by Adira August
"She's beautiful," Ben agreed. "Have they found her brother?"
The Syrian refugee children were scattered amongst several countries. The parents sometimes separated, taking the children in different directions in the hope at least one would survive. Papers were easily lost, children too young to give information. It made locating family members monumentally difficult.
"No," Nick said. "I have people on it."
Ben nodded. Nick was also a billionaire, if just barely, and Ben was sure he had more than a few people looking for Riham's family. Ben quietly funded a database project to identify and track all refugees across the region. Finding Riham's brother was a top priority.
Nick put the phone away. "So is it true? You have an actual girlfriend? You know, not just a woman you have sex with, but also have dinner with?"
"Somebody on my staff talks too much," Ben grumbled.
"Never thought I'd see it," Nick grinned. "You have a picture? I want to see this miracle woman."
"Google her. Avia Rivers. The Week." Ben did have a picture, of Avia asleep in his bed just before he walked out the door. But he wasn't sharing it with anyone.
"You find a woman and she's a reporter?" Nick asked, working his phone. "Man she must be really fucking …whoa. Hot!" He handed Ben his phone. "Who's the guy she's dancing with?"
Ben took the cell. Nick had found a society page shot of Avia laughing in the arms of a good-looking Hispanic man. They were dressed in evening clothes at an awards dinner. Avia was receiving the award.
He fought the flare of primal fury in his chest at the sight. It surprised him. He'd never been jealous in his life. It was last year. She wasn't a virgin. She's yours, now. He could be anyone. But he was sure the man wasn't just "anyone," the way she was looking at him and laughing so easily. Like she did with Ben.
"Just how serious is this? You look like Smaug about to vomit deathfire on Laketown." Nick said, reaching for his phone. Ben handed it back reluctantly, not answering.
But Nick wouldn't let it go. "Was she one of your Companions? Is she your sub or what?"
Ben got up and walked away, to make a drink at the other end of the cabin. The steward looked in, but Ben waved him off. He'd make his own drink.
"This is why I don't talk to you, Nick. No sense of propriety."
Nick grinned. "Propriety? Seriously?" He checked his watch. "We're stuck together here, in the air for ten more hours together, so … ?"
Ben sighed. "We are in an exclusive relationship. I'm meeting her sister when I get back."
"Oh, Dude! There's no N.D.A., is there?"
"Did you have one with Jag when you started dating?" Ben came back to his seat with the drink. He had not offered to make one for Nick. "Do you have one, now?"
"That's not the same and you know it!" He said. "Nobody knows who I am, I just design shit. You're an icon. They buy our stuff because it's your stuff. Sex toy king and ninth most eligible bachelor in America. Regular GQ cover boy."
Nick looked over his shoulder for the attendant, but he'd retreated forward. Still, he leaned over and lowered his voice.
"You have a fight with your girlfriend and the intimate details of your not-so-vanilla sex life will end up a viral sensation: 'I was the Billionaire's Sex Slave.'"
And Ben burst out laughing, long and hard, genuine laughter. He put the drink on the table between them, and grabbed his brother's head in both hands and kissed him soundly on top of his head after rubbing his chin firmly through Nick's carefully styled hair.
"Get off me!"
Ben sat back, grinning.
"Nicky, you are still the sweetest nerd boy in Fargo, North Dakota." Ben picked up his drink and paused before he took a sip, gesturing with the glass. "I'm sorry, you want one?"
Flustered, his brother fussed around, brushing his hair back into place where Ben's chin had mussed it. "Yes, I would," he told Ben, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. Ben handed Nick his own glass and went to make another.
"We sell sex toys and erotica, bro. You think a colorful, well-written description of the toys in use, my amazing prowess as a lover, a count of orgasms attained with a VibeHer or a good, satisfying spanking with Dolly's Discipline is going to hurt sales?"
