by Nina Lane
“I want you to be afraid of what I might do to you, but also to understand that it is all for your own good,” Preston said, tightening his hands on her face. “I never want you to be afraid of me.”
Lydia looked as if she didn’t quite understand the difference. Preston gazed into her eyes, remembering the girl she’d once been and the heady, intense longing he’d had for her and for all she symbolized.
“I will destroy anyone who attempts to hurt you,” he whispered, moving his hand down to rest against the side of her neck where her pulse beat wildly against his palm. “And anyone who attempts to take you from me.”
She swallowed visibly, her slender, milk-white throat rippling, her eyes dark pools of apprehension. Preston stared down at her, his heart beating too fast, every cell in his body aching to possess what he had desired since childhood.
Her.
While living in the pit of his mother’s apartment, he’d seen Lydia as the epitome of everything he’d wanted and yet didn’t possess. Wealth, freedom, luxury, beauty. In contrast, Preston had battled his vile mother, fighting with her about the wretched men she enjoyed punishing, escaping her attempts to lock him in his room when he started getting in trouble, scrounging for scraps of food, watching his mother seduce the fucking landlord so he wouldn’t evict them.
Preston had made a vow long ago that he would escape his mother’s clutches… and not only had he done so with great success, he’d left her back in the filthy gutter where she belonged. And he’d vowed that, as a symbol of his emancipation and freedom, he would one day possess the lovely Jane Worthington and make her his Lydia.
In a sense, he knew he did, that he had a level of control over Lydia that no man had ever had before. But he was plagued by a nagging discontent, by the unpleasant notion that perhaps Lydia had more control over his own sensibilities than he did over her. She invaded his every waking thought, his mind consumed by notions of all the salacious and carnal things he intended to do with her.
Even at night, she invaded his dreams with her silky hair and peach-scented skin, the little gasping noises she made at the back of her throat, the lustful heaviness of her eyes. Preston woke hard and aching, his whole being focused on the objective of getting Lydia alone again.
Here, in this squalid little room above Whiskey Street, with moonlight slanting through the shutters and Lydia’s moans filling his ears, Preston could believe that she was his, body and soul. But when the sun broke over the horizon and the cold light of day burned away the shadows, he stood at the window and watched Lydia be driven away, back to the affluent comfort of her family.
And he knew that as long as she was allowed to leave him, she would never truly be his.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT FIRST, LYDIA found a dark thrill in balancing her two worlds. At first, she rather enjoyed presenting an image of daughterly perfection by day and then submitting to depraved sexual acts by night. She answered to both Jane and Lydia. She smiled at her father’s colleagues and shook their hands, then fell to her knees and sucked Preston’s cock. She drank tea from dainty china cups and nibbled tiny cucumber sandwiches, then thrust her behind in the air and moaned while Preston worked his finger into her body.
During the day, Lydia was scented with peach soap and lotion, her skin cooled by the air conditioner. At night in the stuffy room above Whiskey Street, she was slick with sweat and grime, smelling of sex, dragging hot air into her lungs as Preston grunted above her and creamed over her breasts and belly.
It was dirty, salacious, exciting.
At first.
Then one day as Lydia stared at her father’s oldest friend—a big gray-haired man with a rugged face—she found herself wondering what his erection looked like, how it would feel to have him thrust into her mouth or slap his broad hand against her bare bottom. And that was when Lydia felt herself begin to crack.
“Jane.” Her father’s voice, edged with disapproval.
She jerked her attention to where he stood next to the sideboard in the parlor, holding out a glass of sherry toward her. Lydia swallowed, her hand trembling as she took it from him.
Her father poured himself a scotch before turning back to another colleague and continuing to discuss the latest economic reform bill.
“Jane?” Carol Worthington frowned at her. “Are you quite well? You look a bit pale.”
Lydia took a gulp of the too-sweet sherry and tried to smile. “Er… just a bit tired, I think. It’s terribly hot in here, isn’t it?”
