Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author's Note...
Prologue
Part 1 - One Fine, Spring Day
One
Two
Part 2 - Le-Nore
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Part 3 - Junior Daze
Ten
Eleven
Part 4 - A Very Personal Assistant
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Part 5 - No More Promises
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Part 6 - When Fates Collide
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Part 7 - Playing Dirty
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Part 8 - The Prodigal Mind
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
The Chronicles of
Staffordshire
Guardian Girl
N.C. Simmons
The Chronicles of Staffordshire
Guardian Girl
By N.C. Simmons
“This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.”
Text Copyright © 2013
N.C. Simmons
www.ncsimmons.com | Twitter @ncsimmonsauthor
Cover Art © 2013
Emily Salazar
www.emilysalazar.com | Twitter @Blueyedrican
The cover art model was verified to be 18 years of age or older at the time the photograph was taken. All necessary releases and documentation of age are on file with the owner of the copyright.
Published by N.C. Simmons
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Without limiting rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
DEDICATION
To the “Three Jamigos…”
I don’t know why you put up with my mania.
I love you all…
So much more than life itself.
To Emily…
Your beauty is far beyond skin deep.
Your openness inspires me to take new risks.
You completed Staffordshire.
Author’s Note…
Dear Reader,
If you hate spoilers, just skip this little introduction. I promise I won’t spoil too much, but I want you to read the four books of “The Chronicles of Staffordshire” with your eyes wide open.
“Staffordshire” is not just erotica. It is also not just breathless romance. It is something altogether different. “Staffordshire” is a lifetime love story spanning more than thirty years. There are four, full-length novels in the series, full of all the events that happen in a typical love story. Like any love story, things can also get very, very steamy on occasion. If you are looking for straight-up erotica, where every page involves mysterious, dangerous, kinky, BDSM sex with a stranger, you will be disappointed.
When it comes to sex, I write about what I know. I don’t shout my sexual preference from the rooftops, but I am a bi-sexual woman. I have been monogamously married to the same, amazingly understanding man for more than 20 years. That choice has not been without its struggles, for either of us. My struggles play out in the fantasy world of “Staffordshire.”
With that said, if you are looking for an equal opportunity LGBT author, you might want to look somewhere else. If a man is not a man’s man, loaded with testosterone and ready to wrestle a bear for his woman, then you will not find him in my books.
BDSM is an ever-present undertone throughout the Staffordshire series. If dungeon play makes you squeamish, you might want to turn back now. At Staffordshire, the dungeon play goes askew on occasion.
On the other hand, if you are looking for a textbook treatment of BDSM you will be disappointed. Although I studied under a real Mistress to prepare for these books, I also chose to create a fantasy world that goes outside the bounds of “real” BDSM. Most of the BDSM scenes came straight from activities I witnessed first hand. Some did not. Your mileage may vary.
If the thought of a child knocking on the bedroom door just as you are screaming, “YES! YES! YES!” gives you a good laugh, then Staffordshire is for you. I raised three beautiful, well-adjusted girls and great sex with hubby didn’t stop just ‘cause I had little ones in the house. But my little sweeties always seemed to knock at the worst times!
Although there is a lot of sex in my books, none of it involves under-aged characters. All sexual liaisons occur between consenting adults aged 18 and older.
And if you read all of those warnings and still decide to read my books, my hope is that you will experience some delightful times of self (and other!) love along the journey.
(Have your Magic Wand ready, ladies…)
Thus endeth the spoilers.
Warmest hugs and kisses!
N.C. Simmons
Prologue
May 1976
“I FOUND HER! ELENA! MARIA! I FOUND HER!”
Fashion designer Raquel Shalamar sprinted room to room in her Madrid studio, waving an international business magazine in her left hand. A photo of what appeared to be a tall, trim, late-teen girl wearing a form-fitting riding outfit flip-flopped in her fist.
The 5’7” goddess in the picture stood in ready-to-ride stance, calf-length black riding boots over snug, tan and cream jodhpurs, with a springy, black riding crop arced between her hands. The girl’s megawatt smile streamed from the page. Thick, shimmering, raven hair was pulled into a pony tail, hanging seductively over her right shoulder and draping across her breast.
The diminutive diva stood at the top of the third floor landing and shouted for her apprentices. “ELENA! MARIA! I FOUND HER!”
Shalamar stared again at the image. The girl’s face was a seductive blend of oval and heart shaped, with large, hypnotic, amber-brown eyes. Unfortunate souls who dared gaze upon the girl instantly found themselves captivated by her rare beauty. Her lips were broad and full and they glistened under the artificial lighting of the photo. Her skin… Her smooth, richly tanned skin…
“ELENA! MARIA! Where are you two? Who is this girl? FIND ME THIS GIRL! I must have her! She is our next ‘face of Shalamar’! Get her for me! I must have her now! ELENA! MARIA!”
