by Lauren Smith
Her heart trampled a wild beat against her ribs as she realized it would be so easy for any one of the strong, muscular doms in the club to slide a hand inside her bodice and discover the thing she’d hidden there, an object that had become precious to her over the last few years.
Her hand came to rest on the copy of an old photograph. She knew taking it out would be a risk, but she couldn’t fight the need to steal the quick glance the dim light would allow her.
Unfolding the picture gently, her lips pursed as she studied the face of the eight–year-old boy in the picture. This was the childhood photo of the man she’d come to meet tonight.
The black and white photo had been on the front page of the New York Times twenty-five years ago. The boy was dressed in rags, and bruises marred his angelic face; his haunted eyes gazed at the camera. A bloody cut traced the line of his jaw from chin to neck. Eyes wide, he clasped a thick woolen blanket to his body as a policeman held out a hand to him.
Emery Lockwood. The sole survivor of the most notorious child abduction in American history since that of the Lindbergh baby. And he was somewhere in the Gilded Cuff tonight.
Over the last year she’d become obsessed with the photo and had taken to looking at it when she needed reassurance. Its subject had been kidnapped but survived and escaped, when so many children like him over the years had not been so lucky. Sophie’s throat constricted, and shards of invisible glass dug into her throat as she tried to shrug off her own awful memories. Her best friend Rachel, the playground, that man with the gray van…
The photo was creased in places and its edges were worn. The defiance in Emery’s face compelled her in a way nothing else in her life had. Compelled with an intensity that scared her. She had to see him, had to talk to him and understand him and the tragedy he’d survived. She was afraid he might be the target of another attempt on his life and she had to warn him. It wouldn’t be fair for him to die, not after everything he’d survived. She had to help him. But it wasn’t just that. It was the only way she could ease the guilt she’d felt at not being able to help catch the man who’d taken her friend. She had to talk to Emery. Even though she knew it wouldn’t bring Rachel back, something inside her felt like meeting him would bring closure.
With a forced shrug of her shoulders, she relaxed and focused on Emery’s face. After years of studying kidnapping cases she’d noticed something crucial in a certain style of kidnappings, a tendency by the predators to repeat patterns of behavior. When she’d started digging through Emery’s case and read the hundreds of articles and police reports, she’d sensed it. That prickling sensation at the back of her mind that warned her that what had been started twenty-five years ago wasn’t over yet. She hadn’t been able to save Rachel, but she would save Emery.
I have to. She owed it to Rachel, owed it to herself and to everyone who’d lost someone to the darkness, to evil. Guilt stained her deep inside but when she saw Emery’s face in that photograph, it reminded her that not every stolen child died. A part of her, one she knowingly buried in her heart, was convinced that talking to him, hearing his story, would ease the old wounds from her own past that never seemed to heal. And in return, she might be the one to solve his kidnapping and rescue him from a threat she was convinced still existed.
She wasn’t the boldest woman—at least not naturally—but the quest for truth always gave her that added level of bravery. Sometimes she felt, when in the grips of pursuing a story, that she became the person she ought to be, someone brave enough to fight the evil in the world. Not the tortured girl from Kansas who’d lost her best friend to a pedophile when she was seven years old.
Sophie would have preferred to conduct an interview somewhere less intimate, preferably wearing more clothing. But Emery was nearly impossible to reach—he avoided the press, apparently despising their efforts to get him to tell his story. She didn’t blame him. Retelling his story could be traumatic for him, but she didn’t have a choice. If what she suspected was true, she needed the details she was sure he’d kept from the police because they might be the keys to figuring out who’d kidnapped him and why.
She’d made calls to his company, but the front desk there had refused to transfer her to his line, probably because of his “no press” rule. Thanks to Hayden she knew Emery rarely left the Lockwood estate but he came to the Gilded Cuff a few times a month. This was the only opportunity she might have to reach him.
