Behind
The
Blindfold
Complete Series
Natalie e. Wrye
Copyright 2016 © Natalie Wrye
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher and author, except brief quotations used in a newspaper or magazine in connection with a review.
This novel is an original work. It is a fictional writing, a work entirely derived from the author’s imagination. All characters and events are entirely fictional and not based in fact, nor based on any real person(s) living or deceased. Any resemblance or similarity to any real person(s), alive or dead, or event is purely and clearly coincidental. This book contains adult language and in some instances coarse language and, due to its content, should not be viewed by children.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a book review).
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Behind the Blindfold: VOLUME 1
Chapter 1: The more things Change
Chapter 2: A Chance Encounter
Chapter 3: The Window to my Soul
Chapter 4: I never promised you a Rose Garden
Chapter 5: Under False Pretenses
Chapter 6: The After Life
Chapter 7: A rose by any other name
Chapter 8: All that glitters "is" gold
Chapter 9: Portraits of a Rich man
Chapter 10: See no Evil
Behind the Blindfold: UNCOVERED
Chapter 1: The Second Time Around
Chapter 2: Kiss me Goodnight
Chapter 3: Damaged Goods
Chapter 4: Optical Delusions
Chapter 5: Pushing up Daisy
Chapter 6: A “Shrinking” Violet
Chapter 7: The Postman always Rings Twice
Chapter 8: What the Heart Wants
Chapter 9: No Calm before the Storm
Chapter 10: Darkest before Dawn
Interlude: The Missing Piece of the Puzzle
Behind the Blindfold: VOLUME 1
A flash of green eyes, and then…he was gone.
Mysterious, secluded, powerful, seductive.
Mark Rich shows up in a gallery, and then at a party, and then in Saturday’s dreams.
Wealthy? Yes. Sexy? God, yes.
But who is he? Ostensibly, he appears to be a jack-of-all-trades – a multifaceted Renaissance man.
Her artistic heart will follow him to the depths of his realm, to a world of beauty, art and desire in which she so desperately wants entry.
But Mark has a dark secret…deeper than any shadow Saturday has ever encountered.
Blinded by a craving she has never known, will she find the strength to remove the mask and look past her heart into a reality that may shatter her?
Chapter One
The more things Change
The moan she heard woke Saturday up with a jarring start.
Rolling over towards the edge of the bed, she rubbed her eyes a little harder than she intended, blinking furiously to clear her vision. She reached for the alarm clock on the nightstand.
2:00 AM.
All was dark in her apartment. Nothing but moonlight shining through her bedroom window. She sat up straight, dazed and confused.
What the hell is that?!
She reached for her previously discarded white bathrobe, slipping it quietly on her shoulders. She couldn’t tell if the sound was coming from inside or outside of the apartment…but she knew one thing:
…It sounded way too close.
She kneeled at her bedside.
She swept her hands back and forth under her bed, finally grabbing ahold of the baseball bat that she kept stashed, and padded her bare feet out of her room and into a small hallway.
Another moan sounded, causing her to shudder. It came from her bathroom, and the light was clearly on behind the closed door. Saturday lived alone now; no one had access to her home, except her good friend, Kara, who she trusted wholeheartedly and who was now unfortunately out of town.
She didn’t have that many male friends in the city, at least any she could really call on. 9-1-1 was an option, but whoever this intruder was might have the upper hand on her as soon as she went to dial. Sleep had fogged her brain, and she couldn’t think clearly. All she could think of was to go on the attack. Use the element of surprise.
It certainly wasn’t her brightest idea.
She reached for the door… and flung it open abruptly, shrieking as her druggie excuse for an ex-roommate, Kristen, almost jumped clean out of the foam-covered bathtub. Her blonde head was scarily reminiscent of a bobble-head, as she grasped aimlessly around for support to stay upright. Saturday watched her struggle without lifting a finger to help. She lowered her raised bat with a sigh of relief and frustration.
Typical.
This was a common experience that Saturday knew all too well. Kristen must have wandered over here in a spaced-out fog following one of her usual drug binges.
Six months had passed and Kristen hadn’t changed one bit since she moved or, rather, was unceremoniously kicked out of Saturday’s apartment. Episodes like this had become a weekly routine in their household. She had had enough of rescuing Kristen from whatever God-forsaken place she had wandered into following her most recent bender.
After suppressing thoughts of actually using the bat on Kristen, she repossessed her secret copy of the apartment key and half-dragged her towel-clad, soapy ex-roomie down the hallway and out of the door.
