"Most of the story takes place in a BDSM club."
"Wait a sec. Any chance this movie is based on a book?"
Lyle's eyes widen; he's clearly as surprised as I am.
"Yeah," Lyle says. "Her Secret Service."
Riley laces his fingers behind his head and leans back. "That's fucking awesome. Are you playing Zan?"
"What the hell? How did you know that?"
"Serena Dean-Miles," Riley says. "She's the author, right? It's not common knowledge, but she bases most of her books on real McKay-Taggart missions. Too bad you're not starring in a book featuring me. I'm way cooler than Zan. Of course, she hasn't written that book yet." He buffs his nails on his chest. "I guess she's saving the best for last."
"Talk about a coincidence," Lyle says, glancing at me. I force a smile past the unpleasant taste of jealousy that has coated my mouth. I try to swallow it down. After all, I don't even know if Serena Dean-Miles is single, much less if she's involved with Riley. But he does know her... And she does write incredibly sexy books...
Stop it.
I have no reason to be jealous. Primarily because there is nothing--nothing--between Riley and me.
"At any rate, I wanted to visit a club," Lyle says, shifting the conversation back on track and saving me from my runaway thoughts.
"Ah, the plot thickens." Riley once again focuses on me. I keep my eyes on Lyle. But I feel the heat rise in my cheeks.
"Apparently Matthew has a membership at a local club, so we went."
I risk a glance toward Riley, who doesn't look the least bit shocked. "Did he take you to The Reef? The club in Malibu?"
Lyle tilts his head, and it's his turn to be impressed. "Didn't realize you had such intimate knowledge of the local club scene. But no, it wasn't The Reef. We went to The Firehouse. The LA branch of an exclusive Chicago club, actually. Matthew's a member."
"Since Natasha's in the thick of this, I'm assuming she's included in the we?"
"She is." Lyle pauses to look my direction, as if to see if I want to chime in. I don't. At the moment, I'm happy to stay mute. It gives me the chance to remember all I saw inside The Firehouse...and to wonder exactly how well Riley knows what goes on in a place like that.
"I took Sugar, of course. But honestly, I wanted Nat along, too, especially since I intend for her to sit in on the meetings with the writer. Plus, she has a good eye and a good memory. So she went as Matthew's date."
"Go on," Riley said, at which point Lyle shrugged.
"That's pretty much it. We went, and the Dom in Residence gave us a brief tour. It's a club that's conceived in three parts. You enter into a pretty typical bar, although none of the drinks are alcoholic, and it has a much more sexual decor and a significantly more sensual vibe. A lot of leather and some submissives and slaves at their owners' feet, but for the most part the first room is cocktail tables and chit-chat. The main area is open, broken up into different sections for different scenes with a variety of equipment. I suppose you'd call that the dungeon. Beyond that are smaller, more private rooms. The doors can be locked or left open if you don't mind--or want--an audience."
"I'm guessing you stayed primarily in the dungeon."
Lyle nods. "Primarily. But there were several open doors in the back, and Matthew took us through quite a few."
"I see." Riley turns to look straight at me, those mahogany-brown eyes silently demanding that I tell him the rest.
And, damn me, I hustle to obey. "That's pretty much it. We didn't get involved in any scenes. We went in on Matthew's membership, and we stayed in that main section. It was--interesting."
I'm not about to admit how fascinated I'd been by the vibrant sensuality that had surrounded me, including full-on sexual gratification--mixed with more than a little sexual punishment.
I'd been shocked at first--and then a bit turned on. A fact I'd confessed to no one, and fully intended to keep to myself until the end of time. But secret or not, it was true, and my sex ached right now from nothing more than the memory of it.
"So you didn't participate, but you were visible?"
I nod.
"And then?"
"And then we left." I swallow. "And the next morning I found the postcard underneath the windshield wiper of my car."
"Postcard," he repeats. "What did it say?"
I lick my lips, then recite, "Whore. You're mine now." As I speak, Lyle passes Riley his phone where, I know, he keeps a picture of the postcard.
Riley glances at it, his brow furrowed and his mouth curved down into a frown. "Pencil?"
Lyle shakes his head. "I had a friend in the police department take a look. Detective Garrison. Dean Garrison."
"I've worked with him," Riley says. "Good man."
Lyle nods, but continues about the postcard. "According to Garrison, someone traced the words onto the postcard using carbon paper."
Riley nods slowly. "And the image of lips on the other side. Rocky Horror lips. Which might or might not be relevant. No fingerprints?" he asks me.
"No," I say. "We didn't check right away--I thought it was creepy but not scary at first. Just someone jerking my chain, you know? I didn't even put it together with The Firehouse, honestly. Not until the email came. That's when Lyle had Garrison come by. And he took it to the lab so they could dust for prints. Not a one. Well, except for mine."
"Where's the email?"
"Next photo," Lyle says, and Riley uses his thumb to scroll through. I don't need to walk to him to know what he's seeing. The image is burned into my mind. A woman on her knees, a collar around her neck, her hands bound behind her and a ball gag in her mouth. Beneath the image, in a handwriting-style font, the message announces, This is how you should be. Bitch, bitch, you're mine, little bitch.
Remembering, I hug myself.
"I can see why you'd be disturbed," Riley says, and I exhale in relief, only then realizing that I'd been afraid he was going to say the very thing I keep repeating to Lyle. That it's nothing. Just bullshit. No big deal.
Except that isn't true, and I know it. And, weirdly, the fact that Riley is validating that horrible reality makes me feel better.
"The email address?"
"Bogus," Lyle says. "I have a friend in Austin who's a whiz at that kind of thing. Noah said it was set up on a computer at a library in Northridge. After that, nothing."
"Okay. Anything else?" Riley asks, and I shake my head. "Nothing?" he presses. "No sensations of being followed? No familiar faces around corners? Unusual calls or hang ups?"
"Nothing," I assure him.
"Except the paint," Lyle mentions.
"Paint?"
I shrug. "Someone tagged my car. But I was running some errands in a dicey section of the Valley. It was probably just teenagers. I mean, surely whoever sent the postcard and email didn't follow me halfway across the San Fernando Valley just to spray-paint the word cunt on my car."
"Probably not," Riley says. "Or maybe that was a test run. Maybe your stalker was testing his own limits. He got close to your car last time. Next time he'll try to get close to you."
I shiver, then hug myself. Riley notices and comes to sit down next to me, his weight shifting the cushion so that I end up closer to him than is comfortable. Then he puts his hand on my thigh, the sensation warm and safe and more than a little distracting.
I scoot over, tugging my leg out from under his touch. He hesitates, then stands. And, dammit all, I not only feel like a raging bitch, but I desperately miss the comfort of that touch.
Lyle, thankfully, fills the awkward gap. "It has to be someone from the club. The timing. The image of the ball-gag. That's the only explanation."
"I'm not sure it's the only," Riley counters. "But it's the most likely."
"So you're saying that some guy at the club saw me, became obsessed with me, and decided to stalk me?" The idea seems both utterly absurd and dead-on point.
"Pretty much," Riley acknowledges.
"So how do we find him? Set up hidden came
ras and wait for him to put another note under my wiper?"
"He won't go that route again. Not now that you might be paying attention."
"Then what? I just wait?"
"That's one plan," Riley says. "I think the better one is to draw him out."
I hug the pillow closer. "How do I do that?"
"You don't. We do."
My instinct is to argue, but I tamp it back. Riley and I both know that I'm not tackling this on my own. "Okay, we. How do we draw him out?"