“Yes, but not him. If we go that route, I think wewill push him over that dangerous edge you're concerned about.” She studied Smith's broad shoulders, the scarred hands clenched at his neck. “He's all beast, James. A male will be a threat to him, only make things worse. He's seeking a woman's touch, but he's looking for a specific woman. One he knows he shouldn't have, shouldn't want, but with every wrong woman we've sent him, his need has only gotten sharper, his self-damnation deeper. The goal is surrender, James.”
“To what? Or whom?”
“The only opponent he's been fighting all along. Himself. I'm going to clear the ring so he can go hand-to-hand with his soul. Then maybe he'll let go.”
James gave her an arch look. “I have absolutely no idea what that means.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “It's a lot like watchingDog Whisperer . Cesar can't always explain what he's doing. He just knows, because he feels what the dog feels. That's something most people don't get.” Though she kept the smile on her face, she knew James was sharp enough to see there was no humor behind it. “In order to understand a creature's pain, you have to step inside him, see through his eyes.
And be strong enough not to feel sorry for him, in order to teach him how to be a dog again. Live in the moment, because this moment is all there is.”
“I didn't realize Cesar was Zen,” James muttered.
“All good trainers are, James.” She laughed. “Feed that link to my private changing area, please. I want to watch him while I get ready.”
“Speaking of animals, you've had another alley cat show up. She looks pregnant. I think they're spreading the word that you're handing scraps out the kitchen door on the graveyard shift.”
“You can stop sounding so disapproving. I know you do it, too.” She gave him an absent smile. “We'll have to catch her, get her spayed. Maybe she'll be more tameable than the others so far.”
“If anyone can do it, it would be you. Just be careful,” he advised, nodding toward the screen, telling her he was referencing Jon Smith, not her assortment of alley cats. “I know who will have my ass if someone hurts you. As scary as this son of a bitch is”—he dropped his voice so only she could hear him—“I'd rather deal with ten of him than a tenth of Daegan.”
James, you don't know the half of it.“I run this club,” she said crisply, snapping his spine straight at the reminder of who paid his check. “If I get hurt, he will take that up with me.” The security chief held his tongue until she'd left the room, but then he grimaced, attracting a curious look from the two nearest security techs monitoring the screens. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. If something happened to the remarkable Mistress Anwyn Inara Naime, Daegan Rei would make everyone within these walls responsible. There'd be hell to pay.
James returned his attention to the Queen's Chamber.You hurt her, buddy, your personal demons will look like Disneyland characters next to what will come after you. You better hope she's right.
2
OKAY, so maybe this time he'd really pissed someone off. They probably wanted him to stew until some stuffy club owner in a suit gave him a strong talking-to about his bad behavior. Delivered the official word that they didn't want him here again or they'd call the cops. Or hell, maybe they'd actually called the cops. Somehow he doubted this place handled its problems with official law enforcement, though.
Most of their security team looked like ex-military.
He wasn't particularly concerned by a locked door, but the fact he wanted to leave and it was locked irritated him. That irritation continued to grow. He knew he was under video surveillance, so he'd prowled about some, kicked a prissy-looking vanity stool across the floor so that it made a satisfying dent in the velvet wallpaper. Queen's Chamber. He hadn't seen a queen grace it with her presence yet.
Maybe some ladies-in-waiting. Pretentious bullshit, but he'd liked the room. That was why he'd destroyed it.
“All right,” he snapped. “I get it. You want me to leave and not come back. I don't need your lectures.
You know I have the money to cover it. Just let me the hell out of here and I'll go. Throw a bottle of Jack on the tab.”
Another long, ten-minute silence. Fuck it. He was going to take down the door. He'd had enough.
Just as he was determining which of his picks he was going to use, or if it might be just as satisfying to rip it off its fucking hinges, the locks snicked back, and the doorknob turned. When the door swung inward, he curled a lip, ready to leap and snarl at whatever inferior being came through it.
Instead, he went still.
Though he'd scoffed at their efforts, he'd recognized that the three Mistresses they'd sent had been formidable in certain ways. The first, the one who'd conducted his application interview, had been older, stout and more experienced, with a superior rack. Beautiful, full tits just begging for a man's adoration.
Then there'd been the Amazon with the martial arts moves, kind of a tall and better-cut Lara Croft.
Today's contender had had that slim, upright look of a spinster schoolteacher.
