Timeless (12 page)

He must realize it too, because he wordlessly sets his flogger down and says something to Tyler before approaching me.

“Ari, you’re a beautiful woman and I find you incredibly attractive, but I won’t compete with another Dom, even one who’s not here. Do you want to stay and play with Tyler?”

“Um, of course,” I manage.

Michael nods. “Maybe he’ll have better luck. Come by Dominic’s club in Houston sometime if things don’t work out with the other guy. I’m there most Saturday nights.”

I nod, mentally kicking myself for losing my chance with such a good-looking guy who could be perfect for me, and who’s obviously also a fairly decent human being. Unlike the bastard who effortlessly convinced me to do wicked and depraved things with him all weekend—even made me beg for some of them—and then basically kicked me out with barely a goodbye.

Tyler steps into my field of vision. “Do you want to continue?”

I nod.

One calloused finger under my chin tilts my gaze up to his. “Are you sure?”

His kind but penetrating gaze is my undoing, and to my horror, I feel my eyes fill with tears. What the hell is wrong with me?

“I’m sorry,” I begin, but he holds his hand up, stopping me.

“No apologies necessary, pet,” he says, unbuckling me from the cross. “But I think it’s best we save this for another time when you’re sure about what you want.”

I nod miserably and hastily slip back into my dress as he stops a passing waitress, asking her for a pen. He takes my hand and holding it in his, scrawls a number across my open palm. “Here’s my number if you ever want to pick up where we left off.”

Then he’s gone, no doubt off to find someone else more interested in playing with him. I groan. What the hell is wrong with me? This is the final party of the weekend—some sort of Great Gatsby-themed murder mystery—and my last chance to find someone besides Marcus Dunn who can ignite the passion in me. Maybe a little alcohol will help me relax and get back into the groove of things.

I go the bar and order a glass of red wine.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Dominic’s cultured voice at my ear has me turning around and smiling back at him.

“Yes. The time I’ve been able to spend here has been amazing. You’ve done an incredible job putting all of this together. It’s been beyond my expectations. I just wish I hadn’t missed everything yesterday.”

“There’s still time,” he says kindly. “Is Marcus joining us this evening?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say frostily. At Dominic’s quiet but piercing stare, I add miserably, “No. I don’t think so. He has no desire to continue anything with me. And I definitely don’t want to spend any more time with him.”

A faint smile plays at Dominic’s lips. He pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to me. I look down and read the name of Marcus’ law firm printed in black letters. I flip it over and see a telephone number scrawled across the back.

“I think you might be surprised what Marcus actually wants. That’s his cell number. You should call him if you change your mind.”

“Oh, I definitely won’t,” I assure him, trying to hand the card back.

He folds my fingers over it. “Keep it, Ariana. Who knows? If nothing else, maybe it will come in handy someday if you ever need an attorney.”

“The only attorney I’ll need is one to defend me for the things I want to do to him,” I mutter darkly, but I tuck the card into my bra anyway.

“Hello, darling. Who’s your charming friend?”

I look up to see a beautiful blond outfitted in black leather and tall stiletto boots eyeing me up and down. She looks vaguely familiar.

“I’m Ari. Did we meet Friday?”

“My apologies,” Dominic says smoothly. “This is Bridget. Or Mistress Bridget, I should say. She arrived yesterday right before the storm shut everything down.”

I’ll be damned! That’s why she looks so familiar. This is Marcus’ Bridget, the jeweler who was attacked and beat up and then filed an insurance claim for a cool two million. The dominatrix look threw me a bit, but now I can see the resemblance to the picture in Marcus’ file. Even though I know I have no obligation to Marcus, the FBI agent in me can’t turn her back on a little investigating.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say with a smile. “I missed out on most of the activities yesterday. I was especially sorry to miss the flogging demonstration.”

“It was fabulous,” she says enthusiastically. Dominic excuses himself as she continues. “I was just going to practice a little bit of what I learned. Would you like to see? I’m assuming you are more interested in being demonstrated on than wielding the flogger?” She arches one perfect eyebrow at me.

