Chapter One
Her eyes puffy from crying, mouth set with determination, Gabrielle Renard walked down the hallway of the FBI’s Miami field division, hunting for the correct office. There it was. She stopped and took a careful breath—I can do this—then straightened her shoulders and shoved the door open.
It was a typically bland room with coffee-stained, brown carpeting and off-white walls, and the scent of sweat, coffee, and overly musky cologne sure didn’t help her stomach. A metal desk with a computer occupied the right side. On the left, two men sat at a small conference table, papers strewn across the surface.
One had his back to her, and with dismay, she realized why the cologne smelled familiar. Agent Preston Rhodes. Only three or four inches over her five feet five, the pale, brown-haired creep had the whiny personality—and the morals—of the hyenas in The Lion King. During her one-month stint in Tampa last year, he’d even tried to coerce a victim’s sister into bed.
The other man had black hair and eyes, an olive complexion, and deeply carved lines bracketing his mouth. He frowned at her and asked, “Can I help you?” in a clipped New England accent.
Rhodes turned in his chair and scowled at her. “What are you doing here, Renard?” He glanced at the other man. “She’s a victim specialist with the Miami field office.”
Ignoring him, Gabi spoke to the dark-haired agent. “Are you in charge of the investigation of the women kidnapped in Atlanta?”
Renard glared. “What the—”
The man silenced Renard with a look. “I’m Special Agent Galen Kouros. Why?”
“I want to be one of the decoys.” And you’re going to let me.
“Do you now? Just how did you happen to hear about them?” His icy voice sent an answering chill up her spine. She let her own anger wash through her.
“One of the kidnapped women is a friend, and her mother called me after your visit.” Weeping hysterically, begging for help from Kim’s FBI friend. Gabi had driven to Atlanta for information from Kim’s mom and also the local FBI office. None of it had been good. Gabi looked away, blinking back tears. “I found out another young woman had been kidnapped and shot.”
“The only details released to the news were that a woman had died of a gunshot wound on the freeway. How did you get more?” The agent leaned back in his chair, studying her.
“There are rumors here and there.” Especially in the seething Atlanta field office. Not so easy here. But during her brief stay in Tampa, she’d discovered that one of the secretaries loved to gossip. She’d also told Gabi that Rhodes's very appropriate nickname was Dickhead.
Kouros pointed to a chair across from Rhodes. “Sit.”
New Englanders could be so brusque. He needed to meet a southern gentleman and learn some civility. But she obediently took a seat.
“Tell me what you know. All of it.”
“A total of four women, including Kim, were kidnapped in Atlanta. All members of BDSM clubs. The last one escaped on a freeway by running out into oncoming traffic. She died of a gunshot wound before the ambulance arrived. But she managed to tell a trucker a few things.” She must have been in agony. Terrified. Gabi swallowed.
“Go on,” Kouros snapped.
“Apparently the kidnapper said more women were to be kidnapped in Tampa.” She frowned. “Um, the last delivery of women is August twenty-ninth, and then they’ll hold a slave auction.” They’ll sell Kim. She gathered her thoughts. “You’re putting female agents as decoys in four Tampa fetish clubs, hoping the kidnapper will target one.” It seemed a little far-fetched. Why would he go after them and not another woman in the club?
“You’re remarkably well-informed.” He hadn’t moved as she talked, his stillness a contrast to Rhodes’s fidgeting. “I can see there are some loose tongues in this office.”
Dickhead stiffened.
Ignoring him, Kouros eyed Gabi. “What qualifications do you have for playing a decoy, Ms. Renard? I’ll admit you’re motivated—and because of that I doubt you can be objective. You’re the right age. You’re pretty enough, probably smart enough. But you’re not an agent; you’re support staff—a social worker. Why should I use you instead of an agent?”
At first she hadn’t seen any way to help. She was a counselor, not a field agent. Then she’d checked the agents they planned to use. “It doesn’t matter if I’m objective or not. I’m not going to work the case, just play decoy. Second, you only have three agents for decoys, not four. As far as I know, none have visited BDSM clubs before.”
