Chambers of Desire: Opus 1

by Sophie Moreau

  Fine by me. I thought, and signed.

  Oliver took the contract and placed it in an official-looking folder before locking it in his desk. “All right, Ms. Clarke, let’s begin. What kind of relationship do you have with your family?”

  I snorted, mostly to myself, “Well… right now… it’s a bit tense.” “Elaborate.” He returned to his note-taking, apparently glad to be on track.

  “My parents are very—,” I sniffed, trying to find the appropriate word, “—disappointed with my choice to participate in the auction.” If he wanted honest, he’d get honest.

  ”Both of them?”

  ”My father is pretty angry. My mother… I don’t know if she’s angry at me, but she always takes my father’s side. I doubt she’d be happy about it even if he wasn’t in the picture, though.”

  “Understood. Now tell me…what turns you on?” The tone of his voice hadn’t changed, and I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

  “Say what?” I asked. I’d heard him, but…

  He lifted his icy eyes to mine. “What turns you on? Sexually.”

  I felt the blood begin its return to my face. “I guess I don’t really know yet,” I said, with a nervous laugh. “I mean… the auction… I haven’t…”

  Oliver sighed again. “Ms. Clarke, surely you have had some sexual thoughts in the past?”

  He held my gaze for a moment, tapping his pen on the desk.

  “Let’s try that again. I will attempt to be more specific for you, Ms. Clarke. What did you fantasize about the last time you had an orgasm?”

  I blushed. Hurry up and answer, Sabrina.

  “What my first time would be like. What kind of man it’d be with.”

  “What type of man was he?” He kept writing, not bothering to look up.

  I had never shared these details with anyone, not even Chloe. I’d known girls that loved to tell each other all sorts of crazy fantasies… sex dreams… joking and squealing. I wasn’t one of them and even if I was Du Cheval seemed like the last person I’d share this type of information with,

  “Well,” I said, remembering the dark, broad-shouldered man I’d imagined in the bath. “His hair was dark brown, chestnut-colored, and he had full lips. Assertive, he took charge—knew what made me feel good.” A tingling zipped through my stomach as I remembered his eyes gazing into mine.

  Were these the answers Mr. Chambers wanted? I hadn’t the slightest clue. He asked for honesty, I reminded myself again.

  “What are you studying at SMU?” Just like that, he shifted gears again calmly.

  “I’m a dance major. My parents aren’t really happy about that either. They’d prefer something more practical.”

  “You don’t find value in a practical major?”

  His condescending tone made me bristle.

  “No, no… it’s not that,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “It’s that I think it is practical to pursue one’s passion. It’s a different sort of practicality, but it’s just as important. You know, to be happy, to be fulfilled…” I bit my lip. Oliver didn’t seem like the sort to revel in happiness much. This probably sounded like grade-A nonsense to him.

  “Plans for after graduation?”

  ”Well… graduation is now in jeopardy since my father is not paying for me to continue to go to school so I might be in trouble unless this deal comes through. But a career as a professional dancer would be ideal… If that doesn’t work out, I’ll be very happy teaching dance instead of performing though.”

  Oliver stopped writing and leaned back in his chair, moving his notes to the side for a moment. “What exactly do you know about Mr. Chambers, so far, Ms. Clarke?”

  “Only that he’s a key figure on Wall Street. He’s in his early thirties, but a billionaire. There wasn’t much information on his personal life out there. And you can call me Sabrina.”

  “Mr. Chambers is a private man, Sabrina. You’ll learn that quickly. He prefers it that way. He studies people, observes their behaviors, mannerisms, how they behave when they think no one’s watching. He doesn’t tolerate mediocrity or incompetence. Not from his employees, not from his colleagues, and not from any of his… associates.” Oliver’s smile, though cool, was not unkind.

  “Well,” I said, slowly. “I suppose we’ll soon find out if I’m up to his standard, won’t we?”

  “What did you think of the artwork in the foyer, Ms. Clarke?” He seemed to have a real knack for unpredictable transitions.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I answered sincerely. “I thought it was fascinating. Strange, but fascinating.”

