Read My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1 Online

Authors: Marita A. Hansen

Tags: #agents, #fbi, #erotica, #mafia, #bondage, #slaves, #kidnapped, #capture, #non consent, #italian mafia

My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1

BOOK: My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 1
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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 B
ą
k

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.

T
o 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
deepen
ed 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 name
sake,” I answered, hoping that Jagger
was listening in.


And what’s that?”


A m
argarita.”

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 h
is 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.”

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