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Damn.
Joe was right. Who knew who might be into the leather lifestyle? It wouldn’t bother me, but apparently lifestylers preferred to keep their association private.
“Mr. Booker isn’t in the office,” the receptionist said to us. “We expect him back any minute. I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”
Had Joe been here before? Right, he had. The paperwork for Daphne Steel’s commitment to the facility.
So why the big secret? Why hadn’t he simply told me that Cade Booker had gotten him the name of the hacker? He could have left out the whole BDSM thing.
The receptionist led us to a separate waiting area, obviously for VIPs. Marble coffee tables held trays of French pastries, and a brass espresso urn graced a buffet. Books by renowned photographers sat in an array around the room, interspersed with complimentary charging stations for all types of devices.
I sat, my nerves skipping. Marjorie never left my mind. What if someone was hurting her? Violating her? I clasped my hands together, my knuckles white.
I should have never started a relationship when I couldn’t protect her. Oh, she’d told me she didn’t need protection, but she did.
I’d failed her.
Another young woman entered the room. “Mr. Steel?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Booker has returned. He’s waiting for you in his office.”
We both rose.
“He wants to see only Mr. Steel,” the woman said to me.
“No way,” I said. “I’m coming along.”
“Maybe you should wait here, Bryce,” Joe said.
“Yeah. And maybe not. We came here together, and we’re going to get to the truth together.”
“Mr. Steel—”
Joe whisked past the employee. “It’ll be okay. I’ll explain everything to Cade.”
“But—”
I followed Joe, whisking past the flabbergasted woman. Should I be sorry? Hell, no. I got that she was only doing her job, but Marjorie was everything to me. I had to get to the bottom of this, and if Cade Booker knew anything, I was going to find out.
Joe seemed to know exactly where he was going in this huge office. I followed him down the halls, people gasping when they saw us and edging out of our way quickly. Finally we came to a corner office. Joe knocked loudly.
“Come on in, Joe,” a voice, presumably Cade Booker, said from inside.
Joe opened the door, and I followed him in.
“Have a sea—” Booker eyed me. “Who’s this?”
“Bryce Simpson, a good friend of mine.”
Booker eyed me. I recognized the look—the look that said, “You’re Tom Simpson’s son.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He was my father. But I’m not him. Got it?”
Cade Booker stood. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Joe and I were, and clearly in great shape. He wore his dark hair shaved at the sides and slightly longer on top—the kind of cut that didn’t require any effort to maintain, except monthly haircuts. His suit was obviously tailored, and he wore two gold rings, one on each hand. All normal, except… He had a dark quality about him that went beyond his nearly black hair and tan skin. Something sinister seemed to exude from his pores. It was almost palpable in the room.
How had Joe not seen it? Or was it just my imagination?
