Chapter 13
In the conference room, he flopped into the first empty chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. So far, the espresso hadn’t done jack.
He couldn’t stop replaying last night—the good, the bad, and the really ugly. He hadn’t expected to find Emily at the club, let alone scene with her. Then, he’d gone full dumbass and asked Rhys to kiss her. What the hell had he been thinking?
Maybe it was the fatigue. Or maybe his brain was still scrambled from that pistol grip to the head a few months back. Either way, he’d crossed a line—with her, and with his own rules.
Rafe Maddox and Boone Keller, two of Dev’s newer hires, slogged in behind him, both looking as bleary-eyed as he felt.
Rafe was quiet as ever, the pale scar along his cheekbone catching the light as he lifted his chin in greeting.
Boone, muttering about needing a vat of black coffee, sank heavily into a chair, his battered leather jacket creaking as he sat.
Dev entered last and shut the door behind him.
Leland stretched and grumbled, “What’s with the ungodly hour? My sheets didn’t have time to get warm before my alarm went off.”
“I had a late night too,” Dev replied. “Quit griping.”
“Easy for you to say. You only had to walk upstairs to bed.”
“We’ve got guest rooms,” the boss said dryly. “You can always stay the night.”
“Then you’d have someone to tuck you in, old man,” Boone said in his Southern drawl, prompting a ripple of chuckles around the table. Except for Leland, who shot him a scowl that would’ve intimidated lesser men. Nick Devlin didn’t hire lesser men. Boone just grinned wider.
“Let’s get to it. We’ve got another missing girl,” Dev said, turning the room somber. “She’s high profile. Queue it up, Callan.”
At the other end of the long table sat Callan Ritchie, their resident IT savant.
Lean and broad-shouldered, with tousled dark hair and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
His hoodie hung half zipped over a rumpled tee; shadows under his eyes told the story of several sleepless nights.
But his fingers still flew across the keyboard as if he was born to it.
The image of a pretty, college-age blonde appeared on screen a moment later.
“Beth Ann Pierce,” Callan began. “Age twenty. Sophomore at the U. Only daughter of Senator Warren Pierce. Last seen on Saturday leaving work. She hasn’t shown up for classes all week. Her roommate hasn’t heard from her. No social media posts in four days, which is highly unusual.”
“Boyfriend?” Leland asked.
“No one serious in the last six months.”
“Kidnapping?” Mateo Reyes suggested. Former FBI out of Boston, he’d been with them about as long as Alec. He was a few years younger, but well trained, and sharp. “She’s got a wealthy father—”
“No ransom demand so far,” Callan said.
“What makes you think this ties to the trafficking ring?” Rhys asked.
“She fits the profile,” Dev said. “Petite, pretty, barely legal. Could pass for under eighteen.”
“Sick fucks,” Boone uttered fiercely.
“She also worked at Gold Coast Catering,” Callan added. “Same place one of the other missing girls did.”
“Worked?” Rhys echoed.
“She was fired on Saturday,” Callan clarified. “The same day she vanished.”
The conversation buzzed around Alec’s head, but he’d lost focus at the mention of Beth Ann’s employer. A cold knot of dread formed in his gut.
“Wait,” Mateo said. “Isn’t that Mistress Regina’s catering company?”
“One and the same,” Dev confirmed. “Hits close to home, doesn’t it?”
“Too close,” Alec said quietly, alarm mounting. “Emily works for Regina.”
“Who?” someone asked.
“His sub from last night,” Rhys supplied. “But there’s more to the story.”
“She wasn’t a play partner,” Alec shared. “I’ve known her since we were kids. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s special.”
“She needs to quit,” Rhys advised.
“Agreed,” Alec said, though he didn’t relish that conversation.
“These motherfuckers are serious bad news, Yarborough,” Leland said. “Lay down the law. Like you do at the club.”
“That’s the thing,” Alec admitted. “Except for last night, she’s not my submissive.”
“She might already be a target,” Leland warned.
“She needs a man on her,” Mateo said.
“I’ll do it,” Alec offered immediately.
“No,” Dev said quietly. “Jesse, you’re up.”
Alec’s jealousy flared. Not just because Dev chose Jesse Coulter over him—but because the man seemed mighty interested in Emily last night.
“I’m heading out on a skip trace once we’re done here.” Jesse shot Alec a knowing look. “You can relax, bud.”
“I’m available,” Rhys offered, flashing Alec a grin that said he hadn’t forgotten last night’s almost-kiss either.
His friend was giving him shit this morning—further proof of the dumbass move he’d pulled last night.
“I’ve got her covered,” Alec said, his jaw tight.
“No, you don’t.”
He looked at the boss who called the shots but always accepted input from his team. Guilt curled in his gut. Although he had a suspicion, he asked anyway, “Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Dev replied.