  “Did it excite you?”

  I paused, thinking of that woman’s neck in a leash, the chill of forbidden fantasy that had scorched my thoughts.

  “Sexually, Ms. Clarke,” he repeated, as if I hadn’t understood the question. “Did the artwork excite you sexually?”

  Again, the blood began to pump through my heart at an alarming rate. “A little,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Well, the women looked… they were enjoying themselves. It was… “ I searched for the word. “It was a sensual scene. But unusual. It made me wonder…” I trailed off. “Wonder what?” This man left nothing unsaid.

  “It made me wonder what it was like to enjoy that… what they were…” I took a deep breath. “It made me curious about pain, about pain being sexy.” Is that enough info for you, Oliver?

  He nodded , as if in answer to my unspoken question. “Do you typically associate pain with pleasure?”

  I thought of the long hours in the dance studio, feet aching, bleeding, but the warm feeling of pure satisfaction coursing through my veins. I knew it existed, but sexually, it hadn’t occurred to me. “Not sexually… I can imagine how it’s possible, but it hasn’t been something I fantasized… I haven’t thought of it while masturbating,” I replied, determined to be as thorough and honest as possible. Don’t avoid answering the questions, he’d said. Fine.

  “Tell me, Ms. Clarke, what are your greatest assets?” The way he emphasized assets made me blush, and I felt color rush into my face.

  “Well,” I began, racking my brain for an answer that wouldn’t make me sound entirely naïve, “I’m loyal. And I work hard at everything I do. My friends say—”

  “I think I’ve heard all I need to, Ms. Clarke.”

  That was it? It was over? I was sure I had come off as an inexperienced child, a bit on the slow side, exasperating.

  “I’ll walk you out. If Mr. Chambers is pleased, I’ll be in touch shortly.”

  I nodded numbly; sure I’d never hear from him again. When we reached the front of the building, he shook my hand again, skin cool against mine.

  “Thank you, Mr. Du Cheval,” I said quietly, hoping for a sign—anything—to indicate even a fraction of warmth, cordiality, but there was none. His blue eyes remained impassive, and I wondered if he interviewed all of Mr. Chamber’s… love interests? And I wondered how many he casually dismissed.

  ***

  When I got back to my hotel room, I groaned, leaning against the solid wood door. Well, there went that. Why couldn’t I have seemed more poised and elegant? Oliver hated me; that had been clear enough. I could picture him and Mr. Chambers over lunch.

  “So, how was she?” he’d repeat, with a graceful shrug. “Mediocre, really.” Chambers would nod, and they’d order another martini, or whatever men like that drank at lunch.

  Now what? Would I have to head back to Dallas? On to the next highest bidder if that was even an option? That process was so humiliating that as much as I wanted it to be a declaration of my freedom and independence, I couldn’t help but wonder if I made a terrible mistake. I felt exhausted, empty, and alone. Dropping my purse on the floor, I sank to my knees.

  From the bedside table, the phone began to ring, and I wondered whether it was the front desk asking me to check out. That was fast, I thought, bitterly.

  “This is Sabrina,” I answered, wary.


  “Ms. Clarke, it’s Oliver Du Cheval,” I recognized the precise diction immediately.

  “Mr. Chambers will be sending a car at 9:00 AM for your second interview.”

  A sigh of relief rushed from my lungs. “Great,” I stammered. Suddenly I remembered what Oliver had said during the interview. Had that interview been recorded?

  “I’ll be ready,” I replied. This time I’ll do my ironing the night before, I thought to myself.

  Chapter 3

  His house was less surprising than his office, I decided, as I stepped out of the Mercedes the next morning—at least from the outside. It was gargantuan, yes, sprawled on a lush, rolling estate about forty minutes northeast of Manhattan, but it struck me as traditional, with tall white pillars and a long brick driveway leading to a wraparound porch. Initially, when the car picked me up at my hotel, I assumed we were headed back to his office, sure that the second interview would be much like the first. The driver said nothing, but as we began our drive, I realized we were headed out of, not in to the city.

