The Con Artist

by Kitty Thomas

  “Obviously, it’s not just us. We’ve got the pilot, the co-pilot, and my cook. But we’re down to a skeleton crew. Lacy will stay out of sight and out of the way. She’s got something going on with the pilot, so she’ll be preoccupied. Marcus would have been on top of us the whole flight, which is why I sent him back commercial.”

  “Oh.”

  He might want Marcus out of the way, but no doubt the man would see her many times in compromising positions. Marcus was good-looking. Not as good-looking as Quill, but he was rocking the bald-security-guy look. Even the idea of him seeing her like this or hearing her address Quill in such a degrading way made her face flame.

  Clearly everyone in Quill’s employ knew about his kinks.

  He raised the finger that had been inside her and pressed it to her lips. “Taste yourself.”

  Saskia opened her mouth and sucked her juices off the offered finger.

  Quill crossed to a small closet and removed a long sheer purple robe and helped her into it. “Let’s eat.”

  ***

  After dinner, Quill returned to the living area. He ordered her out of the robe, and once again the fear surfaced over what was next, if she could handle it, and if they might be interrupted again. No matter what he said, Saskia didn’t think she could cope with sex—or whatever things he intended to do with her—in public. It was scary enough thinking about what might happen between them in private.

  She waited.

  But nothing happened. Instead, he ordered her to kneel beside him and took out his laptop and started working. He spent hours engrossed in whatever work had gotten his attention. Every now and then, he reached down to pet her hair as if she were a domesticated pet curled at his feet.

  Saskia leaned her head against his thigh and tried to process everything that had happened that day. She hadn’t had the opportunity to think since she’d bumped into him in the Piazza. Everything had happened so fast. The revelation of his identity alone had taken up nearly all the space in her brain as she’d dutifully packed her things.

  Because no matter how much the possibility of escape and freedom had screamed at her, and no matter how much her previous feelings for Lachlan bumped against the new revelation of Quill, all she wanted was to learn from him and to be painted by him. And all the rest... it wasn’t as if these were new thoughts. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t masturbated to a scenario not unlike this one countless times already.

  What difference was the reality going to make?

  He finally closed the laptop and looked down at her. Saskia held her breath, both scared and excited over what might be next. He took her hand and stood, leading her to a door on the opposite end from where they’d had dinner. Behind this door was a bedroom.

  The bed was probably a queen. Not a giant bed, but large enough for two people to comfortably toss and turn on. The bedding was all white, stark against a black steel frame. The headboard had sturdy, steel bars—something Saskia could easily imagine being tied to.

  Her attention shifted a few degrees to the right. A large black metal cage sat beside the bed with fluffy white bedding inside that matched what was on the bed. It was plenty large enough for a person to stretch out and lie down, even to sit in, but not large enough to stand.

  Quill withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the cage. “Inside.”

  Saskia crawled in through the door and stretched out on the bedding. He locked the cage behind her. She watched as he undressed down to boxer briefs and hung his suit in the closet. He disappeared down the hall, and she heard water running. It went on for a while.

  He returned wrapped in a dark blue towel. Stray drops of water slid from his hair and rolled down his tan, muscular back. Saskia couldn’t stop staring. He dropped the towel, revealing an ass and thighs as muscled as the rest of him. No tan-lines.

  She’d never paused to consider whether he tanned or if this was his natural complexion, and she was no closer to knowing. Nevertheless, an image of him lying naked on a beach somewhere jumped into her head unbidden.

  When he turned, she gasped at his erection. But why should she be surprised? It was just as intimidating as everything else about him. Had she expected anything less?

  Quill moved to stand beside the cage and looked down at her. Saskia reached through the bars, her fingers barely skimming over his cock. He smacked her hand, and she jerked it back into the cage.

  “No. I don’t recall saying you could touch me.”

  But he’d taken her for this, right? He was hard. Didn’t he want...? Didn’t he want her to please him?

  He gripped the top of the cage with one hand and his erection with the other and began to stroke himself. “Spread your legs. I want to look at you.”

  But not fuck her? Not be touched by her? Not get a blow job even?

  Somehow this felt more objectifying than if he’d just fucked her or ordered her to suck him off. And from the hard look in his eyes, he knew it, too.

  He took in the full picture of her splayed naked beneath him, then he stared into her eyes, jerking himself off. Minutes later, he came on her.

  “Don’t wipe it off,” he said, his voice little more than a growl.

  She lay still as his spendings slid off her hip, making a wet spot on the bedding.

  Quill shut the light off so that only a thin strip of illumination spilled in under the door. Then he got in his own bed. Saskia tried to keep her tears quiet, but it wasn’t working.

  After a few minutes of this, he sighed. “Why are you crying?” As if he didn’t know how much this hurt her, how much he was humiliating her. It wasn’t even what he’d just done. In some artist-worshiping part of her brain, the whole sordid thing aroused her.

  “You’re making me sleep in a cage?”

  “You have to earn a spot in my bed. And I told you, you’ll beg for my cock like a good little slut.”

  More tears.

