I do enjoy a good slapping and spanking session on occasion, but not in every situation. She’s getting under my skin, though, and I couldn’t help but push her, wanting to see her eyes flare with fury before she walked out.

And she didn’t disappoint. She never does.

How far can I push her, though? I don’t force my women, end of story. If she really doesn’t want to give this—give me—a chance, then I guess I should let her go.

At least she knows what I am, what I like—the lash, the pain, knows how depraved I am. Unlike Evelyn. She didn’t know.

And when she found out…

Fuck. I swallow down my Scotch and rub at my stinging cheek distractedly, my thoughts jumping between Evelyn, so long ago, and Mia now, in this life, this hotel. This reality.

The Scotch burns pleasantly going down, the burn in my cheek even more pleasant, and I walk back to the window—where I crowded her and smelled her and touched her—to rethink my strategy.

About Cronin, not Mia. I should give up on her, now.

Distressingly, it has gotten me fucking nowhere so far, this wandering downstairs, pretending to be drunk, asking questions.

Well, nowhere I can recognize. It’s like a map with the street names erased and the cardinal directions gone, a map to a place I’ve never heard of before, and I’m lost smack in the middle of it. How do I find my proof?

I have learned for instance that Ian Cronin’s office is on the twelfth floor because that’s his lucky number, and that these past two weeks he has had VIM—Very Important Meetings—up there with, presumably, very important people. If I’m vigilant, I might find out when the next one is, and eavesdrop.

Meanwhile, it looks like it’s time to break and enter. Somehow. Not something I’ve had to do a lot of as I grew up. After all, money usually opens doors.

I doubt it will open Ian Cronin’s office, though. I need… an ally. Not Mia. Inviting her up here, trying to get into her lacy panties, that was just me thinking with my dick instead of my brain. No, I need someone high up, someone who can get me into places, and I’m not speaking of Senator Brody.

No, someone who’s in the Scene.

So although I haven’t been laid in what feels like fucking ages, and haven’t tasted the whip in just as long, I stopper the Scotch bottle.

I do have someone in mind. It will be tricky. Damn complicated.

Meeting Robert again after all these years, all the sorrow and anger, after I refused to see him or talk to him… but there you go. I need to take things in my own two hands.

I never thought I’d say this, but I think Hawk was right not to trust anyone with doing what needed to be done. And I wouldn’t trust just anyone with this. No, you need a personal grievance, and hell knows I have a couple.

But first of all, before I contact Robert, I’m going to test the waters. Sneak around. See if shaking the tree will let anything drop at my feet before I put myself into the hands of my enemy.

I grab my lock pick and my gun. This is getting serious. There’s only so many times you can pretend to be an idiot before someone grabs you by the neck and punches your lights out.

Time to play in the bigger leagues.

* * *

My phone rings before I leave the room, the tune telling me it’s Storm. Idiot set those ringtones up on my phone one night we were all drunk. His is “Eye of the Tiger.” For Hawk he chose “I Just Died in your Arms Tonight,” and for me “The Power of Love.”

So not funny.

“What?” I bark into the cell, all wired to go. “Did something happen?”

“Well, hello to you, too, handsome,” Storm says in a bad Bronx drawl imitation. “Were you getting whipped? Did I interrupt—?”

“Fuck you, junior.” I take a hand through my hair, letting out a long breath. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in on you. Making sure the evil minions haven’t locked you up somewhere.”

Locked up. I close my eyes, a violent shiver going through me. “I’m fine. What about you and Hawk, the girls and babies, all okay?”

“Yeah, we are.” His voice warms. “Listen, man, why don’t you forget about that insane plan of yours, that non-plan, and let your buddy the Senator take over? Call in that favor, tell him you can’t find evidence, but—”

“Without evidence he can do jack, Storm. I wouldn’t be here if things were different. You know that.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “You’ve been skulking about, haven’t you? You sure nobody has suspected anything?”

“You doubting my skulking abilities, kiddo?”

“Dammit, Rook, I… I just don’t fucking want…” He gives a frustrated sigh. “Forget it.”

I frown. Storm at a loss for words? “Don’t want what?”

“To find out that something happened to you,” he says quietly. “You be careful out there, Rook, you hear me? I’ve lost people. My parents. My uncle. I can’t fucking lose you, too.”

Hitting below the belt. I hate to hurt my friends, and I want to promise him I’ll be all right.

But I also hate lying. He’d hear it in my voice if I did. Storm knows me. So I settle for the closest thing to the truth:

“I’m going to try,” I tell him. “I promise you that.”

* * *

Today I’m doing a little walk-about, checking the big offices.