  I started to wonder where we were headed but gave up soon enough, realizing that it’d only make me crazy. I had enough to think about without stressing about where I’d be at the end of this car ride.

  I’d slept soundly the night before, exhausted by the rigorous drilling, courtesy of Mr. Oliver Du Cheval. After hanging up the phone, I’d crawled immediately into bed, falling asleep fully clothed for the second day in a row. I woke about 4:00 p.m. famished, and as soon as I finished an overpriced room-service salad, fell immediately back into a dreamless slumber.

  My eyes popped open at 6:00 this morning, a nervous energy buzzing through my body. Today, I realized, I would finally meet the Calvin Chambers.

  I was already waiting in the lobby when the Mercedes pulled up, driven by the same chauffeur with a cap pulled low, almost covering his eyes. My feeble attempts at small talk were fruitless, and I leaned against the cool, camel-colored leather. Almost an hour later, we pulled through a wrought-iron gate and into the Chambers estate.

  The car slowed to a stop in front of a brick staircase leading to the front door. I stepped out of the car into a sun-filled day. After three unanswered rings of the doorbell, I pushed the door open and let myself into the empty foyer, heart pounding.

  To my right, a long winding marble staircase led to a second story. In the center of the large room, beneath an elegant crystal chandelier, was an enormous freestanding fish tank. It had to be well over a thousand gallons, filled with colorful, eye-catching fish. I approached the tank cautiously, drawn to the bright hues and flurry of movement within the waters.

  I looked carefully to see whether I recognized any species in the tank. My dad had a fish tank in his office that I had spent many hours gazing into, wistfully wishing I were somewhere—anywhere—else. But these fish differed from the tetras and goldfish that populated the law firm; I was no expert but those fish looked dangerous.

  A lionfish lurked in the background searching for its own prey with predatory grace. A theme seemed to emerge in Mr. Chambers’ décor; I wondered whether he’d had a designer or whether these were carefully requested pieces. I had a strong feeling it was the latter, based on the article I’d seen on the plane.

  A piercing bark reverberated through the empty room, and I stumbled from the tank, sending a spasm of panic into my heart. I looked around frantically for the source, praying to find a leashed animal, rather than a ready-to-pounce guard dog. No such luck. Perched on the bottom marble stair sat a large pit bull, ears flattened against its skull, eyes narrowed, zooming in on its prey—me.

  Virgin mauled to death in vicious pit bull attack, the story would read. He looked as if he wanted to make a snack out of my face, snout snarled into a hungry grimace. Growling threateningly, he bared his teeth, slick with spittle, ready to lunge.

  I’m done for, I realized, squeezing my eyes shut.

  “Princess!” My eyes flew open. The sharp reprimand sent the dog’s tail between its legs, a whimper replacing its ominous growls. Princess? More like Cujo.

  “Down, girl!” The voice grew louder, more threatening, as it neared, and both the dog and I snapped our necks to watch Calvin Chambers begin to descend the marble staircase. Mollified, the pit bull relaxed, uncurling her snarled lip, covering her razor teeth.

  ”Ah, Sabrina. Please do relax. Nervousness tends to excite her.”

  Relax? Um, easier said than done. My eyes jumped between Calvin and the dog that had yet to back down fully. I looked longingly at the front door.

  He wouldn’t let his dog rip me to shreds, would he? At least not before I fulfilled my end of the auction. I let out a slow breath, willing myself to show the dog I wouldn’t be intimidated.

  “Lay down.” he said sharply, pointing behind me, his eyes locked on mine. For a moment, I thought he meant me. But of course it was Princess who trotted away obediently.

  “I almost thought…” I began.

  “She’s a very good girl,” he said, winking at me. “Well, she’s very good for me. She doesn’t trust too many people, but then again neither do I.” He laughed. “For trespassers, she’s rather dangerous.”

  That intimate wink made my heart pound. Oookay. The man has charm. I wondered how much more adrenaline I could handle; between attack dogs and Calvin Chambers, I felt like a heart attack was incoming.