Emery ran his father’s company from a vast mansion on the Lockwood estate, nestled in the thick woods of Long Island’s Gold Coast. No visitors were permitted and he left the house only when in the company of private guards.
Sophie tucked the photo back into her corset and looked around, peering at the faces of the doms walking past her. More than once their gazes dropped to the cuffs on her wrists, possessively assessing her body. Her face scorched with an irremovable blush at their perusal. Whenever she made eye contact with a dom, he would frown and she’d instantly drop her gaze.
Respect; must remember to respect the doms and not make eye contact unless they command it. Otherwise she might end up bent over a spanking bench. Her corset seemed to shrink, making it hard to breathe, and heat flashed from her head to her toes.
Men and women—submissives judging by the cuffs they bore on their wrists—were wearing even less than she was as they walked around with drink trays, carrying glasses to doms on couches. Several doms had subs kneeling at their feet, heads bowed. A man sitting on a nearby love seat was watching her with hooded eyes. He had a sub at his feet, his hand stroking her long blond hair. The woman’s eyes were half closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure. The dom’s cobalt blue eyes measured her—not with sexual interest, but seemingly with mere curiosity—the way a sated mountain lion might watch a plump rabbit crossing its path.
Sophie pulled her eyes away from the red-headed dom and his ensnaring gaze. The club was almost too much to take in. Collars, leashes, the occasional pole with chains hanging from it, and a giant cross were all there, part of the fantasy world created amid the glitz and old world décor.
Sliding past entwined bodies and expensive furniture, she saw more that intrigued her. The club itself was this one large room with several halls splitting off the main room. Hayden had explained earlier that morning the layout of the club. She had pointed out that no matter which hall you went down you had to come back to the main room to exit the club. A handy safety feature. A little exhalation of relief escaped her lips. How deep did a man like Emery Lockwood live this lifestyle? Would she find him in one of the private rooms or would he be part of a public scene like the ones she was witnessing now?
She was nearly halfway across the room when a man caught her by her arm and spun her to face him. Her lips parted, ready to scream the word “red”, but when she met his gaze she froze, the shout dying at the back of her throat. He raised her wrists, fingering the red ribbon around her leather cuffs. His gray eyes were as silver as moonlight, and openly interested. Sophie tried to jerk free of his hold. He held tight. The arousal that had been slowly building in her body flashed cold and sharp. She could use the safe word. She knew that. But after one deep breath, she forced herself to relax. Part of the job tonight was to blend in, to find Emery. She couldn’t do that if she ran off and cried for help at the first contact. It would be smarter to let this play out a bit; maybe she could squeeze the dom for information about Emery later if she didn’t find him soon. For Sophie, not being able to get to Emery was more frightening than anything this man might try to do to her.
“I see your cuffs, little sub. I’m not going to hurt you.”
His russet hair fell across his eyes and he flicked his head: power, possession, dominance. He was raw masculinity. A natural dom. He was the sort of good-looking man that she would have mooned over when she was a teenager. Hell, even now at twenty-four she should have been melting into a puddle at this man’s feet. His gaze bit into her. A stab of sudden apprehension made her stomach pitch, but she needed to fin
d Emery and going along with this guy might be the best way to get information. He tugged her wrists, jerking her body against his as he regarded her hungrily. “I need an unclaimed sub for a contest. Tonight is your lucky night, sweetheart.”
Chapter 2
Elliot and Miranda Lockwood were visible during the time the kidnapping is speculated to have occurred. The twins were last seen in the kitchen by their hired nanny Francesca Espina, age fifty-four years, who had summoned the boys to the kitchen for dinner.
—New York Times, June 10, 1990
Sophie barely had time to protest at the dom’s tight hold on her wrist before he dragged her across the room to where a group of people circled a couch against the wall. She could have said “red” and stopped whatever game he’d intended to play so she could keep searching for Emery, but the word died on her lips. A large crowd of people all turned to face her, amusement flashing in their eyes. The crowd’s focus on her was not comforting in the slightest. She was prey, for a so-called contest, in a BDSM club. Searching the faces for Emery’s, she prayed she’d be lucky enough to find him. If not, she’d use her safe word and get free of the man and his “contest.”