This one . . . she wasn't formidable at all. Not physically, but what she did bring into the room preceded her by about ten feet, and packed a punch.
Maybe about five-six. A little on the slim side, but a body that wouldn't quit, C curves and an ass that would fill out a pair of jeans in a way that would make even a non-vampire crave to bite. Instead of such casual attire, she wore painted-on latex black pants and stiletto heels she worked like a pro. He'd expected some equally intimidating corset, so that she was tight and armored from neck to toe. Instead, she wore a lace camisole, one that gathered on her hips and gave the outfit a casual, sexy look. Her slim throat displayed an onyx choker with an earth goddess pendant on it, and her hair, a sable brown, was loose on her shoulders, shining waves that coaxed a man's fingertips.
It was an unsettling mix of Mistress and sub, vanilla next-door girl and experienced woman. Hard to pin down. He'd never seen her before, because he was sure as hell certain he'd have remembered her.
Maybe even asked for her, when he'd asked for nothing else. He'd basically said,Figure out what I want or go fuck yourselves . He'd been kind of surprised they'd accepted his membership, and suddenly he realized they'd never stopped auditioning him. This was who'd been evaluating him, the guy who couldn't tell them what he wanted because he didn't know himself.
When her gaze came to him, he was pinned by killer blue-green eyes that should have belonged to a mermaid. They were framed by brown lashes, and underscored by a soft, small mouth that was an unbelievable tender pink, frosted with a light gloss.
Though he was unbalanced, he wasn't fooled by such fragility. This woman ran the show.
“Your real first name, Mr. Smith. Your given name. I don't care about your last name.” He'd heard of women who purred, or who had a touch of velvet in their tones, a practiced art. But he realized he was wrong when he thought the way she walked in the stilettos and wore the latex was professional, learned. Her sexuality was innate. There was a rasp to the voice, a husky pleasure just in the speaking, that touched him as if she'd run fingertips up his bare spine while he was strapped to a whipping post, unable to do more than strain toward her.
Holy hell, where had that thought come from?
She moved into the room, sliding a shard of wood gracefully out of her way with her foot. The stilettos were boots, laced with scarlet ribbon, crisscrossed on metal hooks that stopped just above her ankle.
Tiny charms clinked together at the ends of the laces as she moved. “Please pick up the broken dresser and set it against the wall. Then I would like you there.” She nodded toward a prayer bench in the corner, set before a tranquil fountain and stained glass depiction of a male angel. Backlights drew the eye to the blue of the angel's robes, the silver of his sword and wings, the darkness of his hair.
“I'm still waiting on your name, Mr. Smith.”
“Why should I do anything you ask? What makes you so different from the others?” Of course he knew, but he wanted her to prove it. Was afraid she would.
She considered him. He knew body language. If she was daunted at all, if there was any tension to her, it was faint, and it wasn't anxiety. It was the irresistible drug of female arousal. He knew the really good ones were into what they did, even in a place where you paid for it, but some part of them stayed detached, that invisible line between client and proprietor, strangers.
She wasn't detached at all. That beast that had been raging in him, that he'd carelessly unleashed toward the others, made him fear for her now. Because the beast wanted her. It hadn't wanted the others. That soft hair alone was taunting him closer.
As if she knew his thoughts, she tossed it over her shoulder in a smooth, elegant move, a faint smile coming to her lips as his eyes followed it. “You should do it because I did notask you to do anything.
And because you're not a coward.”
Unlike the last Mistress, she wasn't trying to goad him. Her voice remained smooth, thoughtful, not derisive. “You're here for what I have to offer. So let's proceed. Tell me your name, and go to the bench, please.”
“Trey,” he said.
Her expression didn't change, the eyes didn't even flicker, but he swore he felt the ocean of blue-green color close over his head, the slither of a feathery tail as the mermaid swam past, leaving him behind.
Turning, she moved back toward the door. “Stop at the accounts office to pay for the damages. I wish you a good night.”
She didn't hesitate, didn't slow down. If it was a game, she was damn good at it, and usually so was he.
When she reached the door, he didn't even have the extra moment her turning the latch would afford him, because the same security guard who'd opened the door for her did it from the outside now, confirming not only the interior surveillance, but the fact this was a woman who didn't have to touch doorknobs. Not if there was a breathing male within fifty feet.