by Maren Smith
She didn't remember her smeared makeup until she saw the look that crossed the face of the man sitting directly behind her. His incredibly handsome face, oh be still her beating heart! The man was a flesh and blood Adonis, seemingly poured into his clothes—black jeans and sneakers and a baby blue t-shirt with a sad Stormtrooper and the words 'I had friends on that Death Star' emblazoned across the mouthwatering breadth of his chest. His hair was short, combed back and so dark it seemed almost black. So was his mustache and the thin lines of beard that framed the sides of his mouth and covered his chin. Half a day's worth of stubble lined his jaw, detracting from the handsome chisel of his features not a bit. She only realized she was staring when the gorgeous lips under that neatly-trimmed moustache twitched. Her gaze snapped back to his eyes just in time for her to see his initial look of surprise melt into one of sudden and intense interest.
Her nose had to be redder than Rudolph's and, if the palms of her hands were anything by which to judge, the mascara she'd forgotten she was wearing was now so smudged she looked like a KISS member fresh off the concert stage.
Maddy snapped around so fast she almost fell off her chair. She grabbed the armrests, readjusting herself in her seat, already stammering, "I-I… I'm sorry. I must look frightful."
She fumbled with the wadded handkerchief, forgetting entirely that she'd already used it for other purposes and only just catching herself before she tried to scrub her face clean. Was the bathroom still closed? Now she was afraid to look.
"Nonsense," the man behind her said. "You wear it well."
Already trying to wipe under her eyes with her jacket sleeve—so, not only was she red-nosed and makeup smeared, but blotchy now, too—Maddy stopped. "What?" she asked incredulously. "The ever in-vogue snotty weepy-eyed look?"
The low chuckle that rolled over the top of her chair tickled though her, awakening senses she never would have thought could be titillated in such a situation as this. "I wouldn't have used 'snotty', but yes."
Her answering laugh was more of a snort. "Nobody wears this look well, believe me."
"You'd be surprised. Believe me, I've seen it often enough to know."
Maddy couldn't help herself. "Are we talking about your job again?" She twisted back around, trying to peer at him through the seats in such a way so that he could not see her. "You make a living out of making women cry?"
She tried to make a joke out of it, but her faltering laugh ended in a squeak when he stood up, abruptly exiting his row. He came around to her side and dropped into the empty seat beside her.
"I don't think you're supposed to do that," she hedged, but he only flashed her a wink and a smile and made no move to return to his own seat.
"If they make a fuss, I'll switch back. Besides, this way I can see more of who I'm talking to than just the back of your head. And to answer your question: When I do my job right, yes, women sometimes cry."
A slow tendril of warmth twined up through her, settling into her cheeks. Was the plane really this hot, or was she blushing? She hoped she wasn't blushing. "What exactly did you say you do again?"
"I didn't." Settling back in the seat beside her, when he crossed his legs his knee bumped hers. Airline chairs being narrow anyway, he filled his so completely that his arm couldn't help but overlap the armrests. His right elbow brushed against hers and Maddy tingled all the way from her shoulder to her wrist. "I suppose you could say my line of work revolves around motivation and training."
"Like, for companies and retreats and such?"
He smiled. "And such." That smile was at once both self-satisfied and crocodilian. "What do you do, if I may ask?"
"Promotional advertising. Freelance, mostly."
"Ah. So are you on a business trip, or is this flight purely for pleasure?"
Thoughts of Rita and her BDSM island made Maddy squirm. "Um… a little of both, I guess. A friend of mine is trying to start up a vacation resort. She offered to let me sample the amenities in exchange for writing up a glowing article on what she has to offer."
Was it a trick of her writer's imagination or did his warm brown eyes, already so intent upon her, sharpen that much more? "Is that so? Is this resort in Nassau?"
"No, that's just a touch-down point," she confessed, instantly wondering what she'd said to make his smile broaden and his eyes drop to his lap. His chuckle made her squirm all over again. She struggled to sit still. "The resort is actually on a series of small, privately-owned islands. I'll be switching planes as soon as I land." Unable to bear the curiosity and certain she'd missed something important, Maddy asked, "Why did you laugh?"
