In fact, he looked even more dangerous than usual, and she would’ve bet that wasn’t possible.

Where in the heck had Wolfe found leather pants? Was he really some sort of dom who went to clubs? He did not like people enough to spend time with anybody in a dungeon. She giggled, the sound slightly hysterical, so she cleared her throat.

What now? She looked down at her tight green corset and black skirt that was as long as she dared. At the very least, it covered the still healing knife marks on her upper thighs that she hadn’t told anybody about. Not even her doctor. The criminal who’d cut her during an interrogation was behind bars, so why did it matter?

Forget the nightmares. They’d go away soon.

Her more immediate problem was that Wolfe had just walked through the front door of the mansion that housed Captive. Her source was inside that place, and she’d spent a lot of time gearing up for this.

But would he blow her cover?

She’d been sitting in her car for an hour watching people arrive. Okay. She might’ve been gathering her courage. This was so outside her experience. She hadn’t even known sex clubs existed until that movie came out about BDSM.

But her boss at the Washington Post, where she used to work, had once said she’d do anything for a story, and he’d been right. Well, mostly. Okay. She could do this. In fact, why not look at the fact that Wolfe was inside as a positive? His presence gave her unexpected backup.

Yeah. That was the idea. Forget the fact that the sexiest man she’d ever met was in a sex club right now. Yep. Good plan. She slid from her car and pulled her skirt down as far as she could, which still barely covered her butt.

Her heels tottered on the uneven sidewalk as she clip-clopped by a high stone wall that no doubt protected another zillion-dollar mansion. Then she crossed the street, her head high, shivering in the chilly breeze as she reached the front door and knocked.

“Hello.” A man in full tuxedo opened the door. He was about six feet tall with curly blond hair, and he was built like a linebacker. “Can I help you?”

There was no way anybody could get by this guy if he didn’t grant access. She handed over her gold-foil invitation.

He accepted the paper and drew a small tablet from his right pocket, scrolling through. “Ah. Miss Millerton. I see that you answered the questionnaire and have signed all of the necessary documents.” He smoothly slid both back into his pocket. “A couple of quick questions.”

She forced a smile, feeling way too exposed in her scant clothing. Hopefully the questions weren’t about her fake name or cover ID. “All right.”

“What’s your safe word?”

“Red,” she said instantly.