by Eva Charles
I turn on the radio, and before I know it, I’m at the rental car lot.
After dropping the keys into the after-hours depository, I walk over to the coffee shop across from the station, where I wait for the bus that will take me back to Charleston.
I sip a Dr. Pepper in a booth at the back of the shop, where I can watch the street for any sign of trouble. By now, Gray knows I’m not meeting him.
Did he follow me here? It’s possible. After all, he found me at the archbishop’s summer home outside Charleston. How could that be?
As I board the bus thirty minutes later, I glance over my shoulder, taking one last look around the deserted road. Not for the authorities, but for the man who already overpowered me once tonight without breaking a sweat.
3
Delilah
The alarm blares, startling me from a deep sleep. I set it every night, but I’m always awake before it goes off. Not today. Hopefully it’s not an omen of things to come. It’s been awhile since I’ve had an uneventful day, and I can sure use one.
Once the alarm is silenced, I scroll through the messages, half-expecting to find a threatening one from Gray, but there’s nothing.
A small pang of regret shifts inside my chest. It’s short-lived, but annoying. I should be focused on the damning photo he has of me with the archbishop—not that the holy bastard didn’t get everything he deserved. But instead, here I am, hoping the hot guy texted while I was asleep, like I’m some stupid high school girl crushing on the bad boy. The one draped in fire engine-red flags that nobody with a lick of common sense would go anywhere near.
But Gray Wilder messes with my head in a way that no one has ever managed to do. Not even Kyle, and he was an expert at messing with my head.
It’s precisely why he’s so dangerous.
After brushing my teeth, I throw on running clothes, and head to the Battery section of Charleston while most of the city is still asleep. Rain or shine, I never miss a morning run. No matter how much upheaval there’s been in my life, it’s been the one constant. A comforting ritual that rarely disappoints. My version of afternoon tea.
I give my mind a wide berth while running, let it wander freely until the thoughts venture into forbidden territory. When that happens, I push my body harder and harder, allowing the pain to reel me back into the moment and ground me. The way Kyle’s belt did.
The Battery is a far cry from the dirt-poor corner of Mississippi where my mama raised me. Never knew my daddy. There were times when I wasn’t sure Mama knew him either—or at least knew who had actually planted the seed.
Mama had one ambition in life that she never strayed from: to be a wealthy man’s queen. Despite her gorgeous veneer, it never worked out for her, of course, because rich men marry rich women, or women who bring something more than beauty to the table. Beauty is a depreciating asset. Nobody understands that better than a powerful man who regularly dips his dick into a pretty face.
My looks might have made me prom queen and a Magnolia Princess. Imagine that. But unlike Mama, my dreams have never included marrying a rich man.
As I round the corner onto Water Street, I nearly collide with the junior senator from South Carolina. He stops, continuing to jog in place. “You all right, miss?”
I nod. “Thank you.” He’s on his way before I have the chance to ask if he’s all right. Even in skimpy shorts, with a thick sweat covering his red face, I recognize him. He’s a regular at Wildflower, Gray Wilder’s social club.
While there’s plenty of socializing at Wildflower, the most interesting socializing happens deep in the bowels of the club, in rooms with names like the Dungeon, the Stable, and the Sultan’s Palace.
When I came to Charleston to work for Smith Sinclair, Gray’s father was running for president. Smith is in charge of security for the Wilders and their businesses. He stationed me undercover, as a hostess, at the club. Even shrouded in the kind of secrecy money and power can buy, Wildflower was an obvious liability for a presidential candidate. Smith expected trouble and he didn’t trust Gray to see it coming.
No one knew I worked for Smith. Not even Gray. To him, I was just the accommodating hostess, happy to help out wherever needed.
That’s when the attraction between us blossomed. It started out innocent, as these things often do, but there was an undeniable pull from the beginning. Gray looked for excuses to have me work longer hours, and I looked for every excuse to be there too.
Although I was never allowed downstairs, I was privy to all the comings and goings at the club. I didn’t need to see Gray in action to know he was an experienced Dominant. His demeanor, the subtle shift in tone, broadcasts that vibe to anyone familiar with the lifestyle.
On the surface, Gray is a charming playboy. That’s what he wants people to believe. Although most everyone he’s rubbed elbows with knows he’s not to be crossed. That becomes abundantly clear the very second someone gets too close to the line he’s drawn carefully in the sand. It’s all fun and games—until it isn’t. And even in the best of times, all the fun and all the games are controlled by him.
Gray doesn’t use a big stick to grab control—not normally. There’s no need. His employees and the club members are more than happy to hand over their power to him. In exchange, he makes sure all their needs are met.
He pulls off the ruse with a winsome smile that rarely reaches his eyes, and an innate understanding of the human condition. I’ve watched him draw out even the most reticent, enticing them to do whatever he requires in the moment. They don’t see it coming until it’s too late. Most people are so captivated by his bank account and good looks that they never see it at all. But I saw it.
I recognized his thirst for control right away. It beckoned, pulling me toward him like he was the center of gravity and I would be forever adrift without him. The attraction was potent, and late at night after the club closed, when we were alone in the office, sipping expensive whiskey, it became a demonic temptation.
