Paradise: The Masters of The Order Novel Two

by Verne, Jillian

  “The Dungeon it is,” Shea said and held the door open.

  2

  Bucket List

  The door slammed.

  “Hey, Isla. Where are you?” Craig marched right into her room and snapped on the light. “Get up, sleepyhead. We’ve got to get you ready. I have a surprise and it’s ab-so-lute-ly fa-bu-lous,” he sang, putting his hands on his hips and throwing his head back with flair.

  “You look gay when you preen like that,” Isabella grumbled, willing him to disappear.

  “I am gay, you big grouch.” He stuck out his tongue. “But no worries, I forgive you. Not getting laid in way too long would make me a grump too.” He feigned horror, shuddering at the thought.

  If not for the waking her up thing, she would have laughed. “Lo siento, Craig. Last night was brutal. I barely got a chance to sit down. Monsieur Mason had a bad night and I didn’t want him to be alone."

  "So you stayed after your shift was over," Craig said, looking distinctly like one of her overprotective brothers.

  Isabella shrugged. "Monsieur Mason doesn’t have any family to comfort him. Not that I‘ve ever seen anyway.”

  “You’re an angel, Isla. You make this ugly world a better place, but even angels need a little fun, especially after pulling the midnight shift. Ask me where we’re going tonight. Ask me. Ask me.”

  “A movie?” she teased, knowing full well from the delight sparkling in his eyes that they were not going to the local theater.

  “Come on. Would I be wearing Prada if we were going to the movies?”

  “How can you afford Prada on an artist’s salary? Oh, right, you don’t have a salary.” She shot him a disapproving look.

  “I kept the tags. I’ll return the clothes tomorrow." He tossed a Prada bag onto the bed with a roll of his eyes. "I brought something for you, grouchy. Where we’re going, you cannot wear that hideous polyester uniform.”

  She fished through the tissue paper and pulled out a little black dress, as in muy pequeño.

  “Check out the cuts on that sexy number. You may not want to show off your sinful body, Isla, but you will tonight. Maybe the dress will end your sex drought.”

  She slipped her fingers through the holes in the black silk. “This will show more than it covers.”

  “I know. Isn’t it great? I’ll do your hair and make-up. Wait until you see the shoes.” Craig turned and left the room. “Get up. I’ll make you some eggs. I’m sure you haven’t eaten.”

  “Coffee, coffee,” she called after him.

  “Already brewing, you addict,” he called back.

  Isabella rubbed her eyes and got up to follow him. She hadn’t eaten and she was starving. The idea of eating eggs for dinner again was less than appealing, but they were on a tight budget. Prada aside.

  As she walked into the other room, she had to laugh. Craig was standing in front of their old, broken down stove, wearing an apron with “Monaco or bust” written in red sequins around his killer outfit.

  "You look so hot."

  “Don’t I?" Craig said, preening again.

  "It's true," she sighed with a peck on his cheek. “Why do all the good ones have to be gay?"

  He laughed with a bow.

  It was good to see Craig so confident. She knew deep inside he wasn’t. He was raised in a strict Catholic family and an openly gay son wasn’t exactly a point of pride. Even though he found the strength to be honest with his parents, his mother still asked him when he planned to settle down with a nice Catholic girl every time they spoke. Those phone calls were becoming fewer and farther between and she knew that made Craig unhappy.

  How could anyone’s family not be proud of someone like him? Craig was a gifted artist and donated a ton of time at the Art Saves Center. The Center helped disadvantaged teens by giving free art lessons, supplies and a safe place to work to kids who would otherwise be on the streets. He also went to the hospital where she worked to sit with patients who didn’t have family or friends to support them. The man was overflowing with compassion, truly one of the dearest human beings she’d ever known. His family was just stupid.

  “So, where are you taking me, naughty boy?”

  “To Nicolai Stavros’s opening. Do you know how awesome that is?”

  Wow. That was pretty awesome and explained the need for all the black Prada. Nicolai Stavros was a household name in Paris and an opening at his gallery was a guaranteed celebrity fest. He was also gorgeous, rich and quite a naughty boy himself. She had seen a few photographs of his art that Craig absolutely adored. Pretty sexy stuff.

