move was everything. I slipped my hand inside his jacket, placing the card in his interior pocket, brushing my fingertips over his chest as I withdrew. “The place is a fantasy, any desire you want. All you need is an open mind. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

I nodded, knowing this would get him to nod in agreement with me.

His eyes were big and his expression surprised, but his head moved, bobbing right along with mine, even as he visibly swallowed hard. Now I had to make my exit to leave him wanting more.

It worked out so perfectly it was like it had been orchestrated. Silas emerged from the people and I gestured to him. “There’s the owner,” I said to Roland.

As Silas approached, I uttered a quick goodbye and used the opportunity to slink away. I stood in the far corner of the gallery, my gaze occasionally drifting back to the two men who appeared deep in discussion.

The guests in attendance began to thin, and I went to the table at the back where I could snag a bottle of water. The FBI agent in me demanded I leave, but the woman whose sex drive was out of control pleaded to stay. And what would I be going home to? My vibrator and whatever free porn I could find quickly. Why do that, when I could stay and fuck the gorgeous artist who’d already proven he knew his way around my body?

I drank the bottle quickly, tossing it in the bin for recycling, and went back into the party, this time studying the art that was obviously Silas’s. He seemed to love patterns. Designs emerged from everyday items in his photographs and drawings, and now I realized exactly which painting Roland had referred to. I’d been involved in a briefing last year with the Marshals, and I’d seen the striking black and white photo of the sun reflecting off the Willis Tower windows. A pattern glowed against the black.

The back of my neck tingled. It always happened when my subconscious was aware of something before the rest of me.

Holy fucking shit.

Victor Bennett stood a few feet away, his gaze studying me.

Bennett was mid-forties and kept himself in shape, a product of his divorce, it seemed, or possibly gearing up for re-election. Or maybe the stress of all his shady deals was getting to him, although he didn’t look stressed. He wore a tailored navy suit, which made the American flag pin on his lapel pop. God, he always seemed to have that pin, like it was a uniform. Did he have it on his pajamas too?

His dark hair was parted down the side and styled expertly. He wasn’t unattractive, but I found his eyes a little too close together, and his smile gave me the creeps. Other women might call him handsome, but not me.

My intense dislike of him wasn’t grounded in anything concrete, but I’d heard enough murmurs and there’d been too many coincidences. He’d gotten far too close with the CEO of a major healthcare provider, and his voting always seemed to favor his friends. And I’d witnessed enough of the same behavior from others who’d been corrupted by power to see those traits in him. The lavish parties, the excessive vacations, the way his supporters always seemed to land coveted positions. Crooked politicians were a way of life in Chicago, and I knew with certainty Victor Bennett was one of them.

His black eyes sharpened as if he were assessing me for flaws. My stomach turned. I didn’t care how smooth he thought he appeared. This guy had the same aloof, elitist look of a prison guard, telling me I should feel lucky to breathe the same air as him.

FBI training dictated I should go and strike up a conversation, but my feet wore shoes made of cement.

“Regan.” It was Roland, who had materialized at my side. “Would you like to meet the congressman?”

I gave a tight smile, swallowed back the nausea, and nodded.

“Victor Bennett.” The congressman threw the words like he was lobbing a grenade. “Nice to meet you.” He made a production of checking his expensive-looking wristwatch. “Kirk, we need to go.”

“Got it.” Roland’s gaze returned to me. “Maybe I’ll see you again some time?” His hand patted his chest, right where my card sat inside his pocket.

“Hopefully,” I answered, forcing a playful tone.

Bennett cast a final look my direction, and his expression was unnerving. I watched the men go and . . . what the hell was that? I couldn’t tell if he wanted to fuck me or murder me.

Silas was on the other side of the room, chatting with Andre, but the conversation came to an end and the sexy-as-fuck artist began his approach.

“I’m going to be another ten minutes,” he said. “If you want, you can hang out upstairs.”

“In your place?” My voice was dubious.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

He didn’t have a clue he was offering an FBI agent unsupervised time in his personal space. Dangerous. If I wanted to, I could probably discover all his secrets with a quick, ten-minute investigative search. Although I wouldn’t mind learning more about him, I shook my head.

“I’m fine. Do whatever you need to.”

His eyes flashed with a devious look. “I plan to.”

Chapter

TEN

I sat on Silas’s workbench, the one covered with multicolored paint splatters, and watched him work. After the showing had ended and the guests left, I helped Andre and Silas with cleanup, which wasn’t a big deal, but they were appreciative. Really I’d done it to stay busy. I was operating right on the cusp of coming to my senses and fleeing the gallery, so it was a welcomed distraction to put used wine glasses back into racks.

The wire had been shut off and tucked inside my purse, shoved all the way to the bottom, just in case. The action had been a bit of a relief. Even though the recording was worthless, having the audio off was like being off the clock.

I could almost be the real me tonight.

Silas moved to the tempo of the music he’d put on, but he seemed to do it unconsciously. The rock song was guitars and drums, with a rough, bluesy feel. It fit my mood perfectly because it sounded like a good song to fuck to.

He’d done some of the photography setup before the party. There was a large white backdrop in a corner of the space. The thick paper lay flat on the floor and curved upward to the ceiling so it was seamless. I admired the view as he finished placing the final lighting stand. He’d shed his dress shirt and revealed the white undershirt beneath that clung to his perfect form. My eyes followed his movement, and I wished he’d lose the pants next.