My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1 Read online

  MY MASTERS’ NIGHTMARE

  SEASON 1

  EPISODE 1

  “Taken”

  Marita A. Hansen

  Like a television series, My Masters’ Nightmare is broken up into seasons and episodes. A new episode will be published approximately every 3 weeks until a season has ended. There will be fifteen episodes per season.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  1 Rita

  2

  3

  4 Jagger

  5

  6 Rita

  7

  About the Author and Links

  Other Books By Marita A. Hansen

  Copyright

  My Masters’ Nightmare

  Season 1, Episode 1

  “Taken”

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 © Marita A. Hansen

  Edited by John Hudspith

  Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  Cover Photography by Konrad Bąk

  and sourced from http://depositphotos.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means whatsoever without the written permission of the author, nor circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. For subsidiary rights inquiries email: [email protected]

  All characters, names, places, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  1

  Rita

  I walked into the hotel bar knowing there was a strong chance that I would be drugged and kidnapped by the end of the night. Which was exactly why I was there. And why I’d slipped on the little black dress with two slits up the side, anything to encourage it to happen. I paused to look around the room, aware I was being watched by more than just the men in the bar. Four surveillance cameras were positioned at strategic points, my co-workers watching from outside of the New York hotel, where only the rich and infamous stayed.

  A blond man pushed off a barstool and headed for me, his cream-colored Versace suit suggesting he was a cut above the rest of the patrons. He looked familiar, possibly a movie star from one of the many films I didn’t have time to see, my job as a FBI agent all-consuming, which was the way I preferred it, so I didn’t have time to think about my husband. I held up my hand before the man could get a word out, showing him the wedding ring I refused to remove, the diamond encrusted band lovingly designed by my husband, who’d been killed by the very people I was going to take down.

  To my surprise the man bowed, then returned to his seat, allowing me to get back to my work. My gaze moved to the end of the bar, where I hoped Jagger D’Angelo was still sitting—my predator, my target, the bait for unsuspecting women. And he was the perfect bait, the man so beautiful he could’ve stepped right out of a Versace catalogue, the suit looking even better on him than the actor who’d approached me, the light material covering him a tease to the senses. The mob certainly had picked well, because Jagger was a work of art.

  I frowned as a woman sashayed up to him. She was drop-dead gorgeous like Jagger, but blonde instead of raven-haired. I wondered whether she was his target for the night. She glanced over her shoulder, giving me a better view of her stunning face, which answered my question. She was too old, mid-thirties at a guess, and from all the data I’d read on the case the missing women were in their early twenties. I didn’t fit the profile either, but only on the birth certificate the orphanage gave me. I was twenty-nine, yet looked like I’d just walked out of my teens, the parents I never knew leaving me with good genes and nothing else.

  My frown deepened as Jagger’s hand slipped around to the woman’s behind, giving it a squeeze. Was he out with a lover? But he couldn’t be, because he was supposed to be working tonight, our informant telling us that another woman was going to be snatched, no one in particular, the only criteria being that she was beautiful and within the right age range, although from the intel gathered Jagger tended to prefer blondes, his wayward hand confirmation of this, which was another strike against me, considering I was a brunette.

  I touched my bracelet, hoping that my minders could hear everything clearly through the microphones in the baubles, then headed for Jagger, easing myself between the tables. More men turned to look at me, one of them getting a slap across the back of his head courtesy of the woman sitting next to him. The makeup artist had certainly done a brilliant job on me, the black kohl and gray eye-shadow around my eyes creating an exotic look. One of the male agents had made a wisecrack that I would fit right into a harem, but I wasn’t dealing with the Middle East here, the Italian Mafia was my target.

  A hand touched my behind. I turned and glared at the perpetrator, or should I say pervert with the way the sixty-something man was leering at me. He was handsome, his silver hair and laugh lines not diminishing his looks, but the glint in his eyes told me there was more than one predator working the room. I could read people well, and right now this man gave off the vibe of Hannibal Lecter. Note to self: get one of my co-workers to follow him.

  “Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you,” I said.

  “I would be a fool not to,” he replied. “You have such a stunning body.”

  I knew that, and I wasn’t being arrogant either. I was in the best shape I’d ever been. Over the past six months, I’d become addicted to exercise, working out until I was past exhaustion, to the point that I could barely remember my own name let alone my husband’s. But Matt’s sweet face always came back to haunt me, someone I would never see again, no matter how much I cried for him, and it was all because of one person: Frano D’Angelo – Jagger’s cousin.

  The silver-haired man smiled wider, probably because I hadn’t moved, although if he could read faces as well as I could, he would know not to mess with me, because right now I wanted to kill.

  “What is your name?” I asked for my fellow agents’ benefit.

  “Simon Harper.”

  “I’m sure I will be seeing you again,” I said, that one line relaying to my co-workers that I wanted him followed, because he was definitely a sex offender—no doubt about it.

