“No, that will be all for now. Dinner is ready, yes?”
“Not just yet, sir. About half an hour.”
“Very good, Eliza. Thank you.” Footsteps receded, a door closed, and I sensed we were alone once more. “Are you all right, Kyrie?”
I stepped out of his touch, straightened my spine, forcing my breathing to even out. “I suppose. I could use a few minutes alone.”
“Of course. This way, please.” His hand on the small of my back pulled me into a walk, guiding me forward. “I’ll show you to your rooms. You will have a moment to refresh yourself, and then we will dine.”
“And I’m supposed to do all this blindfolded?” I asked.
“In your own quarters you will be allowed to remove the blindfold. And if we are not together, while I am working, for instance, you will have the freedom to roam my home at will. My private apartments are inaccessible to you, so you need not fear running into me by accident.” He nudged me around a corner, and I heard our footsteps echoing in what sounded like a huge hallway. “As I have stated, you are not a prisoner. The front door is unlocked. The elevator will take you to the garage, and from there to the street, where you will find a taxi readily available. I will even arrange a flight back to Detroit, if you wish. If you choose to leave, your belongings will be brought to you, along with the nondisclosure contract. You are free to go at any time. You are free to remove the blindfold at any time. But if you do, our agreement is voided, and my financial support will cease immediately. You would have, at most, three months before your various debts caught up with you and your situation became untenable. I urge you to consider wisely, Kyrie. I give you my word of honor that you will not be in any way mistreated, harmed, or forced to do anything to compromise your morals, values, or physical safety.”
I wobbled on my three-inch heels, unnerved, still shaky with fear and confusion and disorientation. “This is such a fucked-up situation. You know that, right?”
“Yes, I suppose this is a rather unusual situation.” His voice was rife with amusement. His hand curled around my waist, halting me. “We’ve reached your quarters. I will send you in, and then you may remove the blindfold. Please leave the dress on, however. You look incredible in it. Eliza will bring you to the dining room in thirty minutes.”
A door handle opened, and I was nudged forward. His hand rested on my lower back, his palm against my spine and his fingers splayed possessively on my side. As soon as I realized how bizarrely comforting and familiar his touch felt, he withdrew his hand, and I was left in an even greater state of emotional confusion.
“I’ll see you soon, Kyrie.” Warm lips brushed my cheek, his breath Scotch-laced and hot. I shivered at the feel of his lips on my cheek, not even an inch from my mouth.
“Yeah,” I said, letting every last shred of sarcasm I possessed paint my voice. “You’ll see me.”
He only laughed, a rumbling chuckle. “It won’t be for long, Kyrie. I promise. Just try to trust me, and the blindfold will come off.”
“Trust you? How the hell am I supposed to trust you? I don’t know even know your name! I’m blindfolded!”
“You have to give yourself over to me. It will be frightening, I know. It goes against nature, especially for one who has been through what you have. I know this. I know the enormity of what I ask. But I wouldn’t ask it of you if I didn’t think you capable of it. And I wouldn’t ask it of you if it wasn’t necessary, for me.” His finger trailed along my cheek. “Hear this, Kyrie: As you learn to trust me, as you give yourself to me, so will I learn to trust you, and give you myself.”
That shook me to the core. I searched for something to say, for some way to react, but I had nothing. No words, no knowledge of what to say, what to feel, what I even thought of his statement.
“Enough of this for now. Refresh yourself, and join me for dinner. There is an intercom on the wall just to your left. Press the green button and ask for Eliza if you find you’re ready before thirty minutes have passed.”
“Can I call Layla?”
A brief hesitation. “Yes, I don’t see why not. Be discreet, please.”
“Okay.”
“Goodbye, for now.” I heard the door close and latch, and his footsteps recede.
