“Any Dom you’ve been with requests you again, missy,” Sam said.

“Really?” Her face lit up. “They like me?”

Sam’s gaze met Marcus’s. Yeah, they’d be working on her sense of self-worth in the next few scenes. He’d have to pick Doms who could handle that. He turned to study the new guy. Needed to talk to him.

“But, don’t…don’t bother that one. I still—”

Sam gave her a look that shut her up. The little mite had worked her way into his affections. He’d damn well be sure she was safe. “You don’t have anything to say about it. I’ll be talking to him. See if he’s worthy of you.”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she shocked him spitless with a hug before dancing down to where Andrea was setting up drinks.

Sam heard Cullen’s sub whisper, “You hugged Master Sam?”

“My reputation’s going to hell,” Sam grumbled, giving Linda a quick check before turning away.

“You’d best go beat on someone,” Marcus agreed.

At the bar, the spotter watched the older redhead—the ex-slave—serve drinks. Yes, that was a slave he’d like to break. To shove his cock in every orifice. Then his knife. Make her bleed.

Aaron shifted on the bar stool as he hardened, and his head began to buzz. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d had any real fun. At one time, he’d been able to wait months between kills, but then he’d linked up with the Harvest Association. His price for targeting potential slaves had been to fuck the unpurchased ones. To kill the damaged ones.

Fine times.

Didn’t look as if the redhead would be available anytime soon. He’d heard Davies tell another Dom she was being evaluated and wouldn’t be released to play with anyone for a week or so.

Even when she was, Aaron would have to be careful. Sam seemed to have a special interest in the trainee.

In the meantime…perhaps he’d take a trip to Miami and pick up a whore. Indulgently, he watched the ex-slave as she picked up empties from a nearby coffee table, filling her small serving tray. She looked tense.

“Hey, Aaron, got a joke for you.”

He turned his attention to the Doms standing nearby. He’d played poker with two of them; a couple he didn’t know. “Yeah?”

The man grinned and started, “In a mental institute, there’s a sadist, a masochist, a murderer, a necrophile, a zoophile, and a pyromaniac. They’re sitting on a bench, bored out of their gourds, looking for something to do.

“‘How about having sex with a cat?’ asks the zoophile.

“‘Let’s have sex with the cat and then torture it,’ says the sadist.

“The murderer perks right up. ‘Yeah. Let’s have sex with the cat, torture it, and then kill it.’

“‘No, no, let’s have sex with the cat, torture it, kill it, and then have sex with it again,’ suggests the necrophile.

“The pyromaniac bounces up and down. ‘Let’s have sex with the cat, torture it, kill it, have sex with it again, and then burn it.’

“They sit in silence. After a minute, the masochist speaks. ‘Meow.’”

Along with the other Doms, Aaron roared with laughter, and the redhead stiffened as if someone had pinched her. As if she’d heard something she recognized.

Fuck. Fuck! Aaron spun back to his drink. Before she could turn, he’d set his elbow on the bar and was intently watching Cullen’s big-titted submissive. Anyone looking would see he wasn’t part of the group of Doms. A glance showed her attention had focused on the men who were still laughing.

His gut turned to lead. Maybe she hadn’t seen him on the slave boat, but she’d recognized his voice. His mouth thinned. The other night in the dungeon, had she heard him? Was that why Davies’s scene had gone sour? No wonder she was tense tonight.

Was she just afraid, worried she’d heard someone that sounded like a slaver, or was she actually trying to ID him? Fat chance. Too many men sounded alike.

He relaxed slightly. No, if she had been certain, Z would have lined up the entire membership for her. He wouldn’t fuck around.

So Aaron had time. He could just go home. Not return until she was gone.

But if the slut told Z now and pointed to the Doms who’d been laughing, one would remember Aaron had been part of the group. A similarity of voice might not be admissible in court, but an investigation would turn something up.

And a search of his apartment would recover the hanks of hair in his bedside table. Souvenirs to liven up his memories as he jacked off. He’d watched enough CSI to know that even disposal and a thorough cleaning might not work.