I’ve memorized the position of the cameras in the hallways and elevators, and I resist the urge to wave at the lenses. Who would suspect me, right? A loyal customer. A guy with more money than he knows what to do with, and a penchant for pain.

Exactly what this hotel thrives on. I am Roderick Carter, heir to the Carter Empire. What heir in their right mind would go evidence-hunting in a sex hotel?

What heir in their right mind would go look for relief in a sex hotel, period?

What can I say, I’m a crazy motherfucker. I live on pain, and sex, and the fine line in between. I like floggers, and gags, and yeah, paparazzi would have a field day if they knew, but a man has needs. At least the hotel staff have always been discreet and never leaked anything about me to the press.

Which sends a twinge of regret through me as I go about my business of uncovering the deeds of the owner of the hotel and maybe costing the staff their jobs, but hey. A crime is a crime, and no matter how good this hotel is, its owner is landing behind bars, if I have anything to say about it.

And I’ve got plenty to say.

The elevator opens, and I step out on the forbidden floor of Cronin’s HQ. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, whistling between my teeth, I walk nonchalantly by the massive double doors, wondering if he’s sitting inside, deciding the fate of the world.

Here’s the thing: everything is just as I’d expected it to be. Cameras, keypads, guards with guns tucked into shoulder holsters, glaring at me and ready to push me on my way if I appear to be slowing down.

A bit of overkill, if you ask me, especially if you consider that the computers inside the offices are probably doubly secured with passwords and thumb recognition devices, while important documents are locked up in safes, but still. The security show is a good deterrent.

Damn good. I mean, I am no James Bond, and these offices seem impossible to break into. But I kind of knew that already.

Question is, what should I do now? How am I gonna find my evidence?

“Sir, are you looking for someone?” one of the guards asks, a heavy-set guy with gray hair and a closely-shaven face. “May I help you?”

Got them nervous, walking about like that, did I? “I think I came out on the wrong floor. Is this the ninth floor?”

“No, sir. Elevator is that way.”

He helpfully points, and I give him a smile all teeth before doubling back, the guards’ stares boring a hole into the back of my head.

Resisting the urge to turn around and wink back at them, just to piss them off, I make it into the steel cage and ride back up to my suite.

Okay, Rook, so you’ve seen the level of security with your own damn eyes. Satisfied?

Ah hell, yeah, I saw. I close the door of my suite and lean my back on it, rubbing a hand over my face. It fucking sucks. But I had to see, had to make sure it’s impossible before I move on to the next part of my plan.

Hell yeah, I got a plan, despite what I told Storm and Hawk. It’s damn basic, and involves more legwork than intelligence, but hey… at least it keeps me from getting bored.

Right?

* * *

So breaking directly into Cronin’s HQ didn’t work.

But I sort of expected that and won’t let it stop me. A week later, I’m back at the hotel and walking down a hallway, but not heading to the big offices—that of Ian Cronin and his cronies—this time.

Ian Cronin and his cronies. Heh. If the name fits… Jesus fucking Christ.

I saunter down the hallway to the offices of the hotel’s lesser gods, snickering to myself.

Yeah, I have a couple loose screws, so sue me. Blame my fucked-up childhood. You wouldn’t think that the only son of Abraham Carter, magnate and media darling would say that, did you? But the truth nobody likes facing is that rich people can also be sick monsters, and I could tell you a lot about that.

If I wanted. But I don’t want to think about those years.

Plus, I have an office to break into. I don’t expect to find anything big in there, but hopefully a hint, an indication. Ian Cronin can’t be working on his own. He has to have some of his people in this hotel.

And I need those names. Anything, any sort of proof I can get my hands on. It’s becoming kind of urgent. Sandivar, his main front man, is in prison, and I want to hit Ian Cronin before he puts together a new team—and comes after me and my friends again. Catch him while he’s coping with this blow, as he’s scrambling to reorganize himself. Strike while the iron is hot.

I’ve wasted enough time already asking here and there, going around in circles.

As I walk down the corridor, I try a couple of door handles in passing. Jimmy Murray, Sue Reid, Russel Wilkinson. Locked, locked, locked.

Unlocked. One of the handles turns, and I slip inside the office, closing the door softly behind me.

Here we go.

The office of Camille Malthus is heavy on velvet drapes and mahogany furniture, done in the same style as the rest of the hotel. Old-fashioned, pretending to be something out of eighteenth-century France. Guests apparently like it.

I don’t. I don’t need a special atmosphere, or special instruments. Pain is pain.

Any whip will do.

A secretary’s desk greets me, and a door leading to Camille’s inner sanctuary. I pull my lock pick from my pocket and get to work on the lock. Not a complex one. She doesn’t expect anyone to try and break in.

Bad sign. Means she’s got nothing much to hide.

