Saturday, December 12th

The Warehouse

Portland, Oregon

 

She looked like a Princess, lost in the forest, trying to find her way back to the castle.

So what the fuck was she doing at The Warehouse?

Lieutenant Tyler ‘Bud’ Morrison, Portland Homicide, sucked down the beer he didn’t want and raised his eyes to look over to the Princess he’d been watching all evening.

She was on the other side of the U-shaped counter, in profile, watching the dancers and talking to a girlfriend with wild red hair.

Bud had the redheaded girlfriend all figured out. He’d been observing her for three nights now. The Warehouse, Portland’s wildest dance club, had a mix of trendy corporate types and lowlifes, enjoying each other’s company. Getting off on the dance floor and getting high in the bathrooms. The Princess’s friend worked in some high-rise somewhere and came to The Warehouse to shed the stress and to get her rocks off.

He knew the type and the Princess wasn’t it. The Princess belonged somewhere else.

Bud belonged somewhere else, too, but he was here on business, being the resident expert on international organized crime. IOC and murder. Made for a volatile and interesting mix.

He’d been coming to The Warehouse for three nights in a row, waiting for Yevgeny Belusov, a snitch who hadn’t showed. Belusov was the brother-in-law of Viktor Kuzin, the reputed head of the Siberian mafia, who’d relocated to Portland and was setting up business on the West Coast. Belusov’s sister, Tatiana, was married to Kuzin. A week ago she’d landed up at Portland General with multiple contusions. On a hunch, Bud had gone over all the hospital records in a 100-mile radius and came up with a Russian woman matching Tatiana’s description being treated repeatedly for injuries. Besides being a major international criminal, Kuzin was a fucking wife beater.

Belusov had promised to give up information on Viktor Kuzin and his US spearhead, Paul Carson, in exchange for the Witness Protection Program for himself and his sister. Meeting-place for negotiations, The Warehouse, where no one would pay them any attention.

Bud hadn’t worked undercover in years, but he’d taken this on because Kuzin was a suspect in the murder of three informers. Kuzin and Carson, the Russian Mafiya’s Mr.-Fix-it on the West Coast, were at the top of his list of scumbags to be nailed. He was pursuing every lead to track them down and finally bag them.

He’d first come across the name Carson in connection with the death of a prostitute in Beaverton. She’d been found dead in a windowless room with the door nailed shut, starved to death. She’d had whip lash marks on her back, some of them years old, the coroner had said. The woman had painstakingly carved the name Paul Carson on her arm with a rusty nail head while dying.

Bud had gone to visit Paul Carson, one of the wealthiest men in Portland, in his 40th floor penthouse office and had come away convinced of the man’s guilt without a shred of evidence to prove it. Bagging Kuzin and Carson was what got him up in the morning. This was why he’d spent the past three nights listening to bad loud music and drinking watered beer. A small sacrifice to land two very big fish.

But Belusov hadn’t shown for the past three nights.

Well, maybe it was understandable. Dropping a dime on Viktor Kuzin was dangerous business. Kuzin had a habit of hanging traitors to his organization on a meat hook and watching them bleed out. Belusov was either cowering in fear somewhere or dangling from a hook. Either way, he wasn’t going to show. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.

Time to go.

Bud had an overnight bag in the trunk of the car. He’d head out to the coast for the weekend, maybe Astoria. Book into a motel. Have himself some sex. Probably with the waitress who worked at a diner he’d found one weekend. Nancy. Nancy…something.

Nice girl, hot in bed, not much going on upstairs. Luckily, she rarely wanted to talk. The three times he’d been to see her, they’d screwed like minks, ate to make up the calories lost, then screwed some more.

Yeah, that’s what he’d do. Drive to Astoria and fuck the weekend away.

But he didn’t move, just looked over again. Bud watched the Princess, wondering what she was thinking. Her attention was caught by a couple at the edge of the Pit.

Bud could see the exact instant in which she realized that the couple was fucking openly on the floor. Her pretty, full lips formed an O and she turned her head, averting her eyes.

Jesus, the Princess was beautiful. She had dark shiny hair tumbled on top of her head, held there by funny sticks poking out from her head, pale perfect skin, a delicate profile, no makeup that he could see.

He remembered a picture he’d seen once in the library. Growing up, he’d spent a lot of time in the library, where he spent long afternoons instead of going home to his stepfather’s drunken fists. He wasn’t much of a reader so he’d leafed through picture books instead. There’d been one on turn-of-the-century New York and showed a beautiful young woman with delicate features and dark hair piled high on her head. A Gibson Girl, the caption had read.