  “The new guy at the Center is a friend of Nicolai’s girlfriend. Whew, wait until you see her. Julianne Giroux is be-au-ti-ful.” Craig was preening again. “If I had a shot at someone like her, I might consider batting for the other team.” Then he turned to her and added quickly, “But she doesn’t hold a candle to you, Isla.”

  “Thanks, Craig. She would be lucky to have you. Isn’t Nicolai Stavros’s art all about BDSM? I’m not sure two devout Catholics will fit in at an art show like that.” She winked at him.

  Even though she hadn’t gotten laid for a while, she was no virgin and Craig had seen the library on her Kindle. She didn’t have to be embarrassed around him about her fantasies. All that kinky stuff turned him on too and he was a lot more adventurous.

  “Go get the shoes. I left them in the living room.”

  Well, it wasn’t exactly a living room. It was the other end of the room they were in. Rent in Paris was astronomical, especially for a nurse and an aspiring artist with a compulsion to volunteer instead of working at the GAP. Most months, she paid the rent and Craig managed to foot the grocery bill. Hence the predominance of eggs in their diet.

  The “living room” housed a couch, a table, Craig’s Murphy bed and the kitchen appliances. She had the other room in the apartment to herself and they shared the bathroom. The place was crammed to the ceiling with art supplies and Craig’s paintings, but the price was worth the location, even if the apartment was lacking.

  Isabella opened the heavy black box and pulled out a pair of stilettos worthy of the highest-priced escort. The thick leather ankle strap and huge buckle certainly seemed appropriate for an opening by Nicolai Stavros, but she preferred her clogs.

  “They are...um.” She ran her finger over the buckle.

  “Slut shoes,” Craig declared, “total slut shoes. You’ll look great in them, but we have to tape the bottom so we can return them.”

  “I don’t know, Craig. Maybe I’m not right for an event like this.”

  He turned on her, waving the spatula and flinging little bits of egg into the air. She covered the shoes with her hands. Can’t exactly return them in the morning with egg yolk all over them.

  “No is not an option, Isla,” he snapped. “You’re going and that’s final. You can’t always take care of other people. Your job should show you that people only get one chance at this life. When was the last time you did something for yourself? Just let all the shit in this world go for a while and had some fun? Take a risk. It’s been too long and don’t even bother arguing with me. Just shut up and try on the damn shoes.”

  Isabella looked at the shoes. It had been too long and the world was certainly filled with shit. She wanted to tell Craig about her visit to Doctor Boucher, but didn’t have the strength. She couldn’t deal with the news herself. You don’t spend three years working oncology at the Institut Gustave Roussy and not know that cancer usually doesn’t have a happy ending, no matter what anyone tells you. Hope is a dangerous villain. She’d seen its destructive power too many times to have any of her own.

  What do I have to lose? Might as well throw caution to the wind for once and live a little. “Alright, naughty boy. If I’m going to do this, let’s go all the way. Give me the Full Monty. I want a whole new look to match these.” She held up the shoes. “Maybe I can find some handsome Dom to teach me the consequences of wearing shoes like this and live out a little dirty fantasy.”
<
br />   She added the “before I die” to herself.

  “That’s more like it, you Spanish devil. You can resume being an angel in the morning.” Craig flipped her omelet. “Just don’t get cum on the dress.”

  *****

  “Well, ain’t that the bee’s knees? A TRO,” Sabin sang through the line in his usual drawl.

  “Tell me you didn’t say that or I’m hanging up.” Jacques rubbed his fingers across his forehead. This conversation was giving him a headache.

  “The lawyers are all over it. Said it’s bull, but we’re looking at two to three weeks to clear things up. Woo-wee, wanna take a bet on the fee for this one? Damn leeches.”

  Forget the legal fee. The work stoppage alone is going to cost millions.

  But that was the point, wasn’t it? His partner never got ruffled, but the laid back hee-haw was grating on Jacques’s nerves. “I am not speaking to you about this until you stop with the southern.”