  Not wanting to waste any more time on him, I headed for a barstool two seats down from Frano’s cousin. Jagger turned to look at me. Relieved that he had noticed me, I sat down on the stool and and waved at the bartender, who instantly came over. He reminded me of Captain America with his slicked-to-the-side blond hair, square jaw, and muscles. He just needed the star-spangled banner suit and he was ready to go.

  “What would you like, gorgeous?” he asked.

  “My namesake,” I answered, hoping that Jagger was listening in.

  “And what’s that?”

  “A margarita.”

  The bartender leaned on the bar, his rolled up shirt exposing muscular forearms. “I bet you taste better than the drink.”

  I wiggled my ring finger in front of him.

  “Damn,” he said, looking disappointed.

  “I agree with that, which is why I intend on spending the night with as many margaritas as I can handle, or should I say, cannot handle.”

  “Why?”

  “I caught my husband in the arms of a cliché.”

  “A cliché?”

  “His secretary.”

  He shook his head. “What kind of crazy man would cheat on you?”

  “Someone with a taste for blonde bimbos.” I shot a pretend glare at the blonde woman for effect
, happy to find that Jagger was now openly staring at me. “So, I’m here to drown my sorrows.”

  “I can certainly help you with that.” The bartender winked, then moved away to get my drink. I swiveled around on the barstool, pretending to survey the room, though unsuccessfully, because Jagger’s stare drew me straight to him. The blonde glanced behind her, giving me the evil eye, then took a hold of Jagger’s chin, trying to get his attention. He yanked free, snapping “Vai via!” which I knew was ‘Go away’ in Italian, or with his tone ‘Beat it’. The woman started talking in rapid-fire Italian, begging him to ignore me, that she would pleasure him until he came in all her holes. I refrained from screwing up my face at her vulgarity, because there was no way I wanted him to know I spoke his mother tongue. I had learned it from my foster parents, plus my skills at picking up languages was now legendary in the FBI, one of the reasons why I was put on assignments relating to foreigners. I could speak French, Russian, Arabic, and of course Italian, as well as Spanish and German, only the Asian languages proving more difficult to master.

  Jagger continued to stare, his intensity telling me he wanted to fuck me ... no, he was going to fuck me. When my boss had asked me to take the assignment, I had said yes without hesitation, my need to make Jagger’s cousin pay all-consuming, but when I was told I was to become a sex slave to my husband’s murderer, for the first time I was left speechless, blinking like a stupid airhead as my boss continued to outline my role. After his long spiel, he’d made me go home to consider every aspect of the assignment, telling me I had forty-eight hours to decide. Then on D-day, he’d brought in two families, forcing me to sit and listen to the parents and husbands of the stolen women, all of them begging for their loved one to be returned. Up to that point I was going to say no, the thought of Frano touching me making me feel sick, but after I saw a battle-hardened father break down, crumbling before my eyes, I knew I had to take the assignment—no matter how much it repulsed me.

  The bartender returned with my drink, planting his elbows on the bar again. “What does your husband look like?” he asked, probably assessing whether he had a chance with me.

  “An arrogant ass of an Italian with black hair and striking hazel eyes, far too gorgeous for my own good.”

  He frowned, then glanced at Jagger, my description a perfect reflection of the man.

  I refrained from looking, Jagger no doubt listening in. Instead, I pointed to a customer further down the bar, the man trying to attract the bartender’s attention. “Looks like you have an order.”

  “Yes, but it’s for you,” the bartender smiled. “One tall blond who’s getting off at—”

  “Sorry, darling, I’ll take the drink but not the man,” I said, smiling at his pun.

  “I taste better.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I’m likely to take my rage out on the next man who touches me.”

  Looking amused, he straightened, no doubt thinking I was no match for his brawn, but my black belt said differently, although I wouldn’t tell him that, nor Jagger, that talent needed to remain hidden for the time being.

  I pointed at the customer again. “You really should serve him.”

  The bartender sighed, then headed for the man, finally getting the picture I was so clearly drawing for him.

  “Jagger! Stop ignoring me!” the blonde woman yelled.

  I looked to the side. Jagger was still blatantly staring at me. The blonde moved in front of him, blocking his view. He placed a hand on her hip and gave her a hard shove, repeating “Vai via.” The woman stumbled into another man, then spun around, giving Jagger a slap across his face. Jagger shot up out of his stool, making the woman shriek, his glare promising violence.

  “I’m sorry, Jagger,” she said, reaching out to touch his cheek.

  He slapped her hand away, cutting her down in Italian. The blonde started begging for his forgiveness. I glanced at her hand, noticing the wedding band, probably the reason why he was with her, the man obviously having an obsession with things he shouldn’t have.

  “Basta!” he snapped enough.

  She pulled a face. “Please, Jagger, you don’t need her, I’ll be all you want tonight.”

  He sniffed. “Leave now or I tell Alberto what a puttana you are.”

  “I’m not a whore, I’m your lover, and he’d kill you if you tell him such a thing.”

