Unrestrained: Book 3 of the Unrestrained Series

by Lund, S. E.

  "Are you an art student here?"

  I inhaled. "Not yet, but I'd like to take a class. I haven’t registered because I'm too late, but Nial," I said and then thought better of it. "Mr. Mbuno said I might be able to take one of the open studio classes."

  "I hope so," he said and I thought there was a hint of something suggestive in the tone of his voice. "Most of the students in the studio classes are older, housewives, seniors. It will be nice to have someone younger."

  "You teach here?"

  "Yes," he said but before he could introduce himself, he pointed to my collar. "That's a lovely necklace you're wearing. Is it symbolic? Chokers aren't really very fashionable these days. They're mostly from the Victorian era. Or the 60s."

  "It was a gift and it is symbolic."

  He nodded, waiting for me to explain. "Symbolic of?"

  "It's private."

  "Ahh," he said and smiled. "From a lover, then."

  I nodded without speaking, not trusting my voice.

  "Hmm," he said, raising his eyebrows. "A symbolic choker around your neck. From a lover… Are you a submissive?"

  I stared at him for a moment, not knowing what to say, my cheeks heating. "A what?" I said finally.

  "Never mind," he said, almost under his breath. "It's very lovely. Suits you. Long chestnut brown hair parted in the middle, green eyes and a black choker. Very retro. Very sixties, free love, the Age of Aquarius and all that."

  I fingered the choker, wondering why he'd suggest I was a submissive only because I wore a choker. Sure, they weren't in fashion, but still… Then, it struck me. I wore this choker to the dungeon.

  A shock went through me. The last thing I wanted was to meet someone from the dungeon, especially around Claire. I decided to try to divert him with a different explanation.

  "The diamond is a teardrop. It's in memory of my dead mother."

  He raised his eyebrows at that. "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "You sound American," he said, tilting his head.

  "I'm here from Manhattan. With my fiancé, who gave this to me," I added, hoping he wouldn’t get any ideas.

  "Hmm," he said and smiled, his eyes half-hooded. "Your fiancé, you say? I guess that means I'll have to stay away. Message received, loud and clear although it's a shame. I think you and I have a lot in common. Is he here?" the man said, glancing around.

  I shook my head. "No, he's at the hospital on call tonight."

  "A doctor, then?"

  "Yes," I said, not wanting to give more information away than I had to.

  "Glad for you. Pity for me. I don’t suppose you have an open relationship?"

  I turned to him, my face hot. "No," I said adamantly. "We don't. We're monogamous and committed."

  He made a face of surprise and stepped back, holding his hands up as if in surrender.

  "Can't blame a man for wondering."

  "It's very rude of you to ask such a forward question before you even know me."

  "Sorry if you took offense, but that's the kind of man I am. Forward. Honest. You know us dominant men," he said and wagged his eyebrows. "When we see what we like, we usually do everything we can to get it."

  "I'm not available," I managed, my heart racing at his comment about being a 'dominant' man.

  Then he bowed his head slightly and moved on, his hands behind his back. He left without asking my name and I was glad, for if he had been at the dungeon, I wanted nothing to do with him. I wore a mask, but my choker was so unique that if you saw it once, you'd remember it.

  If he was a teacher at the Institute, I had no interest in taking a class from him. He was far too blatant about the idea of being with me and mentioning submission – to a complete stranger! Then I wondered if Drake had taken me into one of the public rooms after all. What if this man had seen me blindfolded, restrained and having sex with Drake?

  A chill went through me. I stole a look at him over the rim of my drink. He was very well-built, dressed in a pair of dark gray slacks and a black turtleneck, which made his white-blond hair stand out.

  "I see you met Sefton," Claire said, sidling up to me, raising her eyebrows.

  "Sefton?" I watched him speaking to a small group of people near the table with canapés. "You know him?"

