TripleThreat1 (5 page)

“Put your fucking eyes down, boy.”

“Yes, Sir.” Jeremiah’s response was immediate and damn if my
dick didn’t notice. Turning my back on my young assistant, I scanned the room
looking for Franklin and worked at shoring up my determined indifference. I
sternly reminded myself that these scenes, the smells, the public sex, were not
for me tonight. For fuck’s sake…this was a cover story designed to draw in our
target not an actual training session for the boy.
Fuck.
For Jeremiah.

Franklin stood near the bar, but pressed up against the
wall, observing the crowd. There was no sign of his companion.

The next thirty minutes were the most critical part of our
strategy. Would Franklin risk discovery by doing a scene with me? We‘d decided
to make it nearly impossible to turn down, but I was worried about putting
Jeremiah in over his head. I thought about making a last minute change—it would
be simple to walk over to Franklin and with some covert prodding from my thirty-eight,
convince him to leave the room with me.

I stopped short of the bar and pulled Jeremiah into my arms so
that his back was against my front, my hands on his hips. As we swayed to the
music, I rapidly whispered a review of our plan. Apparently Jeremiah thought it
was a better idea to get into the mood of our little role-play, and he ground
his ass back against my aching dick. The little shit. Of course, I knew a lot
of tricks that just might send the boy running. I traced one hand over the mesh
front of his shirt and slipped the other inside the tight leather shorts. With
a quick twist of his nipple and a tight grip on his balls, I supported Jeremiah
as his knees gave way.

“Oh fuck.” The moan was hot and Jeremiah’s chest rose and
fell rapidly under my hand. So much for pretending.

There was no way Franklin could avoid spotting us from where
he stood.

“No coming until I say so, boy,” I growled over his
shoulder. I was loud enough to be heard too…as I’d said, it was show time.

“Master, may we have a third tonight? Will you teach me?”

It wasn’t the line he was supposed to say, but as improv, it
wasn’t bad. I stared down at him, gauging his interest and ability in acting
and realized I had severely underestimated this man. His lack of experience in
BDSM did not translate to stupid. I should’ve known that Archer had selected
the applicants carefully. When we were done I was going to go back and pull out
Jeremiah’s application and study it more carefully.

“Hmm…might do you good to see how a well-trained sub behaves.
If I can find me the right submissive…” I looked around, as if considering
several options. “I want him,” I said, pointing toward Franklin. “Get him to
come with us for a scene and I might let you come tonight. Otherwise I’ll bind
your balls until tomorrow.”

Jeremiah smiled and the heat in his look left me breathing a
little harder. I bet the little fucker was an actor. He went up on his toes and
pressed a quick kiss against my lips before turning away. Then Jeremiah, who
hadn’t displayed a hint of anything slightly feminine all week, bent his elbows,
relaxed his wrists, and positively swished his hips when he walked. I watched
as he closed the distance to Franklin and noticed several others turning to
watch him as well. Where the fuck had that come from?

As they spoke, Franklin shook his head at the first
question…whether anyone would be waiting if he went to a private party upstairs.
Franklin had dressed for clubbing, and swayed slightly to the music as they
spoke. Jeremiah danced his fingers up the buttons of Franklin’s shirt then
flirted with the edge of his mask. Franklin smiled, glanced over to where I
stood, arms crossed, flexing a little in the flicker of the lighting. He seemed
to think a long time about the second question, then nodded.

Whatever Jeremiah’s words to Franklin, they worked, because
the two of them linked hands as my very versatile new personal assistant led
Franklin toward the back of the house and the stairs that led to the second
floor. They moved through the crowd with several backward glances in my
direction and what looked to be honest-to-god giggling. I shook my head, amused
at the antics, and reluctantly impressed with Jeremiah’s success.

I trailed slowly behind the two men, waiting until I made
eye contact with Archer from across the room, before I followed them upstairs.

The bedroom we’d converted for tonight wasn’t large, but the
four-poster bed was perfect for what I needed. By the time I got to the room, the
lights were dimmed and the sheets pulled back to clearly reveal the restraints
at the corners of the massive bed. Both men were naked and kneeling with their
heads bowed—more orchestration by my helpful assistant, I supposed.