I stood in place for a moment, and then reached up and removed the blindfold. I turned in place, examining my surroundings. And, once again, my breath was stolen. The room itself was mammoth, big enough to fit my entire apartment in, with room to spare. And one entire wall, from floor to ceiling, was glass. I drifted over to the windows, blinking, gasping in awe. Manhattan lay spread out before me in unrivaled beauty, a myriad of towers and lights and cross-hatched streets, yellow headlights and red taillights, cycling stoplights…never had I seen anything like it. For several minutes I could only stand with my nose to the glass, staring out at the city. How many floors up was I? Very many, clearly. I couldn’t recall the inside of the elevator, except for a memory of polished chrome and dark wood. I thought hard, and realized there had only been two buttons, one for the top, and one for the garage level. But, judging by the view beneath me, we were at least fifty stories up. There were several skyscrapers nearby, and I could see the tops of all of them.
Finally I tore myself from the view and examined the rest of the room. Thick, plush, cream carpeting, a twelve-foot ceiling. On one side of the room was an accent wall, painted a dark maroon and decorated with a very high-end reproduction of Vermeer’s The Girl With the Pearl Earring. There was a waist-high pedestal beneath the painting that held a vase, which looked to be some kind of priceless work of art. The other walls were a neutral tan color with dark wood-paneled wainscoting. There was a dark brown leather couch, love seat, and chair in the center of the room, with a glass-topped coffee table. Opposite the accent wall was a wet bar and a small table with two high chairs, and an enormous bookshelf containing all of my own personal books, DVDs, and CDs, plus a vast selection of fiction from all genres. Beside the bookshelf was an elaborate music system, the kind of high-end technology that was custom-made for each client.
On the coffee table was a manila file folder. Steven. I sat down on the edge of the couch and pulled the folder onto my lap. I hesitated, and then flipped it open. Front and center was a close-up photograph of Steven, taken with a zoom lens from a distance. The look in his eyes was…feral. Evil. Scary. Nothing like the gentle way he’d always looked at me…at first. The next page was a dossier, personal information on Steven. I perused it briefly, then flipped the page. I nearly dropped the folder, so surprised was I at the next photograph. It was of a young woman with blonde hair, but that was about all I could make out of her features. She’d been beaten bloody, unrecognizable. I had to choke back my own horror. The next photograph was of her as well, of her body. She was naked in the photograph, and she had a terrifying array of welts, bruises, contusions where she’d been actually whipped, it looked like, the kind of wound you’d see in a movie showing someone being flogged. The wounds covered her from head to foot, on her arms, legs, back, thighs, stomach, breasts….
There was a whole series of photographs of different women with similar injuries. All of them were blonde-haired and blue-eyed, similar in age to me, similar even in body shape. There were medical reports on each of them, and even a few copies of police reports. Those were the most terrifying. They read exactly how I would have described the beginning of my relationship with Steven—how I had described it. Except with them, it didn’t stop where mine had. The women described how he’d talked them into things gradually, eventually getting them to agree to be tied up, handcuffed, bound in some way, and that was when he began to truly hurt them, starting with little slaps and moving to punches, kicks, using whips and canes, all sorts of awful things. I couldn’t finish reading after learning about one girl who had been permanently blinded in one eye.
I closed the file and set it on the coffee table, hands shaking, stomach roiling. He’d been telling the truth. If not for him, for his interference—or he
lp, more accurately—which I’d never even known about, I’d be another series of photographs in this file.
It took a long time before I was able to stand up and finish my exploration of my rooms.
I moved through the doorway beside the wet bar and found myself in a bedroom, which also featured a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass. There was a four-poster bed with a full canopy, the same thick cream carpeting under foot, an enormous armoire, and a sitting area near the glass wall, two simple but comfortable-looking chairs and a small table, the kind of furniture that is understated but insanely expensive. There was no television, which was fine by me, as I wasn’t much for TV. I opened the armoire and found it to be full of my underclothes, yoga pants, and sleep tees. A single doorway opposite the glass wall led to a marble and tile palace of a bathroom. The glass wall theme continued, with a jetted soaking tub set into a pedestal near the window, a sprawling vanity already stocked with all my makeup, my brushes, my hair dyer. There was a tiled shower with an incredible-looking rainfall showerhead, also stocked with all my shower supplies from home.
