MidnightInk-epub Read online

  Tonight she was just a woman with a gun and a mission she hated more than her worst enemy.

  The sounds of the loud bar echoed through the restroom, disguising the snitch’s babbling.

  Kenny Douglas was a police informant known for caving under pressure. He’d given a lot of bad information over the years, and at least one officer had taken a bullet for this piece of shit’s bad intel.

  “You’re crazy, bitch. Someone, help!” Kenny tried to twist, but the leather belt held him in place. He had a bump on his head, but she hadn’t been able to help that. He was a small man, about five-eight, just her size. Taking him by surprise had been her best option.

  The law-abiding cop in her screamed, revolted by how low she’d sunk. But if she didn’t protect herself, no one would. It was a lesson she’d learned early on in life, but never had it brought her to such a dark place.

  “I’m off the clock, Kenny. This little chat? It’s just between you and me.” Odalia sauntered toward him, hating herself and Kenny for putting her in this position. If she could put it all to rights, she could pretend like this chapter in her life had never happened at all.

  “What do you want?” Sweat poured down Kenny’s brow, and his skin was bright red from the large quantities of alcohol he’d sucked down before going to relieve himself. Idiot hadn’t even realized who’d sent him more drinks through the course of the evening.

  Besides, Odalia had needed the time to talk herself into this. There was no turning back once she’d begun. She’d always followed the rules, kept her nose clean and kept her life outside the uniform quiet. Until now.

  “I’m going to ask you once, Kenny. Who wanted you to steal the camera?” She pushed her leather jacket back over her hips, letting the petty criminal catch a glimpse of the piece she carried. Not her officer-issued gun, she wasn’t stupid.

  “I didn’t steal no camera. You got to believe me,” he wailed.

  Odalia glared at the man. After the camera had turned up missing during a break in the photo shoot, she’d found a jacket with Kenny’s name stitched on the breast. It had been tossed over the barbed-wire fence around the studio her blazing-hot photographer friend had rented for the Christmas Eve shoot. She knew Kenny had been there. And she knew someone must have put him up to stealing the camera. Kenny wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box.

  Which made her wonder, who put him up to it? Who knew about her off-the-clock gig?

  She modeled lingerie, underwear and funky clothing for a couple of small businesses for their websites and advertisements, never showing her face. The work was commercial, but she’d wanted to do something different. Something more artistic, like the Inked photo shoot.

  A local Dominant had asked her to do an artistic BDSM photo shoot, one that touched on that most private aspect of her lifestyle. For anyone else she’d have said no. But there was something about the chocolate-skinned man that got to her. The shoot had been more intense than many play sessions she’d had, and she’d allowed herself to go further than she would have with a new scene partner.

  Her commanding officer wouldn’t understand the kinky nature of the photographs, wouldn’t see them for the beautiful portrayal of bondage and submission that they were.

  She pulled the empty gun from her waistband. Her piece normally gave her comfort, but now it was a dead weight, pulling her down to the ground.

  “Oh fuck.” Kenny thrashed, twisting around the pole, but the belt held him fast.

  “Kenny, I’m not going to ask again.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, crazy bitch!”

  I don’t want to do this. I wish there was another way.

  Odalia shook her head and sighed. “Kenny—”

  Someone pounded on the bathroom door.

  “Hey—” Kenny snapped his teeth together so loud they clicked.

  Odalia lifted the gun and laid a finger over his lips. “Just a second,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  The door burst inward. A man clothed head-to-toe in black barged in and tackled Odalia, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

  She went down hard, grunting as she banged her knee, and the gun slid from her grasp. She knocked the side of her head on the floor, jarring her teeth. The scent of urine, grime and sweat filled her nostrils and her skin crawled, disgust churning her stomach. She kicked and thrashed, but the man was bigger and stronger than her.

  “Don’t fight me, bébé,” a deep, husky voice said.

  Odalia gasped. What the fuck was he doing here?

