by Kitty Thomas
He’d planned this for months while she’d believed she’d gotten away with it.
Quill stood and looked down at her. She felt herself shrink under that dark gaze.
“Collect whatever things you’ve accumulated that you want to keep and can carry. The jet is leaving to return to the states in three hours. You’re being watched, so don’t think about running. At least step onto the plane with some dignity. It’ll be the last you get for a good long time.”
5
Of course she thought about running—despite the warning. Maybe he was bluffing about having her so closely watched. Or maybe she could escape through a crowd. How many eyes could he really have on her?
And if he were just Lachlan Niche of Niche Industries—smug arrogant tech tycoon, casually collecting art to look more cultured than he was—she would have attempted it. It might have been worth the risk.
But he was Quill. He was everything. She’d gone to art school solely because of exposure to his work. It wasn’t until after she’d been there a while that she’d started to develop an appreciation for anything else—even the famous classic art.
He seemed to her now like a god—a resurrected miracle that hymns should be written to. Even without the ability to investigate his story, she knew on an instinctual level it was the truth. And despite his scary intensity and all the warning buzzers his presence had caused to go off inside her, she couldn’t help being pulled under the wave of his charisma.
Marcus and some other men loaded her things into the cargo hold while Saskia stood awkwardly out of their way. There was so much open space around her and no credible way to slip off unnoticed. She wondered how long Quill’s goon had known about this plan to bring her back in chains. Had he been the one sent to watch and follow her? Given his undisguised distaste for her, that had probably gone over well.
The plane was larger than she’d anticipated when a jet had first been mentioned, but then a tiny metal bird like what she’d imagined could hardly make an intercontinental flight. And it would be great if the plane didn’t sputter out and die in the middle of the ocean.
Quill stepped onto the platform of the stairs still in the same dark suit from earlier. He motioned for her. Saskia’s heart dropped into her stomach, and for a moment, she didn’t think she could propel herself forward. This was a thousand times worse and more intimidating than meeting the fake Joseph Quill had been. And she’d barely been able to stay standing under her own power that night. It wasn’t meeting Derick that had that effect, it was simply the idea of Quill.
There was no doubt in her mind he would expect sex on demand—in whatever way he wanted it. And from his paintings, she knew exactly how he wanted it. If she were being honest, she wasn’t sure she was going with him over fear of prison. Oh, she believed his threat. She knew she would absolutely go to prison if she didn’t agree to be his willing concubine instead, but even without that threat... he was Quill.
Which was really the only fact her brain was willing to process at the moment. She’d lost this game before she’d even started. They both knew it.
What had happened to her repulsion? Was the draw of the artist so compelling that just knowing his true identity could change how she saw him so completely? He was still terrifying. That hadn’t changed. But she could no longer say the idea of him touching her was revolting. In the hours since he’d left her to pack her things, everything had sunk in. She wasn’t sure she wanted to escape him now.
But what if he was too intense—just like he’d been with the subject of the painting she’d forged? At least that girl had the option of leaving.
Saskia thought back to that moment leaned over his desk with Quill’s hand under her skirt. He’d been intentionally intimidating her, violating her personal boundaries. If she’d known who he was, would she have wanted his hand there? She didn’t know. She wanted the answer to be yes, because then she’d be able to make herself go to him. But she didn’t know.
She couldn’t believe she’d stolen twelve million dollars from Joseph Quill. Fuck. And the joke of thinking she could replicate his work and pass it off as the real thing... He must have had a good laugh over that when she’d left his study after the party that night.
Quill’s face darkened, signaling his growing impatience as she stood there like some idiot stuck in hardening cement.
“Saskia!” he barked over the engines. “Now!”
The men loading the cargo hold jumped at his voice. Even grown men were jumping. How could she be expected to fare better? She wanted to melt into the pavement when they stared at her like, “Better you than me, honey.” Or maybe they were watching to see if she’d walk up those stairs and get on the plane with him.
Maybe they’d jerk off later to thoughts of what he might be doing to her as the jet cruised over the Atlantic.
Quill’s eyes narrowed, and he took another step—a step that promised if he took just one more, he’d go down there and drag her onto the plane. And if he did that, there went that last moment of dignity he’d offered.
Saskia somehow found the strength of will to walk to the plane. He watched as she took each step but didn’t move aside to give her space when she reached him at the top of the stairs.
“Good girl,” he whispered when she brushed past.
A chill slipped down her spine as she crossed the threshold.
Inside, she was greeted with an interior that looked nothing like a plane. Curves had been built into the walls so that it looked like a swank living room. She sank onto one of the plush sofas and started to cry, her head dropping into her hands.
Quill entered moments later, said a few words to someone outside the plane, and then pulled the door closed, sealing them in.
Saskia looked up. “W-what about Marcus and those other guys?”
“They were hired to help load the plane. They aren’t with us. Marcus is taking a commercial flight. I wanted some time alone with you.”
Was he trying to help her acclimate? Was that the smallest hint of kindness?