  I glanced at Princess. She gazed back impassively from the large, silky-looking cushion by the door. Silky looking? More like silk, with the sort of money he has, I thought to myself. She was laying down, all right, but she wasn’t napping.

  The dog growled, very quietly.

  “Protective, isn’t she?” Chambers said. “But I’m sure she’ll come around.”

  Somehow I doubted Princess was going to learn to love another girl in her territory, but I kept the thought to myself.

  “But where are my manners!” he said. He crossed the room in two strides, taking one of my hands in both of his. “I’m Calvin. Welcome to the estate, Sabrina.” His voice was low and rich, wrapping around me like a silken coil, drawing me in and squeezing gently.

  I felt tiny as his large hand swallowed mine, firm and strong. You wouldn’t have known from the picture in the magazine, but he was well over six feet, probably closer to six-three. As our fingers touched, I felt a slight tingle of anticipation flicker through my nervous system, igniting my muscles into a slow smolder.

  The handshake was longer than I expected—four, maybe five seconds—and his eyes drank me in, never leaving my face. I had been right; his eyes were an unnerving shade of blue, but deep like a dark, starless night or the cold depth of the ocean. He didn’t glance aside or down, granting me a polite break in contact, but stared raptly at me. I struggled not to blink or look away uncomfortably, feeling the small hairs along my arm begin to rise.

  In the photo, he had been clean-shaven, but today, his face was shadowed by stubble—two, maybe three days worth. His skin was flawless, unblemished by wind or sun—so smooth you wanted to reach out and run your hand against it. A perfect whiteness gleamed behind his parted lips, bright against the deep pink of his pout.

  “I’m Sabrina,” I said, licking my dry lips. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Chambers.” He raised one of his eyebrows slightly, nodding, every small facial expression laced with a subtle omnipotence, as if he knew what I was going to say before it slipped from my lips.

  “Calvin, please.”

  I expected him to offer me a tour of the house or at least comment on his impressive entrance, a “What do you think of the fish?” or “Did you have a chance to say hello to the piranhas?” but he was quiet, eyes lingering on my face, as if he were making a decision.

  “Follow me,” he said, finally, shattering the silence, turning and motioning to accompany him down the far corridor.

  My heart threatened to leap from my throat as I walked behind him, trailing him by a few steps. We wound through the maze-like halls, footsteps echoing loudly. I felt as if we w
ere in a castle in Southern France, rather than a few miles outside New York. Were we going to his bedroom? I wondered whether we’d spend any more time talking or whether he’d simply pull back his covers and have me undress while he waited between the sheets.

  It occurred to me that I had no idea what to do—what if I were horrible, a huge disappointment? Those bedroom eyes guaranteed he was skillful behind closed doors. Thud, thud, thud. My heartbeat matched my footsteps, loud and ominous. Calvin stopped suddenly in front of a large oak door. From his pocket, he pulled out a large key ring, like the one I had seen Mr. Du Cheval produce yesterday. Unlocking the door, he stepped aside, allowing me to enter first. What’s with the keys? I thought again, certain that the secrets behind the doors of his house were far more perilous than those in his office.

  To my surprise, we didn’t enter a bedroom, but a large office. The room was light and airy, big paned windows lining the far side of the room, displaying an expansive green garden outside. Bookshelves lined the remaining walls, and an antique desk sat in the right corner. An oversized leather armchair faced a matching sofa, both a warm coffee color.

  I stood in the middle of the room surveying the space. Should I sit in the chair? On the couch? Was this where I’d finally experience the entrance into womanhood? It wasn’t very private, I decided. What if there were gardeners working in the yard? They’d be able to see right in!

  “Take a seat on the couch,” Calvin said, deciding for me. He closed the door behind him, and I heard the bolt click into place, locking us in.

  I obeyed, sitting carefully against the arm of the sofa, feeling the warm leather beneath me. My eyes remained in my lap, wondering if he’d join me, the heat of his body filling the space next to me.

  “Sabrina,” he said, demanding the same attention I’d given him in the lobby. I looked up and saw him already seated across from me in the armchair, right ankle resting on his left thigh, hands folded in front of him.