  “Lighten up, Jacques. It’s just money. If our facility wasn’t gonna take boat loads of theirs, they wouldn’t be messin’ with us. You should get laid. Go find yourself a tall drink of water and...”

  Jacques hung up and hit the intercom. “Patricia, when Sabin calls back, I’m out.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Meszaros. When shall I tell Monsieur Timonen you will be available?”

  “When the South rises again.”

  Well how about that? Another fabulous day. If this kept up, he was going to jump.

  After finding out that Jerard didn't come home last night - again - he spent the morning dealing with Order politics. He hated politics. Darion called at nine to send him on a little errand and you don't ignore Darion LeClair. You just don't.

  By eleven o'clock, he was sucking wind after being kicked in the balls by five feet of Japanese fury. Lily went back to Jacob and he did it again. Jacques was charged with getting her out and onto the first flight to Texas. She was moving in with Sabin, whether she liked it or not. No more Jacob. No more abuse. Darion’s orders. Lily wasn’t making safe decisions on her own so the Order was forcing the decision on her. Darion was handling Jacob and Jacques knew exactly what that meant. Sayonara, asshole.

  Then came Sabin, never last and far from least, calling to tell him that the construction of their New Mexico facility was stopped dead. They’d been served with a temporary restraining order, courtesy of none other than their favorite good ole boy, Joe Lee Hartnell, the CEO of JLH Oil Company. Some bullshit claim that the site was historically significant to the Jemez people.

  As if Joe Lee gives a damn about the Jemez.

  Well ole Joe certainly didn’t know his opponents. Sabin had done the homework, even seated a couple of Jemez on the advisory board for the facility design because the site was so close to the Jemez Pueblo. “Just ‘cause it ain’t their land, don’t mean their opinion ain’t valuable.” Sabin had his southern on that day too.

  Even though the guy graduated Stanford top of the class, he still talked like a hick from the backwoods of Texas. It was a neat trick. Stereotypes stop people from thinking and his partner had used that to their advantage time and time again. Behind the killer charm was a killer, and together he and that killer were one step away from developing technology that would upend the American oil industry.

  Maybe two steps. First, we have to lift the damn TRO.

  With a curse, Jacques pulled out his cell phone. A female voice answered on the first ring. If she hadn’t, he would have called the next on his list.

  “Bonjour, Mon Dominant.”

  “Three-thirty. Black skirt, leather bustier, tight bun, red lips. Don’t be late.”

  He hung up and hit the intercom. “Patricia, clear my schedule after three o’clock.”

  Patricia’s cultured voice replied as it always did, “Yes, sir.”

  *****

  Jacques rode the elevator alone, shifting from foot to foot.

  He was in a particularly sharp mood today. And yesterday, and the day before that, and...God, I need a break. Everything was spinning off course. He needed control, thrived on it yet these days, it eluded him.

  He looked up. “Hey, Big Guy, is this some kind of a test?”

  No answer.

  “Yeah, whatever.” He would just take the edge off and deal.

  The submissive he’d chosen for today liked things particularly hardcore and he planned to deliver. Without guilt or apology. He was a confirmed, unrepentant sexual Dominant, famous within BDSM circles for it. Hardcore to the marrow. He embraced that truth and lived the life. So did she.

  Coming here, withstanding his harsh affection, was a rite of passage in their world. She’d earned her elite status as one able to satisfy such an exacting Master and would wear the marks of their sex as a badge of honor, but she could make no claim on him. None of them could. He dictated who, when and where. One day, he might bring a lover into the Order, but not today.

  Today wasn’t about love. It was about sex.

  An endless stream of women made themselves available to him. The ones he chose had varying tastes and motivations, but all had been around the block, or tied to it, more than a few times. He had long since graduated from novices. They couldn’t handle him. He didn’t degrade his submissives with some of the nasty things others in the life favored, but he did not comfort them either. Beginning, middle and end were on his terms and his terms only. If they uttered a safe word or used a hand signal, he stopped immediately, but they were never invited back. Even if they wanted to try again - and he hadn’t met one who didn’t - the answer was a definitive no. If they broke once, they would again and Jacques Meszaros did not accommodate anyone.