Another door led to a walk-in closet bigger than my bedroom, bathroom, and living room combined. The walk-in closet was so big it had its own sitting area: an island with shelves containing all of my shoes and purses, a three-way full-length mirror, and a glass-fronted case containing all of my jewelry. My clothes were all hung up together, taking up one tiny little corner of the closet. The rest of the space? Stocked with dresses, skirts, blouses, jeans…all brand-new, with tags, in my size, from all of the most expensive stores in the world. The scariest part? They were all my style. I’d gladly wear every single item in this closet.
I had to sit down as I considered the implications of what I was seeing.
He’d moved me in. Everything I owned was here. He knew my sense of fashion, which kinds of dresses and tops I’d like, and I’d seen an entire section of the closet devoted to lingerie. I’d not examined the lingerie, but I assumed it was all in my size. I was close to hyperventilating again.
It took serious effort, but I got control of my breathing, calmed my ever-present panic enough to function, and went back into the bathroom. I wanted the taste of Scotch out of my mouth. I found my toothbrush in a little cup, along with my own half-used tube of Crest toothpaste, the end crimped and rolled partway up. It was beyond bizarre to see my toothpaste and toothbrush here, in this bathroom. I pushed away my emotions as best I could and brushed my teeth, rinsed, and used the mouthwash—again my own third-empty bottle of Listerine.
I remembered watching Harris pack my clothes, but how had my other belongings gotten here and unpacked? He’d stuffed my clothes rather hurriedly into a suitcase and herded me out the door, and then taken me directly to the airport. So very strange. It was undeniably impressive, but creepy and unsettling.
With my teeth brushed, my makeup retouched, and my hair fixed, I went back out into the living room of my suite and stood at the window, staring out at the view of the city and trying to get a handle on my own emotions.
Obviously, my strongest emotion was fear. I’d been “collected” without warning, flown across the country, and brought to the palatial penthouse home of some wealthy, secretive man who claimed to own me, and who knew every detail of my life, who knew everything about me, down to my taste in clothes. I didn’t know his name, and I didn’t know what he looked like.
But his voice…god, his voice. Every word he spoke felt intentional, thought-out, carefully chosen and perfectly enunciated. He could go from warm and tender and personal and intimate to sharp as a razor and ice-cold. His voice caressed, hypnotized, penetrated.
I knew the feel of his hands. He had big hands, strong hands. My entire hand had fit easily in his palm, his fingers easily closing around mine. His voice came from above me, it seemed, so I imagined him to be fairly tall.
I was curious. I wanted to know what he wanted from me. Why me? That was the biggest question I had. Why me? He’d watched me for “a long time,” he’d said, and the depth of his knowledge about me made it clear that he wasn’t lying or exaggerating. But yet, despite this, I’d never, ever sensed his presence in my life. Never had the feeling of being followed or watched, except for those few times that he’d already explained. He’d never interfered with my life, never sent creepy letters or made stalker phone calls. When I’d been in the most direly desperate straits of my life, he’d…saved me, and claimed to not want financial repayment.
And he’d also promised that he wouldn’t force sex on me. He just wanted me to…what? I still didn’t know. Be here? Have bizarre blindfolded conversations, blindfolded dinners and cocktail hours? Be his non-sexual blindfolded mistress? He had a housekeeper, so I doubted he was going to try to turn me into some odd Cinderella, doing his laundry or whatever. So what did he want? Just me, it seemed. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what it was he actually wanted me to do, and I had a feeling I’d never figure it out. I’d only discover that through experience.
And yet, for all my fear, I realized—if I examined my own emotions honestly—that I felt no sense of danger. I didn’t feel threatened by him. I didn’t feel like he was crazy or unstable. Eccentric, surely. Strange and reclusive, definitely. But…dangerously unbalanced? The kind of stalker who would leave me in dismembered packages in a refrigerator? No.
