He turned back down the hall, slipped into a stairwell, and exited one floor below. The same dark furnishings adorned the Cognac Room, but the pungent aroma of cigars deterred non-smokers from using this space.
A bald man reclined on a couch, his trousers unzipped beneath the bobbing head of a young woman. Nearby, several other couples engaged in various forms of fornication and sexual orientation. Across the room, a topless dancer writhed on a pole, grinding to the low volume of club music.
An attractive man sat alone at a table a few feet from her. He was the only man in the room who could’ve been Cole Hartman. Tate’s guest.
Black leather jacket, short brown hair, early thirties, he watched the dancer with a strange expression. It wasn’t curiosity. Definitely not desire. His furrowed brow and pinned lips hinted at displeasure.
Maybe it was shock. Especially if he’d never been in a place like this. And fair enough. Swingers were a peculiar breed. They paid outrageous fees for the convenience of ogling, sampling, or boning other people’s partners. There weren’t a lot of life experiences that prepared a person for a room full of naked, oversexed strangers.
Tate had deliberately withheld the nature of The Velvet Den when he suggested it as a location to meet. He wanted to hire Cole to help him find Camila’s sister. But if the big, leather-clad guy couldn’t handle an open display of sex, he wasn’t up for the task.
Since Cole didn’t appear to notice anyone but the dancer, Tate remained in the doorway, studying him, searching for anything that might’ve raised a red flag.
After four years and five private investigators, Tate had made zero progress on locating Lucia Dias. So he did the one thing he thought he’d never do.
He asked Van Quiso for help.
Liv and Camila had both been enslaved by Van, yet they’d found something redeemable in him. Something they trusted.
Van had connections with unsavory people—slavers, drug and weapon dealers, assassins, and bounty hunters. People with specialized skills in shady situations.
People like Cole Hartman.
Tate didn’t know how Van was connected to Cole or if that was even his real name. All he had was Van’s unwavering conviction: If Cole Hartman can’t locate Camila’s sister, no one can.
On the far side of the room, Cole shrugged off his jacket, tossed it in a nearby chair, and crooked a finger at Tate without removing his eyes from the dancer.
Evidently, he was more attuned to his surroundings than he let on. Good.
As Tate crossed the room, Cole lifted a beer from the table. Heavy ink tattooed his forearm, but the lighting was too low to make out the artwork.
He didn’t move or meet his eyes until Tate reached the table.
“You’re drinking Bud Light in the Cognac Room,” Tate said in greeting.
“Am I breaking a rule?”
“No. But the cognac’s free.”
“So is the beer.” Cole tipped the neck of the bottle in the direction of the dancer. “Tell her to leave.”
“You have a problem with dancers?” Tate pointedly looked at Cole’s tattoo.
From wrist to elbow was an inked silhouette of a woman swinging on a dance pole.
“I’ve seen better.” Cole brought the beer to his lips for a hardy swallow. “Much better.”
On the surface, Cole seemed relaxed. But with each rotation the dancer made on the pole, his jaw grew harder, the cords in his neck pulling tighter. For whatever reason, the dancing put him on edge, and it undoubtedly had something to do with the woman tattooed on his arm.
While Tate didn’t know the dancer, all of Lela’s employees knew him. His history at The Velvet Den gave him the authority to send her away, but how did Cole Hartman know that? Maybe he’d done his homework?
Approaching the dance pole, Tate touched the girl’s shoulder, his voice low. “Take a break, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vades.” With a small smile, she sashayed toward the exit.
Christ, she had a great ass. Big and round, it jiggled in her thong, sending provocative messages to his cock.
With an inward groan, he returned to the table, lowered into a chair, and caught Cole’s eyes. “How do you know Van Quiso?”
“Client confidentiality, pal. He’s your friend. Why don’t you ask him?”
Van wasn’t his friend and had been annoyingly cryptic on the subject of Cole Hartman.
“I requested this meeting because I need you to find someone.” Tate clasped his hands together on his lap. “A woman.”
“How long has she been missing?”
The answer tried to stick in his throat, but he forced it out. “Eleven years.”