He took a slow sip of his drink as his options decreased.

He’d just have to make sure she never had a chance to hear him speak. No slut was going to disrupt his life. And he’d have to do it tonight.

Tilting his head, he listened to the wind wailing around the building. Easy-peasy to sneak up on her in a rainy parking lot.

He’d wanted to play with her. Now he wouldn’t have to wait.

God, it was him! The slaver’s voice—his laugh. Linda’s stomach churned as if she’d chugged a bottle of cheap tequila, and for a second she was afraid she’d vomit. Taking shallow breaths, she forced her body to relax as she looked around. A couple of Doms sat at the bar, sipping their drinks. Not talking with anyone. Not them. Just behind them, four Doms were trading stories and laughing. So…one of the four. But which one?

A trickle of sweat ran down her back. What should she do now? She spotted Sam near the back, instructing a Dom on how to throw a single-tail. Master Z was monitoring a wax play scene that looked as if it wasn’t going well.

Cullen was her best bet.

She made her way to the bar, smiling and trying to look carefree, finding a section of the bar that held no one close. She stood, heart hammering, waiting for Cullen.

“You all right, pet?” His appraising gaze ran over her. He’d obviously picked up her distress, although she could swear she looked normal.

“Just a little stressed,” she said discreetly. “There are so many people to keep track of.” She let her gaze rest on the huddle of Doms.

He glanced at them, and she could see him memorizing their faces and names.

She let her gaze wander over the group, then past. Don’t stare. Instead, she caught the gaze of a thin-lipped Dom sitting at the bar, sipping his drink.

With a smile, he tilted his head toward the St. Andrew’s cross in an invitation to play. The idea of doing a scene right now—knowing the slaver was in the room—made her shudder. And…he was the Dom Sally said had slapped her.

After shaking her head to refuse, she turned to Cullen. “Are my drinks ready?”

“On the way.” Cullen patted her hand, his huge one making hers disappear. “You can take a break, you know, love. Master Sam’s strict, but he doesn’t want you trainees dropping from exhaustion.”

Strict. She wanted to be in Master Strict Sam’s arms so badly she shivered. “I’m fine.” She had to keep moving or she’d flee. Had to figure out which of the men was the spotter. Had to keep him from hurting anyone else.

With a trayful of drinks, she headed toward the tables, almost tripping when the lights flickered, disappeared for a second, then resumed. After a slow breath, she was okay. She had only four to watch now, rather than the entire membership. If she circled around them, eventually she’d figure out which man it was.

The next time she looked, she saw Cullen talking to Master Z. Her tension eased. They’d watch those four Doms. Whichever one of them the slaver was, he wouldn’t have a chance to escape. In fact, Z might just line them up for her to talk with. Her stomach went cold.

To her dismay, the group of Doms broke up. Two headed toward the back. One picked up a submissive, and the other asked someone to dance. Most of the stools around the bar were empty now. Probably people wanted to get a chance to play before the power went off.

Oh heavens, now what?

Sam was still in the bullwhip area. Even as he talked to the observers, he looked up and scanned the room. For her, she knew. His gaze hit her like a warm splash of rain, and then his eyes narrowed.

Needing him and his strength more badly than she could bear, she started toward him. A third of the way across the room, she froze as lightning crackled so close she heard the sizzle. The lights flickered and went off. Completely. At least three people screamed, and she heard a shout.

And then the battery-powered, dim emergency lighting came on, marking the doors and along the walls. It didn’t help. She still felt as if she were going to jump out of her skin. Go to Sam.

As she skirted a couch, the thin-lipped man from the bar blocked her path. He was punching buttons on his cell phone, not watching where he was going.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking up into his face.

He grinned. “No. Excuse me, cunt.”

The voice. His voice. God! As she tried to run, he jammed his cell phone against her side.

Agonizing pain blasted through her, spasming every muscle in her body, turning the world black.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The rain hit Linda’s face, cold and harsh. Hurt, hurt, hurt. She tried to move. Her muscles didn’t work. Her head flopped. Her arms were pulled behind her back; her cuffs had been clipped together.