FOURTEEN
I followed the GPS directions to the private residence where this sex party was being held.
I couldn’t even fathom who the homeowner was, or who the rest of the guests would be. I’d seen a lot in my life and in my career—human trafficking, espionage, assassinations—but apparently the high-priced sex clubs of the rich and famous had eluded me thus far.
Chelsea’s gaze cut sideways as I navigated the BMW toward our destination. “I’m surprised you had to rent a tux. Don’t all of you people own one?”
I’d come to realize she liked to talk when she was nervous. About anything and everything. Random and disjointed topics, which now included my tuxedo.
That was fine. A little banal conversation might help keep my mind off the snake pit we were about to enter.
“All of you people, meaning whom?” I asked. “British men?”
“No. All of you James Bond-types. MI6,” she clarified.
I cocked up one brow, surprised she knew that detail about my actual employer since I hadn’t told her.
Zane must have, which was surprising. Though I wasn’t unhappy that Chelsea knew.
“You do realize those movies aren’t exactly representative of reality, right?” I asked.
Chelsea lifted one bare shoulder, looking calmer than I thought she would given the circumstances of where we were going.
Beneath that dress there was some of the sexiest black lace lingerie I’d ever had the pleasure of touching. I knew because I’d chosen it from the contents of her drawer. Just the thought of it had my tux getting tight in the crotch.
“And I do own a tux. It’s in my flat in New York,” I said to distract myself from thoughts of pulling over and stripping that dress off her. “I didn’t know I’d need it.”
As I was throwing weapons and the bare minimum of clothing in a bag while Brent waited in the car to drive us to his private jet, I never in a million years thought I’d need my tux to attend a thousand-dollar a head sex party in Virginia.
Of course, I hadn’t anticipated any of what had hit me since I’d walked into the escort service’s office.
She let out a soft humph. “See. You do own one, just like James Bond, as I’d thought.”
I laughed, but didn’t argue since tonight’s sex masquerade was definitely worthy of a Bond plot. And Chelsea, looking drop-dead gorgeous in a black gown, black lace mask and newly dyed red hair, would give any Bond girl a run for her money.
My own mask, the cheap plastic kind purchased from a party store, made me look like a child pretending to be Batman. I couldn’t care less how it looked, but the bloody thing was uncomfortable and making my face sweat.
The computer voice on my cell phone’s GPS told me we’d reached our destination and I slowed in front of a pair of tall wrought iron gates. Even with as intricate as the metalwork was, there was no doubt the gates were more for security than decoration.
I pulled up to a speaker box in full view of a camera and rolled down the window.
“Can I help you?” the male voice coming out of the box asked.
“Tristan Fairchild and guest. We’re here—” I couldn’t bring myself to say we were there for the sex party, so I said, “as guests of Mark Hargrove.”
“You can drive up to the house.” The gates swung open slowly as my pulse sped.
This was it. I raised the window and glanced at Chelsea. “You ready for this?”
“Yes.” Her answer was firm and sure. Completely unlike the first and only op we’d been on together the night we’d met.
Then she’d been hesitant. Six months of working for Zane had changed her. Given her confidence. Or maybe it was just her determination to find Morgan.
Reaching out, I wrapped one hand around the back of her neck and leaned in while pulling her closer. I kissed her hard but not for long. The gates were fully open and I needed to move.
With my hands back on the wheel, I drove slowly up the drive. “Just so you know, any other man touches you I’m breaking his hand.”
I glanced at her and saw her lips twitch. “That’s probably frowned upon by the management.”
“Management can bugger off. When we’re inside, you’re mine. No one else’s.”
I didn’t care if it wasn’t the most enlightened attitude for a modern man to have. We were walking into Sodom and Gomorrah. A bloody sex den packed full with one hundred randy strangers. If ever there was a time to let loose my possessive streak, tonight was it.
“All right. To avoid the need for broken bones, I’ll do my best to dodge any grabby-handed men.” She snorted out a laugh. “God knows I have the experience from waitressing at Camelot.”
“Good plan,” I agreed. It might save us all a lot of trouble.
I tried to have faith in Chelsea’s ability to avoid grabby-handed men, as she’d put it, as we were ushered into the foyer of the posh home.
