My Hunger, Page 4

  Reaching my office I enter and shut the door, then lean against it facing my desk. I stare at the damnable mural behind my desk that Chris painted that reminds me of him and his warning that I was pushing Rebecca too hard and too far.

  “Damn it to hell,” I murmur, running my hand over my face. I tell myself I was doing Amanda a favor. She has to deal with the truth.

  No. Fuck. That back there wasn’t about Amanda.

  It was about me. I have to deal with it.

  Shoving off the door, I pull out my cell and dial Crystal, far more concerned about the New York press where she is than I am by the press I am dealing with here, and wait as her phone begins to ring.

  She answers, “Mr. Compton.”

  Mr. Compton, not Mark—and I somehow know that means she’s with employees, just as Rebecca had addressed me formally at work and as Master elsewhere. “The press is all over me here,” I say. “What’s the story there?”

  “Knock on wood, we’re without incident.”

  “And Mac Reynolds?”

  “He made my cranky seller in L.A. look like The Good Witch of the North, he’s such a jerk. He wanted us to pay for expert reappraisals on every piece he’s bought through us, under threat of him going public.”

  “And you told him what?”

  “Turns out his company does business with my father’s company, and while I don’t like to use those connections, I talked to my father, who gave me a free ticket to use him on Riptide’s behalf. So I dropped my father’s name and made it clear I’m influential with his business choices. I then offered to pay for the reappraisals Mac wanted and buy back the items if they were found to be counterfeit, but since I knew they wouldn’t be, it would end up being at his expense. He’s going to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Well done, Ms. Smith. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Compton. I do aim to please.”

  “That could be debated.”

  “Not successfully.”

  I’m surprised to find my lips curving and my body relaxing into my leather chair. “You can convince me another time.”

  “I will,” she assures me. “In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?”

  There’s a softness to her voice, real concern I don’t want to notice, but I do. “Just be you, Ms. Smith. It seems to be working.”

  “One day you’ll say that and mean it.” Her phone beeps. “Before I go . . . I’m going to see your mother tonight. I’ll call you afterwards.”

  She hangs up before I can reply and I turn in my chair and stare at the mural again, remembering Chris’s warning. You’re pushing her too hard, taking her places she doesn’t want to go. I kept telling myself Rebecca was just another sub, when she was never just a sub. She always wanted what I wasn’t willing to give. What I’m not sure I have to give.

  She wanted love, a façade of happiness that rips out a person’s heart and leaves them bleeding. Exactly why I told her I don’t do love. And yet my heart is on the ground, and it’s damn sure bleeding.

  I need Sara back. It’s the conclusion I come to after hours of picking apart the gallery’s books and analyzing the impact of closing for the next few weeks. She won’t be influenced by the media, and she knows how to handle customers for private showings. She’d also be able to help me plan a grand reopening. Chris’s attending that opening wouldn’t hurt, either. Getting him to agree to Sara’s return or his own participation, though, is another story, due to Ava throwing accusations of an affair at us.

  Moving on with other options, I decide I’ll have to bring in someone from Riptide. Once I’m there, I’ll decide who. In the meantime, I start Amanda and Ralph on making plans. We set a date, and begin the guest lists. By the evening I have calls out to several high-profile artists, and I’ve sent Amanda and Ralph home. By eight thirty I’ve left my father two messages: to check on my mother, and one for Crystal, who I know will stop by the hospital.

  And I’m now sitting in a high-rise building at a conference table with a view of the city lights. “Tiger,” my new attorney, sits at the head of the table and is the polar opposite of Dean. Dean, like me, wears his light brown hair short and neat, his suit perfectly pressed. Tiger is in jeans and a T-shirt, his long black hair tied at his nape, his face sporting at least a two-day shadow. He reminds me of Chris Merit, who can drop that casual persona and knock someone down ten notches in sixty seconds flat with lethal precision.

  “Here’s the down and dirty,” Tiger says, leaning back in his chair. “Dean filled me in fully and I know all about the club you own and his involvement. I’ll start out with the reality we face. Election years suck. Everyone has extra pressure on them, including those unfortunate enough to be caught in a mess like this one.”

  “So you’re telling me they’re coming after me,” I state.

  “I haven’t talked to them yet,” Tiger says, “but the bottom line here is that they don’t have a body, but they do have a young, missing girl. That’s big news, and it’s scary news to the public.”

  “Ava confessed,” I argue. “And she tried to kill Sara. Ryan, Sara, Chris, and I were witnesses to that fact. We were all there that night.”

  “Sara and Chris need to get back to the States,” Dean complains. “Right now it looks like they ran.”

  “Chris lives half the year in Paris,” I remind him. “It’s not like it’s some random out-of-the-country location. And I’m sure their attorney has whatever their situation is under control. Chris has money and expert advice.”

  “It would look better if they were here,” Tiger agrees. “And a good attorney will use the public’s lack of information about BDSM to paint you as some sort of fetish monster who commanded Ava to take the fall for you.”

  “What about the attempted murder?”

  “If they discredit you and the other witnesses,” Tiger replies, “it’ll be a hard case to make.”