  "He's only one of the most famous artists in residence the Institute has ever had. South African, from a very powerful Afrikaner family, owned a lot of land under Apartheid." She pointed to the picture I'd been examining. "That's one of his."

  I turned back to see the name of the artist whose work I was admiring when Sefton spoke to me.

  S. deVilliers.

  Sefton deVilliers?

  "He's the artist in residence at the college this year?"

  "Oh, yes," Claire said. "The college has been very lucky to get him. His work has been an embarrassment to his family, who pretty much renounced him because of his politics."

  "Are his pictures about South Africa? I thought they were about Nairobi."

  "No," Claire said, taking a sip of her wine. "Soweto. The black township outside Johannesburg. His family disowned him after he married an African woman. An activist he met while scouting out subjects for his artwork."

  I nodded and thought about his pictures. They couldn’t be seen as anything but political in content, the intent to criticize life in modern South Africa.

  "He's from the deVilliers family," Claire said, making a face of wonder. "Very powerful in the former government of South Africa before the end of Apartheid. A more distant relative of a politician, but not the immediate family."

  "How do you know him?"

  "I don't, but I know of him." She smiled. "My family moved to England during the riots, long before Mandela was released. I know South Africa. I love art. So I knew of Sefton and was part of the committee to invite him to be our artist in residence."

  "You said his wife?" I asked, thinking of what he'd said to me about staying away because I was engaged.

  "He's a widower. His wife died a few years back of breast cancer."

  I turned and saw him standing in the far corner, speaking to a woman wearing a colorful dress.

  "He's remained steadfastly single ever since," Claire said, continuing her description of my would-be suitor. "Despite having hordes of young female fans, I may add. Some of his work has been used for CD covers for African musicians and so he's quite famous in local music circles. He's very good looking, in case you didn’t notice."

  "You think so? "

  "He is." Claire smiled suggestively, and I smiled back, but her expression bothered me. I wasn't in the market and although I noticed handsome men, my mind didn't go any farther.

  A few moments later, while I was standing examining another work, Sefton joined me once more. I turned to him, and looked him in the eye.

  "You're awfully cheeky to pretend those paintings weren't yours."

  He shrugged, a guilty smile on his lips. "It's the only way I get an honest response to my work. If people know who I am, it's all praise and ohhh, and ahhh. I hope you don't mind too much, but I was pleased to get your very thoughtful insights. A lot of people don't get it."

  I shook my head. "Claire told me you're from South Africa."

  "Johannesburg, born and raised. Lived there all my life."

  We stood in silence for a moment. I felt awkward, not wanting to speak with him, but not wanting to appear rude or make a scene.

  Finally, he changed the subject.

  "Claire says you spent time in the relief camps in Niger and wrote about it for your honors thesis."

  "Claire's been gossiping about me, has she?"

  "Only on my insistence. I like to know about potential…" he said and paused, as if searching for the right word. "Students. Helps me understand their needs."

  "Yes, I was there for a while," I said, reading a double meaning into everything he said. "Mangaize."

  He nodded his head but said nothing else.

  "I'm teaching an open studio class at the Inst
itute. You're welcome to join. There's always room for one more easel, especially for someone as lovely as you."

  I was flattered but still felt uncomfortable that he might have been at the dungeon the other night and saw me there. I was certainly not going to take his class. He was far too suggestive. It wasn't that I felt attracted to him, for my every thought and sense was focused on Drake, but I didn't want Sefton's attention. I felt certain he would always be flirty, trying to get what he wanted.

  "Thanks for the offer. If there's nothing else, I'll consider it."

  "Ahh," he said. "If there's nothing else available?" He shook his head softly. "I'm used to being first choice. I'm crushed, Ms. McDermott." With that, he bowed, a sly smile on his face and left me standing alone.

  Claire came back to my side immediately. "So, will you take a class with Sefton? I spoke to him about your interest in taking a studio course. Did he offer you a spot?"

  "He did," I said, but shrugged. "I'll think about it."

