Chances Are(15)

Chapter Eight

A house outside London

“You really shouldn’t be afraid of me. I’m going to make you famous. When I’m through with you, everyone in England will know who you are.”

The silver tape across Clarissa Eaton’s mouth muffled her responding sob. Her eyes spoke for her. They looked upon him as if he were the devil himself. Her fear exuded a healthy respect. He liked that. She also had the appearance of a terrified lamb. That was proper and very important. Suffering for one’s art was part of the process. Of course, she didn’t understand that yet. Once she did, they would get along famously.

“You should feel honored that you were chosen. I don’t normally invite women like you into my world. I’m very particular about my preferences. And you aren’t even from my usual hunting area. You caught my attention one day and I haven’t been able to think of anyone since.”

Dark green eyes, drenched with tears, blinked up at him. Once again they spoke volumes, telling him she wasn’t honored. That would change though. Before their final goodbye, she would learn many important lessons. All of his women had left him with the knowledge of his greatness in their eyes. So would this one.

Her eye color was a disappointment. From a distance, they had looked brown. Once he began the process of elevation to her new status, they would have to be covered. They could prove a distraction; one he couldn’t afford. Every nuance of the process was carefully calculated. If even one aspect was off, it would ruin everything.

A common man would either discard her or remove the distraction. He was not a common man. He had chosen her for a reason. Just because he didn’t know why yet didn’t mean she was a mistake. Knowledge would come. And so he would proceed. When it was time, the answer would be revealed to him.

Taking the scissors from the drawer, he held them up to the light, loving the way they glinted like diamonds. He looked down at Clarissa again. At the sight of his scissors, her green eyes blazed with terror. Hmm. Perhaps the color wasn’t so bad after all.

With that comforting thought, he began to cut, Clarissa’s muffled screams sounding like thunderous applause as they hit his ears.



Club Drago

“You nervous?” a gravelly female voice asked.

As soon as Angela entered the dressing room, Georgette Hilliard, stage name Dynamite, had taken her under her wing. Georgette was the oldest dancer at Club Drago and apparently saw herself as a surrogate big sister.

Georgette’s question surprised her because it made her realize that she was nervous. Nerves weren’t usually an issue for her but this was so completely out of the norm for her low-key lifestyle, she couldn’t stop the army of butterflies battling each other in her stomach.

Reading the correct answer in Angela’s expression, Georgette said, “Don’t worry, Sweets. Once you’re on stage, the nerves will disappear. It’s dark out in the club. When the lights come on, you just go to your happy place and let the music take over.”

Good advice except she wasn’t performing for the reason most exotic dancers went on stage. She was performing to catch a killer. That was definitely something they hadn’t covered in her dance classes.

Apparently seeing the doubt in her eyes, Georgette offered another avenue. “You have a man?”

Did she? Her question to Jake had been met with a bright blue gaze of pure heat that had almost incinerated her insides. She shouldn’t have asked the question in the first place. Sometimes her tongue overpowered her brain and she blurted out inappropriate questions. Asking hadn’t worked anyway—Jake hadn’t answered. Passionate intensity had been in his expression but the words she longed to hear never came.

Still, whether he looked upon her as his woman, Angela knew one thing—Jake was her man, whether he wanted to admit to it or not.

“Yes, I have a man.”

“Think about him. Pretend it’s just you and him and you’re dancing only for him. With your body and exotic looks, you’ll have men salivating. Add that kind of personal touch, make each man believe you’re dancing only for him.” She nodded knowingly. “They’ll be throwing money at your feet.”

The money would go to charity, so that was a good thing. And thinking about Jake while she danced? That was excellent advice. What better way for her to show him how much she wanted him, especially since she doubted she would ever get the chance to dance for him in private.

“Thank you, Georgette. I appreciate the advice.”

“New girl?”

Angela turned around and faced a petite, large-breasted woman with bleached hair teased up so high it easily gave her three more inches of height. Her costume consisted of an extremely short cowgirl dress and cowboy boots.