  I press my fingers to my forehead and curse.

  “This sounds bad,” Dean comments,“but it’s all smoke and mirrors to get Ava off. They have no evidence.”

  Dropping my hands, I say, “We hope. And what stops this from ruining me and my family in the process, not to mention the privacy of the members of the club?”

  “Me,” Dean says. “They know me and my reputation. I’ll sue the stink out of their shit if they so much as blow the wrong air your direction. One of the first things I’m going to do is make sure the club records are safe. Get them off site, if you have them there, and bring them to me. They’ll go after the gallery and your home first. And anyone else they can connect to you and Rebecca.

  “Like Ryan,” Tiger indicates. “And I’d guess Chris, if they find out he’s a member of the club, and they’ll get to Sara through Chris since she lives with him. Fortunately for Ryan, Ava seems to be pointing her anger elsewhere.”

  I scrub my jaw. “I haven’t even warned him about all of this.”

  “I’ll call him,” Dean offers.

  “Back to the club,” Tiger interjects. “If things heat up, it’s a good idea to have someone in mind to sign the club over to. I don’t anticipate it being necessary, but it’s better to have a plan. We can do some paperwork to protect your rights. It will give me an argument, if we need it, that the only records of relevance are yours, Ava’s, and Rebecca’s.”

  “What about Riptide?” I ask. “Can they touch it?”

  Tiger straightens, resting his hands on the table, and I hope he’s as good as Dean claims. “That would be a very difficult stretch for them to make,” he replies.

  “But they could try to make it,” I say, and it’s not a question.

  “They can and will try about anything. That’s why I’ll be street-brawl ready if need be.”

  “I don’t want you to need to be. I want this over quietly and quickly, and it seems the only way to do that is for me to talk to Ava and get her to tell the truth.”

  “No.” Tiger’s voice is absolute steel. “Even if you get her to give up
the body and it’s covered in her DNA evidence, you run the risk of her claiming you were involved or even the one who plotted it all out. They’ll use the Master-and-submissive relationship you favor against you.”

  “Ava wasn’t my submissive.”

  “Did she want to be?” Tiger asks.

  Tension crawls up my spine. “Yes.”

  “How did she pay for her membership at the club?”

  “On her own. I didn’t sponsor her.”

  Tiger glances at the paper in front of him and arches a brow. “How did a coffee bar manager get that kind of money?”

  “She owns the coffee bar, but according to her she also had a family inheritance.”

  “That explains a lot,” Dean comments dryly.

  “Meaning?” I prod.

  “She’s got a couple of hotshot, very expensive attorneys.”

  Tiger taps the table. “Back to her wanting to be your sub. I’m guessing she’ll say she was trying to earn that role by doing as you wish.”

  “He’s right,” Dean agrees. “It’s too risky for you to confront Ava.”

  “Talk, not confront,” I correct.

  “And if you convince her to change her story, they could say it’s the way you manipulate her and mess with her head,” Dean counters. “This is one of those calls attorneys make—like not putting someone on the stand.”

  I am not pleased with this answer or the way it ties my hands. “Ava claimed Sara was involved in Rebecca’s murder. None of us had even met Sara in the timeframe in question. Surely that demonstrates she’s lying and hurts her credibility.”

  “Eventually the truth will win out,” Tiger assures me. “But it’s going to be a hell of a ride.”

  My cell phone rings and I pull it from my pocket. It’s Kurt, the manager of the club. I answer. “The police were just here,” Kurt tells me without preamble. “I sent them away, but I’m guessing they’ll be back.”

  “Did any members see them?”

  “We kept them behind the gate. How do they even know we exist?”

  Ava, I think, regretting the day I ever approved her membership. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” I hang up and glance from Dean to Tiger. “The police showed up at the club.”

  “Predictably,” Dean replies, “Ava told them where to find it, and her people are doing everything in their power to turn this on you.”

  Tiger shifts in his seat and pulls his cell from his pocket. “I’ll call the detective in charge of the case and give him a good verbal beating. In the meantime, we need to get the records out of the club to protect the membership—preferably tonight.”

  “I’ll go get them now,” I confirm.

  “And stay away after you’re out,” he says. “I wouldn’t put it past the police to decide to bring you in for questioning while you’re there, to get past the doors. In fact, can someone else get the records?”

  I give a shake of my head. “Not with the security system I have in place. I need to open the safe.”

  “Then get in and get out,” he replies.

  “One final heads-up,” Dean cautions, as they both stand. “Ava’s team could decide to anonymously tip off a reporter. Who knows what creative story they might tell, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was along the lines of ‘a dead woman and a BDSM Master.’ It’s the kind of story that will get major attention, and apply pressure on the cops and the suits.”

  “I’d sure take that route if she were my client,” Tiger confirms. “But they might not be that smart or that brave.”

  “Ava is,” I say. “She’s crazy, but she’s smart.” I scrub at the tension at the back of my neck. “I’ll have the records here in the morning.”

  “Don’t keep them with you,” Dean warns. “I need to stay away from the club right now, too, but call me when you have them in hand and I’ll pick them up.”

