Three-Part Harmony Page 10

  “She’ll be remaining with me too.” David dropped his hand around her waist. “I’m not leaving her side until this bastard is found.”

  He felt Moridian’s scrutiny on both of them. Good. Let crusader boy get a long look at the connection he shared with D, stronger now than ever. “Details of all our cases are kept confidential. So don’t worry about that, Miss Moore.”

  Another agent waited in the hallway, and he accompanied the three of them into the VIP elevator. Though the ride up the next thirty floors took only a minute, David captured Dasha’s stare, then nodded toward the wall, silently inviting her to join him in a shared memory. Her eyes, darkening to molten copper, told him she’d gladly take him up on that. For a few seconds, they remembered those magical, seductive moments they’d shared during their last journey in this space. It was a welcome, needed break from this bewildering, surreal day.

  “The hotel moved the other guests from this wing,” Moridian said as they got off at the forty-eighth floor, and Dasha shot a furtive stare down the hall. “Like I said, confidentiality is key to a case like yours. If this ass-wipe is motivated by publicity, then lack of it will smoke him out.”

  David grunted approval at that. He hadn’t wanted to. And that made him grimace. All right, fuck it, he wasn’t a fan of how Mr. M eyeballed his woman, but he appreciated the respect Moridian gave this case and this criminal—and the determination he already showed in chasing down the cocksucker.

  They arrived at Dasha’s suite. A handful of agents still swarmed the rooms, FBI bees looking for any evidence to cross-pollinate to their lab for clues.

  “I just need a few minutes to pull my stuff together,” she told him quietly, daring a small kiss to his lips. As he expected, Moridian joined him in watching her disappear into the bedroom.

  “She’s nice,” the guy commented.

  “Mmm-hmm.” It was all he could do not to growl it.

  “Not the stuck-up pop princess I expected.”

  “Nope.” He drew out the vowel in it, hoping his territorial subtext seeped through.

  “How long have you two been together?”

  David arched a brow. “Professionally or personally?”

  Moridian didn’t flinch. “Both.”

  “And is my answer relative to your investigation?”

  Those nearly neon green eyes finally darkened. For once, the guy looked normal. Yet pissed off too. “When I’m brought in to secure the personal safety of a beautiful woman it is.”

  David almost smiled. Hell. Under different circumstances, he’d enjoy having Moridian as a friend. He could easily envision them shooting some pool, maybe downing some beers. But as the man had phrased it, the safety of a beautiful woman was at stake. A beauty that had taken on new dimensions for him since she’d knelt at his feet two weeks ago…and deepened dramatically for him over the last twenty-four hours.

  There was nothing beautiful about the scream shattering the air then.

  Dasha’s scream.

  “Oh God!” she cried out. “Oh my God!”

  “Fuck.” David blurted it as he and Moridian raced to the bedroom. The other agents joined them. They careened through the doorway but froze once they got there—except for David, who rammed them all aside to get to her.

  He gripped her shaking shoulders. Like that did any good; her whole body quaked. Her stare didn’t veer from her toiletries case. There, lying on top of her makeup and tampons and deodorant and toothpaste, was a white dove with its neck sliced open. The mirror embedded into the lid reflected the creature’s murdered eyes. Around the bird’s neck hung a note, preprinted off a computer and taped to a piece of cardboard:

  Bleed, Sweet Dasha, and Save Us All.

  “Who the hell missed this?” Moridian bellowed.

  David raised his hold to the back of D’s head and turned her face into his shoulder.

  “Get her out of here,” Moridian told him. As David gave him a concurring nod, he muttered one more thing. “This sure as fuck changes the game, Pennington. Whether you like it or not, I’m not leaving her side now either.”

  Chapter Nine

  Eight hours and several hundred miles later, Kress took a long-overdue drag on a beer and finally shifted his brain out of overdrive.

  Nobody was happy about the situation, least of all him. The last thing he’d joined the FBI for was pop-star babysitting duty. He knew Pennington wouldn’t believe it, though, so he didn’t bother saying it. But it was clear they had a sick fuck on their hands, one who’d had access to Dasha Moore’s suite, expanding their possible suspects to the army of people who worked in and around the Viceroy.

