Using the rear entrance from the parking garage, Keiran took the back stairs from the second floor to the administrative suite. Eric had left a message he wanted a word. How the savvy owner knew he intended to be here tonight, he had no idea. He was weird that way, even more so since marrying Valerie who also had a sixth sense or clairvoyance or intuitive nature of some sort.

He regretted telling Jerry he’d take his DM shift tonight. Rossi kept him so busy he could work 24/7 and never get caught up. The four new men starting next week wouldn’t bring the deluge from their leaky dam down to a trickle. He needed a dozen more, maybe two.

He’d turned away three new cases this week alone. If he couldn’t guarantee results, he wouldn’t put the Rossi name on the line. What he wouldn’t give for a good old embezzlement case or something cut and dried like a black ops extraction where the mission was simple—infiltrate the stronghold, secure the target, and get out.

Keiran thanked the good Lord he had control of the security business rather than the club. If he thought he had problems, he couldn’t imagine the headaches and drama, five hundred members could create when mixing sex, pain, and power exchange. Dupree could have it. He’d stick to working with a team of highly skilled professionals even when their prime objective was keeping filthy rich, often spoiled, celebrity clients safe. His men were no drama, caused minimal headaches, and at the end of the day, were happy to keep busy and collect their pay—which was considerable.

Once he hit the lower landing, he pushed through the panic bar. The door swung back on its hinges with a bang—he cringed not having intended to tear up the place—then strode to Dupree’s open office door.

Standing behind his desk with his arms crossed over his chest, his business partner was waiting for him. “Stealth never has been your strong suit, Finnegan.”

“When it’s called for I’m as sure-footed and quiet as a panther. Getting called on the carpet by the Master Dom didn’t appear to require my cat-like qualities. What’s up?”

“I need a favor.” He picked up a file folder and extended it over his desk.

Keiran took it but didn’t open it, instead, he looked back at Eric, puzzled. “You need me to run background? Thomas usually handles that for potential members. If he’s backed up, Jerry or Victor can handle it. Or we can kick it to Jonas and his team.” As soon as he suggested it, he silently nixed the idea. The San Antonio boys had bailed them out too often as the branch got on its feet. He’d run the check himself before asking.

“She’s not a potential, but a trial member and her three months are almost up. And she’s no one’s grandmother, just a beautiful, young widow who needs to get back in the game.”

Ordinarily, that would have gotten his attention, but his plate was full and spilling over onto the table. And he didn’t see what the problem was; many single Doms came to mind who’d be willing to take on such an assignment. Not him, not right now, however.

He waited for his friend to get to the point.

“I’d like you to handle her personally,” Eric added.

As he suspected. “I don’t have time to take on a project. Let me suggest Jerry or Victor, again.”

“I considered them, but I thought you might work better for her.”

He dropped the file onto the desk. “Sorry, I barely have enough time to enjoy a scene with a submissive I don’t have to handle with care.”

“You handle them all with care, that’s why I’m asking.”

“Why me? We’ve got at least one hundred unattached Doms on our roll.”

Eric grimaced, not overtly, just with a slight flattening of his mouth. If he didn’t know the man so well, he’d have missed it. His hesitancy over disclosing the problem with the sub made him even more set to decline.

“Out with it, man. I’ve got three free hours and didn’t plan on conducting an interrogation.”

“She’s having trouble opening up. The Doms who have offered and been rejected—which is near all the one hundred you mentioned, have started calling her Elsa.”

“Who?”

“You know, the Disney princess from Frozen?”

He blinked, frowning before he drawled, “You’re kidding me, right? How the hell would I know anything about Disney princesses? A better question, how the hell do you?”

“Valerie has a seven-year-old niece, and I haven’t been living under a rock for the past two years. Regardless of how I know, earning the nickname of an ice princess at a sex club is problematic, don’t you agree?”

“What’s her problem, specifically?”

“In three months, she hasn’t engaged once. Doms offer, she declines. Even the male subs have approached—nothing.”

“Maybe she’s into women.”

“I thought of that, but Mistress Latrice put the moves on her last week.”

“And?”

“Her face turned as white as the satin sheets in the Virgin Bride’s theme room and she practically ran from the dungeon.”

“What does she get out of coming here?”

“Good question, one I asked her point blank.”

“And?”

“She says she doesn’t know. But I’ve watched her, and the need is there but something is holding her back. She practically melted into the floor while observing an erotic spanking scene between Flynn and Cassie.”

“Those two put off enough heat to melt the polar ice caps.”

“Exactly. She swayed toward the ropes, drawn to their intense chemistry. Her face became flushed, hands clenched into fists at her sides. I waited to see which she’d do first, fall to the floor when her knees turned to jelly as she came just from watching them or bite a hole in her lip from trying to fight it.”

“She’s a voyeur then?”

“Perhaps, but there’s something else going on with her; I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“What does it say on her application?”

His eyes rose to meet Keiran’s. “She conveniently left the D/s identifier blank.”

“And you let that fly?”

“I was on a mission for you at the time, and the board didn’t question Ryan Paxton’s sponsorship.”

“The FBI agent?”

Eric nodded. Intrigued now, he asked, “What’s their connection?”

“She says he’s a friend of her former Master, but there’s more, I feel it in my gut.”

“I thought you said you ran a background check.”

“I did, but it turned up nothing. Not even a speeding ticket. And Pax is unavailable. I suspect he’s on an undercover assignment. In any case, he’s unavailable for me to ask and will be for some time.”

“I shared a few drafts with him a while back. He made a move to the bureau after his partner got shot. He was vague about how it all went down, but I got the feeling there was corruption at the heart of it. He mentioned an internal affairs investigation, and that he couldn’t stomach it anymore.”

