Page 73 of Lethal Torture
Another moment and I’ll fucking well do it, too, and to hell with the consequences.
“Fine.” She returns my glare. “No more after-hours visits. I stay out of your space, you stay out of mine.”
Turning her back on me, she glides toward the door, her ass swaying in the way that makes me want to punch a fucking wall.
“Good,” I say to her back. “And by the way, your apartment was rewired today, and the basement secured properly.Hopefully the team have left it as they found it, but if there’s anything out of place, feel free to let me know.”
She pauses at the door and looks back at me over her shoulder, her eyes so dark they’re almost black. “Thank you.” She grinds the word out with a visible reluctance.
I grin, raising my beer to her with a nonchalance I definitely do not feel. “You’re welcome. It’s my job, remember?”
Her eyes flicker skyward, her mouth pursing in a way that makes my grin stretch even wider. “Fuck you, Macarthur.” She wrenches the door open and steps through it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I take a mouthful of beer, still holding her eyes. “Oh, I’ll be there.”
The door closes behind her, leaving only the seductive scent of her in the air and an aching need in my body.
I catch my eye in the window’s reflection and raise my bottle again in an ironic salute. “Smart, Macarthur,” I murmur sarcastically. “Real fucking smart.”
17
LUKE
Sophie’s Houseoccupies several adjoining double-fronted terraces, and we enter through a side gate that is code locked. A path leads down the side of the terrace, beside a high wire-topped wall. Toys lie in the sandpit, and a bike leans against the wall.
“Sometimes the women we take come with children,” Zin explains coolly. Large black sunglasses hide her eyes, despite the gray day, and she hasn’t met my eyes directly since I picked her up this morning. She certainly hasn’t mentioned last night’s conversation.
She’s swapped her stilettos for long leather boots that highlight her thighs and a black coat over a scarlet wool dress which clings to every curve. The dress features a plunging neckline that exposes just enough porcelain cleavage to make a monk want to break his vows.
I know damn well she’s dressing to exact revenge for last night. I also know whatever game is crackling the air between us will have to wait for now. Sophie’s House is no place to play it.
Inside, the refuge is an airy, quiet place with welcoming sofas and various different rooms decorated to purpose. Women are accommodated in private rooms, some with multiple beds for children. There is a dedicated terrace, a large communal dining room, a commercial kitchen, and several other smaller kitchenettes where the women can prepare their own food if they choose. Zin doesn’t linger as she walks me through it, and she’s clearly called ahead to warn her staff, because I don’t see any of the women currently staying there. I’m taken straight to the front office, which also doubles as the security room. Two female guards sit on one side, monitoring the cameras, while the receptionist’s desk, currently empty, is on the other.
Design fault,I think immediately. The place needs a full surveillance suite. Trying to operate security in reception is a bad move.
“Luke?” The larger of the two women stands up, her stern face creasing into a smile. “Christ. She didn’t tell me it was you she’d hired.”
“Sal.” I return her smile. “Good to see you again.”
“Ana.” Sal turns to the thinner woman beside her. “You remember Luke, from that shit show in Myanmar?”
“Hell, yes.” Ana nods at me with a grin. “Never got a chance to thank you for all you did. Great work that night.” She turns to Zinaida. “You should have mentioned it was Luke you had coming. There are plenty of girls here who’d love to see him again.”
“I didn’t realize you’d met.” The gleam in Zinaida’s eye is fierce enough to sear paint from the walls.
I give her the ghost of a wink and have the satisfaction of seeing the color rise in her cheeks.
That’s what happens when you try to outplay me, Melikov.
“You were in Myanmar?” Charlie, who drove us here, shakes her head, grinning. “You’re a fucking dark horse, McTasty.” Then she sees Zinaida’s face, and her eyes widen. She glances back at me, and I give a small warning shake of my head. Her grin gets even wider, but wisely, she keeps whatever smart-ass crack she was about to make to herself.
“You’ve already met most of the team,” Sal goes on, clearly oblivious to the underlying tension. “The ones you haven’t are a little reserved, so go easy, yeah?”
“Copy that.”
We walk through the refuge, and Sal introduces me to the security team, including those who are stationed on each floor. They’re all polite, but apart from those I already know, most barely look me in the eye. All, without exception, have a wary tension to them. Unsurprising, given that from Mak’s file, nearly all of them are refugees from either trafficking or severe abuse.
No wonder Zinaida was cautious about bringing me in.