"What makes you think she'll call your prowess amazing?" Nick asked. "I said it was after a fight. Pissed-off lover's aren't famed for veracity. "
"But this woman, is. Famed for veracity, that is." Ben came back with a fresh drink. "Hell, it's the best idea in years, I'm going to suggest she write it. These cyber-rags seem to love publishing anonymous stuff. Can't let Mackin have all the fun."
"What happened with her lawsuit, anyway?" Nick asked.
Irene Mackin, Ben's last and most disastrous Companion, had threatened to sue him, claiming extreme bodily harm. Ben had shown her sleazy lawyer the thumb drive with recordings of every one of Mackin's Sessions. Much of her time with Ben had been spent begging him to hit her harder with more vicious devices. But Ben didn't do hardcore S&M, and he'd terminated her Companionship contract.
Ben shrugged. "I took care of it; don't worry about it."
"Did you pay her off?" Nick asked, frowning.
Ben shook his head. "No. I'd never let anyone shake me down, you know that. Just let it go. She won't be back." He finished his drink. "I believe that particular relationship modality has run it's course, anyway."
Nick's eyebrows raised. "No more Companions?"
Ben grinned. "I can't wait for you to meet Avia." He opened a compartment under his seat. "Let's play some chess."
In the Keep
Avia slept for nine solid hours. And she might have slept for ten if she hadn't had to pee, urgently, at seven am. Groggy and disoriented, she stumbled into Ben's bathroom, raised the lid of the toilet to find a fur-covered seat.
Billionaire, she thought as she sat down. An action that brought her fully awake and lifting slightly as she peed, her bladder refusing to cooperate with any signal to interrupt the stream. Oh yeah, the spanking.
She lowered herself gingerly, sitting a little further forward than she usually did, and found the seat was padded as well as fur-covered. She wondered for a moment of he'd planned the whole thing and had this toilet seat covered in fur just for that reason. It seemed like something he'd do. She sighed when she found a semi-comfortable position and looked around.
Can you use "palatial" to describe a bathroom? It was half the size of her apartment. Natural light flooded the space from a large skylight over a giant raised tub surrounded on three sides by ferns. They have to be planters, she thought.
The tub itself was - was it sandstone? Looked like it. Then she realized the floor seemed to be sandstone, too, including under her feet. The surface was slightly warm, the color a pale rosy beige. It was just rough enough that she knew it would provide firm footing when wet.
At the other end of the room, the floor sloped down to a drain. There was a shower head (no - heads) above it and seemed to be spray nozzles embedded in the wall - it's a shower. With no doors. It was impossible to avoid imagining she and Ben in that space, under warm water, he lifting her as he stood firm, sliding her up his soapy front and down onto -
No! Enough, awreddy! She reached for the toilet paper, located quite prosaically in a standard holder in the wall next to her, and found a folded sheet of paper with her name on it stuck behind the roll. It was a hand-written missive from Ben.
You are the most beautiful, audacious, magnificent, extraordinary woman I have ever known.
She smiled. That was worth waking up for.
I didn't get to show you the place, feel free to explore. Swim if you want, no one will come above the 1st floor until after you've left. Stay as long as you wish. Consider my staff and my home your own.
She paused. That was just courtesy speaking, right?
What followed was a brief, very "C.E.O. Ben" set of instructions for contacting Eustace when she was ready to leave, the kitchen when she wanted breakfast, and Ione if she desired anyth
ing else or had questions.
He finished with:
Push the white button next to the bathroom light switch when you start your shower. When you come out, there'll be hot coffee in the kitchen dumbwaiter.
At the bottom was a six-digit number: 787478.
This is your personal code for the property. You'll need it for the elevator. Memorize and discard safely.
And use the cream in the jar on the dresser. Take it with you. This is not a request.
Ben
"Yes, Sir," she said aloud and traced his signature with her fingertip.
An hour later, after the most luxurious shower of her life and soothing her sore bottom with Ben's magic aloe vera cream, she opened the kitchen dumbwaiter to find a thermal pot of coffee, a large mug and another note.