  They’d flown her out of Miami right away. Pennington ordered reschedules on the next two weeks’ worth of concert dates, and CNN was called about a backup plan for the Piers Morgan gig. Kress had backed him without hesitation, earning them both a fuming silence from Dasha. Kress could protect her in a lot of places, but the middle of an arena concert stage wasn’t one of them. So here they’d landed, hiding out in Atlanta in an opulent rent-a-mansion, which had clearly taken some major string-pulling prowess from Pennington. On the other hand, he was a Pennington. One of those Penningtons. David hadn’t believed it when Phelps handed the guy’s file over after checking out everyone on Dasha’s tour staff, but there it had been, in black and white:

  David Tristan Pennington. Primary residence: Rancho Palos Verdes, California. (Secondary residences: Paris, France, and Barahona Coast, Dominican Republic.

  Parents: Maddox and Sarah “Sissy” Pennington. Primary residence: Scottsdale, Arizona. Relationship: cordial.

  Brother: Joshua Kerrian Pennington. Primary residence: New York, New York. Relationship: estranged. (*Flag as possible suspect?)

  The file had gone on with details piled on details. He’d discarded most of the facts right after reading them, except having the brother checked out, of course. But it explained David’s hat trick in scoring this place so fast. And as a venue for playing the lay-low game for a week…well, it sure didn’t suck. The mansion was pure Margaret Mitchell on the outside, all shnoo-shnoo Designer-Snob on the inside. Marble floors, wool carpets, leather wallpaper, designer chandeliers. The couch on which he’d just parked his ass probably cost more than his annual pay.

  He rolled his eyes and bit into more of his dinner—a roast beef sandwich brought to him by a friendly maid who, God bless her, had read the “I’m starving” part of his mind when they’d arrived. At least he didn’t have to sleep on the couch, which felt as comfortable as a prison bunk. A plush king-size bed waited for him across the room, which in turn lay leaping distance to the room’s other door: the connecting portal to the bedroom Dasha and David would share during their “vacation” here.

  The adjoining rooms sitch didn’t sit well with Pennington at all—but Kress hadn’t backed down on that part either. His sworn duty was to protect Dasha Moore, and that didn’t change even if she had turned out to be the bitch-princess, hidden-warts, pop-priss he’d expected. Which was actually the furthest thing from the truth—but which, damn it, he almost wished had been the case.

  The woman was…special. Her beauty wasn’t just a gold veneer. Kress had watched her insist on paying her dancers through the show’s unexpected hiatus. She’d even asked him to ensure the dove received a proper burial. And warts? None so far, in the looks he’d been able to sneak in at her gorgeous, honey-colored skin, but shit, he couldn’t help fantasizing about looking for more. Preferably starting with her ass, at the end of his best cowhide flogger…

  He shoved aside that thought as Pennington swept in, holding hands with Dasha. It was a good thing he took another bite of his sandwich at the same second; the action hid his gulp at the sight of the woman, now looking totally the goddess with the growing fan club. Dressed in a shimmery gold chemise, black bolero jacket, and black jeans, every curve of her petite figure was highlighted to perfection. She leaned on David, looking ready to fall over in her strappy gold shoes. Her hair, hanging loose and s
hiny and curly, framed her weary face.

  “Hey. How’d it go with ol’ Piers?”

  “Good,” Pennington answered. “Real good. We were lucky he could fly down and do the interview at the CNN studios here. And his people were cool about making it look like New York instead.”

  “You’re right. That is good.” He directed his gaze at Dasha. “You look fantastic.”

  “Thank God for experienced makeup girls.” She laughed at that. The sound was soft but musical, yanking another gulp from him.

  Before he could help it, Kress grinned. And for one perilous second, he envisioned getting to push that hair from her eyes, then gorge his gaze on her sweet pixie features. “The paint’s only as good as the canvas, sugar.”

  He braced himself for Pennington’s answering tension. It hit like an invisible anvil.

  “It’s time for the canvas to rest,” he directed, sliding his hand to the side of Dasha’s neck.

  Kress watched every nuance of the move. Steady. Squeezing. And not a place a normal boyfriend would hold his girl.