  The ones he preferred more recently came to him because they could find their satisfaction only with someone like him. With them, he could be hard, as hard as he needed to be, and they got off on it because they needed it too. The harder he played, the harder they begged him to play. Sometimes it was absurd, even to him, how bizarre and extreme these exchanges became, but after years in the game, nothing fazed him.

  When the elevator doors parted, she was there, just as he expected her to be. Not sitting or leaning against the wall, she stood by the apartment door, eyes down, hands locked on the elbows bent behind her back. He glanced at his watch. She’d been standing, silent, in the hall for well over an hour. Waiting, imagining, fearing, wanting. If he slipped his hand between her spread thighs, her arousal would coat his fingers.

  But he didn’t touch her or greet her. The mind fuck was the best part of the game and it began the moment she picked up the phone. He looked right past her, opened the door and walked in. She knew to wait. Knew not to speak. And definitely knew better than to come in without being summoned.

  He didn’t live here. This wasn’t a home. One step over the threshold and you knew your comfortable world was more than a doorway away. The spirit of the room, the temperature, the dense silence and what it was used for pressed into you. The rules were different here. Chains mounted to the black ceiling, masks, gags and whips hanging on the black walls, all whispered, Are you brave enough to enter? A glass cabinet displayed an array metal clips, weights and tools. Another hid its wares. The only thing that could be classified as normal furniture was an enormous custom bed that no one slept in with a sofa at the end for those who wanted to watch the perversion it was designed for. There was no living here. Only the profane performed on the willing.

  I'm profane; she's willing. So let the dark game begin.

  He tossed his keys onto the bar, poured himself a drink, took a long swig, swallowed and took another. He lit several candles, not for lighting, before saying softly, “Enter.”

  She dropped to her knees and crawled through the door.

  *****

  Isabella twisted a lock of hair around her finger while they walked. Craig perfected her Prada costume with a black hair tint. He promised that her natural color would return after a few shampoos, but it was a very dramatic change.

  Still, it was fun, li
ke Halloween. She felt completely transformed. Nothing like the normal Isabella. The darkened hair made her skin look milky and her brown eyes smolder. Add the killer dress, the dramatic make-up and the naughtiest shoes she’d ever seen, and Voilà, meet Isabella, the vixen. Very daring if she did say so herself. Even her brothers wouldn’t recognize her.

  Maybe she would keep the new color. It made her feel like another person and she wanted to be someone else, at least for a while…Maldita sea, I've done it again. Opened that self-indulgent door and let the self-pity rush right back in. She was instantly annoyed with herself.

  Why the hell not? It’s bucket list time.

  Isabella turned abruptly, heading back to a kiosk they’d just passed. “Wait. I want to stop for a minute and pick something up.”

  Craig and Carlo stopped walking and waited. They made a cute couple, but she knew Carlo wasn’t Craig’s dream. He was just a guy and there would be another in a week or two.

  She stepped up to the kiosk. “A pack of cigarettes, please.”

  “What brand, fox?” A gnarled man leered at her from his box.

  “I don’t know. What brand do you like?”

  “I don’t smoke,” he said coldly, his eyes fixed on her chest.

  The extravagant dress did highlight her girl parts and invite the attention, but ew. Any other time, she would have been annoyed by the lewd stare, but not tonight. Tonight, let him look.

  Let them all look.

  “Neither do you, Isla. What are you doing?” Craig was clearly annoyed. He hated smokers.

  “It’s a night for new experiences. Don’t hassle me, daddy.”

  “Buy Dunhills,” Carlo called over to her. “That’s my brand. When you’re hacking up a lung, I’ll finish them.”

  And that meant Carlo was gone after tonight.

  “Dunhills, please.”

  Craig didn’t hide his disapproval as she stepped toward him.

  She tried to appease him. “They go with the get-up.”

  “They go with a coffin.”

  Craig had no idea how true that might turn out to be.