The plane began coasting down the runway.
“I’m really very sorry I stole from you,” Saskia said.
“I’m not swayed by tearful apologies. And we already established you weren’t sorry.”
“I-I wasn’t sorry until I knew who...”
“I see.”
At least he didn’t make her say the whole pathetic sentence. She hadn’t given a shit about stealing from Lachlan, but the idea of stealing from Quill was almost too mortifying to ever get past.
“It’s just... you have no idea what your work has meant to me. I’m so ashamed that I...” Even with the extreme dichotomy of their financial means, the idea of taking something from Quill made a hard knot form in her stomach.
He sat beside her, and this time she didn’t try to put distance between them. He put a hand over hers. “Shhh, Saskia. You’re paying me back. Everything is all right between us. Believe me when I say I’ll extract every penny from you.”
She looked out the window as the plane began its climb into the sky. More tears, this time for a different reason. “I’ll miss Venice.” She’d only been really settled there for a few weeks and had started to believe somehow that this could really be her life.
“We’ll be back to visit someday. I’ve got that great Villa,” he said.
She was surprised by his answer—as well as the gentle teasing in his tone. Maybe there was something inside this man that she could relate to after all. Something besides just art.
“You’re keeping it?”
“Of course I’m keeping it. It’s a great property. The paperwork will obviously be transferred into my name. And you will wire all the money you didn’t spend back to me.”
She nodded quickly. A second later, Quill grasped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. “Answer.”
“O-okay. Yes. O-of course.” As if it were a question he’d get the rest of his money back. Or at least what could be retrieved.
“Don�
�t play dumb, Saskia. It doesn’t suit you. If you’re wondering, no, I was not kidding about what you are to call me. And if you’re shy about it now, you’ll have much more trouble when we get home, and you have to say it in front of the servants.”
She should have run. She should have found an opening and slipped off into a crowd and used the rest of his money to find a way outside his reach. But even the idea of running from Quill seemed insane to her. What aspiring artist would ever run from the painter who most inspired them? However foolish this may be, it was a way to be inside his orbit. Maybe she’d absorb some genius by osmosis.
“Y-yes, Master.”
“Good. In a fully public setting, you may call me sir. People will think you’re an assistant.”
“Since you’re keeping the villa, will you take that off my debt?” Saskia shifted as if she could slip outside his scrutiny.
“Just because I like the property and have chosen to keep it does not mean you didn’t essentially steal that money from me. Why should I knock anything off what you owe?”
She shrugged. So keeping her as a slave was justice? But she didn’t dare voice the thought.
“How much did you pay for it?” he asked.
“Four million.”
“I’ll knock two off the debt. Now you’re down to owing me four total. Does that make you feel better?”
What did it matter? Short of full forgiveness, he could hold her captive forever. It wasn’t as if even four million was something she could ever pay back. If she could make that kind of money on her own, she wouldn’t have conned him in the first place.
And by what method would he keep track of everything? Did he have a special ledger? Did he plan to put a price on each sexual service she completed to his satisfaction? Because it seemed clear that was primarily what he wanted her for. Would there be interest, making it impossible for her to ever climb out of servitude? He’d invented his own system of accounting for his own questionable purposes. It wasn’t as if he’d be held to any lending laws.
It was all a ruse—just blackmail to make her submit to what he’d wanted from her from the beginning. He always got what he wanted. She’d been mad to think she’d be an exception to that rule.
“It’s a fourteen hour flight. We’ll have dinner, but you will let me know anytime you are hungry. All basic needs, you will let me know immediately, and I will provide them.”
“Will that be added to my tab as well?”
“Careful, Saskia.”
“Yes, Master.”
Each time she addressed him this way, the whole scenario felt more surreal.
Minutes passed. Except for the noise of the plane, they were surrounded by a silence so intense she felt forced to stare at her hands, which were folded on her lap. This time she’d worn jeans and a T-shirt. Quill hadn’t commented on her underwhelming attire. It was her last stand of defiance before he began to impose his own tastes.
“Saskia,” His voice was low and smooth—a seduction. “I want you to go into the bathroom and remove your clothing. Fold it neatly and place it on the counter. Then return to me. Don’t be longer than five minutes, or there will be consequences.”
And so it began.
He must have seen the abject terror in her eyes. She wasn’t ready for any of this. A few months ago, if someone had told her Joseph Quill was alive and well and he wanted a long-term sexual relationship with her—even one where she was his slave—she would have jumped at the idea.
The idea.
In the idea alone, she was safe. In the fantasy, he couldn’t humiliate or hurt her. He couldn’t discard her when he was finished. She would simply discard him—or his phantom—once she reached orgasm. Until the next time.
Saskia flushed at that thought. All the sordid things she’d fantasized about him... Now they might happen, and all she felt was panic at the possibilities.
“Don’t worry, Miss Roth. I’m not going to fuck you for quite some time. And when I do, it will only be because you begged so hard and cried so long that I took pity on you. Now, go.”
