Emily Prentiss was tough on herself. She told herself her shoulders didn't hurt. She claimed her wrists pulled behind the back of the chair to which she was bound weren't in agony. She insisted that her head didn't pound in the aftermath of whatever drug had been administered to her. And to Morgan! And Hotch!

The last thing she remembered was a hissing noise as she and her two teammates took the elevator down from the penthouse where they'd been searching for clues that might help them connect with whoever was killing rich, Texas moguls who didn't really care for their aging spouses, ex-wives, and children. Texas moguls who couldn't keep their pants zipped.

Emily had been trained in the art of caution. As consciousness returned along with awareness of her physical limitations, she kept her eyes closed, listening, smelling, using every sense other than sight to divine her surroundings, its features and its occupants.

She sucked in on her own rough breathing and could hear someone else's to her left. She didn't question the instinct that told her it was male. She waited, and waited. Nothing. No other noise. No footsteps.

She cracked her eyelids open to mere slits. Through the blurry interference of her lashes and whatever she'd been dosed with, she could see her own lap, thighs, feet. She waited a little longer before risking raising her head.

The breathing to her left changed. A deep combination cough-snort was followed by Morgan's take on their current situation. "Shit. What the fuck?"

His words provided the incentive for Prentiss to give up the subterfuge of moving slowly and trying to suss her surroundings before giving herself away. She sat up and fought down the attendant wave of nausea. "Morgan?"

"Yeah." There was a gagging sound. "Oh, man."

"You okay?" Prentiss's own voice sounded scratchy and hollow.

"Hell, no. You?"

She drew in deep breaths, hoping a surfeit of oxygen would clear the malaise running through her system. It didn't. "I feel like shit."

She opened her eyes, turning left to look at her teammate. Morgan was bound to a chair just as she was. Instead of rope or twine, his bonds were leather straps. Sturdy, thick leather straps. Prentiss bent her neck to take in her own situation. Nausea at the motion swept over her with renewed vigor. Still, she could see straps across her thighs, part of what was holding her to the chair. No hope of escape.

To her left, Morgan coughed again, then spit, hawking to the side with a sound that only made her feel worse.

"Where are we? What happened?"

"I dunno, Derek." Prentiss scanned the area. "Oh, God. It's a hotel suite?"

She heard creaking as Morgan tested the strength of the leather binding him to his chair. "Damn. Can you get loose?"

She'd been testing her own since regaining consciousness. Another almost-instinct. "No."

And then something occurred to both of them. "Where's Hotch? He was with us." Prentiss's voice gained a little volume, fueled by concern for her boss.

She could hear Morgan straining against his bonds, looking around with vision that she supposed was as drug-blurred as her own. "It's just us, Prentiss. Where the hell is he?" With force that Emily knew cost him, Derek yelled. "Hotch! Hotch! You here? HOTCH!"

The response wasn't what they'd hoped for.

A door opened across the room. Prentiss could see a fuzzy figure wending its way toward them. The same instinct that had told her the breathing she heard next to her was male, told her this was female. Slinky. Sexual.

Emily's vision was clearing. Or at least improving.

It was Megan Kane. Call-girl killer extraordinaire.

As Prentiss watched the woman prowl the room, cloudy objects began to resolve into images. A bed. She hadn't noticed it before. Something on it. Something dark. No. Someone wearing something dark. Oh, God. Hotch. He was wearing a dark suit. No. Oh, no.

The Unit Chief was so slender. If it hadn't been for the charcoal black suit against the pristine white bedding, it would have merely looked as though the blanket was rumpled.

"Hotch!" Morgan called out again. Prentiss knew his vision was improving, keeping pace with her own recovery.

But the figure on the bed didn't stir.

Megan's image resolved. Black lace teddy. Long, blonde hair. Sneering, superior expression.

She slunk to the bed, bending a silk-stockinged leg and placing one knee on the mattress. Her voice was Southern-honey sweet. "You should have believed me. You were there when I called. I know you were. You all were. Not just Aaron. You should've listened."

Her hand slid along Hotch's body. From crotch to chest. Her fingers played with his tie. "Now, we'll have some fun. And maybe you'll listen next time."

Prentiss and Morgan swayed in their seats, watching their leader lie helpless.

And Emily remembered Megan's call…