Ms. Rivers,
Good morning. Mr. Hart said you would probably be very hungry and we're used to guests being shy about asking, so we are making waffles and omelets and lots of other good things, for ourselves, and have plenty to share. Please dial 04 to order up or come down and join us.
It's so much fun to have a guest to cook for.
the kitchen staff
The note gave her a warm feeling, though she wondered if she'd make it to the kitchen before fainting from hunger. She poured herself some coffee and loaded it with sugar and milk, to stave off the fainting. She wanted to wander a little on the way to the kitchen.
In the bedroom, she gathered the few things she'd take with her, not wanting to have to come back. As she made her way to the main hallway where she'd first come into the Keep, she thought how much she would love to spend the day here, wandering and swimming and journaling in the sun on the deck.
But she had a ton of work.
The code Ben had given her worked perfectly. She'd memorized it as instructed and ripped it carefully from the body of the note, tearing it into tiny pieces and flushing it away. The note she reread, folded up and stuck in her journal.
She sipped her coffee, as delicious as the first time she'd drunk it here. She made a mental note to ask for the brand from the kitchen staff.
You don't dare ask. You'll end up with a ten pound bag to take with you.
Avia stepped off the elevator. Ahead of her, the ceiling ended and natural light flooded the atrium. She could hear water gurgling gently and birds twittering. To her left were doors, most of them closed, and to her right the wall extended about thirty feet and opened onto some space she couldn't see.
She strode along the wall to her right to see what the space was, when a woman came out of it, making notes on a clipboard.
"Hello?" Avia said, stopping.
The woman looked up, and, spotting Avia, broke into a big smile, walking toward her and holding out her hand.
"Ms. Rivers! Good morning, I'm Ione, Mr. Hart's housekeeper," she said. Avia shook her hand briefly.
Ione was in her thirties, with bright red frizzy hair and oval steel-rimmed glasses, making her look like a slightly pudgy Little Orphan Annie. Her smile was bright but not ingratiating, and her gaze pierced Avia through her lenses. This woman was no fool. Avia wondered how long Ione had been waiting to "accidentally" run into her when she stepped off the elevator.
"Are you here to escort me to the kitchen?" Avia asked, releasing Ione's hand.
Ione's smile didn't falter, but something flickered in her eyes. One Alpha female acknowledging another.
"I am," Ione admitted. "But I'm really just here to serve you in any way you need. And please feel free to roam, I'm sure the scent of Alma's apple strudel will be all the guidance you need."
She seemed sincere. "If you don't mind, I'm much too hungry to spend time roaming, right now. Especially if there's apple strudel," Avia said.
The "moat" gurgled along to their left and turned right when they did, cutting the corner of the house and disappearing under the eastern wall. The turn brought them into an open space that seemed to be a kind of indoor patio.
The trees along the stream, ended at the wall, and comfortable deck appropriate furniture dotted the space in conversation groups and glass-topped round tables with comfortable chairs. Twenty-foot high windows allowed the bright morning light to flood the area, all the way back under the second floor overhang. She thought it was the perfect place for a party.
"You don't call this the Great Hall, by any chance, do you?" Avia asked her escort, the name denoting a long room of considerable size in a castle that accommodated large gatherings of people for various purposes. Everything from great banquets to legal proceedings might be held there. Or simply dinner if the castle were entertaining a sizable contingent of visitors.
"Yes. Mr. Hart told you that?" It was more statement than question.
"No," Avia said, purposely not explaining that her father was a medieval history professor.
Even now, several of the tables were occupied by people having breakfast. The scent of cooking was stronger as the two women kept to the wall beneath the overhang, which had doors intermittently spaced along it. One was open and Avia glimpsed what looked like a library. There was a baby grand piano.
"If this were a classic Great Hall, the kitchens would be straight ahead," Avia observed.
"So they are," Ione said. "Would you like to take it on your own from here?"
"Yes, thanks so much for your help." Avia hesitated, waiting for Ione to leave her. Something made her want to mark territory, even though she had none here and this was clearly Ione's bailiwick.