Nodding to whatever thoughts he kept private, he offered instead, "I could use a good vacation. Perhaps if you think it's worthwhile, I'll pay that resort a visit. Will your article be published somewhere I might read it?"
A slow flush of heat burned up through the middle of her as Maddy debated briefly, knowing she shouldn't give out personal information (she'd seen the movie Red Eye) and yet, before she knew she was doing it, she reached under her seat to retrieve her purse. Pulling a business card from her wallet, she handed it to him. Her website address was printed in bold red ink across the bottom beneath an old fashioned writing quill. "The article won't be printed on my blog, but I always post where they can be read. You know… for future clients to preview my work. Things like that."
He accepted the card, studying it quietly. That self-satisfied smirk still curved his lips as he slipped it into his back jeans pocket.
"Sir?" Appearing into view over the row ahead of them, the same airline attendant who had awakened Maddy from her nightmare said, "I'm going to have to ask you to return to your seat. We're preparing to land."
Leveling a smile at them both, she moved on, leaving Maddy to hide a small pang of disappointment behind a reluctant smile of her own. She didn't know this man from Adam. He could have been anyone, including a serial killer (she'd seen Red Eye twice, in fact). She shouldn't care so much when he stood up and retreated to his proper place in the row of seats behind her.
At least he had her business card. Who knew? Maybe she'd hear from him again, an innocuous little email six months from now that would read: Nice article.
Although, really… what were the odds? He was all that and a bag of chips; she, on the other hand, was a chubby, middle-aged divorcée with mascara smeared all over her face. He was just being nice, that was all. He'd given her his handkerchief and then sat with her until she felt better. He wasn't going to call her. Hell, he hadn't even given her his name.
Maddy jumped a little when a strong, broad hand poked sideways through the gap between their chairs, thumb up, fingers straight and loosely held together. "M. Dominick," came that low sultry voice from behind her.
Her stomach did the most amazing and insane series of somersaults. It was ridiculous how happy it made her as she shyly fit her smaller hand into his (both backwards and upside down, an awkward way in which to shake) and the warmth of his fingers closed back over hers.
"Maddy Cameron," she said over her shoulder. She faced quickly forward, afraid to let anyone—especially him—see her smile. "What does the 'M' stand for?"
"Oh…" He chuckled again, letting go of her hand. "Let's save a little mystery for our next meeting."
As if there would be one. She grinned like an idiot anyway. They were strangers on a plane. He wasn't going to call her, they weren't going to date, hook up, or form any kind of lasting relationship. Whoever heard of strangers getting married or living happily-ever-after after only what, fifteen minutes together on a red-eye flight?
Still feeling the phantom strength of his grip in her fingers, Maddy turned her face to the window and ordered her silly heart to stop beating so hard and fast.
CHAPTER THREE
Maddy had just enough time after the plane touched down to race to the nearest bathroom and check her face. It was worse than she thought and, apart from a few wet wipes in her purse, everything she needed to fix her makeup was in her
suitcase. With any luck, it was on a luggage cart being shuttled across the airport to the last plane she had to take before she reached her destination: the very tropical La Isla del Paraíso, the center hub of Rita's new resort, where all the behind-the-scenes activity necessary for the running of such a massive BDSM operation would take place. Maddy couldn't wait to get there, not only because travel like this was exhausting, or because—as freelance promotional jobs went—this one would prove quite lucrative once her article was published (hopefully for Rita as well), but because this little mini vacation was almost like the fulfilling of a secret dream.
Not since her clandestine reading of Fifty Shades of Grey had Maddy dared to indulge her most secret fantasies. She'd tried to share some of those fantasies with Virgil once, but he'd made it very clear that, in the realm of responsible adulthood, everyone knew that certain thoughts, certain feelings, just had to live in the dark. This wasn't the middle ages and hurting other people was illegal for a reason. Women weren't supposed to want to be dominated, so Maddy tried not to—except when delving between the pages of the books she sometimes liked to read. Her heart wasn't supposed to quicken over thoughts of being held an erotic captive, tied to a sensually cruel man's bed, or—be still the beating—turned across a strong man's knee while he spanked her for being 'a bad girl'. Or a good one. Or perhaps even for no reason at all. Maddy was equal opportunity kinky that way.