Taking a riding crop from the umbrella stand next to the
door, I stepped to where the two men waited. I stroked Jeremiah’s black hair
for a moment before wrapping the spiky strands in my fingers and tugging his head
back.

“Jeremiah? Did you remember to ask if this man is experienced
in bondage and discipline?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What’s his name?”

Franklin started to speak, but I silenced him with a sharp
snap of the crop against his hip. I heard his slight hiss, knew it was only a
tease of what he’d be hoping for.

“He asked to be called Midnight, Sir.”

I barked a short laugh at the clichéd name. “Very well,
Midnight. You may call me Sir or Master. My rules are simple. You do what I
say, you take what I give, and you don’t come without my permission. Do you
have a safe word?”

“Yes, Sir. Coffee.”

“Coffee? All right. If you say coffee, all action stops. No
hesitation, no question. Just stops. Otherwise we go at my pace. Jeremiah is mine.
I take care of his needs. For tonight, you will also be mine. Climb up on the
bed face up, spread eagle. Jeremiah, I want you to fix the restraints.”

“Yes, Sir,” they replied in unison.

As soon as the first cuff was fastened, I relaxed—Hartfield
wasn’t going anywhere. Jeremiah finished attaching all four cuffs, then stepped
away from the bed with a satisfied smile.

“Nice work, Jer. You can go ahead and get dressed.” Turning
my focus to the man on the bed, I grabbed the spandex hoodie that completely covered
his head and yanked, none too gently. The mask pulled up with a crackle of
static electricity that left his dark hair standing on end and almond-shaped
eyes wide with surprise. Up close, the sharp cheekbones and shape of the chin
gave him the look of a mixed race Asian. It was nice work. I’d have passed him
on the street without a second glance. I smiled and grabbed his stubby left
pinkie finger, twisting hard. “Hello, Franklin. How’s life?”

Jeremiah is mine.
The words continued to echo in my
head long after we’d secured the money through wire transfers. Although
Franklin had been clever in his initial distribution of funds, he’d gotten
lazy, and only three banks held the bulk of the money. It took us a total of fifteen
minutes to convince him of the error of his ways and another hour to transfer
the money into one of Archer’s accounts.

Archer wasn’t totally heartless. Since Margaret’s original
deal with Franklin was for seven million, our finder’s fee was a cool three and
a half million. In the end, we left Margaret her full seven million. We took
our cut from Franklin’s share, leaving left him slightly over two million in
actual cash. Not perhaps the fortune he’d envisioned for himself, but far
greater than what he could have been left. After all, once we obtained the
passcodes to his accounts, we had the keys to his kingdom.

We had insurance, too. A fact that was brought home when we
released Franklin, or rather Antoine Cranston into the safe hands of his lover…Mr.
Clive Ferrell, most recently of Fidelity Life and Trust. Archer had personally
escorted the investigator to our library for the obligatory fireside chat when
all was revealed.

“How did you know?” Clive asked.

Taking his time, Archer removed his jacket, then loosened
his tie. Next to me, Jeremiah shifted slightly, and I touched his arm lightly
and shook my head. This was Archer’s show, now. We all watched and waited as he
poured himself a drink. Still studying the amber liquid, Archer began to speak.

“Old D.W. Hartfield was a rich bastard who always tried to
control his son’s life, even from beyond the grave. It’s inconceivable that he
wouldn’t have stipulated an investigation into his son’s death before any trust
monies were paid. An insurance payment—even one from a private trust fund—isn’t
going to be paid without a body. Not without lengthy litigation or
incontrovertible proof.”

Archer looked up and nailed Clive with his gaze. “The
verification of death was the weakest part of the case, and had to involve
either the local police constable or the investigator.” The silence in the room
was deafening. Archer took a small sip as the clock ticked away the seconds,
and still no one spoke.

“The good constable went home after the accident to his very
pregnant wife. There was no change in standard of living, however his bank
records indicated he received compensation from the trust for injuries
sustained during the boat accident. A slightly unusual move, since he was no
longer on Hartfield property at the time of his injuries, but not unprecedented.
A sum of five thousand British pounds deposited during the weeks following the
accident—you got off cheap, Franklin.”