Holding her, he grinned darkly at the onlookers. “Found a newbie. She’ll be perfect.”
Sophie again jerked to get her wrist back and failed. She stifled a gasp as he promptly smacked her bottom with an open hand. Her gaze darted across the crowd, trying to seek out Emery’s familiar face. He had to be here somewhere. Most of the club members had moved in to watch her and this dom.
“Stand still, bow your head,” he commanded.
To her shock she obeyed instantly—not because she naturally bowed to anyone who shoved her around, but because something inside her responded to the commanding tone he’d just used on her. He seemed like a man who would enjoy punishing her, and she knew enough about this lifestyle to know she never wanted to end up over a spanking bench, even if the idea did make her insides flare to life.
“Bring her here, Royce.” A cool, rich voice spoke, pouring over her skin like whisky—slightly rough, with an intoxicating bite to it. When this man spoke, the voices murmuring around her stopped and a hush fell over the area.
The crowd around her and the man, Royce, parted. Another man, sitting on the blue brocaded couch, watched them. His large hands rested on his thighs, fingers impatiently drumming a clipped beat. Royce shoved Sophie none too gently, sending her to her knees right at the man’s feet. She reacted instinctively, throwing her hands out to balance herself, and her palms fell on his thighs and her chest collided with his knees.
Air rushed out of her lungs in a soft whoosh. For a few seconds she fought to regain her breath as she leaned against the stranger for support. The large muscles beneath his charcoal pants jumped and tensed beneath her hands, and she whipped her palms off him as though burned. She’d practically been in the man’s lap, the heat of his body warming her, tempting her with his close proximity. Hastily she dropped her head and rested her hands on her own thighs, waiting. It took every ounce of her willpower to concentrate on breathing.
She still didn’t look at his face, focusing instead on his expensive black shoes, the precision cuffs of his dark charcoal pants. Her eyes then tracked up his body, noting the crisp white shirt and thin, blood red tie he wore. It was loosened beneath the undone top button of his dress shirt. She had the sudden urge to crawl into his lap and trail kisses down his neck and taste him.
“Raise your eyes,” the voice demanded.
Sophie drew a deep breath, letting air fill her, making her almost light-headed. And then she looked up.
Her heart leapt into her throat and her brain short-circuited.
Emery Lockwood, the object of her darkest fantasies, the ones she’d buried deep in her heart in the hours just before dawn, was looking down at her, predatory curiosity gleaming in his gaze. He trapped her with a magnetic pull, an air of mystery. She was caught in invisible strands of a spell woven around her body and soul.
The boy’s soft angelic features were there, hidden beneath the surface of the man before her. He was the most devastatingly, sensual man she’d ever seen. His high cheekbones, full lips, and aquiline nose were all parts of the face of a man in his early thirties. But his eyes—the color of nutmeg and framed with long dark lashes any woman would kill to have—were the same as those of the wounded eight-year-old boy in her photo. Although she could see that they’d hardened with two decades of grief.
He was masculine perfection, except for the thin, almost invisible scar that ran the length of his sharp jaw line. Even after twenty-five years, he still bore the marks of his suffering. She ached with every cell in her body to press her mouth to his, to steal fevered kisses from his lips. Her fingertips tingled with the need to stroke over the scar on his face, to smooth away the hurt he must have endured.
“Do you know the rules of our game?” Emery asked. As he spoke, his gaze still held her in place, like a butterfly caught beneath a pin and encased in glass. Hands trembling, she pursed her lips and tried to remain calm and collected. It was nearly impossible. The heat of his intense regard only increased as the corners of his mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. Oh, the man knew just how he affected her!