His friend’s brows drew down in a frown and he nodded. “She disclosed she’s a widow. One of the few personal details I got out of her.”

“A grieving widow, her husband who is also her Dom, killed in the line of duty. Looks like we’ve just found our problem.”

“Our problem?” A grin split Eric’s face despite the seriousness of the subject. “I knew you were the Dom for the job.”

“Oh, no. Not this Dom, or this job. I misspoke.”

”Misspoke, my ass. You’re intrigued. You’re also in a rut, my friend. You need a challenge.”

“Rossi is enough of a challenge, believe me.”

“That’s work, this would be play. You know the old saying about all work, don’t you, Jack?”

He stared at the man, puzzled. “If that’s a Yank saying, you’ll recall where I’m from.”

“All work and no play make Jack, and Keiran, dull boys.”

His response was a scowl, not finding Dupree funny at all.

“Don’t refuse until you see her. She’s lovely, and sweetly submissive, though rusty after this long dry spell.”

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Damn, that’s an eternity for a submissive to be on her own. The poor lass is stuck.”

“Precisely what I said. You’ll take her on, then?” Seeing his hesitation, the devious matchmaking Master Dom pushed more. “Who better than you, Saint Keiran, to help her find herself again?”

It was actually worse than that. Dubbed Patient as a Saint Keiran by the club submissives when one particularly annoying smart-ass masochist, or SAM, for short, tried testing him during a scene. He had a penchant for the single tail, but a whip in the hand of a short-tempered Dom was a bad combination. Though her sharp tongue had tested his resolve, he’d hang up his whip for good before administering more pain than he was comfortable giving. Instead, he dragged out the scene, making her writhe with stinging licks of fire all over her body, withholding the cutting marks and welts she seemed to crave, keeping her on the edge of orgasm for over an hour. She was begging his pardon along with his permission to come, by the time he finally relented. During aftercare, she’d been dewy-eyed and appropriately submissive, but that SAM hadn’t played her games with him since.

“I’m on the verge of canceling her membership, which I don’t want to do.”

“Why would you?”

“It seems the youngsters don’t mind being gawked at as long as they get to gawk in return.”

“You had complaints about her watching? What the fuck?” He shook his head. “LA. They sure grow ‘em odd out here.”

“Complaint—as in one.”

“What?”

“I may have given her the impression there were more.”

“May have?”

Eric shrugged. “I do what I must. Especially when I see a beautiful, young submissive struggling. She needs a firm, highly skilled, not easily flustered Dom—not a hothead. You’re one of the few single Masters I’d trust with her. I’m asking you to take her on.” He picked up the file and extended it to him again.

This time he paid more attention, reading the label aloud. “Esme Spade. An unusual name. Is it short for something?”

“I didn’t ask. Mainly we discussed why she’s sitting on the sidelines while life passes her by; it’s a waste. Five years is too long to grieve, no matter the tragedy. She needs to dive in again full tilt.”

“After this much time, she likely needs professional grief counseling, as well as a Dom.”

“I was thinking along those same lines. I’ve enlisted Valerie’s professional skills, so you’ll have her expert help, though indirectly. Don’t expect her to share. You could strap her to the St. Catherine’s wheel and take your whip to her and she still wouldn’t talk. You’d be a dead man by my hands for trying, too.”

Keiran chuckled softly. Eric was as protective as he was enamored of his petite subbie wife. “No worries in that corner, my man. And I haven’t said yes. I’ll give it some thought, but no promises.”

“I sense she’s ready to move forward but isn’t sure how. I’ll point her out to you tonight. When you see the way she lights up, especially while watching a scene between a committed pair, you’ll understand what I mean. And when you see her auburn hair, creamy white skin, Irish green eyes, and curves, you’ll think you’ve been transported back to Belfast.”

“Spoken like a Sassenach racist,” he muttered. “We’re not all stereotypical Mickey Rooney’s you know.”

When the Master Dom’s eyes rose to his dark brown hair, which Keiran knew shone red under the lights broadcasting his heritage, he muttered, “Cheeky Viking bastard.”

With light blue eyes and blond hair, some of Eric’s antecedents undoubtedly hailed from the Northern Isles so the label wasn’t off base. He laughed, unfazed, having heard it before. “I’ll set up a session.”

“I have not agreed, man.”

“You will.”

“We’ll see, but no matter how it pans out, you owe me.”

“How do you figure? If anything, we’re even.” His glare was as heated as his ice-blue eyes were cold. “Recall if you will that I delayed my honeymoon for two days because you needed me on Diva Duty.”

He grinned. The diva in question was a fiercely passionate, highly temperamental, multi-Grammy award-winning pop star who would give Mariah Carey a run for her money on the prima donna scale. No one had wanted the assignment of guarding her when she had a psychotic stalker after her. Eric had drawn the short straw and brought it up every time they talked about who owed who more.

“Worst assignment I’ve ever had,” he grumbled on cue. “She wanted me to carry shoes while a psychopath was gunning for her. Shoes!”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Keiran chuckled.

“That was two years ago and still, if I hear her on the radio, I have flashbacks,” he growled, unamused. “You do this, I might forget her.”

“That’s high incentive, but as I said, I’ll think about it.” He glanced at the clock and grimaced. “I need to go relieve Jerry. He’ll whine if I’m late. I don’t mind tears from a submissive when I’m the cause—intentionally, of course—but I can’t bear to see a two hundred fifty pound, grown-ass man, and supposed dominant, cry.”

Eric’s chuckle followed him down the hall.