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“I know who the drug dealer is but not where he gets it,” I answered. “We’ve identified Blaine Freemont, but we can’t find his source.”
“That’s because he doesn’t have one. He’s making it himself.”
This news rocked me, and I propped up on an elbow to look down at Gate. “How do you know?”
Gate’s hand caught in the hair that tangled down my back. He seemed to test the texture of it against his fingers. His grin told me that he liked what he felt. “Jenna’s ex? You know the surgeon?”
“Heard through the grapevine named Stella what went down with him, but not personally, no.”
“Albright is the head of Freemont’s R&D.”
Holy shit. Albright was a legend even to me, and I didn’t know anything about medicine. “They say it’s bad, Gate,” I whispered, snuggling down into his chest again.
His hand left my hair and stroked up and down my back, the rhythm smooth and peaceful. My body relaxed even further into his.
“They’d be right,” Gate agreed. “You tied the missing women to the drugs yet?”
“Pretty much, and it’s some disturbing shit,” I said, closing my eyes, trying to memorize the feeling of safety that only Gate’s arms could bring. It had been so long since I’d felt it, that peace that comes from being held by the other half of your soul, that I struggled to trust it, afraid that if Gate looked too closely at what I’d done to us, he’d take that feeling away.
Gate just held me tighter, “Not yet, sweet pea.”
I went still, “Not yet what?”
“Whatever’s spinning through that mind of yours. We’ll deal with it, but not yet.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “You could tell?”
I felt more than heard Gate’s chuckle, “I could tell.” Then he went on, “Close your eyes and talk me through what you know.”
“Why am I closing my eyes?” I asked, even though I did as he asked.
“Focus,” Gate said. “And when your eyes are open, you get twitchy.”
“Twitchy?”
“You think too much.”
I shrugged against him, “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands.”
“Not anymore, but back on point. Talk me through it.”
Eyes still closed, I settled in, “The girls are stolen, some of them off the street. Some of them working girls who just get picked up by the wrong guy. Mostly women, young girls, but some boys too. We knew they were being trafficked somewhere. Our first thought was the Middle East, maybe even Russia, but that was a dead end. The girls aren’t leaving the country. They’re going up the east coast.”
“You know where?” Gate asked.
“D.C.,” I answered. “They’re funneled into these high dollar parties where Freemont’s drug is on tap. Buyer’s fantasy, and anything goes. Privacy and clean up guaranteed with the price of admission.”
“Except it’s not,” Gate added.
“Not what?” I asked, opening my eyes and sitting up. The sheet pooled in my lap, and Gate’s eyes followed it. Then that slow, masculine grin of appreciation.
“Fucking gorgeous,” Gate whispered, stroking fingers down my arm.
Here I was nearly fifty years old, blushing like I was in high school.
And it felt delicious.
“Not private. They’re recording everything.”