So…the arrangement? Was I going to go along with his wishes? Obey him? Or go home, and return to being one step away from destitution?
I couldn’t do that. Cal was depending on me. I loved my little brother. He was all I really had, and he needed me. He deserved the best chance at a normal life that I could give him. Cal was a smart, good-looking kid with a solid head on his shoulders. He could go places. He was studying filmmaking, and I’d seen some of his pieces; he was talented, and I could see him making it in Hollywood. But I’d have to make sure he finished college. He was already working as much as he could and still go to school. He was a determined kid, and I knew if worse came to worst, he’d find his own way…but I was his big sister, and I’d been his only real parent figure since he was eleven. Mom was helpless, and would never recover. Ravenwood was the best place for her. If I couldn’t pay the bills, she’d end up a ward of the state and would be moved to some shitty nursing home where she very likely would be abused by the staff. I couldn’t let that happen. And, finally, Dad was seven years dead.
I’d already made my decision. When I let Harris put that blindfold on me in the vestibule outside the front doors, I’d made my choice. I wouldn’t back out now. I couldn’t. This was for my mother and brother.
And…yes, for myself. I wanted to know more about this mysterious man who now owned me.
So, with a deep breath, I touched the intercom button. “Eliza? I’m ready.”
First Kiss
Eliza was a short and slender Hispanic woman with thick black hair tied back in a long braid that was gray at the temples. She wore a simple uniform of black slacks, a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and practical black clogs. She had kind, intelligent brown eyes that looked me over in a thorough assessment.
“I am Eliza,” she said in her lightly accented voice. “If you are ready now, I will escort you to the dining room.”
“Sounds good.” I extended my hand. “I’m Kyrie.”
“It is my pleasure to meet you, miss.” She nodded at me, inclining her upper body slightly, a vaguely formal gesture. “This way, please. Would you like a tour?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
She led me out of my room and into a hallway. The floors were dark wood, polished to a gleam. I followed Eliza to the end of the hallway and into what I realized was the room I’d sat in with him. I was really irked by not having any kind of name to use, even in my own thoughts. It was a small sitting room with two deep leather chairs and a small table. On one wall was a side table that held a silver tray, a decanter of dark amber liquid, and three crystal tumblers. I’d broken one of those glasses, I realized with dismay.<
br />
“I’m sorry about the glass,” I said.
Eliza shrugged. “It is no matter. It was just a glass.”
“Just a glass? Those look like crystal.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“It wasn’t, like, a family heirloom, or anything, was it?”
Eliza shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Please, do not worry. Such things are no matter to him. Possessions can be replaced, and he does not put high value on mere objects.” She gestured at the sitting room, the foyer, and the hallway leading back the way we’d come. “You’ve seen this area, then. Follow me, please.”
From what I’d seen so far, Eliza was a quiet, efficient woman. She didn’t ramble on about the artwork on the walls, or the vases on the pedestals, or the suits of armor that stood to either side of the front door. She merely led me from room to room, occasionally pointing out items of interest. Such as the original Vermeer in the formal living room, the frame encased behind thick temperature-controlled glass. Or the suit of armor from the twelfth century standing at attention beside a regal grandfather clock. Or the first-edition copies of famous books in the library.
God, the library. It was a dream, that library. It looked like nothing so much as the decadent extravagance from Beauty and the Beast: fifty-foot-high ceilings, shelves stuffed with books stretching the entire height, with rolling ladders for access to the highest shelves. There were three levels to the library, accessible by hidden spiral staircases, each level having nooks with deep plush chairs and reading lamps and little round tables.
When Eliza saw my reaction to the library, she cocked an eyebrow at me. “He likes books,” was her deadpan statement.
I gave a short bark of laughter. “No kidding. This place is amazing.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “This building was specially designed and built to my employer’s specifications. What is usually referred to as the ‘penthouse,’ meaning the uppermost floor of the building, really encompasses something more like the upper three or four stories, which obviously accounts for the abnormally high ceilings in this room in particular.”
The Naughty Boxset Page 34
