His Dark Bond by Anne Marsh Page A

You would not enjoy that discovery.”
    Hell. This just got better and better, didn’t it? “I’m leaving. You can consider our partnership finished.” Partners did not conceal critical information—and they certainly did not orchestrate kidnappings. Nothing—not even her career and her research—was worth that. She didn’t do ethical gray areas.
    There was a moment of silence on the other end, and she considered—and discarded—the idea of hanging up on her erstwhile partner. Too unprofessional. Too damn tempting. But she’d given in to temptation once already.
    “Good luck,” he offered finally. “I suggest you focus on completing your research. When it is done and has been delivered, I will retrieve you.” Which meant he could retrieve her now, damn it. There had to be a way to negotiate an exit from this nightmare. “I think you will find it extremely difficult to walk out that door right now. The Fallen take their mates rather seriously. You will find that you go nowhere until you have satisfied them—or me.”
    Ultimatums weren’t her favorite form of communication. Plus, the kind of marching orders Genecore had just laid on her made her want to do the exact opposite. Whether she got with the program or not, learning more about her captors was smart. A little informal observation was the logical course of action. So, the question really was, why wasn’t she observing the vidscreen for entrances and exits? Different views of the club were on full display in the bank of vidscreens occupying the west wall of Zer’s palatial personal suite.
    Idly, she watched the comings and goings on the vidscreens, mentally jotting down times and players, cataloging features. Now, mentally, she ran down the probable ancestry of the dancers. Deciphering someone’s ancestry was impossible by looks alone. Hell, she was living proof of that. But the idle speculation kept her from screaming.
    Her fingers itched to note her observations. There had to be paper in here somewhere. Place was like a damn hotel on some levels, so there should be a drawer with cheap-ass stationery and ballpoint pens. Sure enough, a quick rifle of the bedside drawer—she squelched the frisson of guilt for pawing through his things—and she was equipped. Nothing beat the sensual glide of black ink over paper—certainly not the frantic tapping of keys. Later, when she was writing everything up, putting her new knowledge into print-worthy form for a scientific journal, she’d use the laptop. But not until then.
    Old-fashioned observation and recording—that was her thing.
    The club was busy, even for a Friday night, packed to capacity with gyrating, drinking, pleasure-seeking patrons. The cameras afforded her an unparalleled view. She estimated fifty-plus in the mirrored lobby alone, all fighting to make it inside to the dance floor.
    All human.
    The Fallen were inside, waiting for their prey. Yeah, the humans jostling one another in the lobby had another think coming to them if they really believed they had the upper hand here.
    Two Fallen by the first bar, their intense gazes focused on their female partners. No visible bonding marks, so, clearly, a hookup was in progress there. The human behind the bar kept up a steady stream of full glasses, sliding slim flutes and squat bourbon tumblers over the counter. A dark male hand reached out and stroked a feminine thigh, gliding higher. A drink spilled onto the bar, unnoticed.
    Yeah, next.
    She knew better than to look, but the sensual tableau of the club was better than a train wreck. Each new camera pan revealed more Fallen and the human women they were hell-bent on seducing. The numbers didn’t lie. Numerical data never did, but she wouldn’t have estimated the damage to be this high. Did none of them say no? Was the one constant that no woman could resist? There had to be some human capable of saying no.
    Who was she kidding? She was looking for something—someone—in particular. Two screens