But, no. Grown-up, responsible women weren't supposed to want that sort of thing. Certainly they weren't supposed to actively seek out those kinds of engagements, so Maddy hadn't… not until the day she got Rita's email. In her wildest dreams, never would Maddy have thought she would come to a place like this. Yet, here she was, staring at her reflection under the unflattering lights of an airport bathroom in Nassau, of all places. She was, literally, a hop, skip, and a jump-flight away from mingling amongst all the men and women Rita had hired to cater to society's most daring—people who, unlike her, thought nothing at all of giving free rein to all the feelings and urges that Maddy… just couldn't help but hide.
She wasn't going to indulge; she already knew that. She'd already had that internal argument. She'd had it pretty much daily since she'd accepted this job, and every single day, she came to the same irrefutable conclusion. For all that Maddy found the idea of dominance and submission, authority and discipline, control and total power exchange intriguing, it all came down to this: she wasn't skinny enough, young enough, or pretty enough to engage in such nonsense.
She was thirty-eight, for crying out loud, and she barely knew how to put makeup on.
I'd still feel something for you other than embarrassment or disgust!
Turning from her reflection, Maddy dug into her purse. It took every wet wipe she had, but she finally got the black, tear-track smudges off her cheeks and out of the creases to either side of her nose. Folding the wet wipes into very small pieces, she used the corners to touch up what remained around her eyes. It wasn't perfect, but at least she no longer looked like a KISS groupie who just fell out of the tour bus. Combing her fingers through her wavy blonde hair, she grabbed her purse and hurried to catch the next flight.
As it turned out, she needn't have bothered rushing. When she reached the departure gate, it was not a commercial plane she found waiting for her. It wasn't even a prop-plane. Rather, it was a small jet, big enough inside to stand up straight and with seating for sixteen people, but smaller by half than the next largest plane in that airport. Impeccably dressed in black, gray and red uniforms, a man and woman were waiting to greet her at the steps leading up into the jet.
"Miss Cameron?" the woman asked, shifting her clipboard to hold out her hand.
"That's me." Maddy shuffled her purse to her other shoulder and shook it. "Sorry I'm late."
"Oh, I didn't say that," the attendant demurred, still smiling.
"No, you didn't," Maddy agreed, keeping her tone light and friendly. "But if you know who I am, then either I'm the only passenger on the log or I'm the last to arrive."
The woman's soft laugh and reluctant nod were the only acknowledgement Maddy needed to know it was the latter.
"Sorry," she said again.
"You were in no danger of being left behind," the male attendant assured her. Gesturing to the stairs, he took the lead. "I'll show you to your seat."
She definitely wasn't the only passenger flying out. Unlike her last flight, this time all the seats (arranged in four short rows, with two overstuffed chairs on either side of a very narrow aisle) were already taken up. Rita had mentioned that Maddy wouldn't be the only guest attending this once-in-a-lifetime vacation-style tour of the island resort. Although she was the only one writing a promotional piece (at least, as far as Maddy knew), the rest of the group was made up of investors, insurance agents, accountants and lawyers, and even one curious local politician, no doubt wondering what an adult-themed pirate resort could bring apart from revenue to his highly tourist-driven economy. Taking up the entire first row, he was the easiest to pick out, flanked as he was by a retinue of three men, all of whom were dressed impeccably in three-piece suits.
Squeezing sideways down the narrow aisle behind the male attendant, Maddy made her way past all those unfamiliar faces until she suddenly spotted an unexpectedly familiar one, and her feet instantly rooted to the floor. The man from the last plane, M. Dominick, was sitting in the very last row next to the only empty chair on the plane. Her heart raced, climbing ever upward until she could feel it perched in the very back of her throat. She tried to swallow past it, but her heart refused to go back down where it belonged. Her stomach somersaulted. Her palms, oh lord, they were sweating.