It wasn’t an easy task to stay focused as the man who appeared to be in charge made his way across the room to greet us and I held my breath, wondering if he would know Chelsea.
“Mr. Fairchild. Welcome to you and your lovely companion.” He grasped my hand and pumped. Then his gaze moved to Chelsea. “Hello, I’m Mark Hargrove.”
She shook Hargrove’s extended hand, no doubt as relieved as I was that it appeared he hadn’t recognized her as one of his own employees.
“Amelia White.” Chelsea smoothly supplied the fake name we’d prepared in advance, delivering the lie more like a trained operator than a civilian.
Her acting career had prepared her better than most people would have been for this undercover assignment. I was grateful for that.
With my jaw clenched, I watched Hargrove’s gaze sweep down Chelsea’s body as he held on to her hand for a beat too long before releasing his hold on her.
Back when I was in university, with a few pints in me I would have leveled a man for looking at the girl I was with the way Hargrove was ogling Chelsea.
My hand fisted at Chelsea’s back. She must have felt me tense and sent me a glance.
Her eyes looked shockingly captivating when framed by the black lace of her mask and I wished we were anywhere besides here.
I could get into some masked role play with her looking the way she was tonight. It would be far preferable to having to hold back from flattening Hargrove.
Though laying him out on his back on the hardwood floor of the entry after one solid punch to the jaw would be satisfying in itself, it wouldn’t further our investigation. I needed to control myself if I was going to help Chelsea find Morgan.
The smile she shot me before turning her attention back to Hargrove reminded me of that.
She really was a good actress. If I hadn’t known she was terrified, I would never have guessed it from her performance now.
“Thank you so much for inviting us,” she said to the man who’d barely managed to get his eyes off her tits and back on to her face.
“My pleasure.” Hargrove’s reciprocal smile managed to look as lascivious as it did welcoming.
His gaze dropped ever so briefly down again and I knew the bastard was picturing her out of that dress.
“Let me show you around.” Luckily, for everyone involved, he moved on to the tour portion of the sex party. “This lovely home belongs to one of our Sanctuary Club members and they’ve generously allowed us to host the event here. It affords much more privacy than renting a public venue.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Chelsea agreed wholeheartedly, just when I wished she’d stop talking and drawing Hargrove’s attention to her and her mouth.
If I was picturing those red-painted lips wrapped around my cock, no doubt Hargrove was as well.
Whether he was or not, he continued with his sales pitch, designed as much to separate me from my money as to get us into the spirit of the party. “Our newest venue is in East Hampton, New York. We also have a branch in Los Angeles. And, since you might travel internationally for your job, I’ll let you know we have a club in Moscow, as well.”
Sex clubs in Washington and Moscow and the Hamptons—the Long Island playground of the rich and famous just a stone’s throw from Manhattan.
Add those locations to the usual party attendees of political candidates up for election and the hot female escorts that I’d seen at the embassy event yesterday and the whole thing felt dodgy.
That what we knew so far was just the tip of the iceberg of something bigger was obvious to me. I would have had to be blind not to see there was more going on with Angel Escorts than met the eye.
The only question was why didn’t anyone else see?
As we walked into the parlor I knew the answer to that question—everyone else was blinded by sex hormones.
It’s possible I was the only one piecing together conspiracy theories. Me, and Chelsea, because of her concern over the missing Morgan.
Apparently all the others were here just to have a good time . . . A really good time, I determined as I watched one nearly nude female lick chocolate sauce off the nipple of a completely nude woman laid out on a table amid the desserts.
“Sanctuary is not a sex party,” Hargrove said as my eyes swept the scene. “It’s erotic theater. That’s an important distinction.”
The various states of undress of the females in the room didn’t exactly support that statement.
“Oh, yes. Of course. I can see that,” Chelsea agreed, just as a woman—completely nude except for a mask, cat ears, and painted on whiskers—crawled across the carpet.
The movement of her long tail caught my attention. I wondered how it was attached . . . until I got a look at the rear view. That showed me exactly how her tail had been attached—or rather inserted.
The sight of the anal plug had my cock stirring. Hating myself for that, I turned my attention to Hargrove, hoping anger over him and his organization would temper this unwanted lust.
