Red Handed(63)

She had no choice.

She knew what she had to do.

She brought her lips to Cole’s and savored him, the flavor of his mouth, the softness of his lips, the groan ripped from his throat.

His eyes were closed.

Hers were open wide.

She dropped the pills into the untouched cup of water and watched as they dissolved without a trace.

Nausea, swift and strong, rolled through her. She tore herself away from the kiss. “You should drink too.”

His gaze bounced between her and the cup. “No thanks, I’m good.”

Did he suspect? A huge part of her was hoping he did. That he wouldn’t accept the drink. That the choice would be taken from her hands. But the other part of her knew if she didn’t convince him to take this drink, the kidnappers would kill Tasha and possibly Cole. Drugging him would save his life. He’d have to understand. She’d make him understand.

She tucked her head into the crook of his neck and looked up at him with what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. “I’d drink it if I were you. You don’t want to get dehydrated when you fuck me.”

He returned the smile as he lifted a cup. “You’re right.”

Ten seconds later, he’d drunk it all. He wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and grimaced. “The water has a sour aftertaste.” His eyes widened, and he crushed the plastic cup in his hand.

“Are you okay? Cole what’s wrong?”

He wrapped his hand around the front of his neck. “My throat is closing up. What did you do?” His eyes rolled back into his head, and his body slumped on the couch.





Chapter Twenty-Four


“COLE.” SHE SHOOK him by his shoulders and got no response. “Help! Somebody help!” Guilt swamped her as she quickly slipped her hand into his pocket and retrieved his key ring, wrapping her fingers around it to conceal it the best she could.

Suddenly, Gracie and Adrian were there, and Danielle jumped off his lap. Gracie kneeled on the couch besides Cole and placed two fingers on his neck, seemingly checking for a pulse. “What happened?”

Danielle shook so hard she could barely stand. “He said his throat was closing.”

Gracie put her hand in front of Cole’s nose and mouth then dragged him to the floor and tilted his head back. “Someone call 911. He’s not breathing.” She covered his mouth with hers and blew air into him.

She’d killed him. She’d thought she was helping him, but instead she’d killed him.

People gathered around her, and a couple members proclaiming their status as doctors went over to assist Gracie with chest compressions.

She had to get out of here. There was something she had to do . . .

With her hand over her heart, she took a step backward. Then another. And another.

Looking furious, Adrian grabbed her by the elbow. “Danielle?”

She shrugged him off and ran.

She raced out of the dungeon. She might have killed Cole. She’d left him lying on the floor as though he meant nothing to her, when in fact, he meant everything. By keeping him in the dark, she’d tried to protect him, but instead she’d only put him in danger. She should’ve told him the truth, and now it was too late.

The main floor of the club was in chaos as word spread that Master Cole had stopped breathing. She passed several of the dungeon monitors on the way to Cole’s office, all of them headed toward the basement.

The kidnappers had given her the means to create a distraction. No one would be in the screening room, the entire staff too busy calming the masses.

She flew into Cole’s office, the door of which had been left wide open, as if offering an invitation. She pounded the code into the keypad and slid inside the secret room.

Just as she’d anticipated, it was empty.

Instantly she saw Cole’s body on the floor of the dungeon, Gracie’s hands on his chest. Danielle couldn’t stop her tears from flowing, but a voice inside her that sounded like Cole ordered her not to waste the opportunity and to find the box.

She climbed the stairs to his residence. With shaky hands, she fiddled with the keys, sticking them into the lock one by one until finally one fit.

She pushed open the door and got her first look of the space he called his own. Except for a few framed photographs of an older couple she assumed were his parents, there was nothing of Cole in the décor. Anyone could live here. There were no bookshelves or televisions or magazines laid out on the black coffee table. There was no artwork on the white walls. No mirrors.

From the gray S-shaped couch to the kitchen’s stainless steel appliances, the space had a sterile environment, none of it matching the Cole DeMarco she’d come to know these past few days. The man she’d gotten to know deserved color and light, not this dark cave he’d created for himself to retire to at night.