So what was a Gibson Girl doing at The Warehouse?

The past three nights, he’d watched the Princess’s girlfriend, snorting in the bathrooms and leaving with a different man every night. He knew her type well. So what was the Princess doing with her?

The Princess. He snorted at the thoughts going on in his own mind. He shook his head, had another sip of beer and unwillingly looked back at her.

She was in profile, the long slender neck arched as she people-watched. She’d only taken a few sips from the glass of white wine. She looked so innocent, so achingly impossibly young…

Too young.

Bud caught the bartender’s eye and the bartender sauntered over. Teddy, he called himself. Big guy, more gut than muscle, more attitude than street cred. Spiked gelled hair, hipster beard, see-through net shirt, stovepipe pants, bored expression. He was dealing out back and Bud had already notified the drug squad. This time next week, good ole Teddy’d be in the Box, singing like a tenor.

Bud didn’t give a shit. The drug squad took care of drugs, he took care of homicide. Right now, for example, he was hot on the trail of the fuckers who’d kidnapped ten little girls from their families in Moldova and shipped them halfway around the world to be sold for $100,000 each as virgins to the highest bidder, then farmed out as prostitutes. They’d earn their owners a cool million a year each. The girls were destined to be used hard and to die young. Most would be dead by 18, from disease or despair or at the hands of a client who got off on violence—and paid extra for the privilege.

As it happened, the shipment of girls had died right away, suffocated to death in the hold of a ship flying a Panamanian flag for a company Carson owned, though the paperwork running through five countries was almost impossible to follow and would require forensic accountants to testify to ownership in court.

Drugs were bad. Kidnapping, raping and killing little girls was worse, in Bud’s book.

Bud remembered every second as the police came on board in a midnight raid. The stench the captain was trying to hide, the sick feeling of pity as he and his officers looked down upon ten little girls, tragically young faces livid and desperate, hands out in claws, trying to find an air hole. Bud had stared hard at each little girl’s face, memorizing it, letting the anger burn deep inside. He’d make sure each family would know what had happened to its little girl. And he vowed to take down the men responsible.

Paul Carson and Viktor Kuzin, traffickers in human lives and human misery. Kuzin, a Russian citizen, was mainly the INS’s business. But Carson was red-white-and-blue and his. All his. Carson was going down. Hard. Bud would see to it personally.

“Yeah?” Teddy leaned on one elbow, close in so his voice could carry above the music. He glanced at Bud’s half-empty glass. “What’s your pleasure, big guy?”

Bud hooked a long forefinger in the collar of the net shirt and tugged Teddy closer. “Brunette, other side of the counter, blue dress, very pretty, next to the redhead.”

Teddy looked behind him then back to Bud. Mr. Bored. “Yeah? Wanna buy her a drink? Ask her to dance? Fuck her?”

“Card her.”

Poor Teddy was confused.

Bud had been undercover these past nights. He had the cover down pat. Loser, drifter, user. He knew he looked the part. Teddy had bought it, hook, line and sinker.

“Listen up.” Bud pulled on Teddy’s shirt and yanked him down until his nose met Bud’s Portland PD badge with the nice shiny eagle. Teddy’s eyes widened. “Card the girl. Now.” He stared straight into the bartender’s eyes. “And I might forget about the shit that’s being dealt in the back room.”

He’d just broken cover, but what the fuck. Bud released good ole Teddy’s shirt.

“Whoa. Sure.” Teddy straightened his shirt, trying for dignified and failing. “Sure thing, ah, Detective.” He crossed over to the other side of the horseshoe shaped pit. Bud saw him talk to the Princess. Saw her frown and reach into a small velvet purse and pull a laminated card out. A minute later Teddy was back.

“She’s 25 and legit,” Teddy said, scowling.

Bud was astonished. Twenty-five? The Princess was twenty-five? He’d put her at seventeen…eighteen, tops.

What color eyes did she have? He couldn’t tell, she was in profile, lashes down as she pretended to be absorbed by the glass of white wine she wasn’t drinking.

She was on her own. The girlfriend had taken a powder and wouldn’t be back, though the Princess didn’t seem to realize it, lifting her head at regular intervals and looking around. Some jerk with a hundred bucks’ worth of snow up his nose had pulled the redhead off her seat and they had disappeared into the maw of the Pit—the writhing dance floor.