Emery leaned forward, caught her chin in his palm, and tilted her face up to look at him. Her skin burned deliciously where his palm touched her. He pulled her, like the moon calling to the tides, demanding devotion and obedience with the promise of something great, something she couldn’t understand. Her senses hummed with eagerness, ready to explore his touch, his taste. Like a minnow caught in a vast current, she was pulled out to deeper waters, helpless to resist. In any other situation, she wouldn’t have been so off balance, and wouldn’t be letting herself get sucked into this strange game she sensed she was about to play. But here in this dark fantasy of the Gilded Cuff, she didn’t want to look away from him.
“The rules are as follows: I give you a command, you obey. I have to make you come in less than two minutes. I cannot do more than stroke any part of your body covered by cloth—no touching between your legs and no touching of your bare breasts. You are to look into my eyes and do whatever I say so long as my commands are within the rules. If you come, I win; if you don’t, Royce wins.”
Sophie struggled to think clearly. There was no way she would have agreed to this anywhere else, but in the club, this was the sort of game the doms played… the sort of game Emery played, and he wanted to play with her. A shiver of desire shot through her, making her clit pulse. How could she refuse?
“Uh… permission to speak?”
“You will call me Sir, or Master Emery.”
“Sir,” Sophie corrected. She wanted to kick herself. She had read enough about this lifestyle that she should have remembered to address him formally, but in all honesty the way he was looking at her—like something he wanted to eat—she couldn’t remain entirely rational.
“Permission to speak granted.” Emery’s voice dropped into a softer tone, approval warming his hazel eyes.
“What happens to me, Sir? Only one of you can win.”
Royce shared a glance with Emery.
“She’s a smart one, this little sub. Well, Emery? What do you think?”
Both men focused their intense gazes on her. It took everything in her not to look away.
“Punishment by the one who loses. But what form? Flogging?” Royce suggested.
Sophie flinched.
“No whips,” Emery seemed to conclude, his eyes reading her tiniest reaction.
Emery ran a palm over his jaw, which was shadowed with night stubble. The look gave him a rugged edge, reminding her of the men back home in Kansas.
The tension in the crowd seemed to heighten as the subject of punishment continued. Emery continued to stare at her, his eyes seemingly unlocking the puzzle she presented. “She’s new. Why not a spanking?” he murmured softly.
That caught her attention. Her clit thrummed to life, pulsing in a faint
beat along with her heart. The twinge of uncomfortable pain in her knees was temporarily abated by this new distraction. Her eyes immediately settled on Emery’s large, capable hands. She could practically feel the width of his palm striking her bottom…. Trouble. She was in so much trouble.
“Definitely spanking.” Emery smiled. “My favorite form of punishment. It will be a disappointment when you come in my arms, and I shall have to allow Royce the pleasure of laying his palm to your flesh.”
“Cocky bastard,” Royce retorted. “She might resist you. I bet she’s far less submissive than she looks, and given her clothes, far too self-conscious to come in front of people. When I win, you’ll owe me your best case of bourbon.”
Her knees were aching, pain flaring like sharp little needles through her skin and deep into her bones. She shifted on them, trying to favor one over the other, and then hastily switched, but it didn’t help. There was no way she was going to make it much longer on her knees.
Emery’s hazel eyes lit up with the challenge. “Like hell! When she comes, and she will, you’ll owe me your best case of scotch.”
As the men continued to posture and argue, Sophie sat back on her heels, her knees aching something fierce. Like metal rods were jabbing up between her knees into her nerves.
Screw this. I’m getting up. Surging to her feet, she breathed a sigh of relief as blood flow pumped through her legs.
The people gathered around her gasped. Both men stopped arguing and turned to face her, gazes dark with anger. It wasn’t the lethal sort of anger she’d come across before, not like the murderers she’d interviewed for her crime stories. That anger was a terrifying anger, pure hatred. It rolled off those criminals in waves. The kind of anger that truly good people never felt, it was the sort of rage that consumed the soul and blackened the heart until only a killing machine was left its place.