  Quill moved to the edge of the bed and slipped his hand inside the cage. “Come here.”

  Saskia went to him. He stroked the back of her neck. “I can’t do all the things I want to do with you until we get home. It’s better if we wait. Just try to appreciate this space I’m offering you to process your situation. It’s a gift.”

  It didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like he was punishing her already.

  Chapter Six

  The jet landed at six o’clock in the morning. It was still dark out. They ate a large breakfast on the plane and then Quill finally allowed Saskia to put some clothes on before disembarking. To her further surprise, he let her wear jeans and a black, thin-strapped tank-top. She suspected it would be the last bit of comfort and modesty she’d get except for when they were in public.

  She still couldn’t believe he planned to let her go out in public. Didn’t he consider it a risk? In the strictest sense—despite the way he’d presented it—if not kidnapping, it was at least blackmail and false imprisonment. She wasn’t an idiot. They both knew what he was doing was criminal—no less criminal than what she’d done. Maybe more. After all, all she’d stolen was money. He’d stolen a human being’s freedom. They weren’t even in the same category of offense. Yet, somehow she was sure she felt more guilt for what she’d taken than Quill did for taking her.

  She’d slept so much and so well on the plane that she didn’t even feel jet-lagged. If anything, it might be hard for her to fall asleep at night when it was time.

  She looked in the bathroom mirror one last time, her fingers trailing over the black diamonds of the collar. Maybe it was the lighting he’d chosen in this room, but she thought the stones sparkled plenty. He was right, though. It was understated. It looked just as good with jeans as it would look paired with an evening gown. Did he plan to take her to more art events? Gallery openings?

  Would she actually be mingling in the art world at the side of Joseph Quill, being one of only a select few who knew his secret? Either he was exactly the smug, arrogant bastard she’d always thought Lachlan to be¸ or he was trusti
ng her. She felt honored by even the idea he’d include her in his private world.

  Saskia shook herself. She was well aware that her school-girl crush on this man would be her undoing. She could imagine herself forgiving him so many things she’d never forgive another man for. As Lachlan, barely touching her cheek had elicited outrage and restraining order fantasies. As Quill, he could lock her in a cage and come on her. It was horrifying that neither scenario was theoretical. She looked away from the mirror before she could catch the red she was sure burst into her cheeks at those thoughts.

  When she emerged, Quill led her to the Bentley, his hand resting possessively on her lower back. The last time she’d been alone in this car with him, he’d been throwing a purse filled with crab puffs at her. He opened the passenger door with a sweeping flourish, ever the gentleman.

  The drive was silent for the most part, except for the sound of windshield wipers when a light rain began to fall. Saskia watched the passing landscape out the window, her stomach tightening in greater apprehension with each mile they drove closer to his home.

  When his hand strayed to her knee, she didn’t pull away. Instead of hoping he’d stop touching her, she hoped his hand would inch up the inside of her thigh. She wished now that she hadn’t worn jeans.

  The rain had let up by the time they reached the estate, the sun peering out from behind now-fluffy clouds. At least Marcus wouldn’t be home yet. Going commercial, there would have been a layover somewhere. If she was lucky, it would be a few hours before she had to deal with his snide distaste.

  “Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” Quill said. Somehow, despite the wording, the phrase came out as a command.

  Her things would be delayed. When the jet landed they’d been loaded onto a small white van that was waiting for them on the tarmac. Marcus would drive it home when he arrived at the airport later.

  She followed Quill through the main part of the house and out a glass door at the back. There was a large pool, hot tub, and terrace—and then a partially covered and partially open outdoor living space with a bar and an impressive set-up for grilling.

  Saskia had never seen the back side of the estate before. The first few times she’d been there, her mission had been to get in and get out before he got any ideas—or at least before he tried to act on them. And the last time, it had been the middle of the night.

  Beyond this outdoor living space, lay a few acres of open land, the center of which had been transformed into a rose garden filled with large bushes of white blooms and paths that carefully wound in and around them. She half-expected to catch someone painting the roses red or for a white rabbit to race past.

  But nothing out of the ordinary happened, and Quill led her through the fragrant rose garden without incident. On the other side of the garden stood a broad stone building with skylights and ivy crawling all over it. The structure was enclosed on one side by the rose bushes and on the other by well-packed, tall evergreens. Saskia caught glimpses of a high fence beyond the trees. The extreme privacy of this space, made her wonder if he was hiding some sort of contraband.

  “Saskia? This way.”

  The main part of the building was an enormous gallery, with a single large circular skylight in the center. There was a cage on the marble floor beneath the skylight, much like the one she’d slept in on the plane. Saskia didn’t want to think about that, but she couldn’t hide her disappointment that he might isolate her out here alone at night.

  As if reading her mind, Quill said, “I told you, you must earn a spot in my bed. This is your room and where you will sleep until that time.”

  Saskia looked away from the cage, determined to think about it later. Not now.

  The room seemed propped up and held together by white Greek columns, many of which had chains attached to them. Scattered about the gallery were several pieces of kinky sex furniture and equipment—as if they were art installations, statement pieces.