  I give him a nod and shake Tiger’s hand. Ready to get this trip to the club over with, I exit the conference room and, needing to burn off the emotion clawing at me, I take the stairs. I’ve just reached the garage and settled into my Jag when my cell phone rings.

  Noting Crystal’s name on the ID, I answer. “Ms. Smith,” I say, punching the ignition button and hoping for at least one piece of good news. “How’s my mother doing?”

  “I talked to your father and he said she’s still not feeling well. They’re running tests with no results back yet. Mark, I’m not in New York. I’m here in San Francisco. I need to see you.”

  I brake at the exit to the garage. “What? Why? You’re supposed to be looking after Riptide.”

  “I have my father’s private jet. I can go back tonight if you want me to.”

  “If I want you to? What the hell does that mean, Crystal?”

  “I’d rather explain in person. I’m at the gallery. Are you here? Can you let me in?”

  A sense of foreboding fills me. “Is everyone safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Riptide?”

  “Is under control.”

  “What are you doing here, Ms. Smith?”

  “In person,” she repeats. “I need to see you.”

  I hear the stubbornness in her voice, and say, “I’m not at the gallery. Do you have a hotel?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Meet me at my house in an hour. I’ll text you the address.”

  “Wait, Mark. The plane—”

  I hit the End button, and it’s all I can do not to go to her now and find out what bombshell she has waiting for me.

  And it will be a bombshell. I’m sure of it.

  Part Four

  Consumed

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve ignored three calls from Crystal, tried to reach my father to no avail, and I’m finally at the gates of the club. It is only a few blocks from my home in Cow Hollow. I punch in a code on a panel. The steel entry starts to open and I hit the intercom, announcing myself, and instruct the attendant, “Make sure Kurt knows I’m here.”

  Shifting the car into gear, I travel the long driveway draped in heavy foliage for privacy, and around the curved drive to park in front of the sprawling mansion that’s only one of many buildings on the several miles wide property. Opening my door, I hand off my keys to one of the longtime attendants. Without a word to anyone else, I head up the long stairway to the double red doors meant to signify money and power.

  After another long-term employee, a security guard wearing the standard black suit I require, greets me at the top level, I enter the house. As Dean had pointed out, members pay a hefty price to join the club, and the foyer, like the rest of the property, is decorated with fine art and expensive furnishings to create the luxury they expect. Those fees also encourage confidentiality, both that of the members and the staff, and my role as Master is to the protection of everyone here—a role I take deadly serious. The idea of failing in my duties is unthinkable, and Ava’s betraying the secrets of the membership is a failure.

  Kurt, an ex–Navy SEAL and head of security, joins me in the foyer, his long blond hair tied at his nape, showing a four-inch scar he wears proudly down his cheek.

  “My office,” I order. We head down a separate set of stairs, not as ornate as the stairs up, which are lined with mahogany rails, and into the finished basement that includes a dungeon area and my office.

  As I reach the foot of the steps a memory stirs in my mind, of bringing Sara down here to the dungeon. It had been the night that Chris had lost it, mourning a little boy dying of cancer. I’d known Chris had tumbled into darkness that evening, pushing too hard for escape, beyond safety and reason. Chris had once been a friend, one I still didn’t want to see crash and burn, perhaps because his strength felt like my own. It was my job as Master to make the decision to break code and stop the beating he was demanding. And as much as I’d tried to prevent Sara from ending up with Chris, I’d known she was the only way I’d get him out of that dungeon in my club.

  Up to that
point, knowing how damaged Chris truly was, and is, I’d feared the power he was giving Sara over himself, and the power he was gaining over her. I hadn’t realized it was my fear that she was his Rebecca, a woman he’d destroy. That night I’d just been damn thankful she was his salvation, but I’d also sworn I’d never be in that place he was myself. Now, just a month later, I’m teetering on the edge of that place, trying my damnedest to pull myself back.

  Reaching the double dungeon-style wooden doors at the end of the walkway, I key in another code on a panel, hold my thumb on a scanner, and then watch the tiny red light change to green. Entering the room lined with bookshelves, my path is a straight to the centerpiece of the space, an oversized antique desk that I restored years before. Kurt follows me inside, locking the doors behind us. I step behind the desk, opening a drawer and pressing my thumb to yet another panel there. One of the bookshelves slides to the side, exposing a secret room.

  “I need you to load all the files in my car,” I instruct Kurt, “including all security footage.”

  Kurt stops in front of the desk. “Is this a precaution, or should I expect a search warrant to follow?”

  “Both.” I fill him in on the details of what’s happened with Ava.

  “What a little bitch,” he says when I finish. “Isn’t killing Rebecca punishment enough? She has to shred your life and anyone else who’s in it? I suppose she’s going to claim insanity.”

  “She’s in a psych ward for evaluation, but I think that’s more due to her calculation and manipulation than losing her mind.”

  “I knew enough of those kind of people in the Navy to know that spells trouble.”

  And he’s done a damn good job of heading off trouble here the past few years. “I’m going to draw up papers to put you in control of the club. It will shield the members, and I need to focus on my family until my mother is well.”

  “You want me to take over the club? As in ownership, not just management?”