  It was a typical move for a Dom to his submissive.

  “Yes, Sir,” Dasha replied with that same wind-chime laugh.

  This time, Kress couldn’t manage a responding grin. He fixed his stare back down to his sandwich. And took a long, desperate drag on his beer.

  “Good night, Agent Moridian,” Dasha said.

  “’Night,” David seconded.

  “Uh-huh,” Kress mumbled. “Yeah, okay.”

  The moment they shut the bedroom door, Kress rushed to it. Self-disgust flooded him as he pressed his ear to the heavy wood portal. But Pennington hadn’t locked the thing anyway. With a mouse-quiet turn of the knob, Kress saw why. The couple had barely entered the room before attacking each other. David rammed Dasha up against one of the bedposts, locking both her hands over her head with one of his, kissing her like it was the last taste they’d get of each other.

  “Thank you,” she said, breathless and sexy, when they broke apart. “Thank you, Sir. I’ve needed that so much.”

  Her utterance woke Kress’s dick the rest of the way up—as well as every other caveman instinct in his body. Fuck. Could it be that Dasha Moore, feisty and headstrong pop goddess, was secretly a gorgeous, willing submissive? He dreaded for it to be true. He prayed for it to be true.

  Hold the phone, Kress. Just because she tossed a couple of “Sirs” into the mix doesn’t mean—

  “Yes,” David replied. “Yes, you have needed it, haven’t you?” He took her lips again, even nipping at her bottom lip. “Thank you for your honesty. It’s beautiful.”

  She let out a little sigh. Then settled deeper against him with a seductive smile. “See? I’m working on it.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Pennington’s tone carried an all-too-recognizable edge.

  “I see. Okay, then. Now tell me what else you need.”

  Her smile gave way to uncertainty. It was a tiny click of time, yet a telling moment of truth. Forget the caveman; the Dom in him roared to life. He craved being the one to unearth her, unglue her, unravel her completely…

  Pennington’s indictment sliced into his fantasy.

  “Stop thinking, D.”

  Shavings of raw steel roughened the guy’s voice. With a hard tug, David unzipped Dasha’s jeans and shoved them past her ass. He dipped his hands, scooping both her honey cheeks, unyielding in his intent.

  “Just tell me what you feel. What you need. We didn’t finish your pleasure this morning. Have parts of you been aching for what they didn’t get?”

  Dasha mewled as he cupped her bottom tighter, yanking her forward, molding their pelvises. Hell. Kress went rock hard. He hated Pennington for being the one to mark that golden flesh with his touch, to coax that look on her face…the lust in her eyes, yet the trepidation in her mouth…

  Back off, man. Back off now. You’re a disgusting voyeur, intruding where you haven’t been asked. Just shut the damn door and go find a nice episode of Golden Girls to deflate your johnson…

  Pennington’s next words superglued him in place.

  “Speak up, or I’ll pinch.”

  The guy had shifted his hand to the front, lowering it under her panties.

  “Right here, on your tender little clit. I’ll pinch it hard; you know I will.”

  She gasped, trying not to squirm. “Please…Sir…”

  “Then don’t hold back. I’ll see it in your face if you do.”

  His forearm flexed; if Kress interpreted the move right, the sonofabitch had started spreading out the folds at his fingertips.

  “Tell me what you need, sweetheart. In detail.”

  Kress almost moaned himself. In detail? You’re good, Pennington. Hell’s fucking hounds, you’re good.

  “I—” Dasha stammered. “I want—”

  “I don’t care what you want. What do you need? I’ll get you started. ‘Please, sir, I need…’”

  “Please, Sir…” Her ginger eyelashes closed on her cheeks. “I need…your fingers…on me. And inside me.” She drew in a sharp breath as he worked his hand deeper, pushing into the flesh beneath her black lacy underwear. “I need your fingers inside me,” she said with more urgency.

  David dipped his head and jammed his tongue into her mouth before ordering her, “Then get these pants all the way off. Now.”

  Fuck, yes. Right now.

