Rapid Pulse: A Limited Edition Spicy Romance Collection

by Gina Kincade

  The players had been chosen with care. Twenty individuals had been hand-picked by Maggie or with Remy’s suggestion for their known proclivities and their ability to play within the community parameters. She wanted no surprises. Each was allowed a guest.

  By the third or fourth party, most of the guests were known too. Few of the invited were changing up partners which surprised her pleasantly. Not every party was at her home, but enough were that familiar faces were a good thing.

  She had filled the two lower floors with everything and anything she could think of. Ava’s semi-annual updates of what was new had been scoured for furniture and accessories. Whatever her guests wanted was there for their use.

  ‘Ch.Ch.Ch.Ch.Changes...’

  At thirty-one, little had changed in five years. Only a couple things she could think of if she tried. One, her quarterly parties could all but run themselves. She had completely dropped her guise only once, forgoing the added height, dark hair and eyes stripping the make-up off and allowing herself to submerge in the party. It had been well worth it, but it was not something she wanted to do often. She liked her anonymity just the way it was, a warm blanket to cocoon in away from the world where she could be just like everyone else as she walked down the street.

  Second, her dungeon in New York while still steadily busy was almost rote now. Her clientele did not change. Short of denying her faithful their bookings, she was easily full for the next five years and beyond. It was great money. She could absolutely do what her guests wanted, but there was nothing fresh. There was also little on the horizon to learn. She was consummate in every technique she chose to add to her arsenal. Her subs were more her family than strangers now, though none knew her identity still. It was everything she wanted but something elusive remained beyond her grasp.

  Lastly were the phone calls. Sometime after she’d begun hosting her Swingers parties, she’d started getting calls on her booking number, but not to book. They had been to commiserate. The voice had no known face and the subjects were many, but with each time she hung up it was the odd sense of talking to someone who ‘got’ her.

  They always talked in the morning and rarely on the weekend. He had only identified himself as Chris. Maggie had used her middle name Joy for all callers, so that was how he knew her. He was obviously familiar with her from the New York club. One, because he had her booking number, but two, because he knew if her schedule or a technique changed often before she mentioned them.

  They talked for hours upon hours over time comparing notes. She had never tried to figure out who he was, but anytime she ventured beyond her room she wondered if she was seeing him. There was an erotica in the unknown face of one she felt she was getting to know so well. He was obviously watching her closely enough to point out a pulled seam in one of her suits, but it wasn’t the skeevy stalker watching. He was critic and coach, confidant and friend.

  His viewpoint was often opposite. They had spoken of the clubs, techniques, weather, the stock market and everything in between. He was all business where she was still clinging to ideals looking for ways to make them real. They had never spoken of her parties, or her Boston club. She was willing to bet he didn’t know. She was also willing to keep it that way.

  Month after month they had spoken at least once a week if not more. Out of the blue, the calls stopped. Maggie never knew why. She never got time to self-evaluate for a source either.

  Wendy came to town shortly thereafter. The awkwardness at the lost calls was put on hold. She was in Boston because she was in New York. Clifford had resurfaced. His pretty young thing had cashed in her chips for a younger model and he wanted back in at The Rack. Things were in uproar as it was nearly time for his non-compete to expire and he had alluded to doing just that if he couldn’t buy back in. Drake was not budging, nor was the other junior partner. Wendy would be around with the other primary partners until this could be resolved. At The Rack she would not approach Maggie as it might tip off her identity to anyone who was watching, and someone was always watching. She had come to Boston to make sure Maggie knew why before she saw her in New York. That, and to find out if a party was coming up soon. Sadly, she was about two weeks too late.

  ‘With or without you...’

  The solution in New York was never disclosed to Maggie. All she knew was there was to be no change in the junior partners. Drake had been up one weekend, out partying with Remy, and had given him an earful. Maggie waited for more details but got none.

  The scene in Boston was growing. By his count, Remy had at least six new clubs in the last year alone. Their door numbers hadn’t fluctuated much over all but the busy days seemed to shift. There were a few new faces in the crowd too, ones too observant to be anything less than an owner or investor elsewhere. Several had tried to chat her up about her parties. The very quiet, but severe, Mistress Margaret declined and offered them the door if they continued to push their questions. To her thinking, her dual identities became even more important to protect. The vultures were circling.

  Nearer to the holiday season, one of the other club owners had a brain child that they should all meet and make nice. Through the years most of those in the circle were known by one another. This was likely the idea of one of the new club owners to get together. The six new that had cropped up by their count earlier in the year were down by half. The real reason for the get together would be revealed soon enough.

  Remy and Margaret had tossed the idea back and forth multiple times. It was on a Monday which was manageable, but they hedged on if they both needed to go. Remy asserted between her and his other half he’d get the scoop so she should go but he wouldn’t need to. Maggie denied the argument. If she had to go, so did he. He pulled covering for her for the quarterly parties out. Since they were on Saturdays and her normal door night and all he figured she owed him. “Dirty play Remy.”

  “Honestly Mags, if you NEEED me to go, I’ll go, but I don’t want to. Everyone I need to know I already do.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “I can say the same. So why don’t we both decline?”