It was clear that everything about The Sanctuary Club was designed to arouse. That didn’t make me feel any better about my burgeoning hard-on.
“As you can see, in keeping with the concept of a burlesque-style masquerade, among the guests are our performers.” Hargrove gestured to the female dessert buffet and the human house pet. His focus moved to Chelsea. “We’re always looking to hire. If that’s something that would interest you, I’d love to have you apply.”
“Me?” Chelsea choked on the question, while I was ready to choke out Hargrove for asking it.
He smiled as he swept her again with his gaze. “Yes. Just looking at you, I can tell you’d be a perfect fit.”
A perfect fit.
I scowled, knowing exactly what this guy was thinking about fitting inside Chelsea.
“How would I do that? Apply, I mean,” she asked, in spite of my tightened squeeze on her waist.
“It’s an open casting call. Applicants submit recent photos, one of which must be a full-length nude.” He pulled a card out of his pocket. “Call me.”
Chelsea smiled and took the black and gold card. “Thank you. I will.”
Over my dead body, she would. I plucked the card from her hand.
“Let me put that in my pocket for you, love. For safekeeping.” I smiled, but on the inside I was planning his death in my mind.
Strangling him with my bare hands had a certain appeal. But he deserved so much more than a quick clean death.
I always did have an affinity for old American westerns. Clint Eastwood in particular. Burying Hargrove up to his neck in the desert and letting nature take its time ending his life was a fantasy I tucked away to enjoy again later.
“Now, for the rules,” he interrupted my imaginings with a topic that I was most interested in hearing.
“Yes, please. I was wondering about protocol,” I said.
He nodded. “They are few but firm. Guests are welcome to remove their masks once they’re inside, but privacy is still of utmost importance so no photos or recording devices of any kind. Always ask permission before touching anyone, male or female. Permission can be withdrawn at any time if the participant chooses. Any breach of the rules results in immediate removal from this event and all future events with no refund. Otherwise, as long as it’s consensual among all involved anything goes.”
Anything goes. That left a lot of leeway.
Her shocked expression firmly in place, Chelsea had nothing to say.
I took over communicating for the both of us and said, “Understood.”
Hargrove smiled at Chelsea. “It’s all a bit much to take in the first time, I know. And observing the others is both allowed and encouraged until you feel comfortable participating yourself. I’ve found that most people who are shy at first are not likely to hang back for very long before they want to be part of the action.”
“Thank you. I think we will wander about and observe for a bit, if that’s all right. Just to get a feel for things.” I hoped he picked up on my unspoken dismissal. In case he didn’t, I grabbed Chelsea’s elbow and said, “Shall we?”
She glanced up at me as I steered her away from Hargrove.
“Excellent. We’ll chat later,” he called after us.
I nodded and kept walking, Chelsea in tow.
When we are out of earshot, I leaned in and said, “Forget the broken hand. If another man touches you, I’ll kill him. We’re not participating in any bloody thing these people invite us to do.”
When she didn’t say anything I steered us off into a corner and turned her to face me. “You all right?”
A crease wrinkling her brow, she raised her gaze to mine. “This place. I don’t know why. It’s . . .” She shook her head.
Strange. Surreal. So many words came to my mind.
“It’s what?” I asked to find out what she was thinking.
She glanced past me and her eyes widened.
I turned and saw what she did—the cat woman playing her feline role with one of the couples. She kneeled in front of them, taking turns laving any bare skin she could find with her tongue, including between the woman’s spread legs.
A third guest, a woman, took advantage of the kitty cat’s bare bum and her tail accessory stuck high in the air. The guest spanked the performer while telling her what a bad pussy she’d been.
Next to me Chelsea blew out a breath and said, “It’s making me . . . hot.”
My attention whipped from the scene playing out surreally in the center of the room, to Chelsea.
Now that I looked more closely, I took note of her dilated pupils and the heightened color in her cheeks.
Her gaze still on the group, her throat worked as she swallowed hard. Finally she looked at me. “Is it making you hot?”
If she reached down, my engorged cock would answer her question for me.
It might have to because I couldn’t bring myself to voice the truth.