  The jeans were practically painted onto her. Dasha had to bend over to wrest them off. Kress called Pennington five kinds of a bastard for crouching as she did, enjoying the view from behind—and blocking the same sight from Kress’s vantage point. Damn it, he almost blew his cover in straining to see a little of the treasure between her thighs. His imagination took flight with the possibilities. She was petite, so her clit was likely in equal proportion, tight and lovely, the blonde curls there probably trimmed into a neat strip…

  “Back against the bedpost.” David said it when she was bare from the waist down. “Grip it over your head with both hands, and spread your legs. Yes, perfect. You’re getting used to this. I love it, pet.”

  Kress watched her face as Pennington pressed in for another kiss, mesmerized by the way it had changed. The poised pop starlet was gone. And in her place…oh, yeah… All his previous uncertainties about her true nature got obliterated by the expression she wore now. The hooded gaze. The slightly parted lips. The rosy sheen of her skin. He gazed at a submissive in the first, dreamy stages of giving herself to her Master.

  He gazed at a woman who made his body a forest fire of need.

  Especially when David stepped back for a moment and gave Kress a full view of her from the bottom down.

  Forget the forest fire. He was blowtorched.

  Her pussy was totally shaved. And it was more beautiful than his fantasies had conjured. The slick pink folds gleamed with her arousal, barely hiding the small fissure that led to her core. Striations of coral flesh blended with the pink, turning her into an unfolding rose, though likely smelling twice as sweet. Staring at the muscles there, which pulsed and quivered beneath David’s study, was the closest thing to torture Kress had ever experienced. His fly was a barbed cage against his dick. He couldn’t think about the time bombs calling themselves his balls.

  Pennington twisted the agony deeper. He sat on the bed now, next to where Dasha stood. After letting her stand and ache another long moment, he leaned forward and started spreading her sex like the layers of a flower. He unveiled her with slow, excruciating strokes, layer by layer, smacking her thighs back if she so much as twitched in reaction. Kress didn’t worry about the pair discovering him now, because he’d given up breathing. The sacrifice was worth it, a small price for the privilege of watching Dasha’s senses come apart as her pussy was given the same treatment. With fingers more steady than a surgeon, Pennington taunted her until only her hard, red clit remained for his touch.

  He tapped her there lightly at first, making Dasha keen with gorgeous arousal. “Hush,” he reprimanded. �
��Hold it back. Breathe it down.”

  She actually gritted her teeth, exposing their cover-girl perfection, as he slid his finger along her sex again.

  “David!” she cried.

  “Who?”

  “Sir! Shit! Please—I don’t know if I can hold it in!”

  “Yes, you can. No coming, D. Who owns your orgasms now?”

  “You do.”

  Her resigned whimper had Kress tossing props and hatred at David in the same second. Props for the way the guy drew out that precious acquiescence from her. Hatred for being the Dom at the receiving end of it. Fucking lucky bastard.

  “You own my orgasms, Sir,” she clarified.

  “Good girl. So you’re going to get your body under control for me and let me get these fingers inside you…” He went to work on her clit again, kneading, tormenting. “All right?”

  The mesmerizing little sub was anything but all right. Within seconds, Dasha panted hard again, wincing and trembling. “Sir,” she pleaded, nearly sobbing with it, “I can’t! I—owww!”

  He rained a trio of swats right on the area he’d been caressing. Only three hits, but they were hard; her flesh instantly bloomed red. She shook with arousal and desperation.

  Kress tried to swallow. She was breathtaking, her teeth turning her bottom lip as red as her pussy. He fantasized about being the one close enough to watch her mouth doing all that…then the one guiding those sweet lips right onto his extended cock…

  “So tell me now what you need, sweetheart.” David stood but shifted back from her now, not laying a finger on her, simply gazing with a firm face. He raised a black brow. “You know the trembling won’t earn you mercy. Only your honesty will.”

  “This is my honesty!” She forced in a couple of deep breaths, then continued in a desperate rasp, “P-please, Sir. I just…”

  “Just what?”

  “I want—I need—to be fucked.” Like a Greek chorus lending its support, all the inflamed tissues of her pussy trembled. “Please, David…I’ve waited all day!”

  “But what about my fingers inside you?”