“This is none of your business,” Teryl said stiffly.
When she would have moved past her, D.J. moved swiftly, blocking her way. “Something’s going on here, Teryl, something weird. You’re the most reliable, most responsible, most normal person I’ve ever known. You just don’t do this sort of thing. You don’t behave recklessly. You don’t take chances. You don’t have kinky, sleazy, dangerous affairs.” Then, abruptly, understanding dawned. “It’s the sex, isn’t it? You like what he does to you, only you’re ashamed to admit it. Oh, hell, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, girl. You’re hardly the first woman to discover that she gets off on something different. But, honey, if it’s deviance you want, I know plenty of guys, safe guys, guys you can trust, who will do whatever you ask. Say the word, and I’ll call one of them right now. Just get rid of this guy, Teryl.”
“I appreciate your concern, but there’s no reason for it. I know enough about John for now, and eventually I’ll learn the rest.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe there isn’t any reason to worry. Maybe he is just a perfectly normal guy. But my point is you don’t know. A man like this is fine for having fun with, but you have to balance fun with safety. There are a few rules to these games you’re playing, Teryl, and you don’t know them.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Teryl leaned back against the counter and smiled tautly. “I’m sure with your vast experience, you do, so kindly enlighten me. What are these rules?”
D.J. ignored the sarcasm that thinly veiled Teryl’s words. “You don’t have sex without a condom. You don’t let him make you do anything you’re really uncomfortable with. You don’t play with a man who might lose control and forget that it’s just a game. And you don’t bring him into your home. You don’t let him get that close. You don’t mix him with the everyday-normal part of your life.”
For a long time Teryl simply looked at her. When she finally responded, it was in a murmur, soft and thoughtful. “You do have some vast experience, don’t you?”
This time it was D.J. who offered no response. While sex had long been one of her favorite topics of conversation with Teryl, there had been much that went unsaid, including virtually all of her experiments with the darker, more daring—less normal?—aspects of sex. She had always feared such confidences would destroy their friendship, that Teryl would begin thinking of her as sick, perverted, or pathetic… which, of course, she was. As with everything else in her life, she went too far in her search for sexual gratification. The sorts of little games Teryl was learning from John… those were fine, normal, even acceptable. But when it became a way of life, as it had for D.J., when it passed from a natural curiosity to a relentless hunger, when it became a need, an obsession, it stopped being normal. It lost its acceptance. It became a great shame.
Unexpectedly, Teryl smiled the sweet, warm, friendly smile D.J. was accustomed to. “I do appreciate your concern, D.J.,” she repeated, “but it’s not necessary. You’re being overprotective, and you’re making assumptions that are wrong. I know this relationship is a little out of character for me, but trust me. I can handle it. I can handle John.”
D.J. gave her a long, measuring look before replying. “I hope you’re right, Teryl. I hope to God you’re right.”
Chapter Ten
From his position on the patio, John watched through barely open eyes as D.J. crossed the paving stones that led from the house to the driveway. She didn’t spare him a glance, but he knew she was aware of him. Debra Jane Howell never failed to notice a man.
Growing up with D.J. for a best friend couldn’t have been easy for Teryl, he thought. Everything about the woman radiated sexuality, from the throaty bedroom voice to the dark, coppery red hair to the impressively long, riotous curls. From the clingy black dress that hugged her stomach and skimmed over her hips to end high on the thigh to the concealing men’s shirt worn over it, left unbuttoned, the tails tied at her waist, the cuffs folded back a time or two. From the husky laugh to the loose-hipped walk to the pouting mouth. There wasn’t a man alive, he suspected, whose first thought upon seeing D.J. didn’t have something to do with sex, and there probably wasn’t a woman alive, with the exception of Teryl, whose first thought in the same situation wasn’t drop dead.
He wondered if Teryl had noticed that he’d taken an immediate dislike to her friend. D.J. was sly and manipulative. She was suspicious of him. She believed he was having an affair with her best friend, and yet she hadn’t toned down the seductive signals even in front of Teryl. She thought he’d caused those bruises around Teryl’s wrists while seeking a sick sort of pleasure, and she had found pleasure of her own in the idea.
Teryl had missed that brief exchange at the table. She had been nervously rubbing her hands together, and she hadn’t seen her friend’s gaze settle on them, hadn’t seen the recognition in D.J.’s eyes. She hadn’t seen the damnably smug, taunting little smile D.J. had given him, one twisted soul acknowledging another. Even now, remembering the smile and the sordid way it had made him feel, John’s face grew hot, and the muscles in his jaw tightened.
He had long ago learned that there were no sexual limits between two consenting adults—nothing too kinky, nothing too shameful. If D.J. got off on having sex while she was tied up, helpless, and completely dependent on her partner, fine. It wasn’t a desire he would want to indulge often, but he had to admit there was a certain appeal to it. The vulnerability. The openness. The sense of power. The trust. Damned if he hadn’t gotten an erection quickly enough the first night he’d tied Teryl to the bed… and the second… and the third—although he preferred to think the erections were due more to physical proximity and too many months without regular sex than the kinkiness.