“It’s quite comfortable, actually,” Carol replied.
“I’ll… I’ll just step out for a moment.” Lydia thrust her glass at her mother and hurried from the room.
She stopped in the foyer and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. The grandfather clock ticked, a sound that echoed the pulse of her blood, counting down the seconds until one o’clock in the morning when the car would arrive. When she would be swept away to Preston’s hovel and allow him to do depraved things to her body. Moreover, she would like it. Her heart thumped against her ribs, heat pooling between her legs.
“All right, then, Miss Worthington?” asked a deep voice.
Lydia’s eyes flew open. She found herself staring at Mr. Hubert, the man whom she’d been wondering about erotically not ten minutes ago. A hot flush colored her cheeks. She’d known him since she was a child. The owner of several oil refineries, he was old enough to be her father, a big man clad in a tailored suit with his silver hair shining under the lights and his broad face marked by creases.
“I… I’m fine.” Lydia brought her hand to her throat. Her pulse throbbed beneath her palm. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Mr. Hubert looked at her, his heavy eyebrows drawn together. “It’s nice to see you again. You were away for quite some time, weren’t you?”
Lydia nodded. Her father had told his friends and associates that Lydia had been working overseas, and no one appeared to have questioned the lie.
“I’m back now,” she said unnecessarily, her voice sounding thin and reedy.
“I see that.”
He’d moved closer to her. The authoritative aura of a man in power radiated from him. His cologne smelled spicy.
A faint dizziness wound through Lydia’s head.
It must be radiating from her like a cat in heat, she thought in a daze. Men like him could sense it, smell it on her, this never-ending arousal pulsing like lava through her blood, her constant state of suspended lust.
“Your button,” he said, his coarse voice infiltrating her ears alongside the pounding of her own heartbeat.
“Excuse me?”
“Your button.” He gestured to the front of her blue silk cocktail dress, which had two little pearl buttons holding the bodice together between her breasts.
Lydia looked down to see that one of the buttons had come unfastened, exposing the lacy edge of her bra. She reached to fasten it, but Mr. Hubert got there first. His big fingers brushed against her skin. He started to fasten the button, then stopped. Lydia struggled to draw in a breath. He moved his hand down and unfastened the second button, pushing the folds of her bodice aside to reveal the swells of her breasts.
She stared at the knot of his necktie, the bulge of his Adam’s apple, the loose skin of his thick neck. Her parents and four other guests were in the next room. She could hear their voices and occasional laughter drifting into the foyer.
She was damp between her legs, her clitoris throbbing. She tightened her thighs, which only increased the ache. Sweat rolled down her spine.
“I’m…” Her tongue darted out to lick her dry lips. Mr. Hubert’s eyes followed the movement.
“I’m terribly hot,” Lydia whispered.
“Let’s step outside, then.”
He moved closer, one hand cupping her elbow.
She saw the glint of lust in his eyes, felt the rise in his excitement. Before she could take a breath, he was crowding her against the wall, invading her space. Lyd
ia closed her eyes and thought of Preston waiting for her in the room above that horrid street, rubbing his hand together with glee at the anticipation of what he would subject her to that very night.
Without thought, she put her hands out and shoved Mr. Hubert so hard that he stumbled backward and almost tripped over his own feet. He grunted, his teeth clenching, the fire of anger overtaking his incipient lust.
“Bitch,” he growled, lunging for her with one hand.
Lydia ducked past him, narrowly escaping his grasp, and darted up the stairs. Her breath rasped from her throat. She locked herself safely in her room and hurried to change out of her dress. She took a cool shower, which helped her collect the frayed threads of her control.
Her eyes stung with tears as she went outside to meet the car and driver who would whisk her away to Preston’s. Once they were underway, she leaned her head against the leather seat and stared out the window at the passing night.
