Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Black leather jacket, short brown hair, early thirties, he watched the dancer with a strange expression. It wasn’t curiosity. Definitely not desire. His furrowed brow and pinned lips hinted at displeasure.
Maybe it was shock. Especially if he’d never been in a place like this. And fair enough. Swingers were a peculiar breed. They paid outrageous fees for the convenience of ogling, sampling, or boning other people’s partners. There weren’t a lot of life experiences that prepared a person for a room full of naked, oversexed strangers.
Tate had deliberately withheld the nature of The Velvet Den when he suggested it as a location to meet. He wanted to hire Cole to help him find Camila’s sister. But if the big, leather-clad guy couldn’t handle an open display of sex, he wasn’t up for the task.
Since Cole didn’t appear to notice anyone but the dancer, Tate remained in the doorway, studying him, searching for anything that might’ve raised a red flag.
After four years and five private investigators, Tate had made zero progress on locating Lucia Dias. So he did the one thing he thought he’d never do.
He asked Van Quiso for help.
Liv and Camila had both been enslaved by Van, yet they’d found something redeemable in him. Something they trusted.
Van had connections with unsavory people—slavers, drug and weapon dealers, assassins, and bounty hunters. People with specialized skills in shady situations.
People like Cole Hartman.
Tate didn’t know how Van was connected to Cole or if that was even his real name. All he had was Van’s unwavering conviction: If Cole Hartman can’t locate Camila’s sister, no one can.
On the far side of the room, Cole shrugged off his jacket, tossed it in a nearby chair, and crooked a finger at Tate without removing his eyes from the dancer.
Evidently, he was more attuned to his surroundings than he let on. Good.
As Tate crossed the room, Cole lifted a beer from the table. Heavy ink tattooed his forearm, but the lighting was too low to make out the artwork.
He didn’t move or meet his eyes until Tate reached the table.
“You’re drinking Bud Light in the Cognac Room,” Tate said in greeting.
“Am I breaking a rule?”
“No. But the cognac’s free.”
“So is the beer.” Cole tipped the neck of the bottle in the direction of the dancer. “Tell her to leave.”
“You have a problem with dancers?” Tate pointedly looked at Cole’s tattoo.
From wrist to elbow was an inked silhouette of a woman swinging on a dance pole.
“I’ve seen better.” Cole brought the beer to his lips for a hardy swallow. “Much better.”
On the surface, Cole seemed relaxed. But with each rotation the dancer made on the pole, his jaw grew harder, the cords in his neck pulling tighter. For whatever reason, the dancing put him on edge, and it undoubtedly had something to do with the woman tattooed on his arm.
While Tate didn’t know the dancer, all of Lela’s employees knew him. His history at The Velvet Den gave him the authority to send her away, but how did Cole Hartman know that? Maybe he’d done his homework?
Approaching the dance pole, Tate touched the girl’s shoulder, his voice low. “Take a break, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vades.” With a small smile, she sashayed toward the exit.
Christ, she had a great ass. Big and round, it jiggled in her thong, sending provocative messages to his cock.
With an inward groan, he returned to the table, lowered into a chair, and caught Cole’s eyes. “How do you know Van Quiso?”
“Client confidentiality, pal. He’s your friend. Why don’t you ask him?”
Van wasn’t his friend and had been annoyingly cryptic on the subject of Cole Hartman.
“I requested this meeting because I need you to find someone.” Tate clasped his hands together on his lap. “A woman.”
“How long has she been missing?”
The answer tried to stick in his throat, but he forced it out. “Eleven years.”
Cole didn’t grimace or flinch like the other investigators Tate had hired. He simply nodded and sipped the beer.
“Aren’t you going to ask her name, age, last place she was seen, all the usual shit?”
“Nope.” Cole leveled him with an incisive look. “We’re going to discuss you, the reason you’re looking for her, and the price you’re willing to pay.”
“Money isn’t an issue.”
“I’m not talking about money.”
Tate rubbed his head, losing patience. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Why did you choose this place to meet?”
“If you were good at your job, you’d be able to tell me.”
“All right.” Cole leaned forward, keeping his voice soft. “Let’s start with your childhood.”
This should be interesting. Tate had never told anyone about his past, not even Camila. “Go on.”
“Tate Anthony Vades. Son of a prostitute. Father unknown. After your mother died from a drug overdose, you became a ward of the state, all before your second birthday. But her friend, Lela Pearl, took you in, kept you hidden and out of the system.” He took a swig of beer and lowered it without looking away. “You were raised by whores in a brothel, this brothel, until you were old enough to turn tricks and earn your keep.”