Georgette nodded. “Angela, this is Luscious Lucy. She goes on right before you do.”

Lucy flashed a bright, welcoming smile. “I’ll warm them up for you.”

“Thanks,” Angela said, returning her smile.

A voice boomed behind them. “Lucy, you’re on in two.”

Lucy gave a teasing wink. “Better head that way before Arlo has a nervous breakdown.”

Angela had met Arlo, the stage manager, earlier. He was a thin, nervous man with a beaky nose and kind eyes. Georgette had introduced them and then explained that Arlo was married to a former dancer of Club Drago. She said he had a fatherly affection for all the girls and watched out for them.

As Lucy swayed toward the door in her four-inch cowboy boots, Angela stood and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror.

“There are going to be some hot and bothered men out there tonight,” Georgette said admiringly.

Perhaps, but there were only two she wanted to attract. One was the love of her life and the other was a sadistic killer.



Jake sat at a table, on a dais to the left of the stage, with an excellent view of the club. So far, he’d seen nothing out of the ordinary. Just everyday, average horny men staring with lust-glazed eyes as beautiful and scantily clad women gyrated in front of them.

The audience was mostly men of varying ages. He saw a few guys who didn’t look old enough to be there, along with a couple of old geezers who looked as though they could keel over at anytime. None of them looked like killers, serial or otherwise. But then, mild-mannered looking people committed bloodcurdling crimes every damn day.

Ingram and Kelly had started their undercover jobs tonight, too. Dressed in a short, red skirt, a white, midriff-baring top and stilettos that made her appear about five inches taller, the always serious-looking Riley Ingram was barely recognizable. Jake had never worked with the young operative before and had to admit he was impressed with her acting abilities. The few times he’d met her, she’d seemed withdrawn and closed off. Tonight she was the total opposite. She flirted and laughed, deterring wayward hands and off-color comments with impressive diplomacy.

Justin Kelly stood at attention a few yards from her. Though his eyes roamed the crowded room, the former special ops man returned his gaze frequently to his partner. Other than her height, Riley had many of the same similarities as the killer’s preferred victim. Even though the two operatives were mainly here for Angela’s protection, Riley Ingram would also be working hard to attract the killer’s attention. And Justin Kelly would be doing the same thing as Jake—looking for a killer and making sure his partner stayed safe.

Jake had worked an op with Kelly a couple of months ago. Their mission had been to rescue a small group of aid workers being held for ransom in Guatemala. He’d been impressed with Kelly’s no-bullshit attitude. They’d gone in just before dawn and grabbed the five victims. No casualties and the disorganized group of small-time thugs were now locked up. It had been a good day.

As the countrified and well-endowed Lucy left the stage wearing only her G-string and cowboy boots, the music started for the next performer. Jake froze. He recognized the music from when Angela had played it earlier in the apartment. The title of the song, Come And Get Me, was dammed provocative. Jake just hoped to hell it didn’t provoke more than what they anticipated. He was here to catch a killer, not fight a roomful of horny, out of control men.

He caught his first glimpse of Dark Angel. Holy hell, no wonder she’d had room for her costume in her purse. There was nothing to it. A miniscule black leather jacket covered what looked like a bra made of black fishnet. Even from this distance, he could see rose-colored nipples. She wore black bikini panties, black, thigh-high stockings and black boots. She finished off the look with short, black gloves. And for some unknown, freaky reason, those gloves called to him. The flash of a fantasy played in his mind—Angela wearing nothing but those gloves.

Long, raven-black hair fell like a silken waterfall over her creamy shoulders and rippled hypnotically with each sensual movement she made with the music. She grasped the pole, whirled, caressed and twisted around it, as if inviting a lover to her bed. Then she strutted away from the pole and faced the crowded room. The seductive expression on her face was that of a woman comfortable with her own sexuality. Her graceful movements invited intimacy, as if she were calling to her lover, aching for his touch.