When had she taken such a wrong path in life? When had she given up whatever hopes and dreams she’d once had? When had she fallen so low that she’d found it exciting to commit a crime and then subject herself to the base desires of a man whom she’d always known was immoral and corrupt? When had she become so lost?
Lydia tried to gather her courage as the driver dropped her off and she climbed the narrow stairs to the Whiskey Street room.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she told Preston the moment she saw him lounging at the table by the window. Her heart knocked against her ribs and her lips trembled. “It’s too dangerous. Too… depraved.”
His mouth compressed into a thin line. “You think so? Odd, then, how intensely you appear to enjoy it.”
Lydia flushed hotly. “Preston, please.”
“If you wish to end our little arrangement, Lydia, then fine.” Preston gave a shrug, as if it made little difference to him. “I will cease sending you instructions.”
“What… what will you do, then?”
Though he didn’t respond, his eyes were chips of blue ice. Dread sank sharp claws into Lydia’s skin. She shuddered, her hand tightening around the bedpost.
“You told me once that I have a choice,” she whispered. “All three of you told me that.”
“Oh yes. You still do.”
“But if I stop coming here to you, you’ll tell my family what went on at La Nouvelle Vie,” Lydia said. “That kind of threat gives me no choice at all.”
Preston studied her, his arms folded across his lean chest. “Why did you steal, Lydia?”
“What?”
“Your family is very wealthy, as we all know. You earned a substantial salary at Southern Financial. Why did you steal from your company? You didn’t need the money.”
“I…” Lydia swallowed hard, remembering the sheer excitement she’d experienced while skimming off the top of her company’s funds. “I wanted to see if I could get away with it, I suppose.”
“Ah. For the thrill of it, hmm? The same reason you came to La Nouvelle Vie. To see if you could get away with it, to see if you were smarter than the investigators, to see if you could hide from them. You wanted to evade the punishment you knew you deserved. To prove that you were smarter, sharper, more devious.”
Of course he was right. Except Lydia had failed. The only reason she wasn’t in prison now was because her father had bailed her out rather than turn her over to the authorities.
“The difference,” Preston continued softly, “between you and me, Lydia, is that I know I am smarter, sharper, and more devious than anyone. I don’t have to prove it. I don’t need the thrill of knowing I got away with something. Because I simply always do.”
She knew that. It was the very reason she’d sought his help. Preston was, as her brother Maxwell had remarked, as slippery as an eel.
“If I don’t come back,” she whispered, “what will you do?”
Preston sighed, as if her mistrust wounded him. “Ah, Lydia. It pains me to discover you feel so coerced. If you wish to end our arrangement, as I said, I will simply cease sending you instructions and leave you alone. You may rest assured that I will keep our history together in confidence.”
Lydia didn’t know whether or not to believe him. She’d gone along with his dictate because he’d threatened to expose her. At the same time, if she had to continue living in two such worlds, both so stifling and controlling in such different ways, she would surely have some sort of breakdown. Which would be a scandal in its own right.
She allowed her breath to escape her constricted lungs and nodded. “All right, Preston. I trust you.”
Of course, that was a lie. Lydia didn’t trust Preston one whit. She knew him well enough to know he had another scheming plan in mind. It would only be a matter of time before Lydia learned what that plan was and would have to find a way to contend with it.
In the meantime, however, she let herself enjoy her newfound sense of freedom. She stopped checking the private email Preston had set up for her, and she forced herself to stop shaving her mons. Though the resulting stubble itched terribly, Lydia told herself it was a sign of her emancipation. She took to masturbating to relieve her tension, and found a heady thrill in the realization that she could bring herself to orgasm as often as she liked and not risk the threat of punishment.
And though Lydia’s days were still tinged with apprehension over what Preston might be plotting next, she found herself breathing more easily. She began to venture out alone on occasion, without the monitoring presence of her mother and sister. She sought out the touristy locations of New Orleans, knowing she was less likely to encounter anyone she or her family knew. She went to museums, wandered around cemeteries, shopped on Magazine Street, and attended a concert at Preservation Hall.