“I fucked up with Cari and let my guard down. I own that. It doesn’t happen twice,” he said into the silence that had settled over the room.
“I wasn’t referring to that,” he said. “That’s been settled. I meant your relationship to Emily. You’re too close, which makes her a distraction. Why do you think I never did body duty for Cari?”
He stared at Nick Devlin—former FBI and a damn fine investigator, a man he respected. He’d forgiven him for letting the mob take his fiancée on his watch. Dev’s gaze held no doubt. No mistrust. Just quiet certainty.
Alec hated being benched. Hated that Dev was right. Last night, when it wasn’t life or death, he’d let emotion cloud his judgment. Emily deserved better than that.
With gritted teeth, he nodded. “I’ll need to explain why a dom she met at the club is following her around.”
“See to it,” Dev said.
“Hate to put a damper on planning, but we’re stretched thin,” Mateo said. “This makes five active protection cases. We’re bleeding manpower.”
“That’s been my reality for three years,” Dev muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Referral bonus for licensed PIs. Training’s a luxury when we’re in crisis. I need seasoned men, not hopefuls. Meeting adjourned.”
As the others filed out, Alec glanced at the clock then at Rhys—still seated, calm as ever.
With a PhD in forensic psychology, Rhys had a knack for getting inside a criminal’s mind. He’d seen him in action and knew he was a crack shot, too. There wasn’t a man more qualified to protect Emily. Himself included.
“She gets off work in thirty minutes,” Alec said. “If we hurry, we can catch her before she leaves.”
Rhys’s brows lifted. “What kind of job ends at nine in the morning?”
“She’s a waitress. Breakfast shift.”
“Right,” he said, rising. “I could use a proper cup of tea. And if they’ve got anything resembling bangers and mash, I might just die happy.”
Alec snorted. “I don’t know about that. But they make great waffles.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, they pushed through the double doors of the Waffle House in Miami Gardens. Rhys looked around, his expression caught somewhere between fascination and alarm.
“Isn’t this what you Americans call a greasy spoon?”
Alec arched a brow. “I thought you were born in the states.”
“Yes, but try not to hold that against me.”
“Seat yourselves,” the man at the registers hollered over the breakfast chaos.
“We’re friends of Emily’s. Which section is hers?”
The man sized them up—two solidly built men who clearly weren’t regulars—then jerked his chin to the right. “Last booth. All she’s got open.”
They wove through sticky tables, clattering plates, and the scent of sizzling bacon.
Alec slid into the booth first. Rhys hesitated, visibly pained, then took the opposite seat and immediately began scrubbing the table with a fistful of napkins like a germophobic surgeon prepping for heart surgery.
He even wiped down the laminated menu. Twice.
Alec looked on with a grin. “Your elitism is showing. Don’t they have diners in London?”
“I’ve heard rumors,” Rhys replied. “But you wouldn’t catch me dead in one.”
“Yet, here you are.”
“Dev pays extremely well for these… cultural sacrifices.”
Emily appeared beside the table, notepad in hand, still scribbling from her last order. “What can I get you this morning?”
“Whatever won’t land us in the emergency department,” Rhys said, still scrubbing.
That got her attention. Her head lifted sharply, and when her eyes met his her pretty pink lips curved into a smile. “I thought we were doing lunch?” Her gaze shifted to Rhys, and her expression dimmed. “You’re the do— um… the guy from last night.”
“Indeed,” he said, flashing a brilliant white smile that had charmed half the subs at Devil’s Pointe. “Your attention was diverted by Yarborough’s antics. Understandably so. But we weren’t formally introduced. Dr. Rhys Langston.”
“Doctor?”
“Psychologist,” he clarified. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You may call me Rhys away from the club.”
You can call him a hearse because he’ll need one if he doesn’t stop flirting,” Alec cut in, only half kidding.
He chuckled, releasing her with exaggerated reluctance.
“What’s happening?” Emily asked, brow furrowing.
“It’s complicated,” he said simply. “We’ll explain once you’re off and have time to sit.”
She glanced at the wall clock above the counter. “I’ve got fifteen minutes left, maybe twenty with cash-out.”
“No problem. Coffee in the meantime?”
“I’ll get it now,” she said, nodding.
Rhys propped the laminated menu upright behind the condiments. “Since I’ve no hope for a decent cup of tea, and I detest the dishwater you Yanks swill, fresh orange will suffice, luv. I’ll also take bangers and drop scones with clotted cream. I’m suddenly famished.”
Emily gazed blankly at him then looked to Alec for a translation.
“He’ll take pancakes topped with whipped cream and a side of sausage links.”
“Ah,” she sighed, enlightenment dawning.