But hey, I’m here. Might as well take a look around. Keeping any secrets at all, Camille baby? Let’s find out.

The door lock clicks open, and I pull my lock pick free, pocketing it before I enter the main office.

And stop.

Well, hello disorder. Messy piles of papers on the desk, a couple of papers lying on the thick dark carpet.

Is this normal? Or did someone get in here before me?

Maybe it’s normal, I decide as I take in the rest of Camille’s sanctum, the folders half in and half out of the shelves, more piles of documents on chairs and the low coffee table. Looks like dear Camille is simply sloppy. Not a crime, in most books.

A quick search for a phone or tablet yields no results, so I turn to the computer. I move the mouse to wake it up, stare at the password request in silence.

Then rifle through the piles of papers in search for a flash drive or disk. A locked drawer gives way to my lock pick, and I go through the envelopes and papers inside, but nothing catches my eye, and I wander away from the desk. More papers litter the floor behind the sofa, and I frown.

What the hell? Maybe this isn’t normal after all. Is this why the door was open?

Or maybe whoever came here first left it open?

Fuck. Suddenly my skin prickles. Or maybe whoever broke in before me is still here.

Okay, don’t be paranoid, Rook. Seriously. Nobody’s here.

I walk by the shelves, looking at the spines, pulling out any envelopes I see and glancing at them before putting them back. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A letter, perhaps. A printout. A photo. A stray comment jotted somewhere.

Then I hear a door click and I spin around.

Dammit. Someone is moving in the secretary’s office, the sound of light steps unmistakable. Time to blow this joint.

Stalking to the door, I glance out.

And come face to face with Mia.

Whoa. What the hell? Caught off guard, I freeze, staring right at her, and she’s staring right back at me like she doesn’t know who I am.

Then she does a double take. “Rook?”

She’s dressed in that damn hotel uniform, and the short black dress makes her legs look endless. God, I love her in uniform. I rake my gaze up her body and get stuck on the way her chest heaves, her tits threatening to spill from the cleavage.

Man, this girl’s smoking hot. I want to shove her up against the wall and kiss the fuck out of her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, and that snaps my brain back into focus.

About time.

“Waiting for Camille Malthus. I made an appointment?” I make a show of looking around the room. I gesture at the secretary’s empty desk. “Secretary isn’t here, so I popped inside Ms. Malthus’s office in case she was in.”

“And?”

“Nada.” I grin at Mia, and damn, I like how she challenges me, not crawling and sucking up to me like most people. “Just you and me here, baby.”

A fierce flush splashes over her cheeks, making her eyes glitter. “Mr. Carter…”

“You called me Rook earlier.” I scratch at my chin, surprised to feel telltale heat wash over my neck and face. I’m blushing? Christ. “I like you calling me Rook.”

Great. Now I’m acting like a horny, awkward teenager. In the office I broke into, with the maid. All that’s left is that I scuff the carpet with my toe and make puppy eyes at her.

Yeah, forget teenager. We’re talking preschool here.

“Rook,” she says, and ah shit. I want to make her moan my name as I thrust into her, make her breathe it onto my skin as I move inside her, scream it as she comes.

I reach down to adjust my suddenly too-tight pants, and her gaze dips down. Her eyes widen as I push down on my hard dick.

Oh yeah, girl. We’re back in the adult world now. That awkward moment is gone. I stalk toward her, and she steps back, pressing up against the secretary’s desk.

Fleetingly I wonder what she is doing here, although that’s a stupid question. She cleans and tidies up. That’s what she’s here to do.

But not anymore.

I shove her against the desk, spreading her legs to push between them, and grab her face in my hands. Crushing my mouth to hers, I kiss her like the world is ending, and to hell with all the rest.

She makes a surprised sound, swallowed in the kiss, and it fires up my blood. Her hands slap on my chest, but they don’t push me away. Instead they curl up, grabbing the lapels of my jacket, and she kisses me right back.

Fuck, yeah.

She tastes of… vanilla cupcakes and coconut icing, of cinnamon buns and cherry liquor, and I can’t get enough. Her short dress has ridden up on her thighs, and I’m snug against her lace-covered pussy. My hard-on presses into her softness and heat, feeling it through all the layers of our clothes, and I want to bury myself in her.

I bite into her lower lip, tugging at the soft flesh with my teeth, and she gasps. Tilting her head back, I slant my mouth and thrust my tongue inside, groaning when she lets me in eagerly. She tugs on my jacket, her tongue sliding against mine, her hips rolling, and I’m two seconds away from taking out my cock and slamming into her.

Right here, on the desk of an unknown secretary. And I don’t give a fuck if someone walks in on us.