The instant the girlfriend left, men started coming on to the Princess. She was pretty good, able to deflect attention with a smile and a shake of her head. Damn, why wasn’t she turning her head this way? What the hell was the color of her eyes, anyway? Brown? She was a brunette, after all. But her skin was so pale, porcelain white. That kind of Black Irish coloring often went with blue eyes and it was a devastating combination.

Shit. Bud looked down into his beer. This was crazy. What the hell did he care what color the Princess’s eyes were? What the hell did he care about her? She was in The Warehouse, after all, not your usual Princess hang-out. And she was in the company of the redhead, who’d definitely been around the block a few times. So had the Princess, he was sure, even if she didn’t look it.

That air of innocence? Good genes, fabulous skin, delicate bones, nothing more.

A piece of shit dressed like Eurotrash in a $3,000 suit and no shirt detached itself from the writhing mass on the dance floor and sauntered over to her. He bent down close and the Princess pulled away. He said something and she shook her head, frowning. Instead of taking the hint, the fucker smiled, moved in closer and grabbed her shoulder.

The Princess looked around and Bud caught his breath. He’d wanted to know the color of her eyes and now he knew. Her eyes were a stunning electric blue, framed by long lush lashes. Gorgeous eyes. Eyes to break a man’s heart.

Eyes full of fear.

Bud was up and moving before his next heartbeat.

Good Lord!

Claire Parks, through no fault of her own Portland’s oldest living virgin, looked out over the dance floor. Actually, down on the dance floor, since it was in a pit called…the Pit.

Some time over the past twelve years while she had been busy dying, the most amazing styles had come into fashion. She could hardly believe her eyes. Everyone had short spiky hair like medieval helmets, the spikes dyed wildly improbable hues like fuchsia and neon green. Either that or dreadlocks falling messily over faces and shoulders or the shaved-head look, males and females.

Belly-buttons were in. Or, to be precise, out. Certainly visible, not all of them attractive, but most of them bejeweled with flashy studs.

Claire watched a couple dancing in a corner, gyrating to a heavy funky beat. It was impossible to tell which was the man and which was the woman. Assuming they weren’t the same sex.

Well, she’d wanted to fling herself into life and here she was. People-watching, as she’d done all her life. Only these people were a little more, er, colorful than usual.

“Gr…lace…it?”

“What?” she shouted. The noise from the speakers booming around the dance floor was deafening.

Lucy Savage grinned and placed her lips next to Claire’s ear. “Great place, isn’t it?”

They’d only recently met, during Claire’s first week at her new job, starting her new life. Lucy lived up to her name—she was wild. It hadn’t seemed that way in the office, though. Lucy had been friendly and efficient, showing Claire the ropes as the newest secretary at Semantika, a successful ad agency, while getting an enormous amount of work done herself. She’d been funny, helpful and friendly. When Lucy had asked Claire to go clubbing with her Saturday night, Claire had accepted eagerly. She’d never been to a club before, and it was high time she did.

She’d barely recognized the woman who showed up on her doorstep, glittery body gel over a lot of bare body. Much of it pierced, including her belly button, nose and left nipple, clearly visible through the sheer black top. A ‘beeper’, one of the partners had called her, because she set off metal detector alarms.

Lucy had disappeared several times into the bathroom and each time she came out, her smile had been a little wider and her pupils a little smaller. She’d also managed to down four margaritas and two shots of whiskey to Claire’s single glass of white wine.

Claire swiveled around again to observe the dance floor. She watched a thin bare-chested man with rings hanging from his nipples dance. He was a good dancer, sinuous and lithe, but his baggy jeans were cut so low they looked as if they were going to fall off any second and…Claire blinked.

His chest was hairless, but so was his groin. His pants had dipped so low she could clearly see the root of his penis, surrounded by smooth pink skin.

Men had hair down there, she knew they did. Didn’t they? Even her favorite statue, the David, had thick curly white marble hair. How come Mr. Hairless didn’t?

Lucy’s head was swaying to the beat, eyes half-closed as she smiled dreamily. “See that guy over there?” she asked, putting her mouth close to Claire’s ear. She was pointing at Mr. Hairless, who had turned his back to them. Claire could see the crack of his backside.

“Yes,” Claire said.

Lucy’s smile widened. “Guy’s got a Prince Albert. Really hot, know what I mean? God, they feel good.”

Claire didn’t have a clue what Lucy was talking about, but hated to admit it. “Oh yeah?” She nodded, trying to look with it, then gave it up. Why pretend to be cool? She shook her head. “Actually no, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s a Prince Albert?”