  “This ain’t the way.” He hoisted her to her feet and grabbed the gun, shoving it in a deep coat pocket.

  “Fils de putain,” she spat and twisted in his hold, but his grip on her arm was like iron.

  “You.” He pointed at Kenny with his free hand. “Don’t utter a word of this. Do you know who I am?”

  Kenny’s complexion resembled a ghost’s on All Hallow’s Eve. He nodded, eyes large. “Bounty hunter. Y-you’re Savoy.”

  “You know who I work with?”

  “B-Bayou Hunters.”

  “A peep outta you and the gators’ll be your best friends,” he drawled, voice low and dangerous. “If I don’t get you, one of my team will.”

  “Y-yes.” Kenny nodded hard enough that he cracked the back of his head against the metal pole.

  Jacques Savoy turned toward her. His dark complexion communicated tightly wound aggression. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak disrespectfully of my mamma. Now, you’re coming with me, bébé.”

  “No, I am not.”

  Odalia tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but the bastard wasn’t letting her go. He dragged her through the drunken crowd of the Bourbon Street bar and out onto the strip, ducking onto a side street at the first opportunity. The entire district around the iconic street was one big party every night of the year, but the side streets were quieter, though no cleaner. She smelled the build-up of refuse over the Christmas holiday, stale beer and other elements she didn’t want to identify.

  “Let. Go. Of. Me.” She kicked the back of his leg and twisted, getting free of his grasp and whirling away.

  Odalia dashed toward the beckoning light of the street, only to be jerked back by her jacket. She threw an elbow and hit his ribs. Her lower arm went numb, and he didn’t so much as grunt.

  “That’s it,” he grumbled and shoved her into the nearest brick wall, pinning her.

  “Fuck you,” she growled and tried to throw her weight against him. She might have been obedient and eager during their photo shoot, but this wasn’t the set, and it wasn’t a dungeon.

  “Take a deep breath and use your fucking head, officer.” He spat the last word.

  Odalia bit her lip. His voice jarred her to clarity. Her body reacted to him despite her resolve not to. He was too potent to resist. She hated whoever had orchestrated the theft. She hated herself for sinking low. And she hated this man for seeing her at her worst.

  Hot tears of rage fell on her cheek. She was powerless, completely helpless after she’d vowed to never again allow herself to be a victim. And here she was. A victim once more.

  “Shh, bébé. Shh. I’m here. We’re going to fix this.” His arms wrapped around her from behind, and his big body cradled her.

  For once in her life, she wanted to believe the lies someone spoke.

  If only Jacques could fix it.

  ***

  Jacques Savoy pushed a mug of hot decaf coffee across the worn table that had once graced his mamère’s kitchen. “Drink.”

  Odalia slumped in her chair. She’d drawn in on herself, shrinking from the dynamic woman who’d captivated him to this sad creature. He’d give his left nut to make it better, a sentiment that disturbed him a little.

  Before their photo shoot on Christmas Eve, he hadn’t spent much time around the little cop. Bounty hunters and police might work together, but there were plenty of hard feelings there. He’d given her a wide berth. Until two weeks ago.

&nbs
p; He’d opened his mailbox and pulled out the latest issue of Inked magazine and recognized the model on the front by her tattoos alone. She’d faced away from the camera, but he’d seen her at the dungeon often enough in panties and little else to be familiar with the unique ink.

  Jacques had seen the little cop in a whole new light, and he’d known he had to photograph her. The rest was history. And now not a good one.

  He pulled out the chair next to hers and sat down, caging her legs between his knees. The chemistry between them was natural. He wondered how they’d missed it but probably because neither had looked for it. Even when she didn’t want it to, her body yielded to his. Odalia was hardwired to be a sexual submissive. He’d also seen her in uniform enough times to know that it was a side of her few saw.