But Teryl didn’t get off on being restrained; it scared the shit out of her. She hadn’t given her consent for what he’d done, and, his own lust aside, it hadn’t been sexual in nature. It had been damned shameful.
And D.J. had found it amusing.
After she’d driven out of sight, he rose from the chair and went inside, as much to escape unwanted thoughts of D.J. as to find Teryl. Had she heeded his warning when he’d bent over her at the table? Had she satisfied her friend’s curiosity without further rousing her suspicions? Had she said anything at all to give him away?
The kitchen was empty, as were the living and dining rooms. As he neared the top of the stairs, his steps slowed; he reached the top and simply stopped. Yesterday afternoon, when he had delivered the suitcases upstairs, he had left Teryl’s in the hall before carrying his own down and around the corner to the guest room. He had gotten only a glimpse of her room, a fleeting image of soft shapes and softer colors. Each time he had come by since then, the door had been closed, clearly marking it off-limits.
This morning, though, Teryl had left the door open and she was standing at the dressing table against the opposite wall. He stopped in the doorway, unwilling to enter without an invitation but able to see everything from there.
The clutter that was absent in the other rooms was present here. Every available space was filled. Perfume bottles lined the length of the dresser. Belts and scarves spilled out of the wicker baskets where they were stored. Haphazard stacks of CDs flanked the small stereo and miniature speakers on one nightstand. Pantyhose in various shades of tan, cream, and black were draped across the back of a slatted wood chair, while discarded clothing obscured the seat. Purses hung in twos and threes from every knob, and shoes, ranging from hiking boots with ridged soles to comfortably worn loafers to delicately strapped heels, were scattered around the room.
Shoving his hands into his back pockets, he resisted the urge to bring a little order to the room. Straightening up and putting things away were second nature to him. His tendency toward tidiness was the only natural talent his parents had ever observed in him. Tom had been brilliant, Janie had been gifted, and John had been a neat child—such a son to be proud of, he thought mockingly. Still, even now he routinely put things where they belonged.
He didn’t make messes. He liked things orderly.
Even cluttered, though, Teryl’s room was appealing. The walls were painted pale salmon, and the rugs on the terracotta floor were a medium shade of the same color. The curtains of the front windows and the French doors were pale and sheer, and the bedcoverings were a pastel print with an occasional slash of vibrant color. The furniture—bed, dresser, night tables, dressing table and chairs—was old but of good quality, and the bed looked damned comfortable… and just the right size to keep Teryl close.
She was sorting through a jewelry case at the lace-covered table. She had already put a couple of bracelets, big, wide bangles, on her right wrist. Now she was adding an assortment of smaller bracelets to the watch she wore on her left wrist.
She was trying to cover her bruises.
Feeling sick with guilt, he must have made some noise, because abruptly she looked at him. Her expression was somber and shadowed with shame. She gave up trying to fasten the last chain and, dangling it by its clasp, she moved a few steps toward him. “Would you… ?”
He met her halfway and took the bracelet. Though his fingers felt stiff and awkward, he managed to fasten it around her wrist with no more contact than his fingertips brushing lightly against her skin. Finished, he slid his hands once more into the confining safety of his hip pockets. “What did she say?”
She didn’t deny that D.J. had had some opinion to voice, didn’t feign ignorance for an instant. “She thinks we’re into rough sex and bondage.”
“You didn’t have to let her believe it.”
“And what was I supposed to tell her instead? What would you rather have her think, John? That you’ve tapped into some kinky part of me that no one ever dreamed existed? Or that you kidnapped me? That you held me prisoner and took me from New Orleans against my will and only tied me up so that I couldn’t escape from you?” She waited, but when he offered no response, she turned back to the dressing table, bending low to see her reflection in the makeup mirror while she stroked on a dusky rose lipstick.
“It’s kind of disheartening,” she continued when she straightened from the mirror and began transferring items from the small purse she had carried in New Orleans to a bigger straw bag. “D.J.’s been my best friend for more than twenty years. She knows me better than anyone else, and yet she finds it so easy to believe that I would do that, that I would enjoy being treated badly by a man, that I would find it erotic. I can’t even imagine what kind of person would get turned on by being tied up and hurt or by doing it to someone else.”
John leaned back against the door frame, his hands cushioning his weight against the rounded wood, and evenly replied, “Of course you can.”
She added a few more things from the table to her bag—tissues, a brown leather wallet, and a coin purse—then faced him squarely. “Did you enjoy it? Did you get turned on by it? Is that why you… ?”
His smile faintly derisive, he answered her unfinished question. “No, I didn’t enjoy it. That’s not why I got a hard-on when I tied you up. I’m just so damned horny that being close to you is enough to make me hard.”
“Then why didn’t you… ? When I offered… ?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t right. You didn’t want me. You wanted to trade your favors for mine. And it wasn’t fair. I could have accepted. I could have made love to you, but I still would have had to tie you to the bed. I still would have had to put you through that.” After a long moment’s silence, he returned to her earlier statement. “Everyone has fantasies, Teryl.”
“But that? What’s to like about that?”