“Oh baby, where’ve you been? A Prince Albert is a pierced cock. Makes a guy really exciting to fuck. Felt divine when we fucked last week. Last week? No,” Lucy’s head tilted to the side, thinking. “Two weeks ago. The metal really increases the friction.” She licked her lips. “Jesus, I came like crazy.”

Claire had to force herself to move her facial muscles, which had gone numb from shock. She said the first thing that came to her mind. “Why doesn’t he have any hair around his, um…”

“Cock?” Lucy’s laugh rose above the din of the music. “Lots of guys shave. Their chests and around the cock. I like that. Keeps you from picking hairs out of your teeth, know what I mean?”

Claire thought about it, and then turned red.

Lucy put her mouth close to Claire’s ear again. “I got a piercing myself.”

Claire nodded. Besides the nipple ring, Lucy had little silver earrings all around the rim of her right ear, a diamond in her nose and a curved metal stud with a red stone in her belly button. “Yes, I know.”

Lucy laughed. “Not just there.” She was swaying in her chair to the beat. “I got myself a Queen Kristina—a clit piercing—last month. Mmm. I loved it after the swelling went down. Drives the guys crazy. Drives me crazy. You ought to try it, Claire. You don’t even have pierced ears. Piercings are soooo sexy.”

Claire was used to hiding her feelings behind a bland facade and her face smoothed out as she gave an expressionless smile, as fake as a doll’s.

There had been a time in her life when she had received fifty shots a day. Every single one of them had hurt. She would break the arm of anyone who came within five feet of her with a needle.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, noncommittally, and went back to her people-watching.

There was a lot of very strange behavior on display, all of it fascinating, some of it disquieting. The men and the women seemed to skip all the mating rituals and go straight to stimulating sex. Some not even stimulating.

Her eye was caught by a couple at the edge of the Pit. The strobe lights on the ceiling illuminated them, and then cast them in shadow, flickering. They were fused at the hips, moving in time with the beat. The woman’s skirt rode up to expose a bare hip. Surely she was wearing—what did they call them? Thongs? Surely…no…good heavens!

Claire tried not to peer and felt her face flush as she looked away. But she’d seen. The woman was naked under her skirt and those gyrations were…they were actually—oh my goodness—they were making love. Having sex, she corrected herself. On the dance floor!

She’d lived so long with illness, encased in a sex-free zone, that it was as if all those things she’d missed growing up—little-girl flirting with round-faced beardless harmless boys, those first closed-mouth kisses, holding hands in the movies, making out on the family couch, the first timid sexual encounters with a boy as breathless and scared as she was—all those steps on the way to becoming a woman were concentrated tonight in a fog of hormones and sweat and music.

It was all a little overwhelming, but this is what she wanted. What she’d quit her job as librarian at the family foundation for. What she’d argued with her father to have. This was Life. Something else she’d fought so fiercely to have.

She was officially healthy. She’d done it. She’d survived. She was never going to be sick again, she could feel it. Life pulsed in her veins, tingled in her fingertips. Tonight for the first time in years, she could see the road ahead. Or rather, a road ahead, something more than bleak, pain-filled days and anguished, solitary nights. She was going to catch up on time lost and live every second to the fullest.

Today she’d moved out of her father’s house and out of his over-protective embrace. Today she was going to start snatching back all those years that had been stolen from her.

Mr. Hairless weaved his way over to them, eyes half slitted shut, thin torso writhing, belly so flat it was almost concave. The music had turned hip hop and the decibel level went up a notch. He hooked an arm around Lucy’s neck.

“Hey baby,” he crooned. He nuzzled Lucy’s neck, dancing in place. “Wanna fuck?” Claire wouldn’t have heard it above the music, but the DJ was suddenly between songs and she heard him clearly.

Claire opened her mouth, indignant, to tell the creep off when Lucy laughed. She rubbed against Mr. Hairless’s chest. “We already did, honey. Two weeks ago, ‘member? I might be up for another round if you ask nicely, but let’s dance first.”

The music started up again and Lucy and her romantic suitor drifted off to the dance floor, the Pit. Apt name for it, Claire thought. It was indeed a pit, at least ten feet below the bar area. The flashing lights picked out writhing limbs. The people were closely packed, features indistinct in the pulsing strobe lights. Arms writhing about the dancers heads made it look like a den of snakes.

Lucy and Mr. Hairless had already disappeared from view. The Pit was enormous. If Claire wanted to contact Lucy, she’d have to wade into it—she shuddered at the thought.

“Wanna…?” a man shouted in her ear.