She bites into my lip, and my dick jerks. Shit, yeah. I drop a hand to her tits and squeeze through the thin fabric. Her nipple tightens and she breaks the kiss to moan.

This is fucking good. I shove my hand into her cleavage, finding the soft mound of flesh, pinching the hard tip, making her writhe and hiss. She’s caught between a rock and a hard place. Literally.

I torture her nipple while I fuck her mouth with my tongue, and when her legs wrap around my hips, I rub my clothed dick over her pussy. And she goes off like a firecracker, moaning long and loud in my mouth, her legs clamping around me as she comes.

God, this girl is so hot. I need her now. I release her mouth to push her on her back on the desk, shoving papers and knickknacks out of the way.

Something crashes to the floor, snapping me out of my lust for a crucial second as I glance down to see what it was.

Shit. It’s a wake-up call. What the fuck am I doing?

One moment of hesitation, and she starts to sit up, panic flitting over her face as she comes to her senses, too, realizing what we were about to do.

Me, because I’m not supposed to be here—and Mia because she works here. Maybe she’s allowed to come and get fucked in my room, but in one of the directors’ offices? That’s probably a whole different story.

Briefly, I get a pang of excruciating remorse, Mia’s words about money and how important it is for those less rich than me. It’s a punch to my gut. I have little to lose, but her…

Damn. She has everything to lose, and I wasn’t thinking of her at all. Only of myself, and my need for her.

She’s now pushing on my chest, and I straighten, giving her a hand up. Surprise lightens her pretty eyes, but then her gaze flicks to the door, and her mouth tightens.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” I mutter with regret, because dammit, I really wanted to take her on the desk, and to hell with everything. “I’ll be on my way.”

“And your appointment?”

“Nah, I’ll ask for another. Got work to do.”

Her gaze returns to my face, meeting mine boldly, and I see a flicker of suspicion in her pretty eyes. “I could call reception for you, check where Ms. Malthus is. Her secretary should be here.”

“No, really, that’s quite okay.” I tug her to her feet, steady her. “I just remembered another appointment I have.”

With my right hand.

“If you’re sure…” She lets her voice trail off.

Has she seen through my lie? I frown at her. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll leave you to your work.” I glance around the room. “Although you seem to have forgotten your tools?”

“Sorry?” She pushes off me to straighten her clothes, and I swallow, my mouth dry, my dick hard and aching for release as I take one last long look at her curves.

“Your tools. You know…” I wave a hand and manage to tear my eyes off her. “Your cart with all those mysterious torture instruments. Dusters and mops and all that.”

“Oh.” She chews on her lower lip, and I’m entranced, remembering how it was to bite into the sweet flesh and hear her moan. “It’s right outside.”

“Right.” I glance at the door again and shove my hands into my pants pockets so I don’t grab her and finish what we started. “Okay. I uh…” That awkward, teenage-y feeling makes a reappearance, and I hate it.

The thing is… I don’t want to leave her. Here.

I don’t want to leave her here alone—but no, that’s not it. I don’t want to leave her, period, and that’s fucking with my mind.

I head to the door anyway, open it, check outside. Can’t see anyone. And she’s right behind me. She squeezes past, checks the corridor, too.

“All clear,” I say and wink at her.

She blushes again. Damn, it’s doing things to me I can’t control. My dick hardens. My chest tightens. “Thanks.”

I remember something, and pull a business card from my breast pocket. “Mia, wait. Here is my phone number. Call me.” She frowns up at me, and I rush on. “For a drink. Or to chat. Or you know. Hot sex. Guaranteed.”

Her lips pull into an uncertain smile, then it fades again quickly. “Take care, Rook.”

I watch her go, and only after she vanishes at the corner at the end, I sigh and rake a hand through my hair, gathering my thoughts.

With this girl, I keep getting sidetracked. What the hell is it about her? I usually go for the taller, statuesque goddesses that look like Valkyries and have a penchant for inflicting pain, but even then, it’s all a game. A dance. They hurt me. I get hard. I fuck them. We both come.

End of story. A satisfying end.

But Mia is stuck in my mind. I can’t get her out. Just the thought of her makes me hard, and then there’s that strange longing deep inside me, a longing for her that I can’t explain.

Like… I want to be with her. Spend time with her not just fucking, or doing a scene. Really spend time being together, talking and eating and… sitting together.

Christ, I’m going crazy.

It isn’t until I’ve reached my suite and locked the door behind me, poured myself a glass of Scotch and gone to stand at the window overlooking the city that something strikes me as odd.

Why would she leave her cart outside if she was cleaning the office? And why didn’t I see it when I came out of the office? There was no fucking cart in the corridor, I bet my life on that.

What the fuck was that about?