Oh god. I don’t even have to fake the innocent and nervous ingénue act. I have never played with another woman, and the thought is nerve-wracking. But not nerve-wracking enough for me to turn my back on the chance to talk to her and try to get some information.

“Um, sure,” I say hesitantly.

“Don’t worry, darling. I won’t bite,” she says with a throaty laugh.

We make small talk as we walk through the great room, stopping for her to choose a big heavy flogger with thick, wide falls. I innocently ask her what she does for a living and she candidly tells me she’s in jewelry sales. We laugh about the job perks of being a woman in the jewelry business, and then I ask her how she knew about the retreat. I’ve been an agent long enough to know that coincidences are rare. If I had to guess, I’d say she followed Marcus and was hoping to run into him here, possibly using his participation as a way to blackmail him into backing off of his investigation. I find it interesting that she chose to masquerade as a Domme instead of a submissive.

As she instructs me to lean over the padded bench we have stopped next to, I find myself hoping she’s actually dominant enough to wield a flogger properly, because my ass is already sore. Damn Marcus for making it sore in the first place and for me willingly subjecting it to more abuse because of him. But I do it anyway.

I hesitantly lean over the padded bench so that my torso rests on it. Soft slender hands pull my short dress up over my hips, exposing my ass in the thong I’m wearing. It feels totally wrong, and I realize what a difference a rough and commanding masculine hand makes!

I can feel the presence of another person behind me joining us, but I can’t see them without turning around. I try to look, but strong male hands seize mine, pinning them behind me at the small of my back. I feel the beginnings of panic flutter in my chest, and I remind myself that not only am I a skilled FBI agent, but I’m also in a crowded room with Dominic and a bunch of other people nearby who will rescue me in a moment if I use the club safe word. Still, there’s something about the situation that has me wishing I’d had a place to tuck my gun when I came downstairs.

“This is Justin. He’s going to make sure you don’t go anywhere,” Bridget says silkily. “Just relax.”

I wonder briefly if Justin is her driver. I don’t have time to wonder anything else because I’m too busy trying to take her advice as the flogger makes contact with my ass. She doesn’t have the finesse of either Marcus or Michael, and the leather strands sting like fire since she hasn’t taken the time to warm up my skin first. I flinch at the first blow. She takes aim and strikes again, catching me at the top of my thighs. I jolt, but Justin tightens his grip on my wrists, pressing me more firmly down onto the bench.

“You see, it’s all in the flick of the wrist,” Bridget says conversationally as the flogger makes full contact with the fleshiest part of my butt cheeks. “So where were you yesterday that you missed the demonstration?”

Thwack! The flogger hits my already tender flesh again and I gasp. There is nothing erotic about this at all.

“Um,” I hesitate.

The sharp sting of the flogger has me scrambling to answer. “I was with an old friend. We got stranded by the snow.”

The flogger continues to strike my ass, punctuating each question she fires at me. Where were we? Did my friend come back with me today? I shut out the pain, narrowing my focus to her and her questions. I answer them noncommittally, careful not to give her the information that she wants.

I see the flogger out of the corner of my eye as she pulls her arm back, intent on delivering what will probably be the most painful blow yet. And in a moment of clarity everything becomes crystal clear—that niggling doubt Marcus had about her story and the inconsistencies with her injuries.

I don’t even notice the next few blows of the flogger; my mind is too busy trying to figure out what to do next. I finally mutter something about having to use the restroom and the man holding my wrists begrudgingly lets me go. I ease my skirt over my bare ass gingerly. Fuck. I’m not going to be able to sit down for a week.

“You should come back to our room with me and Justin,” she says casually. “We could have a few drinks so you can relax and we can play some more…”

“Maybe another time.” The hairs on my arms are standing up and something about this is starting to feel totally wrong. “Thanks for the demonstration,” I say, trying to muster a genuine-looking smile. “I’ll see you around.”

I fight the urge to run, deliberately slowing my walk and swinging my hips provocatively as I walk to the restroom. I take my time, hoping Bridget and her goon will have moved on to another target. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, they’re nowhere in sight. Breathing a sigh of relief, I head to the welcome table, looking for Gavin. I find him there, busily setting up a tower of champagne glasses for the Gatsby party. He smiles when he sees me.