“What?” She whipped her head around and met a grinning fatuous face. The man had gelled slicked-back hair and a tiny little soul patch under his lower lip. She could smell hair gel, deodorant, a strong aftershave and, rising above those, the acrid smell of body odor. Surely he hadn’t just said—

“—dance?” he shouted again.

Claire slumped in relief. She had no idea what to answer a man who asked her to have sex. She knew exactly what to say to a man who asked her to dance.

The idea of descending into the Pit made her skin crawl. It was one thing to people-watch, it was another thing entirely to be trapped in a crush of writhing bodies. She forced herself to smile. “Thanks, but I think I’ll sit this one out.”

There.

That was a nice reply, one she’d read in a novel. Of course the novel had been set in the Regency period, when presumably there were discrete dances, one after another, instead of the constant pounding noise issuing from the speakers. But her nice reply was lost on the man.

He leaned in close. Much too close. “What…say?” A generous amount of spittle came out on the ‘s’ and Claire’s smile slipped a notch.

“No!” she shouted. Then, because politeness had been drummed into her, she added, “Thank you!”

The man shrugged and moved five seats down to ask another woman.

Three men approached her, one after another, moving away when she shook her head.

The fourth man was very handsome and he knew it. Dark, well-cut hair, dressed in an elegant narrow-cut suit with no shirt. What was with that? Had men’s shirts suddenly gone out of fashion while she’d been ill?

His clean-cut features were smiling but the hair on Claire’s forearms stood up. She’d spent many years—too many years—sick and vulnerable. She was fine, now—just fine, thank you—but life looks different when you’re flat on your back and all you can see is the ceiling.

You can’t see trouble coming when you’re on your back.

Claire had learned, very early, which nurses could be counted on to take care not to cause pain and which secretly liked hurting a little girl who couldn’t defend herself. Which doctors took care to warm the stethoscope first and which treated her like an interesting piece of meat, fodder for another scientific paper.

Consequently, she had a very sophisticated and accurate Creepometer and right now the Creepometer’s arrow was vibrating wildly in the Red Alarm Zone and buzzers were going off.

Claire could sense—could almost smell—cruelty and craziness and that smell was coming now off the man asking her if she wanted to dance.

He was good-looking and elegant, clearly well-to-do and successful. But his eyes glittered. His teeth were too white and his lips too red. He licked his lips with a sharp, pointed tongue. He was biting his back teeth so hard his jaw muscles were jumping. Everything about him was tightly wound, muscles so tense she could see the grain.

He gave her an air kiss and everything inside Claire recoiled.

“Hey, pretty lady.” Confident smile, what he thought was charm oozing from every pore. “All alone? We can fix that. Come on and dance with me.”

He leaned down to her, red mouth open, and Claire tried not to panic. Inside her head she was wind-milling her arms to get away from him, screaming her head off. Outwardly, she gave a tight smile and shrugged.

“I’m not alone,” she protested. He tugged at her arm as if he hadn’t heard her, and she raised her voice, trying to keep alarm out of it.

“I’m with a friend. She’s…ah…” Claire craned her neck to peer down into the Pit, but Lucy was nowhere to be seen. Claire pretended to catch someone’s eye and waved. “…down there, dancing. She’ll be back in a minute. I’m fine, thank you.”

Now get lost. Fast.

“I don’t think so.” The creep’s eyes were heavy-lidded, drooping further as he leaned in close, whiskey fumes and bad breath making her turn her head sharply. Claire’s very cells scrambled to get away from him. “I don’t think you’re with a friend, babe. I think you need a friend. I think you need me.”

His fingers closed on her shoulder. His hand was strong and when he pulled, she had to close her fingers on the counter to resist his pull. He tugged harder.

Her heart was beating wildly now. She looked around desperately. There must have been five hundred people in The Warehouse, though no one was paying attention to them. Surely he couldn’t just—just abduct her here, amidst a thousand people?

And yet that was exactly what Rory Gavett had done all those years ago. Kidnapped her out from under the noses of the hospital nurses.

Her head swam and she fought tears. She tried to pull away, but it only made his fingers dig more deeply into her arm. His smile widened and she suddenly knew. He liked inflicting pain. He got off on cruelty. Claire bit her lips to keep from screaming.

She glanced around wildly for help, but everyone was watching the action in the Pit. Her eyes caught those of a man on the other side of the U-shaped bar. A big man, totally untrendy—short sandy unstyled ungelled hair, sipping an unfashionable beer. His shoulders strained against a black tee shirt, which cupped large, hard biceps. Could he help? His eyes met hers. He certainly looked strong enough to deal with her tormentor.