  “Ugh woman! That would be rude.”

  Maggie fought not to laugh at his social concerns. “If you’re so worried about impressions, then maybe you should go so we make the right one.”

  “Evil Maggie. Evil. Just because I have social grace and you were raised on a farm...”

  “Low blow Jeremy.” She used his full name for emphasis. “I know. Why don’t we call and have Wendy go for us...or Terrance. Nothing says etiquette like calling in the big guns to show we are taking the invitation seriously. They’ll all feel so important.”

  “No way. Nothing says we can’t handle things without running to mama like that would. We’ll go, but I’m going with Grant, not you. You’re on your own sister.”

  He stuck his tongue out. She returned the gesture. “Fine. I don’t need a boy-toy sassy bitch on my arm anyway.”

  He squealed. “Bitch! I’d be the best boy-toy sassy bitch you could have on your arm. Take it back.”

  They were both fighting fits of giggles.

  “I know Remy, I know.”

  “Ugh. Make the arrangements with the staff, we’ll go.”

  ‘Take my breath away...’

  How times had changed, years she hadn’t noticed slip by stared back at her as she looked herself over in the glass one last time. Long gone was the clumsy, tongue-tied, broken girl who tripped into this life one day that seemed forever ago. As she thought back to where she had started she muttered a quiet thank you to Gweneviere Eldeiress and her magic laundry bag. You just never know what it will be that tips the scale and changes everything, or who.

  Her car was waiting at the curb and the driver stood at the handle, ready as she approached. The community was not large, but there were still elbows to rub and connections to be made, or so Remy had convinced her. Outside her red leather she was just Margaret. Few knew that she was The Red Queen from the club in New York. How she wondered what the differences wo
uld be if the other owners were to ever find out. Several of them had danced at the end of her long tail on a regular schedule for years now, obviously thinking a big club in New York was far enough away. It wasn’t.

  Anonymity had been her insulation to gain new experiences and a growing client load who wanted the same thing she did, to enjoy their proclivities out of the limelight. It was a delicate balancing act, but worth every tip-toe to remain a mystery. She had worked too hard to have everything she wanted. She would not be showing her cards, tempted though she may be to see their faces at the news.

  Glancing in her compact, the carefully neutral makeup and blonde hair belied nothing of her other identities. The blue eyes too were nothing similar to the bright emerald contacts that were worn for her clients in New York or the deep brown for her local patrons. Clothing with classic lines and clean cuts were a far cry from the red leather or the full severe matronly black that the guests of The Brass Cage were used to. She’d ditched the wig for the owners meeting as well. Only a few knew the whole truth about the lives she was living and they were all ‘double omega black classified’ sworn to take it to their graves. The price of betrayal was high. Stepping out tonight without one persona or the other was a mild risk, but still a risk.

  Walking in, the suits were talking. The ladies were more the arm candy variety than the conversation participants. Maggie turned more than one head as she crossed the threshold solo. Yes folks, Mistress Margaret had arrived. To anyone unaware, she surely was a curiosity. Good. Keep it that way. She made her way to the bar, getting her regular club soda and lime for the evening. Tonight was social. It was also business.

  As the only woman owner in the room, she was in a unique position. Those who knew her as the owner at The Brass Cage wouldn’t dare underestimate her. It was the ones who didn’t know her that would make the night interesting. There were more than a few unknown faces in the crowd.

  Introductions were made and pleasantries exchanged with a few she knew and their conversation circles. The ‘plus-ones’ moved on to other areas and common chattering when the subject turned to the clubs, dungeons and the parties she hosted. They might have wanted to hear, but the obvious brush offs were made so the ‘big boys’ could talk shop. It was not lost on Margaret that there was only one other woman in the circles of men talking. She wasn’t talking for long before she too was shuffled off. The community was not large. It was also not fully integrated. Even after so many years, Wendy’s comment to her about needing more women rang true.

  The circles merged together and broke off again into different sub groups as the evening progressed. Many of them she knew from the phone, or through Remy and Grant who had rotated out to another group. It was nice to put faces to names and voices. Maggie was quietly amused too to watch some of them stand in their suits and try to look the part of the socialite business male knowing too well their alter-egos and the things they asked for in the dark. It wasn’t that they were different from her in their duality, but at the same time, everyone has their limits and some of these ‘gentlemen’s’ were way beyond hers and she was fairly liberal with her games.

  Her composure nearly slipped near the end of the night. She didn’t have to look to know he was there. Her skin danced and flushed at the sound of his rich, vibrato baritone laughter. It couldn’t be, but it had to be. No one sounded like Chris. She felt the immediate regression back to clumsy girl as she stood rooted in place listening for anything he might say, debating if she should turn and see him or not. She was giddy, elated and terrified to blow her cover all in the same moment.

  They had traded ideas and notions, but never more than an abbreviated call name. He was Chris and she was Joy. Speaking as her other self, she never had them call her Master or Mistress until they signed on. He had never signed on.