  “No one’s my lover, and you’re taking a risk being here. Alberto could walk in at any moment.”

  She reached for him again. Jagger grabbed her wrist, making her cry out, his grip no doubt crushing. I’d read he was a sadistic bastard, someone who enjoyed inflicting pain, which suited his role as a slave trainer.

  “Leave now, Bianca,” he let go of her, “before I teach you your place.”

  The woman flinched, making me wonder whether she had firsthand knowledge of his sadism. She wiped at her eyes, then turned to me. “I hope he ruins you like all the others,” she growled, then walked off, leaving me opened-mouthed, although that was only an act for Jagger’s benefit.

  My attention moved to him as he slipped into the seat next to mine. He waved the bartender over, then tapped the glass I hadn’t yet started drinking. “I’ll have the same.”

  The bartender nodded, moving back down the counter to make the margarita. It was suspected that the man was on Jagger’s payroll, possibly the person who spiked the women’s drinks, although we weren’t sure that was how they were taken. We’d managed to catch two on camera, both of them leaving straight after drinking what the bartender had given them, their gait a little unbalanced, but not enough to be certain. I looked down at my margarita, wondering whether it was spiked. I picked it up and took a sip, knowing it didn’t matter either way since I still needed to be taken.

  “I apologize for Bianca’s behavior,” Jagger said, his accent as rich as his dark olive skin.

  I turned to look at him, stealing myself for the view, because he really was breathtaking. I just needed to remind myself of the prostitute that had almost testified against him, the beating he’d given her horrific. “No need to apologize,” I finally said, wishing he looked as ugly as his soul.

  He cocked his head to the side, the light picking up the gold flecks in his hazel-brown eyes. For a second I wondered whether they were contacts, but remembered the image of the man as a boy standing next to his mother, a severe looking woman in black. His eyes were the same color, just vulnerable, not this devil in front of me now.

  “Bianca is rather overprotective of me,” he said.

  “Bianca? Doesn’t that mean white?”

  “Sì. You know my language?”

  “Other than Bianca and pizza, oh, and pasta, no.” I turned back to my drink, not wanting to look at him, the man way too beautiful for my senses to handle. It made me want to punch him, to kick him, to do anything to take away that beauty, because he didn’t deserve it, not like my husband, who’d been beautiful both inside and out.

  I took another sip of my drink, trying my best to appear disinterested in Jagger. From all the intel I’d been given on the sex trafficking case, I knew the women he’d kidnapped were all tough nuts, beautiful but feisty, and on the camera footage I’d watched two of them do the unthinkable—turn Jagger down, both of those women married.

  “I’m Jagger D’Angelo,” he held out a hand for me to shake.

  I ignored the offering, instead taking another sip of my drink.

  He removed his hand. “What is your name?”

  “Margarita Petrov,” I said, needing him to know.

  “That’s an unusual mix: Mexican and Russian. I thought you said your husband is Italian.”

  “He is.”

  “Then why do you have a Russian surname? Or are you one of those modern women who find it insulting to take a man’s name?”

  Because I would be an idiot to use my real name, not to mention that I have to be sold to the Russian, so I can bring him down along with you. My boss had told me that the D’Angelos weren’t the main ta
rget, that they were only a means to get to the Black Russian, the man at the center of the world’s biggest sex trafficking operation. Still, Frano D’Angelo was my target, the Russian just a bonus.

  “I have a married name,” I finally answered Jagger, “but I’m throwing it away for the night, like my husband threw away our vows, and by the way, it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

  “It was hard not to with the description of your husband.” He placed his hand on my knee, making me hold in everything I had not to break his fingers, although I imagined doing it anyway. “And he’s a fool to cheat on such a beautiful lady as yourself.”

  “Which is why I’m not interested in you. You look just like him, so kindly remove your hand from my knee.”

  “Are you certain about that?” he said, his cocky smile too sure of himself.

  “One-hundred percent certain.”

  He removed his hand, the smile not leaving his face. He appeared to be enjoying himself, the man unusual, but with his looks my rejection was probably a novelty for him, and most definitely a challenge.

  I turned back to my drink, willing myself to ignore him.

  Jagger leaned into me. “Take your frustrations out on me, pretend I’m your husband. Hit me, whip me, even kick me in my balls, I can take it.”

  I almost choked on the drink. I hit my chest and coughed, trying to get myself under control.

  “Did I shock you?” he asked, his voice telling me he knew the answer.

  “I’m not into BDSM,” I spluttered out.

  “I was only referring to SM, because I won’t allow anyone to tie me up, that involves trust and I trust no one.”

  “Sadomasochism is just as bad.”

  “Have you tried it?”

  “No, and I don’t ever intend to.”

  “You won’t know if you like something if you don’t try it.”

  “I don’t like pain, and I certainly don’t like hurting someone who I’m having sex with, because I only have sex with people I care for, not a random man who asks me silly questions. Hence, I won’t like SM or having sex with you.”