She closed her eyes against the pain. Mr. Cruel and Creepy was digging his fingers into her shoulder. Horribly, he’d come up close to her and was rubbing against her. She could actually feel his erect penis. She tried to pull away, but he was holding on to her tightly.

Claire looked around again. The big man was nowhere to be seen, his seat vacant. Well, of course. He’d left or gone off to dance. It was crazy to feel so bereft.

“Come on, babe, no use being shy.” Creepy’s breath was hot in her ear. Claire felt nauseous. He tugged again, sharply and she bit her lips to keep from crying out. An expression of pain would only excite him more.

“Get lost. The lady’s with me,” a deep voice said from high above her head.

It happened all at once. The pressure in her shoulder eased and then was removed altogether. Her tormentor turned pale. His mouth was open but no sound came out except for a high-pitched wheezing noise. He backed away, mouth pinched, face deathly white, then disappeared.

Something large—very large—moved into her line of vision. The big man she’d seen on the other side of the bar had chased off Creepy and sat down in the seat next to hers.

Claire tensed. She’d just traded one potential danger for another. Creepy had freaked her out and had proved hard to shake but he hadn’t been physically overwhelming like the man now sitting next to her. Scaring off this man could prove to be impossible.

This was getting worse and worse. Claire stared into the Pit, frantically searching for Lucy. She had to get out of here, she was way too freaked, this was way too weird, she felt way too…what?

She stilled. Actually, she felt…okay.

Amazing.

She looked down at the wine glass and her hands clasped around it. Her hands had stopped trembling. Her Creepometer was silent, the arrow having gone right back around the dial to the blue Everything’s Cool Zone.

Everything in her quieted, calmed. She was encased in a bubble of protection. Nothing could hurt her here.

It was the man sitting next to her. The very big man sitting next to her. He was the one responsible for the feeling of being looked after. Of sitting on the banks of a gently murmuring river on a warm spring day.

Claire chanced a glance. Gosh, he was big. Tall, even sitting down, with massive muscles on show. A lot of the men in The Warehouse were prancing around, parading physiques bought in some gym. This man didn’t look like that at all. He looked like he’d been born tall and strong and had used his body well ever since. He was clearly in some kind of labor-intensive job. A stevedore, maybe, or a lumberjack.

His limbs were long and heavily-muscled. Claire tried not to stare in fascination at the snake tattoo curving around the right forearm. She’d never seen a tattoo so up close before and this one was gorgeous, lifelike and artistic. A cobra, the hooded head depicted in lifelike detail on the back of the hand, the body curling around a hard, powerful forearm. Whenever the man’s hands moved, the ripple effect made the snake twist sensuously. As an artistic effect, it was riveting.

The man’s hands were extraordinarily beautiful—long-fingered, elegant, sinuous. Powerful without being meaty. He might be a lumberjack, but the fingernails were clean and cut short.

Claire cleared her throat and turned to look him straight in the eye. “I’d like to thank you,” she said, “for taking care of that guy.” The music was at a lower decibel for just an instant and people’s voices could be heard without shouting.

“Don’t mention it.” The man’s voice was clear and deep, a pleasant bass that reverberated in her stomach.

Close-up he was compelling. Clean, stern features. Strong, straight nose, square jaw, full lips. She held her breath when she met his eyes. They were a light brown, as piercing and keen as those of a hawk. There was strength and compassion in that gaze. She felt as if she could fall forward into him and be caught, and held.

She took a deep breath. She trusted her instincts. She wanted to fall forward. And be caught.

“My name’s Claire. Claire…Schuyler.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She was Claire Schuyler Parks. Schuyler was her mother’s maiden name, and the name she used in her new job. Tonight she didn’t want to be Claire Parks, scion of one of Portland’s oldest families. She wanted to be Claire Schuyler, anonymous secretary.

Not to mention the fact that ten years ago, the name Claire Parks had been plastered all over the headlines in The Oregonian. Claire Parks belonged to the past.

“Bud,” the big man said. “Bud Morrison.” He held out a large hand and, after a second’s hesitation, Claire took it and nearly had a heart attack at the electric jolt.

The feeling of well-being, of protection, intensified. And something else, something she was totally unprepared for, something she’d never felt in her life, flooded through her. As his huge hand curled around hers and squeezed gently, her entire arm tingled and she felt a huge warm rush of sexual excitement surge through her body. Every nerve in her body jangled and the hair on the nape of her neck stood up.