Hearing Raquel’s shouts on the first floor of the studio, the young designer’s assistants scrambled up the stairs, arriving at her side breathless and panting.
“Raquel…!” Maria wheezed. “What are you shouting about? All of Madrid has heard you!”
>
“Her! I am looking at her!” Shalamar exclaimed, pointing at the girl’s image. “Look at her! Look at her face! Look at her figure! My God! Look at this girl’s beauty! This is the one! SHE is the girl I have been searching for! SHE is the new face of Shalamar! Get her for me!”
The designer threw the magazine into the shorter girl’s face. Elena snagged it as it fell, quickly thumbing through the pages until she found the photo. In the middle of a lengthy article about Spanish entrepreneur Armand De La Fuente, his international shipping empire, and his $250million personal fortune, the magazine added a sidebar about the mogul’s multi-talented daughter, Lenore.
In an instant, Elena fell to the girl in riding regalia. By impulse she smiled back at the joyful face beaming from the full-color page.
With Maria hovering over her shoulder, Elena read the caption aloud. “14-year-old Lenore De La Fuente poses with her award-winning horses at the De La Fuente family stables…”
Maria blinked slowly, muttering, “Dear God…”
The two assistants turned to each other, slack-jawed. They pointed back and forth nervously, neither one wishing to irritate the boss with unfortunate news.
“Well? Which one of you fools will get me this girl?”
Elena stepped backward and pushed Maria to the fore.
“ELENA! Stop shoving me!”
“Well, Maria? Are you going to get me this girl?”
“Raquel…” Maria stammered. “This… This may be difficult… She is… My God, Raquel… She is only 14 years old! She is too young!”
“I… do… not… CARE! She is the one! I want this girl!”
“But Raquel…”
The designer grabbed both girls by their biceps and shouted in their faces. “I do not care how you do it, I do not care how much it costs! Get me this girl! Get her now! GO! DO IT! I do not want to see either of your miserable faces until you get me this girl!”
Shalamar tossed her assistants backward like rag dolls. She spun and sped away, stopped abruptly, and turned back to face the pair. Lifting her right hand, Raquel pointed her index finger back and forth between the traumatized sycophants.
“And I tell you this… Whoever gets me this girl first will receive a sizable bonus and a promotion.”
Just as quickly, Raquel spun away, leaving Elena and Maria reeling. The pair stared at each other dumbstruck until a single phrase registered in their rattling brains.
“SIZABLE BONUS AND PROMOTION?!”
The duo disappeared, running to phone books to track down the number for Armand De La Fuente and his hypnotic daughter.
After dinner one evening, Armand and Lenore sat quietly together in Armand’s 4000 volume library, as they often did before retiring for the night. For a soothing ambiance, Lenore selected Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9 in E Minor.
From the floor to the twelve-foot-high ceiling, the room was filled with rare, first edition books and original art. The father/daughter duo adored the classics, often sitting together in silence for hours, filling their minds with fantasies and fictions of far away lands. Lenore grew to fancy the thick, musky aroma of the leather-bound volumes lining the walls of Armand’s study. The simple act of entering the room and experiencing its heady, earthy scent was enough to set her overactive mind wandering.
Armand sat at his hand-carved desk reading a Spanish translation of “Treasure Island.” Lenore curled up in a large, well-worn, brown leather reading chair in the far corner, next to the bookshelves. She remained in her riding clothes after a countryside race with Alessandra (which Lenore won, of course), breezing through an English translation of “1984.”
The phone at Armand’s desk rang. He glanced at his watch.
“8 o’clock? Who would dare call at such an ungodly hour?”
Armand lifted the receiver. Lenore continued reading, engrossed with her book.
“Hello… Who is this?”
“Señor De La Fuente?”
“Yes… This is he. Who are you and how did you get this number?”
“Señor De La Fuente, my name is Elena Machado. I work for a fashion designer named Raquel Shalamar here in Madrid. I obtained your number from a friend of a friend.”
Armand fumed. “Well, your friend of a friend has done you a grave disservice. This is my private line and I do not appreciate being disturbed at home. Now, if you will call my office tomorrow…”
“Señor! I do not wish to offend you, but this matter is of the utmost importance. It involves your daughter.”
Forever protective of his beloved only child, Armand’s suspicion peaked. “My daughter? What about my daughter? What is this about?”
On the other side of the room, Lenore’s perfect hearing detected a single word. “Daughter.” Her head snapped to attention. She tilted it to the side and peered at her father.