  If Thorne had been her motivation, this man had been her inspiration. As they had talked, he was the male viewpoint of everything she saw and wanted or wanted to try, two halves of one whole. She never knew why they had stopped talking, but they had. Perhaps it was because she kept him out. She hadn’t had time to figure it out and when she had time, she’d had distractions. Perhaps it was that he wasn’t yet comfortable acting out what he thought and wanted. She couldn’t really say, it had all ended so abruptly. Whatever it was, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the one who had gotten away was back in her world, standing in the same room, somewhere over her left shoulder. What the hell do I do now?

  She gave herself a firm mental shakedown and reminded herself where she was, why she was there, and for good measure WHO she was. In this small gathering, she would be meeting this man. She could either tip her cards and blow it all, or do what she had done for so long, detach and remain the professional she was who happened to host a club in Boston, and a grand affair for those who were invited four times a year. No one here knew anything more than that she reminded herself.

  As the groups changed out again, their circles merged and she got her first look at ‘Chris’. He was not tall but not short and he was solid. Not a single doubt remained in her mind that this was the man she had talked to for endless hours, over months what seemed ages ago, but in truth really wasn’t. There was something about the way he carried himself that shouted who he was without him saying a word. His hair was dark, but shot through with silver in places making him look distinguished and worldly. It was his eyes that did the most talking. Golden hazel flecked with fire, his eyes lit and danced when he spoke and nearly melted her where she stood. She nearly said ‘Joy’ when he introduced himself as Christopher Ayrmond, managing Margaret Donald in the nick of time before the ‘juh’ sound started as he reached to shake her hand firmly.

  She tried his name on her visceral tongue...Christopher Ayrmond. It felt good. Mixed with the memories of their talks, it felt really good. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Christopher.”

  As the connection was made of palm against palm, he leaned in and nearly had to pick her up off the floor. Whispering just loudly enough for her to hear without tipping his hand, or hers, to anyone nearby he replied, “The pleasure is mine Margaret. Call me Chris and I’ll try to remember not to call you ‘Joy’.”

  Oh God.

  Her eyes flew wide and her mouth went dry. She would have taken a sip of her drink if she’d thought for a second that she would be able to do so without shaking and sloshing it everywhere. Surely the cracking of the cubes against the glass would be loud enough that everyone would be paying attention too.

  She debated if her ‘Oh God’ had been auditory or mental, hoping for the latter. “I’m sorry, I believe...”

  He pulled back to look her in the eye, keeping his tone low as he cut her off. “You heard me. And I heard you. You said it not thought it, so let’s pretend that we’ve just met and catch up elsewhere later shall we?”

  Maggie stammered. “I...”

  He shrugged it off. “Even if I hadn’t heard you, the moisture of your palm, the hitch in your breathing and the quick fire kick-up of your pulse would give you away. Breathe Margaret and calm down.”

  A bit louder he added, “Another drink?” as he led her away from the group toward the bar.

  Maggie collected her wits several steps later, stopping and turning to him. “What are you doing here? I thought this was owners, or does this mean you...Why are you here?”

  His laughter was low and rumbly just like she remembered it. His hand at the small of her back tremored with it and drove straight through to her stomach. He took a breath and exhaled through a broad smile. “I’m here for the same reason as you. I was asked to come.”

  Her exhale was more exasperation. “You know what I mean.”

  He nodded through the crowd, “Grey suit, and yellow tie in the corner, talking, I believe to your partner...” his one eye was squinted and he had half-turned as he spoke.

  Maggie resisted the urge to tap her foot, “Uh-huh...”

  “...is Dolph Reichester. Name mean anything?”

  Maggi
e thumbed through her mental rolodex coming up empty mentally tapping the foot she was forcing to actually keep still. “Nope.”

  Chris shrugged. “Fair enough. Randolph is your host tonight. He is also your competitor I have learned.”

  Maggie raised her open-palmed empty hand sharply. “Which has what to do with what? Connect the dots for me.”

  His grin broadened. “Ah yes, this is not your game is it? For all that I know of you, I’ve learned so much more tonight.”

  Her temper was rising. He was enjoying his baiting. She turned out of his hand and finished her trek to the bar asking for a single malt and a soda with lime. Her nerves were on fire and needed to be flamed out quick. He caught up signaling for a drink of his own as hers were set down.

  “Okay, okay. Dolph is an old friend of mine. He started a club up here eight or nine months ago. He’s watched the old guard remain steady and the upstarts sink one after another. He doesn’t want to be next. He invited everyone to meet hoping to have a sense of what’s what and who’s who. I’m here as his guest, nothing more.”

  Maggie had downed the shot and was sipping the soda to stop the burn in her throat. The liquid fire had refocused her attention as it was meant to do, but there would be no seconds. Holy crap that was sharp going down. She felt like she’d swallowed razor blades. She exhaled slowly before speaking on a rough whisper.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say. I haven’t talked to you in weeks. You show up, here of all places, which we will still have to talk about because, counting you, there are exactly three people in this room who know a piece of information that I don’t want to be shared with the rest. I can only presume you are here to gather information to help your friend, which, by default, makes you also my competitor now, even if you aren’t. You said you know what my games are? Then you know I don’t like surprises.”