Taking another tight breath, he moved away from the door and walked toward her. When he circled around her, she turned, too, always facing him, never turning her back on him. “What would it take for you to let me undress you and tie you to that bed?”
She glanced at the bed, at the carved wooden headboard, at the turned and twisted spindles that would offer no chance of escape; then warily, her eyes big, her face pale, she looked back at him. “Nothing in the world could persuade me to do that,” she whispered.
“You’re wrong.” His voice wasn’t much more substantial. “Trust would. If you trusted me, if you believed in me with all your heart and all your soul, if you knew beyond a doubt that I would rather die than let anything hurt you… you would let me do it. You wouldn’t be afraid. You would let me do whatever I wanted because you would know that you were safe. You would trust me to keep you safe.”
He took a step back, put some distance between them, and forced some semblance of normalcy into his voice. “Knowing that I’d earned that kind of trust would give me a tremendous sense of power, and power, Teryl, is one of the biggest turn-ons there is. So… would I enjoy a little experimentation with bondage? Yes. Would I find it erotic that you had enough faith in me to make yourself vulnerable to me? Absolutely. Would I get aroused playing safe games—safe, Teryl—of helplessness and domination with you? You bet. But I would never let it go far enough to cause you pain. I would never try to persuade you to do something you didn’t want to do. I would never hurt you. I know you don’t believe that right now, but it’s true.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then turned away, sliding her purse strap into place over her shoulder and moving to the door before stopping and looking back. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “I do believe that. It’s the only reason you’re here right now.” After letting that sink in, she turned again and started out the door. “We’d better go now. We’ve got work to do.”
The Robertson Literary Agency was located in a turn-of-the-century Victorian on a quiet, tree-lined block filled with similar old homes turned into offices. Six years ago most of the places had been abandoned, run-down, and only one tax bill away from the wrecking ball; then urban renewal had come to the street. The last of the residents had been bought out, and the houses had been restored, refurbished, and reincarnated. They were beautiful now, neatly maintained, each with a pocket of yard out front and a parking lot around back, but instead of families, they now housed professionals.
Teryl directed John into the narrow paved drive that ran along the side of the agency and around back to the parking lot. It was small, consisting of only a half dozen spaces, but Rebecca’s staff was small, as was her list of clients. With the income she derived from Simon Tremont, she had neither a need nor a desire for a large stable of writers.
Digging deep in her purse, Teryl retrieved her keys as he shut off the engine; then she opened the door and slid to the ground. It was a hot, sunny day. On an ordinary summer Sunday, she would be getting ready about now to meet D.J. for lunch. They would most likely go to their favorite restaurant and sit outside on the patio underneath the shade of a brightly striped umbrella, and they would drink iced tea and eat chilled fruit salads while they talked. D.J. would be her usual outrageous self, and Teryl would spend much of the time listening, laughing, and not even trying to hide her shock at some of the things her friend had to say.
She thought she had hidden that shock pretty well this morning when D.J. had immediately recognized her bruises and their source, when she had so matter-so-factly rattled off her rules for safe, deviant sex, when she had remarked with such understanding, “You’re hardly the first woman to discover that she gets off on something different.” Teryl had never dreamed that her foster sister, her best friend with whom she’d shared her life and her most intimate secrets, was interested in kinky sex. Of course, she didn’t know that for a fact—and didn’t want to know—but it seemed likely. D.J. had shown no surprise over Teryl’s bruises. She’d said nothing that indicated less than total acceptance of what she believed to be the cause. She had certainly seemed well-informed and conversant on the subject.
Did that explain all the men—so damn many of them—in D.J.’s life? Was she looking for men who would do those sorts of things to her? But if John was right, they couldn’t be that hard to come by. Everyone had fantasies—and, heaven knew, most men fantasized about D.J. Ho
w easy it would be for her to seduce them into playing whatever games her heart desired.
Did those fantasies also explain the long sleeves D.J. had been wearing on such a hot sunny day? And the bruises Teryl had noticed in the past but disregarded on a woman who was far too graceful to be bumping into things as often as she claimed?
The keys slid from Teryl’s fingers as she tried to fit one into the dead bolt on the back door. Muttering a curse, she bent to pick them up as John, several steps lower, offered them to her. Instead of trying once again to undo the lock, though, for a moment she simply looked at him. “Do you think D.J. likes… ?” Then she shook her head. “Never mind.” She really didn’t want to know.
But that brief glimpse of John’s face before she turned away was enough to answer her unfinished question. Yes. He thought D.J. liked things kinky.
Damn. How long would it take her to forget that?
Inside, the house was quiet and cool. Dim light filtered into the long hallway, spotlighting a few motes of dust that had somehow avoided detection by Rebecca. Her boss was fastidious, both in her appearance and in her surroundings. She didn’t tolerate disorderliness or uncleanliness.
She didn’t tolerate sneakiness, either, and that was exactly how Teryl felt as she closed the door behind John, then asked, “Would you like a tour?” She didn’t really feel like showing him around, but at the moment she was game for anything that would delay the moment when she would walk into the file room, remove Simon’s files, and use them to test John’s knowledge of their client.
Passion Page 23