  "You should say yes," she said, her voice surprised. "Goodness, Kate, he's the best. He's the college's artist in residence. It's a privilege to be in one of his studio classes."

  "He's," I said and looked over at him. "He's a bit too flirty."

  "So?" she said, her arms crossed. "You're engaged. You're not dead. Really, Kate, most art students would be thrilled to be invited to take part in his class."

  I inhaled deeply, debating whether I should. Drake would never approve if he knew that Sefton might have been at the dungeon and knew he'd been flirting with me.

  "I'll think about it," I said, but it was only to get her to stop pestering me about it.

  "Kate, take my advice, offered in all sincerity," she said, taking a sip from her wine glass. "Keep busy. Keep so busy you barely notice that Drake is gone so much of the time. And he will be gone so much of the time."

  "I have a lot to do getting the house set up."

  "That grows old really quickly. Take the class. Keep yourself as busy as Drake is. That way, you'll appreciate him even more when you two are together. If he thinks you're busy as well, he'll feel lucky to have time with you." She took my arm and leaned closer as we walked around the room.

  "Being married to a surgeon, especially one as highly specialized as Drake and Michael, means long hours alone," she said as we stopped in front of a painting. "Build your own life and do it right away or you'll grow very sad and lonely very quickly while you're here. Believe me, I learned from experience."

  I knew Claire was right. But I would never take Sefton's class. Maybe he could be completely professional but I wasn't sure I wanted to take the risk and have it go sour, have him thinking it meant anything.

  I watched him as he circled the room, speaking with small groups of faculty and students. Everyone seemed drawn to him, eager to speak with him. His works of art were impressive and I felt I could learn from him but the fact he might have been at the dungeon and knew I was a submissive… There would be no way to keep a professional tone in our relationship.

  Why couldn't men take women seriously? Why did they have to immediately think of getting into our panties? I wasn't some empty-headed coed looking to party. I was serious. I had talent I wanted to develop and an artistic voice I wanted to hone. I didn't want some gorgeous man flirting with me all the time. I had one at home who did much more than flirt.

  I didn't need any man's attention but Drake's.

  About half an hour later, after I'd met a couple of other faculty members and a few students, Claire came back and took my arm.

  "Hungry for something more substantive? Nial and a few of his students are planning to go to Splendid for a meal. A favorite with expats. We've been invited."

  Despite the canapés I'd eaten, I was hungry for something meaty.

  "Sure," I said, wishing I were back home with Drake. I liked Claire, but she had this way… A bit bossy, a bit cheeky. She was very friendly and knowledgeable but was a real social butterfly like the society ladies I'd met through my father's charities in Manhattan. But she was Michael's wife and Drake seemed to love Michael like an uncle. I wanted us to get along.

  We made our way to the door and while Claire spoke with Nial, Sefton came over to me. He extended his hand to me.

  "Glad to meet you, Kate," he said, all business and proper now that we weren't alone. "I hope you find a class to take, but if you don't, I'd be only too happy to have you in my studio course."

  I didn’t want to shake his hand, but I also didn't want to insult him in front of the others so I offered my hand simply to be polite. He took my hand in both of his and shook.

  Nial came over and smiled. "So, I see you two have met. Sefton has a studio class you could take."

  "I've already tried to tempt her into taking my course."

  "That's wonderful, Sefton." Nial turned to me, his eyebrows raised. "Sefton's offering an open studio class for students who have more experience than our usual first year students and experience painting."

  I nodded, pulling my hand from Sefton's.

  "Are you coming to Splendid with the rest of us?" Nial asked.

  I turned to Claire. She was smiling. "Yes, we're leaving now."

  "Good," Sefton said and turned away. He motioned to a few other people who I assumed were joining us. "Let's go. I've made a reservation."

  We left, and I was not happy that Sefton was coming to dinner. If I had known he was, I would have turned down the invitation but it was too late now. I'd be spending the meal hoping Sefton wasn't going to give me too much attention, but with other people there, I expected he'd be the center of attention.

