“I thought you were supposed to be taking charge,” Vero whispered.
“You’re the one who brought the handcuffs!” I whispered back.
The guard leaned over and said something in Enzo’s ear.
Enzo glanced at Vero’s gym bag with a lascivious grin. “Right this way, ladies.” He held the door open wide, his flip-flops smacking against his heels as he showed us inside, leaving his security guard in the hall.
My jaw dropped as we followed Enzo into a brightly lit penthouse. Natural light poured through two stories of floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun high and bright above miles of boardwalk, the enormous balcony offering a striking view of the crashing surf below. Gripping the ends of the towel around his neck, he threw his arms out wide, showcasing more real estate than either of us needed or wanted to see. “What do you think? Pretty sweet digs, huh, ladies? There’s a sauna upstairs, if you don’t mind a little sweat.”
“Thanks, but I think we’ll pass,” I said before Vero could utter a retort.
“Can I get you something to drink? Perrier? A martini? Maybe some Dom?” There were some sights even alcohol couldn’t improve. Enzo, bent over the open door of his mini fridge, was one of them.
Vero looked at me like I was a traitor when I said, “Perrier would be fine.”
“This is your office?” Vero asked, discreetly unzipping her gym bag as I scanned the room for Marco’s little black book. There was no officefurniture or conference table in the room. Just a dated leather sectional, a bar, a glass-top coffee table, and a flat-screen TV.
“Just moved in,” Enzo called over his shoulder. “I’m thinking about selling my place in the Marina District now that I’m expanding my business south.”
South.Into Marco Toscano’s backyard. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
Vero hid the leather whip behind her back as Enzo turned around and passed me a Perrier. He removed his towel and slung it over the bar, plucking a satin cheetah-print robe from a nearby coatrack and shrugging it on as he carried his drink to the sectional. He flung the sash wide, assuming an impressive manspread as he sat down. “Better?”
“Much,” I agreed around a grimace.
He set down his drink and shucked his flip-flops, splaying his arms across the back of the couch. “I’m nothing if not profession—”
Vero pounced, looping her whip around his neck and drawing the ends tight. She straddled his legs, using her own to pin his hands to the front of his thighs. “Quick! Get the handcuffs!” she called back to me.
“Right!” I searched frantically for the restraints, blowing black curls out of my eyes as my wig slid sideways down my forehead. “Got ’em!” I crouched between Enzo’s knees and wedged the cuffs under Vero’s groin. Pink down clung to the hair on his thighs as I groped blindly for his wrists. He didn’t seem to be putting up much of a fight.
His eyes were wide with awe, his mouth parted with wonder. “I’m so turned on right now. I love a woman who isn’t afraid to get down to business. If you want, I’ll call youLa Reinawhile I let you spank my—”
Vero shoved the ball gag in his mouth. “Listen, buddy. You’re going to keep your mouth shut and do exactly as we tell you.” He nodded eagerly, the whip flopping loose around his neck.
A pair of high heels clicked into the room. Vero and I looked up sharply as a woman with a severe silver bob entered from the kitchen. An apron was tied around the front of her silk blouse. She dropped a plate of cookies onto the coffee table with a revolted look at Enzo, sending up a cloud of sugar dust. She started to leave, then paused to sniff the air.
“Why do you smell like lavender and rosehip?” she asked, coming closer, until her face was only inches from Vero’s and mine. Almost as close as it had been in the locker room an hour ago. Giada raised her voice. “Che due coglioni,Enzo! Have you been using my massage oil for your creepy little sex party? I just bought it this morning!”
Enzo mumbled unintelligibly around the gag.
She made a disgusted sound. “Hurry up and finish whatever nonsense this is so we can go find Kevin Bacon. You promised you’d help me look for him.”
Vero and I gawked at her through the fringe of our tousled wigs as she stormed off.
Enzo spit out his gag. “Thank you, Gigi!” he called after her. She flipped him the bird as she retreated to the kitchen.
I fell back on my hands as Vero scrambled off Enzo’s lap.
Gigi, he’d called her. No…G.G. Like the initials in Marco’s phone.
The person who had been texting with Marco on Friday night must have been Giada Toscano.
But what was Marco’s wife doing in Enzo Russo’s penthouse?
“Don’t mind my sister,” Enzo said. “Her dog is missing, and she bakes when she’s stressed. You’d think the damn dog was her kid, the way she fusses over him.” He held up his wrists and wagged his eyebrows at the fuzzy handcuffs around them. “Now, where were we?”
Vero and I exchanged a look.