The sight of their clasped hands was riveting. His skin was tanned, much darker than hers, his hand sinewy and muscular. Their two hands entwined were almost a poster for Man and Woman, strength and delicacy together.

The only men who had ever touched her had been doctors, and her father. The doctors had all had soft, delicate, almost feminine hands. And her father, bless him, had the soft, mottled hands of an old man.

Her hand was half the size of this man’s, totally surrounded by the hard and warm male flesh of his. Not soft, not delicate, but powerful and sinewy. The raised veins of an athlete coursed over the back of his hands, covered in old scars and new nicks. Hands that were used a lot.

She felt encased in something immensely powerful, yet gentle.

And more.

Nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for the powerful surge of sexuality leaping through her body.

Sex surrounded her. The whole Warehouse was one big testosterone and estrogen pump, but it had left her totally unmoved. Now sexuality coursed through her veins, and she felt as if someone had suddenly plunged her into a socket and turned her on.

Bud Morrison was, in all senses of the term, a man. He was simply, even cheaply, dressed. Nothing trendy about him at all, from his simple short haircut to the clean, unbuffed and unmanicured fingernails. He wasn’t looking around, trying to troll for women. He wasn’t preening, hoping for attention.

He made every other man at The Warehouse look like a puppy.

With a start, Claire realized that her hand was still in his. That they were, in effect, holding hands. She tugged gently and his hand immediately opened to release hers. She missed the warmth and the connection.

This was nuts. Sure, her Creepometer was signaling safety—though it might have suddenly gone on the blink for all she knew—but that didn’t mean she should go all moony over a perfect stranger.

“Freshen your drink.”

She looked up at the bartender’s tone and was surprised to see a sour, forbidding expression on his face. It wasn’t a request, it was an order. She’d been occupying a bar stool for over two hours, and had only consumed half a glass of white wine. They probably frowned on that, expecting customers to order overpriced drink after overpriced drink. The thought of ordering more alcohol made her stomach curdle. Okay, if she had to have a drink—”I’ll have ginger ale with a twist of lime.”

The bartender leaned forward on one elbow and frowned belligerently. “Look lady, this isn’t kindergarten—”

“The lady wants a ginger ale and you’ll bring her exactly what she wants. And I’ll have another beer. Domestic.” Her saviour didn’t raise his deep voice, but it penetrated the din of the music. Coupled with a narrow-eyed gaze, it got results. The bartender’s jaw muscles jumped as he bit back an answer. He nodded, disappeared and a minute later slammed two drinks in front of them, the liquid sloshing over his hands. Beer and ginger ale.

Her rescuer dug into his jeans for money and Claire gasped.

“Oh no!” She put her hand on Bud’s hard forearm, the one with the snake, and again felt the sizzle of electricity. She pulled back immediately but it was enough to get his attention. He’d saved her from Creepy and had clearly appointed himself her watchdog. No one had come up in the last ten minutes asking her to dance. He’d glared hard at any approaching men—he gave great glare—and they’d all skittered away immediately…for which she was grateful. And now he wanted to buy her a drink?

The Warehouse was expensive. The gate was $50 and drinks went for $20 a pop. Claire had more money than she knew what to do with. Her rescuer was clearly a working man. Forty dollars meant nothing to her but it was probably more than what he earned for an hour of hard labor. She couldn’t allow him to pay for her drink.

“Please, Bud,” she said, looking up into those clear light eyes. She leaned forward and pitched her voice above the music. “You don’t need to buy me a drink. If anything I should pay for yours.”

She might as well have not spoken for all the good it did her. By the time she closed her mouth, he’d slid the money for the drinks and a tip across the counter and had started sipping his beer. Sighing, she sipped at her ginger ale. It was cold and tart and familiar. For many years of her life, too many years, it had been one of the few things her stomach could tolerate.

Bud wasn’t making any attempt at conversation. The music was too deafening. Any words had to be almost shouted, making any exchange feel silly and artificial.

But his body was talking to her, loud and clear, and it was telling her she had his protection for as long as she wanted it. He was aware of everything and everyone and seemed to stave off trouble before it arrived.

Trouble would have come her way, or danced her way, before long. It was well past midnight and it was as if someone had thrown a hormone bomb into the cavernous room.

The gyrations down in the Pit were becoming wilder and items of clothing were coming off. Claire could see one bare-breasted woman, then two more. The dancers’ movements were suggestive, pumping hips and bouncing breasts. A lot of bodily fluids were being exchanged.