  I hoped.

  We drove in separate cars to a small restaurant with a decidedly European feel to it. I grabbed my cell from the charger and followed Claire into the restaurant. As we exited the car, a couple of people from the exhibition joined us and one of them, a female faculty member from Egypt, began speaking to me about the restaurant. I didn't have time to check my mail or messages for fear of appearing impolite.

  "Splendid is popular with European ex-pats and has food you'd find in London or Paris, so I come here a lot," she said as we discussed the décor.

  Splendid was like any restaurant I'd find back home, with white tablecloths, candles on the tables, rich mahogany floors and crystal chandeliers. A room in the rear of the restaurant with a long table was reserved for us and we arrived first. We took seats in the back of the table against the wall and waited for the rest of the party to arrive. One by one, the faculty from the Institute arrived and took places around us, and I was glad I wouldn't have to sit next to Sefton. When he arrived with two other young men, he sat directly across from me, but I was determined that he would not intimidate me.

  We spent the first half hour reading the menu, getting our drinks and talking about the local news reports about recent violence in the city. Sefton studiously ignored me, as he was fielding questions from others present about his recent work with a local Nairobi band, doing artwork for their new CD. He was intent on meeting my eye although he didn't engage me in conversation, and that was fine by me. He seemed pretty full of himself, speaking animatedly about his work, his studio class, and his experiences.

  Our food was French, with small portions of very artistic and flavorful meats and vegetables, paired with a glass of wine. It was delicious.

  Finally, about an hour in, after my second glass of wine, not counting the one back at the Institute, I went to the washroom.

  On my way out, I met Sefton, who was also leaving the men's room. He stopped in front of me.

  "Your … fiancé wasn't able to join you tonight?" he said, his hands in his pockets, a grin on his face.

  "He's got a trauma case and will be working late."

  "Pity," Sefton said. "A doctor's work hours are horrible, or so I've heard. It must be hard, having an absent partner. I'd expect it gets pretty lonely. If you were mine, I wouldn't let you out of my sight."

  I frowned at that. "He does important work. I
have my own life. Besides, he makes up for it," I said and pushed past him. "If you'll excuse me."

  I left him standing by the door to the washrooms. He had a lot of nerve.

  Once back at the table, I exhaled and took a sip of my water, deciding to avoid my wine. Sefton returned and sat back down across from me. I hoped he'd ignore me, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked directly at me, his chin resting on his hands.

  "So, Ms. McDermott from Manhattan. Tell us all why you're here in Nairobi, of all places? I heard that your father was a Justice on the Supreme Court of New York."

  I turned to him, and noted a cold look in his eye, as if he was trying hard to appear professional. I spoke briefly about my father and how I'd come to Kenya with my fiancé, a neurosurgeon at the Aga Khan University Hospital who worked with Claire's husband.

  "We'll all be very curious to see your work," Sefton said. "So we know where you fit in at our little college. What kind of work do you do?"

  All eyes turned to me. The only images I had on my iPhone were those I took of the nudes of Drake lying on the bed in the Manhattan apartment. I pulled out my cell and saw that there were four text messages from Drake. I had turned off my ringer earlier in the evening and forgot to turn it back on.

  "Excuse me for a moment."

  I checked Drake's texts.

  I'll be home a bit earlier than we first thought, because our patient has stabilized. I hope you're waiting for me, all hot and bothered, Ms. Bennet. I want to take advantage of every spare moment we have because the way Michael works, it's only going to get busier…

  The text was an hour earlier. The next text was fifteen minutes later.

  I'm on my way back to the hotel. I hope you get this and are waiting for me, eager as I am. Text me when you get this.

  The last text was from half an hour ago.

  Where are you? Did you and Claire go out? I called Michael but he's not answering. I'm at the hotel waiting…

  The last text was from only minutes earlier.

  Kate, where are you?