"Here you go," the attendant said, drawing abreast of that final row. As he indicated the seat, M. Dominick stood up and suddenly Maddy had an epiphany. She knew who this gorgeous specimen of man was. Rita had been very clear about what kind of vacation this would be. Her staff needed hands-on training, her investors needed reassuring, and so did the lawyers and accountants. To that end, Rita had promised everyone that she would hire the best professional—every fine hair prickles up her arms as Maddy heard again what he'd told her: I suppose you could say my line of work revolves around motivation and training—that money could buy to show her hired Dominants the ropes.
"When it comes to the best in BDSM resorts, what's the first name that springs to mind?" Rita had asked her, way back in the beginning when she'd first mailed Maddy copies of the brochures for her dungeon-based retreat.
"The Castle," Maddy had obligingly replied. It had been that easy a question. Although she had heard of other places—places in Seattle, New Orleans, Chicago, and even Wichita; places that were arguably just as nice when it came to dungeon-oriented facilities—the Castle had been around the longest. It was the biggest; albeit only in operation now for, what, four years? Although Maddy had never been there herself, according to everything she'd read about the place, it was staffed by the most competent and knowledgeable Dominants to ever gather in any one location.
That was who he was. He was the professional Rita had flown in from the Ohio-based Castle. He was the one specifically hired to help establish the policies and procedures that would encourage safe, sane and consensual play for all of Rita's would-be guests.
What does the 'M' stand for?
Oh… In the back of her rattled head, where every other thought had already scattered like birds on a gust of wind, she heard again that low and sultry laugh. Let's save a little mystery for our next meeting.
She had been so, so sure there wouldn't be one and yet here he was, those honey brown eyes staring deep into hers, that quirk in his smile curling seductively higher and higher while her stomach twirled inside her like a drunken ballerina.
"Is there a problem?" the attendant asked, his smile gradually fading the longer Maddy stood there, frozen mid-way down the aisle, staring like an idiot. A grinning idiot. She could feel it pulling at her mouth and just couldn't make herself stop. She was lighting
up, filled to the brim with excitement and jittering, and drunken ballerinas and butterflies and, God, how insane was it to feel so damned happy about bumping into him again so soon?
She didn't even know him.
Ridiculous.
"No," she said, the heated flush of embarrassment stealing up into her cheeks. "No, it's fine."
"More than fine for me." M. Dominick stepped out of the aisle to give her the window seat.
Bending down long enough to stuff her purse under her seat, Maddy had a half-second of 'what the hell' when it occurred to her she was presenting a Master of the highly-celebrated Castle with an unobstructed view of her jean-clad ass. Her face burned hotter. She quickly plopped her butt into the seat.
And then it hit her, what the 'M' in M. Dominick stood for. When her wide-eyed gaze snapped to his, his eyes lit up and a grin split his handsome mouth. Re-seating himself beside her, oh so casually, Dominick leaned over and asked, "What's my first name, little girl? I want to hear you say it."
A fizzling shock thrilled through every raw nerve-ending she owned when he called her that. Little girl. As if she were little. As if she were a girl, and not a woman courting her forties. She'd never in all her life felt anyone call her any kind of pet name. Never. Before she knew it, her mouth was open.
"Master," she answered, every consonant of the word sparking a whole new wave of thrills that rippled through her.
He laughed again, that same slow chuckle. "And don't you forget it."
* * * * *
Right from the start, this had been a 'vacation' Dominick hadn't wanted. First, he'd had to leave two good hours before it even qualified as the 'crack of dawn', and second, he'd had no time for the gym, breakfast, and God only knew whom they'd got to fill in for him in the Dungeon. His routine was seriously shot to shit. On any other day, that would have killed his mood. Today, however, was turning out not to be the wash he'd been inclined to label it. Nobody had told him there would be eye-candy the likes of Maddy to keep him company over the next seven days. That right there changed everything.