Not all the cigarette smoke wafting her way smelled like tobacco. The music was so loud it was almost painful, the rhythmic beat making her head pound. She could feel the vibrations in the countertop.

Damn, where was Lucy? Claire anxiously watched the Pit, looking for wild red hair and a naked male torso to appear. Sooner or later, Lucy was bound to pop up. Wasn’t she?

Should she go looking for Lucy? The idea of leaving the protective presence of Bud made her stomach clench with anxiety. As long as he was here, large and reassuring beside her, she felt safe. If she plunged into the Pit in search of Lucy, she’d have to fend off the men who were getting wilder and bolder.

This wasn’t fun any more. Her eyes stung from the cigarette smoke and the wine sloshed acidly in her stomach, threatening to come up. The pounding beat of the music reverberated in her stomach. She couldn’t think with the noise and confusion and she wanted to go home now.

She was without a car. Lucy had insisted on picking her up and at the time Claire had been grateful. Particularly when it turned out that The Warehouse was on the outskirts, in a tough part of town. Claire had been glad she hadn’t had to drive around alone, looking for the club. But now she wished, fiercely, that she had her car so she could go home.

She had a brand-new house that her friend Suzanne Barron had decorated for her. It was soft and warm and welcoming. She hadn’t even slept there yet. Now she yearned to be home, curled up on the pretty yellow chintz-covered sofa Suzanne had found.

Bud leaned down, not to crowd her, but so he could communicate without shouting. His mouth was close to her ear and his deep voice carried easily above the din. She could feel the puffs of air as he spoke and a shiver ran down her spine.

“If you’re looking for your redheaded friend, she left about half an hour ago with the guy she was dancing with. I saw them go and she had her coat on.”

Claire turned her head in alarm, her nose bumping against his. This close, she could see the golden flecks in his light brown eyes which made them look almost amber at a distance. There was strength there and, oddly, kindness.

“She—she’ll be coming back!” she shouted. Claire didn’t believe her own words and he didn’t either. He didn’t answer, just watched her steadily.

What was she going to do if Lucy didn’t come back? Not panic, that was for sure. Her first outing and she was damned if she’d lose it. No, there was bound to be a solution, a way—a taxi! Of course! She’d call a taxi.

Claire finally caught the attention of the bartender, busy pulling beer spigots and mixing drinks. The alcohol level was rising together with the decibels. He served a drink to a man on her right who definitely didn’t need another one, then came over. “Yeah?” he shouted. “You ready for a real drink now?”

Claire leaned forward over the counter. “I want a taxi!” she yelled. “Please, can you call one?”

“No way. You crazy or something, lady?” the bartender shouted back, rolling his eyes. “No taxi’s coming out here after midnight, too dangerous. Find your own ride home.” He was gone before she could answer.

Oh God, oh God. Now what? Lucy wasn’t coming back. Claire knew it, she could feel it in her bones. Lucy was a lot of fun, but she wasn’t reliable. Claire hadn’t wanted reliable tonight, she’d wanted fun and look at what it had got her.

She should have come with Suzanne. Suzanne was totally reliable. She would never have left Claire all on her own. On the other hand, Suzanne would never have accompanied her to a place like The Warehouse.

Beside her, Bud rose. And rose. And rose.

He was overwhelmingly tall and broad, almost a giant of a man. He held out his hand and, hesitatingly, Claire placed hers in it. His hard callused hand closed gently around hers, the grip warm and reassuring. He lifted her out of the barstool and lightly touched her waist, turning her toward the Pit. The top of Claire’s head barely reached his chin and she was wearing heels. She’d reach his shoulder in bare feet.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Oh, God, he wanted to dance. The last thing Claire wanted was to descend into the Pit. She was feeling battered enough as it was without being jostled and pushed in the crush. But Bud had been kind. If he wanted a last dance, perhaps she owed him. And something told her he’d make sure nobody jostled her too hard.

But he wasn’t taking her down into the Pit, after all. He was skirting it. Even off the dance floor the place was packed, but people magically parted for Bud as he escorted her carefully around the walls. He touched her briefly, just enough to guide her, pull her gently out of people’s way, help her up steps. That protective bubble still surrounded her.

He bent down to her. “Do you have your coat check stub?”

“Yes,” she said puzzled.

He gestured with his hand. “Let me have it.”

She dug into her black beaded purse and handed it to him. “Why?”

He was standing with his back to the room, broad shoulders blocking everything out. Even, somehow, the noise. He kept his deep voice low, but she heard him clearly. Those magical hawk’s eyes stared into hers.

“Because I’m driving you home.”