  “Ça va? Talk to me, bébé. What were you doing with a police informant bound like that?” He knew, but he had to gauge Odalia’s character. He hadn’t anticipated the little cop going rogue, and he wasn’t about to help a dirty cop.

  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and massaged her temples. Dark waves flowed over her shoulders, the kind of hair a man wanted to wrap around his fist for better leverage. He’d bound her with ropes in one pose and used her locks to both blindfold and disguise her face. He’d had to get creative to adhere to her rules, but they’d had fun. She’d even appeared to be aroused by some of the scenes they’d shot.

  “I need to get those pictures back, Jacques. You don’t understand.” Her voice was strained, pained even.

  “I know this. And, bébé, I do understand. But strappin’ a man down like that?” He shook his head. “It ain’t the answer.”

  She stood, shoving the chair back, and stalked across the kitchen. “I know that, but I had to do something.”

  He glimpsed torture in her gaze before she pivoted and paced into the living room of his loft. Her expression told the tale he needed to know. She was a desperate woman, pushed too far.

  Odalia bent and picked something off—

  Oh. That.

  She turned, holding up the glossy magazine, one brow arched.

  A woman, Odalia, sat on a white box, wearing a pair of lace panties. One arm was planted on the box while the other held her hair up. The way her back was arched, the camera caught a glimpse of her breast, but the eye was captured by a vivid black-and-gray tattoo stretching over her back and down her hip. It was a mural of New Orleans history, so detailed he expected the gator on her side to open its jaws and snap at him. One of the articles was about the rebound of the alternative lifestyle in the city after Hurricane Katrina.

  Odalia’s skin coloring was perfect for such a tattoo. Jacques had asked her outright about her lineage, and it turned out to be a fascinating mix that created the most beautiful canvas. Her mixed heritage of Spanish, French and Native American descent created a light, warm sienna tone for the art.

  The only thing about the photograph he hadn’t liked was that Odalia’s face was turned away. It was sexy, but he didn’t feel a connection to it without her eyes.

  “I told you I recognized you.” She was a hard person to miss at the dungeon. Attractive, physically fit and responsive, she drew men in like honey. He’d seen her with a variety of play partners but never collared. He could guess at her reasons. The job, her complicated lifestyle, stubborn nature—they were all matters that made the usual power exchange relationships difficult.

  “It’s a good shot,” she said.

  He glanced at the cover, and he wondered what she thought of it now.

  “Odalia?” Jacques rose and walked across the loft to her. He took the magazine from her and tossed it back onto the coffee table, next to all his other tattoo and gun magazine subscriptions.

  She dropped her chin, staring at his chest. He’d observed Odalia in many states and never had she seemed this disheartened or depressed. She was spitfire and gin, a Molotov cocktail in human form. He itched to shake some sense into her. The world wasn’t going to end because of a few pictures.

  Jacques reached around her, wrapped her long, glossy hair around his hand and yanked her head back. She gasped. He felt her switch into submissive mode as one might feel the change in air pressure before a storm. It was a palpable thing. Her body softened, bowing toward him, and her eyes dilated. She grasped the front of his shirt, fisting it in both hands.

  The sweet zing of chemistry flashed between them. He’d sensed it during the photo shoot as he’d bound her and positioned her body, and when she posed, she seemed to do so for him, not the camera. But now, outside the bounds of professionalism, he couldn’t help but stare at her lips and wonder, again, what did they feel like? How would she kiss?

  She licked her lips and shifted her weight forward.

  It would be so easy to take her mouth.

  “Bébé, I’m going to let go of you, and we’re going to talk about this for a minute, and then we’ll figure out how to find the camera. Feel me?”

  She flattened her hands against his chest. “Yup.”

  Sassy girl.

  Jacques released her and took a step back. She swayed but remained where she was. They stared at each other, breathing in time.

  Hell, he hadn’t dated a woman in an age. It was hard to find one who wanted more than the excitement of banging a bounty hunter, who was kinky but also wanted something serious. Casual relationships were a dime a dozen, but he wasn’t interested in the passing pleasures anymore. There was something about the little cop that got to him.