Yet, Avia had a note in her bag that gave the staff and house to her for the duration of her stay.
Ione seemed unsure what to do for a moment, then smiled and said, "Of course." She started to walk away. Avia stopped her.
"Oh, Ione!" The housekeeper turned back.
"Yes, Ms. Rivers?"
"I should mention, I won't be going back upstairs, so, whatever anyone usually does up there, feel free to do it."
"Thank you. And please call for me if you need anything else." Ione took one step back before she turned and walked along the wall to disappear through one of the doors.
I can't believe you did that.
Didn't want to be mistaken for a booty call.
Next time, just pee on her.
She rolled her eyes at herself, but gently, because she was satisfied with the encounter. Avia planned to be back. Often. It wasn't too early to establish her place in the pecking order. She hurried away toward the enticing scent of cooking apples and browning butter pastry.
The Kitchen
Breakfast was delightful. With the legendary Berthe on a day off, the kitchen's second-in-command, Alma Walters was in charge. She was warm and welcoming, the stereotype of a farm kitchen cook, a vigorous woman in her fifties, with round pinks cheeks. Her hands were strong and her arms muscular from kneading bread dough in twenty pound lots. They had a machine to do it, but according to Alma, "It can't tell when to stop."
Alma held court at twenty feet of butcher block island, around which staff members stood chatting, eating and working. They passed platters of waffles and ham, pitchers of syrup, poured coffee for one another and cut themselves "just one more" piece of apple strudel from several large slabs of the delicately browned pastry placed at intervals along the counter.
Avia eschewed the proffered chair at an oak table near a window, and took her place amongst them. No one seemed to be surprised and she was grateful for the excuse not to sit down.
Others wandered in and out from the Hall, including Eustace, in a denim jacket and pressed jeans over cowboy boots. He nodded to Avia, who halted a fork conveying a bite of cheese and herb omelet to her mouth to tell him she'd meet him at the Barbican later.
"More coffee, Hank?" one of the assistant cooks asked, holding up a thermal pot. He shook his head and moved to Avia's side to speak quietly to her amidst the talk and laughter.
"Mr. Hart instructed me to take you from the front door to the Barbican parking lot," he said.
"Hank?" Avia asked. Close up, she
realized he was tall, taller than Ben, even, by an inch or so, his blond hair cut military short. A tight knit shirt stretched over well-defined muscles. She caught a peek of the edge of a black leather strap around one shoulder and realized he was armed.
Avia'd dealt with dangerous men before, and she didn't drop her gaze. She wanted to set a few more boundaries.
"Henry Eustace," he said.
"Thank you," she said. "What would you prefer I call you?"
"Eustace is fine," he said. "Or whatever you like." His gaze was direct, neither deferential nor challenging.
"You were planning on meeting me with one of those golf cart things?"
"Moto. I was," he replied.
"Eustace, you work for Mr. Hart and I can't stop you from following me all over the property if that's what you need to do to fulfill your duty," she said. "However, I'm going to take a bit of a stroll after breakfast, see a little of the grounds, and make my way to the Barbican on foot. Then you can drive me to the Coloradan."
He nodded. "I'll keep you in sight and try to stay out of your way."
"Shall I text you when I'm leaving?" She offered him her phone to add his number. He did.
"I'll be staffing you this month at the hotel, too," he said.
"You're 'staffing' me? I don't understand," she said.
He handed back the phone. "It just means I'll be there for anything you need. I have quarters on the parking level."
"But I'll have my car. And I'm going to walk to the courthouse, anyway," she protested. "You can't just hang around for a month in case I want you to go fetch me a chocolate malt. You'll be incredibly bored."
He shrugged. "I keep busy. I'll wait for your text."
And he left. Without waiting for a dismissal. So, not a servant. She raised the fork, considering. Her omelet was cold, but she hardly noticed. You don't waste a highly-trained armed guard on a fetch and carry babysitting assignment. Something was up.