  The walls were covered in his work—each piece behind protective glass. Paintings she’d never seen. Paintings which had never hung in a museum or gallery. His private collection—the things he created only for himself.

  “You will hang in this gallery soon,” Quill said.

  Given the chains on the columns, she wasn’t sure which way he meant that. Given what she knew about him, probably both.

  “This way,” he said.

  She followed him through the gallery to a door hidden at one end. On the other side was a glassed-in room. It looked like a greenhouse, except that there were no plants. Instead, the room was filled with easels, canvas, brushes, paints, drawing paper, and charcoal. Like the gallery, this room also contained fetish furniture as well as a few elegant chaise lounges for the more subtle series of nudes he painted. All the furniture was covered in protective plastic, on top of which lay a thin layer of dust.

  The room seemed dead, as if it had fallen into hibernation one winter and never awakened when the spring came.

  “This will be your studio. You will work here. I work here occasionally, but I like to paint in the gallery as well. Or... I did.”

  “Why did you stop?”

  Quill looked pained. “Saskia, you know why.”

  She thought she did, but she wasn’t sure.

  “It’s not as if any of my work could be hung in a gallery with Derick dead. The risk of exposure is too great, and Niche Industries’ stock would plummet if this came out.”

  “Or it could soar. You don’t know how people would react.”

  He sighed. “Trust me, I know. You underestimate the pearl-clutching disdain of the American public. They’re all a bunch of perverts in private, but bring anything out into the open, and it’s nothing but self-righteous denial and hand-wringing. As if the existence of a woman’s cunt was a brand new discovery threatening to end the world in flames if its power were to be unleashed.”

  “But what about all those paintings in the gallery I’ve never seen before?”

  “They were all completed when Derick was alive. I’ve done nothing since.”

  She wondered if it was depression or grief over the loss of his friend rather than fear of exposure that had stalled him. After all, couldn’t someone mysteriously discover work created before the artist had died? At some point such a ruse had to end of course, but a gallery full of work no one else had seen seemed to suggest the credibility of the idea.

  “So why now? If you can’t sell them or display them out in the larger world...”

  It was a long time for an artist not to work with or without a payoff. Saskia could feel the creative impulse inside him itching to be free. With that much down time, she imagined once he started painting again, it would consume him and everyone in his orbit.

  Quill’s eyes narrowed. “I notice you are speaking to me as if we are equals. Don’t think I’m not keeping a mental tally of the number of lashes you’re getting for each instance of casual speech. You’re forgetting your place with me. I can assure you that won’t be a problem much longer.”

  “Master, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Not yet. But you will be. Sit, and do not move a muscle until I return.”

  She looked around the gallery. “Sit... where?”

  “On the ground. Anywhere. I don’t care. Just sit. And wait.”

  He hadn’t answered her question, and she didn’t have the bravery to ask it again. There was a strange new intensity to him which Saskia wasn’t sure she liked. She sat on the marble and crossed her legs like some seasoned yogi. She only wished she felt that calm on the inside.

  The door clanged shut behind him. There was a place deep within that screamed for her to run—make an escape while she still could. She doubted he’d locked her in. What if she just... left?

  And go where? He’d confiscated all her bank cards on the plane. She no longer had access to the money he’d given her. And even if she did, if she started using it, he’d find her again. Even if she could take cash out of machines, with the wit
hdrawal limits, there would still be a neat trail outlining her path. She may as well draw him a map.

  Without his money, she had nothing. Her few semi-close friends were married and currently on the part of the life path that included small children with sticky hands. They were too wrapped up in their cozy families to pay much mind to her needs or even her existence. It wasn’t as if she could crash on just anybody’s couch at the moment.

  Little Kaylee had ballet. And little Justin had a cold. And on and on. She didn’t blame them—really. They’d remember her as the kids got a bit older and more independent. She didn’t begrudge them their lives, but she’d picked differently. And the lack of a partner at this point in her life made for a lonely stretch of highway.

  The people whose couches she could possibly crash on were all men—men who would want to take and use her body just like Quill did. Maybe it wouldn’t be as kinky or scary, but it would be just as wrong. Probably more so in its way.

  There was a small comfort and peace in knowing that at least Quill was willing to acknowledge the power he had over her—what she was to him. The lack of pretense was refreshing. She at least respected his honesty and thought that honesty somehow respected her in return.

  By the time she could work up the nerve to slip out a side door and head for homelessness or blowing a casual acquaintance for a bed to sleep in, Quill was back.

  She hadn’t moved an inch. He seemed impressed with what he must perceive as striking obedience, not knowing it had simply been the result of a verbose mental monologue she couldn’t manage to tunnel all the way through before his return. Let him think what he wanted—especially if it might offer her a stay of execution.

  He’d changed into jeans and a black T-shirt. The two of them made a matching set. He wore casual shoes that slipped on without trouble so he could kick them off and out of the way as he did now. He carried a cardboard box like what one might use for packing belongings for a move.

  Quill set the box next to the cage and walked the few feet to where Saskia sat like a sculpture on the ground. He pulled her up and, without a word, began to undress her. She didn’t dare speak.