“Señor, my supervisor, Raquel Shalamar, is an internationally famous designer. You can see her work in all the major fashion magazines and she has won multiple awards these past several years. Raquel saw your daughter’s photograph in a recent magazine article, and… Señor… Raquel believes your daughter is a goddess, sent down from heaven to bless this world with her beauty. Raquel believes your daughter could be a star in the world of fashion.”
Armand rolled his eyes, groaning at the word, “goddess.”
“Señorita Shalamar wants you to consider something, sir, on behalf of Lenore. She believes that once you hear her offer, you will let her speak to Lenore regarding becoming Shalamar’s featured model.”
Armand glanced across the room at Lenore. Their eyes met. She smiled broadly. The call was about her!
“Dear God… It is already too late. I will lose her. Yet… Lenore is indeed so beautiful. And so gifted. And so wise. She may be ready for something like this.”
The curious teen noticed a hint of concern on Armand’s face as he looked in her direction. Daddy De La Fuente averted his eyes, swiveling away from Lenore, speaking in a whisper.
“I hear what you say. I agree my daughter is a gift sent down from heaven. I also do not believe she is old enough for such activities.”
The 14-year-old’s perfect hearing picked up the statement. “Old enough for what, Papa?”
Glancing over his shoulder, Armand attempted a deflection. “Nothing, mi linda. Why don’t you take your book and go relax in the garden while I finish this call?”
Lenore placed her bookmark and prowled toward her father’s desk, a teenage girl hot on the scent of adventure. Armand hesitated. His conniving daughter offered a “melt daddy’s heart” smile.
“And for precisely what do you believe I am too young, Papa?”
Armand sighed. Even the most powerful men had their fatal weaknesses. Armand De La Fuente’s Achilles heels went by the names Alessandra and Lenore. “Some designer wants you to model her fashions.”
Lenore electrified. “Someone wants me to be a fashion model? That is amazing! Who? Who is it, Papa?”
“I don’t know. I have never heard of her. ‘Shalamar’ is her name.”
“SHALAMAR! Is that the truth? Really?” Lenore leapt and spun, gushing with joy. “Raquel Shalamar? Raquel Shalamar of Madrid? Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Armand sighed. “I am quite certain. Her name is Raquel Shalamar. Of Madrid. I am on the phone with her assistant. Someone gave them our home number. When I find out who gave out this number….”
“YES! YES Papa, tell her YES! Shalamar is a famous designer! TELL HER YES!” Lenore bounced up and down, giddy and glowing.
“But Lenore… You are far too young for something like this.”
A pronounced pout assailed Armand’s eyes. “Papa! I am not too young! I am 14! I am almost a woman!” Lenore twirled and did an exaggerated catwalk to the door of the study. She turned, giggled, and ran back to her father. Launching her long-legged body into Armand’s lap, Lenore wrapped her arms around his neck and gushed into his free ear.
“Pleeeeeze, Papa! Please! This is the opportunity of a li
fetime!”
Armand returned to the assistant on the other end of the call. “Excuse me, señorita. Please give me a moment to confer with my daughter. I will place you on hold.”
Armand placed the receiver in the cradle, freeing his arms to embrace his precocious protégé. Smiling with hopeless love, Armand brushed a few loose hairs behind her right ear. “Lenore… This is not a game. Yes, it is a flattering request. It is also very dangerous. Something like this is not a small commitment. It could mean extensive travel, with private tutors, chaperones, and hard work. This kind of work also means leaving behind many friends. You will miss many opportunities at school. And if you do this, you must work even harder to prepare for your future. Who knows how long something like this will last? It could be over in a few months if another fresh face comes along and the public tires of you! You will also not be a model forever, Lenore. If you do this I will insist that you prepare for a future career. You must prepare for college and study for a career with long term prospects.”
“But Papa… Please!” Lenore kissed Armand on the cheek, hammering another crack into his granite façade. “Pleeeeeze! I promise you! I will maintain perfect grades! I will prepare for college! I will prepare for another career! I will make you and mother proud! I will make Spain proud! I promise!”
Armand gently pushed Lenore back and understood what Shalamar saw in the photo. Lenore’s years registered barely 14, but her body proudly proclaimed 18. He could not deny the truth. Generations of captivating Spanish beauty overflowed from his daughter’s still-developing body.
Armand kissed Lenore on the cheek and sighed as she half-pouted, half-smiled.
“Please, Papa… Please…”
The multi-millionaire pushover lifted the receiver and offered his reply. “Señorita Machado… If her mother consents… IF Alessandra consents… Then I will consent. If Alessandra says yes then I alone will dictate the terms of Lenore’s care. She will work for you on my terms and my terms only, do we understand each other?”