On those nights, I wanted nothing more than to hand him control over me. And there were many times, when he tracked me with the dark gaze of a predator, that I was sure he wanted it too.
But I was there to do a job, not to play sexy games. It didn’t matter how much I wanted or needed those games. And it didn’t matter how much he wanted or needed them either.
We fought the attraction. Gray with any number of beautiful women who sailed in and out of his aura, and by training submissives. The part of his job, I once overheard him say, that he enjoyed most.
I resisted too. I threw myself into the work, put miles on my running shoes, and reached for a sleek vibrator when I craved release. I never strayed from my mission, and kept far, far away from the powerful men who frequented the club. That would have been my mother’s game. But I believe queens are most powerful when they ascend the throne by their own devices, not when they stand on a man’s shoulders to reach the vaunted seat. Besides, there was only one king who interested me.
Then the kiss happened. It changed everything. There was no going back after that. For either of us. I have only myself to blame.
Gray Wilder is many things, not all of them honorable, but he isn’t the kind of man who would touch an employee—and he didn’t—until I touched first.
When I didn’t have anywhere to go on Christmas Eve, he invited me to Sweetgrass, his brother JD’s home. The starry night, coupled with the free-flowing booze, made us both stupid. When the pull became too much to resist, when I couldn’t deny myself any longer, I kissed him. And he kissed me back. It was everything my mind had conjured, and so much more.
Although I might have acted first, from the moment my lips grazed his, he had complete control. Looking back, I often wonder if the kiss was actually my idea or something he orchestrated.
I went directly to Smith the day after Christmas. The day after Gray thoroughly fucked me—body, mind, and soul. There was no heart in anything he did—in anything I let him do. It was safer that way.
&nb
sp; While I didn’t share the sordid details with Smith, I confessed my attraction to Gray was getting in the way of the job. Smith knows the pitfalls in this line of work too well, and didn’t bother to tell me to suck it up. He moved me from the club immediately.
That’s when Gray learned that Mae, the accommodating hostess, the woman who begged shamelessly for his cock, was Delilah Mae Porter, outed CIA agent who testified before Congress wearing a disguise, so she could go on to live some semblance of a normal life. He didn’t take the news well.
The contents of my desk and locker were left at the curb, and I wasn’t permitted back into the club to explain. Gray never spoke to me after he learned I was a plant. It was for the best, I assured myself then, but the attraction never waned. Not for me.
Now I satisfy my longing with a sneak peek at him from across the room when he isn’t looking, or with the heat that filters through me when I feel the sear of his gaze on my skin.
But the man who cornered me last night—I’d never seen that side of him before. And I’m not sure what his game is, but I’m not playing. I can’t afford it.
4
Delilah
When I get to the office, I pour myself a coffee and glance at the top news of the day for anything that might impact our ongoing cases.
That’s when I see it.
Archbishop Darden’s death is front and center. Although it’s jarring, I expected nothing less. But there’s something else. A plea from the local authorities for help in identifying a photo of me. The image is grainy and distorted, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s a man or a woman hovering over the archbishop.
That sonofabitch. How could he compromise me that way? How?
Before I lose it completely, I shut the office door quietly, so as not to alarm anyone, and call Gray’s cell phone. My blood pressure climbs while I wait for the call to connect. It goes straight to voicemail. There are so many things I want to shriek into the phone, but I hang up without leaving a message and call Wildflower.
Gray’s assistant answers on the second ring.
“Hello, Miss Fox, this is Delilah Porter.”
“How are you, dear?”
“Very well, thank you.” The last thing I want to do is chitchat, but the road to Gray is through Miss Fox, or Foxy, as she’s better known. While she comes off as a nice middle-aged lady, she’s as sly and mean as any mama fox when it comes to protecting him. “How have you been, ma’am?” I inquire with all the politeness I can muster.
After she tells me all about her son’s family in California, she’s ready to get down to business. It’s a good thing too, because my patience with Girl Scout cookies and T-ball practice is limited on the best of days, but at this moment, it takes everything I have not to reach through the phone and shake her. “I’m sure you didn’t call to get an update on my grandchildren. What can I do for you, Delilah?”
I unclench my teeth and take a deep breath. “I need to speak to Mr. Wilder, please. I believe he’s expecting my call.”
“Let me see if he’s free to talk.” She puts me on hold and when the annoying music begins to play, I want to scream. The longer it plays, the louder I want to scream.
When the acoustic torture finally stops, Foxy is back on the line. “Delilah, I’m sorry. Mr. Wilder isn’t available right now.”
What an asshole. I break the point off the pencil clenched in my fist. “Did he say when he’d be available?”
“I’m afraid not. Why don’t I take your number? I’m sure he’ll call you when he’s free.”
Really? Because I’m sure he’s free right now, probably sitting back with his feet up on his desk, laughing at me. But there’s not a damn thing I can do, so I give her my number and wish her a good day.