One morning she went to the French Market and breathed in the scents of fried oysters, andouille sausage, and roasted pralines. Still mindful of her mother’s dictate about her weight, she tried to ignore the culinary temptations as she walked past the stalls and shops selling Carnival souvenirs.
On impulse, she stopped to admire the beautiful, colorful masks at one of the vendor stalls. She bought a Mardi Gras mask—a gorgeous, shiny purple, green, and gold one with delicate feathers sprouting from the top—then tucked it into her bag and followed the sound of a jazz band to a nearby stage.
It was nearing noon by the time she reluctantly thought to return home, as her mother was hosting a luncheon for a group of small business owners. As Lydia walked down Decatur Street and passed the Café du Monde, her nose filled with the heavenly, rich scents of beignets and coffee. Her stomach rumbled with longing.
She glanced at her watch, then turned and headed into the café. If she indulged in a plate of beignets now, she would find it much easier to nibble daintily at her food during the luncheon. After eyeing the outdoor tables, she maneuvered toward a couple who looked on the verge of leaving and waited until she could claim their table. A passing waiter took her order, and Lydia sat back, enjoying the buzz of conversation from the other patrons, the warm afternoon air, the lively crackling energy of the market.
Her beignets arrived hot and dusted liberally with powdered sugar, and her café au lait was frothy and strong. She bit into a beignet, closing her eyes on an inward moan as the sweet, crisp flavor melted on her tongue. She licked her fingers and forced herself not to gobble the whole serving all at once. Powdered sugar spilled onto her lap. She took another bite, glancing toward a street band that started playing on the sidewalk.
She dropped the beignet suddenly, her heart leaping into her throat. Behind the band, on the opposite side of the street, was a tall man with midnight-black hair. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his tan trousers, the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up past his forearms. Though sunglasses concealed his eyes, there was a taut focus to him that Lydia knew was directed at her.
She swallowed hard. Her pulse raced. For a moment, the man didn’t move. She sensed his eyes burning behind the sunglasses like twin suns through a s
torm cloud. And then he was crossing the street, moving with unerring precision toward her, weaving past pedestrians and bikers as if they weren’t even there.
Her table was right at the edge of the awning beside the surrounding fence. Lydia’s mouth went dry as she watched him approach. He stopped right in front of her, his features expressionless, his glasses so dark she could see only her own reflection. A flicker started low in her belly, spreading through her veins.
He reached out to brush his fingers across her lips, a gesture that made her breath catch. Then he lifted his hand to show her the powdered sugar coating his fingertips. A smile tugged at his beautifully shaped mouth.
“Gabriel,” Lydia whispered, his name tasting both spicy and sweet in her mouth.
He glanced over his shoulder, a quick furtive movement, then nodded at her plate. “Are you finished?”
“Yes.” Lydia crammed another half a beignet into her mouth and gulped her coffee before standing. She pushed several bills at a passing waiter, grabbed her bag, and hurried out to meet Gabriel.
Part of her ached to throw herself into his arms, but the sense of foreboding surrounding him stopped her. Instead she drank in the masculine planes of his face, the thick dark eyebrows arching over the frames of his sunglasses, the crisp scent of his shaving cream.
“Hello,” she murmured.
“Hello.” He tucked his hand beneath her elbow, and the sensation of his warm fingers flooded her with heat. “Come.”
They went to a cemetery. Tombs, vaults, and headstones rose from the grass like cryptic ancient statues. A tour group passed them as they sat on a bench beneath the shade of a leafy tree. Lydia sat as close to Gabriel as she dared, imagining she could feel the warmth of his leg pressing against hers.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she confessed.
He settled his hand on her thigh. “I wasn’t certain of that either. Not until I learned that Preston had gone to your parents’ house. I’d suspected, of course, that he wouldn’t be willing to let you go, but I’d hoped that he wouldn’t be foolish enough to try and… capture you again.”
