Forbidden Fantasies Bundle(45)
The workers said little, then he heard the hum of an electronic truck gate lowering, followed by clunks, then grunts as the men lifted and shifted cargo.
Before long, cart wheels squeaked and feet thudded down the hall. He waited until they passed, then looked out to see a handcart stacked high with factory-issued boxes. He glimpsed a flat-screen TV on top of a column of DVD players. Electronic gear for Mad Darien’s store? Stolen maybe? Why else arrange a late-night delivery?
He waited for quiet so he could investigate further, except he heard new voices and footsteps, but coming from the lobby of the center. Stuff was arriving from up front of the center, too?
The Healing Touch door rattled. Shit. Someone was headed for his hideout. He lunged into the room where Mona had given him a rubdown, leaving the door cracked so he could listen, his gun at the ready.
“I think this is a bad idea.” Mona, he realized, sounding tense. Surely she wasn’t helping with the delivery.
“But it’s a pain that won’t quit,” a man whined.
“What are you trying to do, Chuck? Do you really have a muscle spasm? Let me see….”
Chuck? The guy who showed up every day for a massage? Chuck Yardley, right? The bean counter.
“Maybe not a spasm, but I need your magic fingers,” he said, turning the words into a lame pickup line.
“You make me sound like a vibrating bed.” That was the usual teasing Mona, but she sounded uncertain.
“That’s not how I think of you at all. I’m blowing this.” Yardley sounded embarrassed and a little drunk.
“Okay, then,” Mona sighed. “You know the drill. Take off your clothes and lie facedown on the table.”
“I’d like something different tonight, Mona.”
Hell, was he going to ask for something illegal? Don’t do it, Mona. Tell him where he can stick it.
“Different how?” she asked, her voice surprisingly soft.
Rick frowned. Come on. You’re better than that.
“You know,” Chuck said. “I’ve been trying to ask you for weeks, and it’s taken me all night—and two martinis—to get up the nerve to get you to meet me here.”
“Chuck…don’t. You know I don’t work that way.”
Good for you, Mona.
“What are you afraid of? It’s what we both want.”
How the hell could johns believe hookers enjoyed the act? If this creep tried to force Mona…
“I have rules, Chuck.”
That’s telling him.
“Rules are meant to be broken,” the guy coaxed.
There was the sound of movement, the rustle of fabric.
“Rules exist for good reason,” she said faintly.
“And there’s an exception to every rule.” He was cajoling her, his voice low, moving in.
No means no, pal. Rick had to stop this. Screw his cover. He had to save Mona from making a mistake she’d regret forever.
“Chuck…I don’t…You’re my best customer.” Her voice cracked.
“I want more than massage from you, Mona. Much more.”
A hand job? Blow job? Half and half? Rick’s stomach clenched. He eased out the door, ready to bust into the other massage room and save poor Mona. She’d probably been drinking, too, so her judgment was impaired.
“Oh, God, that feels good,” Mona said, sounding, well, the way Rick had when she’d rubbed his back. “You have a good touch.”
Rick stopped cold, waiting for more.
“I know a knotted muscle when I see it,” Chuck said, his voice tender, “after all those hours on your table.”
“You should consider becoming a therapist.”
The guy chuckled. “I’m too busy falling in love with one.”
“What am I going to do with you?” Mona sighed.
“Send me to another masseuse…then fall in love back.”
“Keep convincing me.”
“As long as it takes,” he murmured.
Rick backed away, glad he hadn’t burst in, blowing his cover in a rescue no one seemed to need. But now he was trapped by the lovers, who sighed and kissed and rustled around in the room until he wanted to put his hands over his ears.
To his relief, in a few minutes they departed, since Mona refused to use her massage room for anything but therapy. Thank God, since Rick had no interest in being a voyeur.
As soon as he heard the front door lock, he slid out to check the status of the delivery. From the hall, he heard only silence and through the small window in the security door he saw the truck and the crew were gone.
He headed for the salon, where he unhinged the doors on the cupboards and took digital snaps of the box labels so the task force could determine if the stuff was stolen. If it was, he’d at least proved something was going on.