Cole didn’t grimace or flinch like the other investigators Tate had hired. He simply nodded and sipped the beer.
“Aren’t you going to ask her name, age, last place she was seen, all the usual shit?”
“Nope.” Cole leveled him with an incisive look. “We’re going to discuss you, the reason you’re looking for her, and the price you’re willing to pay.”
“Money isn’t an issue.”
“I’m not talking about money.”
Tate rubbed his head, losing patience. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Why did you choose this place to meet?”
“If you were good at your job, you’d be able to tell me.”
“All right.” Cole leaned forward, keeping his voice soft. “Let’s start with your childhood.”
This should be interesting. Tate had never told anyone about his past, not even Camila. “Go on.”
“Tate Anthony Vades. Son of a prostitute. Father unknown. After your mother died from a drug overdose, you became a ward of the state, all before your second birthday. But her friend, Lela Pearl, took you in, kept you hidden and out of the system.” He took a swig of beer and lowered it without looking away. “You were raised by whores in a brothel, this brothel, until you were old enough to turn tricks and earn your keep.”
Jesus. Tate didn’t know whether to be pissed or freaked out that he’d dug up so many buried secrets. But Cole’s ability to elicit a vulnerable reaction was a good thing. If he could arouse fear in people, taunt them with personal information and provoke them to talk, maybe he really could make headway on Lucia’s case. Because somewhere, someone knew what happened to her.
“I’m impressed.” Tate tilted his chin down, measuring his words. “So I was raised among whores and earned a living as one for a while. What of it? You going to turn me in?”
“Rumor is, generations of sheriffs, judges, and mayors have kept this place in operation in exchange for VIP treatment.” He glanced around the room, watching topless women serve cigars and cognac. “To be honest, I’m waiting for the girls to break out in song, a la The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.” A smirk stole across Cole’s face. “I work outside of the law, Tate. Your secrets are safe with me.”
“I appreciate that.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not sure how any of this helps you find the woman I’m searching for.”
“I’ll find her, but it won’t bring you any closer to the woman you want.”
He stopped breathing, and his heart flew against his ribcage. He didn’t care if Cole knew he lost his virginity to a man at age fourteen or that he’d sold his body to female clients for a
few years. Hell, he didn’t even care if Cole had gleaned what happened to him in Van’s attic.
But Camila was off-limits. In her crusade against slavery, she committed the kind of felonies—kidnapping, torturing, and murdering criminals—that would earn her a death sentence if caught. He didn’t want Cole near her, asking about her, or investigating her in any way.
“This was a mistake.” Tate moved to stand.
“Camila Dias is safe.” Cole gripped his wrist, holding him in the chair with a cutting glare.
“She’s none of your concern.” He yanked his arm away and sat back.
“True, but she’s in your head, messing with your thoughts. Isolating you. That’s why you’re here. You came back to the beginning, to the one place that gave you a sense of belonging.”
“What are you? A fucking psychologist?”
“No.” Cole laughed, a hollow sound. “Nothing like that. I just know from experience that a broken heart is the worst kind of hell, a goddamn lonely path from which you can never recover.”
He touched a thin chain that hung around his neck, lifting it from beneath the t-shirt and letting it drop in full view. A tiny silver ring dangled at the end. A woman’s wedding band.
If he was married or engaged, he wasn’t any longer. Not with her ring in his possession and no ring on his finger.
Tate removed a pack of smokes from his pocket, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. “What happened to her?”
“I let her go.” Sadness whispered through Cole’s voice, but an admirable amount of fortitude sharpened his eyes.
“Let me guess. She’s with someone else?” At Cole’s nod, Tate repeated the same words he gave Lela upstairs. “They belong together?”
“Yeah.”
The air around them agitated before settling into a quiet hush. Cole did a good job tucking away his feelings. But Tate knew how deep that well could go and how hot and relentless the turmoil could burn within it.
“We’re in the same hell, then.”
“I don’t think we are.” Cole rubbed his whiskered jaw. “I watched you check out that dancer. You’ll have her on her back by the end of the night.”