His face hardened at the further evidence of how much information she’d obtained, and she continued hurriedly, “I have experience.” A little and long ago, but who’s counting?
He sat forward like a cat scenting a mouse. “You’re submissive?”
She nodded.
“You’re not seriously considering using her,” Rhodes burst out. “She’d blow the whole operation.”
As Kouros studied her, his gaze drifted over her face, lingered on her cheek. “How’d you get the scar?”
The ugly memory sliced her as easily as the knife had sliced her flesh. Her hands fisted. “Wrong place during a gang war.” And she’d promised herself she’d never willingly get near violence again. How plans do change.
“You’re braver than you appear.” Kouros actually smiled. “You might just do, Ms. Renard. As it happens, I need a decoy for the Shadowlands.”
Rhodes stared at him. “You think you could get that asshole owner to admit her? She’s not an agent.”
“Zachary Grayson had a good point. An inexperienced, nonsubmissive woman might manage to pass in a busy public place, but the members of his club wouldn’t be fooled.” Kouros turned to her again. “The Shadowlands is a private, very exclusive BDSM club outside Tampa. Assuming we can talk him into it, the owner will set you up as a trainee sub.”
She opened her mouth to agree, but he held up his hand.
“You’re missing one vital piece of information the victim gave us—and we confirmed. I want you to think twice before we go any further. You see, the kidnapper is targeting only blatantly rebellious submissives. Noisy ones. The buyers want the pleasure of breaking their spirits.”
“No. That can’t—” No, not Kim. Her stomach twisted.
Kouros’s face softened. “You’re not getting the point, Gabrielle. I’m talking about your involvement. The decoys will have to demonstrate disobedient, insolent behavior. If you’re familiar with the lifestyle, you know how a dom will react.”
Gabi stiffened. Doms wouldn’t tolerate rudeness. They might just stop the scene and let the sub go—or might discipline her.
“Ah. I see you know.” A corner of Kouros’s mouth rose. “Grayson says only a few Shadowlands doms like brats, so either you’d end up sitting alone with no chance to attract attention or he’d need to get you into the trainee program…which forces the trainer to deal with you, whether he wants to or not.”
She nodded. To be dealt with. Her hands had gone clammy.
“Another fact. Despite their protests, the club owners are sworn to secrecy, so aside from the owner and Rhodes, no one else there will know you’re playing a part. That includes the dom in charge of the trainees, who, according to Grayson, is a hard-ass when it comes to disrespectful submissives. Are you sure, Gabrielle?”
She clasped her hands together, hoping to hide her trembling. Knowing she’d be setting herself up as a target for a murderer had terrified her so much she’d thrown up before leaving the motel.
Now this. To beg for punishment from a dom who didn’t know she was playing a part? Oh God.
But for Kim? All through college, Kim had shaken her awake from nightmares of the past, listened to her, comforted her. Now Kim was living in a nightmare.
Gabi raised her chin. “I’m sure.”
Marcus Atherton walked into the Shadowlands entry and nodded at the domme and security guard across the small room. Down the center, his five trainee submissives knelt nicely in a line. He strolled around them, checking that clothing was neat, appropriate, and seductive. “Y'all look very nice tonight,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
Vivacious Sally, Goth Dara, and sweet, gay Austin had been there before he’d taken over the program last spring. After he and the owner, Z, had talked at length, they’d added Uzuri, with her gorgeous, chocolate-colored skin and the soul of a prankster, and a newer bisexual, Tanner, who wanted a mistress or a couple.
“I will not be in charge of you this evening.” Z’s voice-mail message had requested that he free himself up tonight, but hadn’t said why. “So Mistress Olivia has kindly agreed to supervise y'all.”
Their unhappy expressions warmed his dom’s heart. They’d become as attached to him as he was to them. When he saw mischief rising in Sally’s eyes, he added, “You best be nice to Mistress Olivia, or next time I’ll ask Mistress Anne to watch over you.”
They actually paled.
He had a mind to tell Anne—the sadistic mistress would enjoy their response immensely. “I’ll have an eye on all of you. Don’t let me down now.”