  “You said you wanted to talk about it.” Odalia shrugged out of her leather jacket and tossed it on the couch.

  “Seems like the right thing to do.” It was that or strip her, tie her up between the supporting beams in the loft, and flog her until she was as red as the mechanical Rudolph on his neighbor’s balcony.

  “What is there to say?” She peeled off her long-sleeved knit shirt, leaving her in a thin black camisole. Tattoos wound over her shoulders and down her arms. She had a sacred heart nestled between her breasts, like a good Catholic girl.

  “A lot.” And he wasn’t even referencing the theft of her pictures, some of which had her face in the frame.

  “We negotiated before the photo shoot.”

  “Not enough. I’m not going to play you tonight.” He shook his head. They had talked limits before the photo shoot so he’d known what to ask of her, what she was comfortable with on camera. He’d known then he wanted to play with her, but it hadn’t been the right time to discuss it. “Sit.”

  Odalia circled the coffee table and sprawled on the couch, glaring at him. Someone didn’t like it when she didn’t get her way. He’d remember that.

  Jacques dragged one of the kitchen chairs over and turned it around, straddling it so he could prop his arms on the back. “When you agreed to pose for me, I promised I would protect your privacy and modify the pictures where your face was visible. I failed to uphold that promise, and I take it personally.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You got somethin’ you want to tell me?”

  “If you take responsibility for this, where were you yesterday? I haven’t heard from you for two fucking days.” She kicked off her boots and curled her legs up under her, making herself at home on his couch.

  Jacques frowned. “I thought you’d be busy.”

  “Yeah, right.” She snorted and glanced away from him.

  “Bébé, I’m getting real tired of this snit you’re in. We don’t know each other well, so you got to use words. I can’t read your damn mind.”

  “I worked a double, went home and ate a frozen dinner with my dog.” She sounded defensive, as if there were something to find fault with in her story. He’d expected her to go home to a large Cajun family, fried turkey, gumbo, the whole nine yards. She seemed like the kind of girl who’d be surrounded by a whole clan.

  “I spent yesterday and today doing a little sleuthing.” Bounty hunters were police in a different uniform with a different set of duties. Jacques had a private
investigator license and clocked as many hours in detective work as most cops. Besides, it had given him something to do on Christmas besides watch parades on TV.

  “What did you find?” Odalia perked up.

  “Now you want to hear what I have to say?” He chuckled at her frown. “The studio building I rented for the shoot doesn’t have security cameras, but there’s a place down the street that has one pointed out their front window.”

  “What did you get?” She leaned forward.

  “Male, dark-skinned, scaling the fence with Kenny’s jacket. It’s poor quality, but the man’s not white.” And Kenny was a white redneck from up the bayou.

  “Damn.” Odalia slumped back on the couch and blew out a breath. “That’s it?”

  “It’s enough of a reason to stop intimidating a snitch and risk losing your badge over it.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment, and he let her stew in her mess. This couldn’t have been her proudest moment, and he felt for her, but not enough to put up with crap.

  “How did you find me?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

  The little lady was moving on. Good. He’d like to work with her on this, be there for her, and not just because it was partially his fault for not being more security-conscious. More thefts happened during the holiday season than any other.

  “I was looking for you.”

  “And you just happened to find me on Bourbon Street?”

  “What can I say? I’m good at what I do.”

  She didn’t chuckle as he’d hoped she might.

  “What do we do next?”

  Finally, thinking as a team.

  “If you were me interviewing a victim, what questions would you ask?”

  Odalia flinched at the word victim. Right. Removing from his vocabulary.

  She blew out a breath. “I’d ask if I have anyone who would want to hurt me. If I owed someone money. If I pissed anyone off.” She shrugged. “I’m a cop. I piss everyone off.”