I glance at the image of the dead archbishop on the screen. Fuck. What now? Smith’s parents are visiting, and he’s got his hands full with Kate. Besides, I can’t share this with him. Once he knows, he’ll be implicated in the cover-up, or worse. I can’t have that. There’s no other choice but to wait for Gray to contact me.
What if he doesn’t? He will. He wants something. Patience, Delilah. Patience.
I study the image carefully. It’s been heavily edited. There’s no way to identify me from what they have now.
But what if it can be enhanced? What then?
I won’t survive prison.
Thanks to that scum Congressman Marino, my personal life was broadcast all over cable news. After I refused to be his plaything, he retaliated, outing me as a covert agent and ruining my career. The worst part of the entire episode was being dragged before committees by congressmen and senators who wanted to pick a political fight with the other party.
Under oath, there was nothing I could do but answer their probing questions truthfully, some of which were designed to tease out the most salacious details of my sex life—the one I’d shared with Kyle. At the end of each day, staffers leaked the most tawdry bits and pieces to the press. One side made it seem like the congressman had a right to expect that I’d play kinky games with him, and the other side made it seem as though he was a miscreant because he wanted a filthy whore like me.
Somehow the fact that he was a traitor got lost in the scandal. Little by little, they tore at my soul, and I was alone to pick up the shreds when they were done.
I take another peek at the screen.
Prison isn’t a walk in the park for anyone, but it would be a special kind of hell for me. I was a covert agent. A spy. In some quarters, that’s a notch or two below a snitch. Sure, they’ll promise to protect me, but I know all about that kind of protection. Men’s prisons are unsafe, but women’s prisons are far, far worse.
My stomach turns somersaults just thinking about it. Every guard will feel as though it’s their right to dominate me, to beat and rape me on a whim. The prisoners too.
I’m prepared to die before I allow that to be my fate. But it’s too soon to think about swallowing the barrel of a gun. Gray laid down a threat. He doesn’t want me in prison. Not yet, anyway.
I need to marshal my resources and create a plan while I wait for him to show his hand. I’m not running. It’s not in my nature, and besides, I have family here. They’re not blood kin, but I wouldn’t love them any more if we shared DNA.
Why would Gray do this? What could possibly make him behave this vindictively? Is this his way of exacting revenge because I spied on him and reported back to Smith? No. It’s something else. It has to be. But what?
5
Delilah
After spending the rest of the day hunting through Gray Wilder’s personal information—the files Sinclair Industries has access to—I go home and splash some bourbon over a big ice cube.
When the glass is empty, I head for the shower, leaving a trail of clothing in my wake. I’ll pick it up later or tomorrow. It’s one of the benefits of living alone.
I take my time under the spray, letting the sweet combination of hot water and whiskey work out the knots. When I’m done, I slather some fancy lotion over my damp skin. The lotion was a birthday present from Gabby, my best friend and Gray’s sister-in-law, who uses every opportunity to spoil me.
When I inhale the rich scent, it reminds me to count my blessings. Even if Gray is hell-bent on destroying my life, I’m loved, and not alone in this world. Not like last time.
After hanging the towel, I crack the bathroom door to let the steam escape. That’s when something catches my eye. By something, I mean Gray Wilder sprawled in the chair a few feet from my bed, with the clothing I shed earlier folded neatly on the corner of the mattress.
It takes several long seconds for my brain to process the handsome intruder lounging in the rocking chair, one leg crossed over the other, an ankle resting on a knee, nimble fingers tapping a denim-clad thigh. The soft, faded fabric conceals the smooth muscle. But it’s there. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt the power of those legs, run my hands over the thick cords, clenched them tightly while his cock was in my throat.
&
nbsp; I blink away the memory when Gray whistles, long and low. “Delilah,” he murmurs. “How can such a beautiful woman be such a slob?”
My arms fly to shield my girlie parts. “Fuck you,” I hiss, but the bravado quickly evaporates when I realize how silly and vulnerable I must look with my hands, fig leaves, covering my breasts and pussy like a nymph in a Renaissance painting.
Screw him. This is my house. I ignore the prickle of gooseflesh and drop my arms to the side, before marching into the bedroom, my bedroom, to grab a robe from the closet.
His eyes rove shamelessly while I slip the thin robe over my shoulders and belt it snugly. “How could you have sent that image to the authorities? I hurt your little boy feelings because I didn’t show up at the hotel, so you throw a fucking grenade.” I unleash all the negative energy that’s been building all day. Apparently, it didn’t drain away with the soapy water. “Why are you doing this to me? And who are you to be breaking into my house and stalking me without—without me knowing? I mean—who are you, really?”
Gray cocks his head and takes a good long look at me. When his eyes linger on my breasts, I feel a flush bloom, as though the robe wrapped around me is made of saran, allowing him to see everything.
“I’m the man who requested your presence last night,” he says, his hard gaze finding mine. “The one who was crystal-clear about the consequences if you didn’t obey. Smith might allow you to do whatever the hell you want, but I won’t put up with it.”
He gets up and strides over, our eyes still engaged in a knife fight, and splays his hand on my throat. When I attempt to pull away, he applies some pressure, drawing me to him with my back against his front. “I have time for a little breath play. Would you like that?”