As if he’d received news of the death of a loved one,
Clive’s dark eyes stood out like sooty smudges on his pale skin. “So, if you
had evidence against the constable, why look for me? I thought it would stop
any investigation—not point to another partner. We could have been gone in
another week—”

“Ahh, but you underestimated Franklin’s greed and the wrath
of a woman scorned. If you two could have settled for your half of the insurance
money, we wouldn’t be sitting here tonight—”

Franklin jumped a little, then leaned forward in his chair. “Taking
the money from Margaret wasn’t my idea! I told you, Clive. It would have been
enough—”

“Shut up. Don’t say another word.” A nasty flush climbed up Ferrell’s
neck, and his hands clenched the arm of his chair. I pushed back my jacket and
rested my hand on the butt of my gun. Obviously understanding my not-so-subtle
message, Ferrell leaned back into his chair, his mouth pressed into a thin,
angry line.

“That explains so very much.” Archer sounded amused. “As I
was saying, Margaret knew Franklin had a lover in Atlanta and that he’d had
some plastic surgery here, as well, so it made sense to start our search
locally. Given the intricacies of trust and insurance payouts, someone with
inside knowledge of Fidelity’s procedures had to be involved. You were their
lead investigator—your reputation above reproach. Tell me, Ferrell, how long
were you planning this?”

Ferrell relaxed his grip on the arm of the chair, leaving
damp imprints of his fingers. His face seemed to crumple and tears pooled in
his eyes, just before he dropped his head into his hands. “It—it—it just
happened.”

Usually I let Archer do the honors, but that little
performance was more than I could stand. “Oh fuck me, Clive. Word of
advice…don’t quit your day job. Oh wait—too late.” Ferrell’s head whipped up
and he blinked owlishly at the unexpected rebuke. The twitch of Archer’s mouth
told me he’d found my reaction amusing. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to
crawl into Archer’s arms, taste that mouth, push away all thoughts of nasty
little men whose lives were nothing but one lie after another. It was time to
finish this long night.

“Let me share a little secret with you,” I said. “I have a
copy of the driver’s licenses, passports, and birth certificates the two of you
had made for your new life together in Aruba. The funny thing is…I also have it
on good authority that a second set of documents was made for a man named
Phillip Oberon—a man who bears a remarkable resemblance to you, Ferrell. I’d hate
to think you were planning to double cross your partner.”

Clive paled. “I can’t imagine—”

I lunged at his chair and slapped my hands on the armrests,
my face just inches from his. “If anything were to happen to Franklin—or
Antoine or any other identity he chooses to assume—I
imagine
those
papers might become public. In fact, I
imagine
I would hunt you down
like the animal you are. Do I make myself clear?”

*

Ten minutes later they were gone and Archer was pouring three
glasses of our finest whisky. “To a successful case and a first week as
partners.”

I stiffened as if slapped. “Partners?”

“Well, I meant partners in crime, love. After all, you and I
have been at this a while, but it’s probably Jeremiah’s first felony.” Archer
laughed then took a sip of his drink.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the look on Jeremiah’s face. I
don’t believe he’d thought about what we’d done as a crime, but we’d effectively
stolen fifteen million by not reporting to the trust that Franklin was still
alive. Not to mention we were keeping a damned large chunk of the money for
ourselves.

“Well…hell,” Jeremiah said at last. He tossed back his drink
and held his glass out for a refill.

The moment spun out while I studied my drink, and pretended
I wasn’t aware of the rising tension in the room. Finally, I blew out a breath.
“I suppose we should talk.”

“I’m a little confused about what happens next,” Jeremiah
admitted.

“You aren’t the only one,” I muttered. Then I blew out my
breath and took a good long look at Jeremiah. He’d changed into jeans and a
dark shirt that hung loose, but I couldn’t help but remember the look of him in
the fetishwear. Long, lithe muscles, cut abs—

“It’s been a quite a week and we’ve all been preoccupied
with the Hartfield case.” I looked at Archer. He was calm and graceful as he
lounged on the long leather sofa. His right brow rose a fraction of an inch as
he waited for me to continue. “I think you should go first, Archer.”