It seemed as though Kristen decided that she would take a relaxing bath in Saturday’s garden tub in the middle of the night. Honestly, she wondered why she hadn’t suspected Kristen from the start. Despite her addiction, Kristen was damn resourceful; she could’ve really been something in life if the drugs didn’t always incinerate her memory.
Knowing Kristen, she had probably just simply forgotten that she wasn’t Saturday’s roommate anymore, despite half a year’s passing. It was the primary reason that she was Saturday’s ex-roommate.
Aside from the drugs and constant stupor associated with it, Saturday had to admit: on some level, she sort of envied Kristen’s nonchalant way of living.
Before Saturday scared her half-to-death, Kristen had been enjoying what Saturday could only guess was a luxurious bath, as evidenced by the loud moaning. Saturday could not remember the last time she had a chance to sink into a hot bath.
She was always on the go: working as an art gallery tour guide and serving at a trendy restaurant in Manhattan just to make rent. Life was a blur of 6-minute lukewarm showers (it took about 5 for the hot water to even kick in) and brisk walks from job to job. She absolutely adored her position at the gallery, and constantly imagined different ways to get involved in art full-time. As of yet, not a single one of those plans seemed remotely possible.
Kristen wouldn’t know about this life if it bit her on the ass.
She was a spoiled rich kid, only settling to room in Saturday’s tiny (but clean) apartment because her parents instituted an allowance for her that cut into her cocaine stash of cash.
And that moaning…did Kristen have to be over the top with EV-ERYthing?
Despite her annoyance, Saturday chuckled to herself as she pulled back the covers and climbed back into bed. It had been so long since she had done ANY type of mo
aning.
Her thoughts now taking a different direction, Saturday lay back on the bed and untied her white robe, letting it fall open. She needed a release…badly, and it had been entirely too long since she had one.
Her last relationship was over a year ago, and though Charlie was a good friend, the threads that connected them were like “silly string.” They hadn’t had what she would call a “true bond” – no ties strong enough to make their romantic involvement last.
She lowered her hands down to her hips, ready to start stroking the sensitive nub between her legs when she decided against the straightforward approach. She figured it best to let her hands take the scenic route.
Saturday brought her hands back up to her hair, threading her fingers across her scalp. She splayed her fingers, spreading them across her neck and over her constricted nipples, cupping each breast as she massaged.
She did her best to pretend the hands belonged to some faceless man, some man whose only desire was to draw sounds and sensations of pure pleasure from her.
Her fingers continued their leisurely trek, finding her center warm and slightly damp. As her two fingers made their way inside, Saturday extracted that moan that she was looking for, relishing the feel of the tiny pressure that she was building.
In. Out. In. Out. Ohhhhhhh.
Once the sensation reached peaking levels, she increased the intensity of her motions, letting herself touch the crest and tumble over, gasping as she fell back down to neutral.
She removed the robe completely this time, tossing it on a nearby chair. She sighed contentedly, pulling the covers up to her naked breasts. She let her fingers roam over to the far side of the bed, briefly wishing that she had someone there to occupy it.
She missed the touch of a man, the oppositional feel of soft skin over hard muscle. She exhaled heavily at the thought. The next guy in her bed would have to be a game-changer, she vowed. No more settling. No more Charlies.
In the meantime, unfortunately, taking care of herself would just have to do… for now…
***
After Saturday’s “intruder” experience with Kristen early Tuesday morning, the rest of the week bled together until Friday afternoon, when Saturday did her routine shopping at the farmer’s market.
She specifically picked Fridays to shop because of the convenience; other people normally wanted to enjoy their summertime Friday afternoons. Unsurprisingly, most people she knew wanted to hang or relax then, not take on “Sunday morning” chores like grocery shopping… which worked out perfectly for her because she had her pick of the fruit without interference.
Plus, she looked like a classic case of “Who done it and why?” Better to not let a crowded market see her this way. Her wavy hair was piled up haphazardly on her head, her face was completely bare, and her white tank and jean shorts were nothing to write home about.
She picked, sniffed and sampled her way through countless booths and carts of fresh produce when a silken voice made its way to her side.
The voice was intriguing: deep and sexy and almost directly behind her.
He wasn’t speaking to Saturday; he was obviously talking on the phone, but the voice was so sensuous that she stood transfixed to the spot in front of the cart. Pretending to peruse through the peaches in front of her, she surprised herself by actually straining her ears to eavesdrop on the oblivious man’s phone call!
“Yes, of course,” he said. “In the basement, yes. That’s where I want them. All of the boxes….”