She didn’t dare offer a retort. She didn’t want to remind him that he had plans to deal with her smart mouth when they reached his estate. She didn’t even believe he was being all that arrogant. In reality, she could absolutely envision almost any woman being driven by Quill to beg for it.
The bathroom was bigger than she expected. But then, it was a large jet just for him and whoever he wanted to travel with. It wasn’t going to be some cramped box like on a commercial plane.
Even so, this was as nice as her bathroom in the villa had been and far more luxurious than the one she’d suffered through in her pre-fake-heist apartment.
Small marble tiles covered the floor and walls. The shower had blue glass doors. Both doors slid open and closed back to meet in the middle. She couldn’t believe there was a shower.
A fat vase of lilies sat on the counter. Saskia tried to pick up the vase. Nope, that sucker was glued down with something industrial. No danger it would get knocked around in turbulence. Her finger trailed over one of the velvety petals. The flowers were real.
All at once she remembered he’d put a clock on her. She must have stood in the bathroom gawking at her surroundings for three minutes at least. If not for anxiety over what her future with Quill would hold, she might have paused to appreciate just how far she was from ever having to worry about ramen noodles again. Or electricity. Or any of the other basic annoying things that meant the difference between comfort and hanging to the edge of survival by her fingernails. No, she was well outside the range of those worries. And fate had happily supplied her with a new set to keep her occupied.
Saskia slipped off her shoes, then removed the clothes and folded them as he’d asked. She tried to avoid looking too hard at her reflection. She didn’t want to see all the imperfections which would be bared to his gaze in mere moments. She took a deep breath and went back to the living area.
She stood in the doorway, unsure. She’d never seen herself as a person who was unsure, but Quill unmade her somehow just by his nearness. Maybe it wasn’t repulsion that had made her avoid succumbing to his earlier seductions. Maybe it was fear of the total obliteration of her identity. She didn’t know how to be anything when sharing oxygen with this man. She didn’t know how to make her voice heard next to his or her presence felt or seen. As an artist, he’d inspired her, but as a person, she felt he made her disappear.
He motioned her forward.
“Turn, slowly,” he said, when she reached him. “I’d like to assess my latest piece of art properly.”
She turned, but it wasn’t slow enough for him. His hand on her back stopped her. She had a brief flash to the last time his hand had been on her like this. Back in that moment in his study, she never would have believed this one could exist. Or that she could feel how she felt now.
Any previous fleeting thought she’d had of being naked in his presence had included running, crying, trying to push his hands off her while she desperately sought to wriggle away or hoped for a savior to rip him off her. It was the fear that had played in her mind on repeat nearly every time she’d been near him before today.
But now...
His hands pressed gently into her hips, pulling her closer. He kissed an achingly slow trail down her back. A whimper escaped her mouth as his hands moved, sliding up over her belly to end cupping her breasts.
“Exquisite,” he whispered. “I can’t wait to put you on canvas.”
Saskia felt him stand behind her and heard a box open. She tensed.
He kissed her cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you.” There was a tiny click, and then cold metal locked around her throat.
A collar. Only one of his subjects had ever worn a collar like this—the one in the painting at the Raine Estate. It had been a white metal with rows of diamonds going around the band. None of his other women had been painted in anything like it. Some of them had worn collars and various restraints, of course, but they we
re black leather with rings—standard fetish wear only. Nothing worth noting. From the moment she’d seen that painting with the jeweled collar, she’d imagined that woman must have been special to him. That she’d belonged to him.
“Is this the same collar...?” Despite her fear and ambivalence, she hated the idea of being nothing more than a placeholder for someone else—an inferior copy. She didn’t want to be his forgery.
“No. I sold that when she left.”
Quill held up the open box. There was a mirror inside. Saskia ducked to get a good look. No, it wasn’t the same. It was a white metal like the collar in the painting, but instead of several rows of small glittering diamonds, these were black stones.
“They’re black diamonds. They don’t sparkle much, but it’s understated and elegant. You can wear it anywhere and with anything. And you will.” He closed the empty box and set it back on the sofa.
Saskia gasped when his hand moved between her legs, a finger pressing inside her. Without conscious thought, her hips began to move, seeking deeper penetration.
“I knew you’d be wet when I finally touched you.”
She was sure he was about to bend her over one of the sofas and fuck her. She didn’t believe he’d put aside that urge even for a day—despite his speech on the subject. Unless, of course, he thought she’d be begging for his cock within the next few hours. What an ego.
Before she could learn whether Quill meant any of the words he spoke, they were interrupted by a woman much closer to his age than Saskia. She was attractive and polished. Saskia had the sinking fear he was married—or at least romantically entangled with someone else.
It wasn’t as if she were in the position to bargain over the nature of his interactions with other women, but still.
Wouldn’t Saskia have taken any piece of Joseph Quill on offer? When she’d met the assistant, she hadn’t cared who else he might be fucking—only that she might get to be among that number. It was embarrassing now to realize what a groupie she’d been. And still was.