“I saw you with those two hunky guys. Did you flog that man out of your hair?” he asks, smiling wickedly.

I laugh. “Not exactly,” I hedge. “I think I’m going to call it a weekend. Listen, could you get a message to Marcus for me?”

“Dominic said he gave you his card. Why don’t you message Mr. Dominant and Sexy yourself?”

“Because I’ve vowed to never to speak to that mother-fucking bastard again,” I say evenly. I sigh. “But I found out something he needs to know for his case. Will you do it? Please?” I bat my eyelashes at him winningly.

“Fine,” he sighs melodramatically, but he’s grinning.

“Tell him Bridget is right-handed. The guys who attacked her were right-handed. Or rather, there were no guys, because her jaw was broken on right side. She beat herself up to make it look like she was robbed.” Noticing Gavin’s confused look I say, “Forget it. Just tell him she’s right-handed. He’ll know what I mean.”

I suddenly want nothing more than to just be home where I can lick my wounds in private, focus on work, and forget all about Marcus and the wicked desires he ignited. I don’t even want to stay for the murder mystery, especially with Bridget looking for answers from me. I just want to go back to my room, go to bed early, and forget this whole weekend ever happened.

I’ve just gotten off the elevator when I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I immediately assume the defensive position I’m trained for, hyper aware of everything going on around me. Bridget’s eyes widen innocently as she steps out of the shadows with Justin right behind her.

“Oh, look, Justin. There she is. It looks like we’ll have our little plaything for the evening after all.”

She takes a step forward and I stand on the balls of my feet, ready for either of them to make a move. Thanks to constant training in the martial arts—both Jiu Jitsu and Krav Maga, which aren’t dependent on strength and force—I’m pretty confident I can take them both, even without my gun. But I wasn’t counting on a third person. I hear a muted ping as the elevator doors open behind me, and then vice-like arms grip me as a hood is yanked over my head. I struggle, using my center of gravity to shove whoever is behind me off their feet. There’s a grunt and a startled swear word followed by a sharp pain in my leg, and then everything goes black.

Fuck this. I’ve spent the last six hours since Ari left doing my damnedest to forget the heated look in her eyes, the feel of her skin, and that intoxicating laugh of hers that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and never let her go. I’ve chopped enough wood to heat a small village for a year, run ten miles in the snow, cleaned the cabin from top to bottom, and gone over a few of the cases I brought with me, but I can’t seem to shake the memories of her. Hell, I can still smell her. I may have to sell the damn cabin, because everywhere I turn I see her—sitting on my lap in the hot tub, bent over the couch with her ass deliciously pink, lying in my arms on the rug in front of the fire, sitting at my kitchen table with her forehead furrowed in thought, draped over the arm chair with her legs spread open…

I finally throw in the towel and decide to head back to San Diego a day early. Staying here is doing me no good at all. I’m hastily throwing my clothes into a bag when my phone rings. I lunge for it, some small part of me hoping it’s her. But of course it can’t be. I didn’t give her my number, and even if I had, I sealed my fate by acting like a complete and total asshole to her today—pretending indifference to her leaving and barely even saying goodbye after everything that happened between us this weekend. I’ve guaranteed she will never speak to me again.

“Hello,” I bark more sharply than I intended.

There’s a long pause of silence on the other end, and then I hear Gavin’s voice, hesitantly telling me that Ari had asked him to call and give me a message.

“What did she say?” I sound like a fucking love-struck eager adolescent.

“She said to tell you that Bridget is right-handed. Something to do with her fractured jaw? I don’t know; Bridget looked fine to me. And then she said something about some guys who were right-handed, but there were no guys…I have no idea what she was talking about but she said you would.”

My brain tries to switch gears between thinking…hell, hoping… Ari wanted to see me again to focusing on Bridget. Of course Ari never wants to see me again. But how the hell would she know Bridget is right-handed? And what does Gavin mean about Bridget looking fine to him?

“There’s a Bridget at Five Pines this weekend?” I ask cautiously.