“Pay attention. Be. Careful. Those items are very valuable to me…”
Jeez, he’s pretty bossy. Is he talking to movers? He sounds so stern.
Saturday took another step to the side, grabbing a peach on top of the display, still maintaining her charade.
Ok, move along, girl. He’s going to know that no one is THAT interested in peaches. Especially sucky and decaying ones like today’s batch.
Just as Saturday was moving to the grapes, she decided that now was the time to sneak her peek. She glanced over her right shoulder…and she was not disappointed.
He stood tall and muscular in black gym clothes (shorts and a t-shirt) with a phone at his ear and his mouth set in determination on his face.
He had a black baseball cap on to match, covering his eyes, and his lips were full and inviting as he spoke.
Suddenly, he leaned in closer to the phone, his head now bowed and his voice low and heated.
“You listen to me, carefully. I told you what I wanted, and that’s not what you did. So, from now on, you will do exactly what the fuck I tell you to… and I am not going to tell you twice.”
His face was like stone: his lightly bearded jaw clenching and unclenching as he spoke.
Oooh, he’s pissed.
And yet, she wasn’t put-off by it; in fact, that only made Saturday more interested.
IN FACT, she was trying to lean in so closely to hear his conversation that she placed too much of her weight on the fruit cart, and citrus went bouncing everywhere off of the cart as it lurched forward.
SHIT.SHIT.SHIT.SHIT!
Saturday went scrambling after the runaway fruit, as she felt a figure swoop in to help her. Mr. Bossy in Black, himself, had placed his phone in his pocket and began to help her gather all of the produce.
Their arms brushed past each other as they worked on returning the fruit to their proper bins. Saturday’s hair stood on end every time. Others walked around them during the whole debacle (this fucking city, I tell ya), but he made quick work of the process, placing things back in her basket and on the stand. She grabbed the last lime from the edge of her foot and placed it on the display mantle.
Saturday stood from her kneeling position, brushing her hands vigorously on her shorts to free them of any grime. She pulled her back straight, using her shaky hands to swoop wild strands of hair back behind her ears.
Now, she had to say something to him. Saturday realized that she had wanted to speak to him since the moment she got a glimpse of him. And now, after what he’d done, she couldn’t just leave or ignore him.
Oh, boy. Here goes.
Despite her disheveled appearance and nerves, she decided that she would put on her best face to thank the helpful man: Mister Bossy Man, Mr. God-you-smelled-really-good-and-seem-so-cute. She exhaled loudly, put on her biggest smile and turned around, right hand extended to finally greet him, but he was nowhere to be found….
***
Saturday night.
Bright lights. Cool paints.
Saturday reached out to the touch the frame of the painting in front of her, caressed it like a lover’s face. Oh, baby. Come to mama.
Her fingers slid down its length. She enjoyed each of the arts (dance, music, sculpting, all of it), but there was something visceral about her feelings for paintings. Instinctual. Longing…that’s what it was.
A need to possess such beauty. To be the proprietor or the creator. She had a painter’s heart, and had been spilling that heart on canvases since she picked up a brush in 7th grade Art.
She stepped back from the painting, making a mental note of the artist. Beaumont. She loved his work. She had been a tour guide at the Clairvoyage gallery for two years, and she had yet to see a work of his that she did not absolutely love.
Saturday walked to the other side of the room, giving the painting a final glance. Bye, baby. Tonight was going to be a huge exhibit for the gallery, and she was pumped. A quick visit to the ladies room mirror, and she felt pretty good about the sandy-haired brunette staring back at her.
Honey-colored eyes, long mascara-aided lashes, red lips. Her athletic build was on wonderful display in the dress she wore that matched her lipstick. A deep side part with one side of her long hair pinned back topped the look off and she was back on the floor, showing colorful wonders to a packed house.
Room to room. Wall to wall. She displayed as much as she could, as she and the other guides performed a dance around each other, taking their respective grou
ps through a choreographed walk of the gallery.
She joked with the gallery guests, engaging them in light banter about the art and artists. Teaching the history and inspiration behind artistic pieces was fun for her. During these exhibits, she always hoped to pass that enthusiasm on to others.
Saturday led her group to the next display, and then she saw it.
A pair of emerald green eyes appeared next to the nearest display case, and then disappeared just as quickly, vanishing behind a white wall. She was pretty sure she glimpsed brown hair and stubble framing the sight, but there was no mistaking the eyes that she saw. Wow.
Saturday continued roaming the halls of the gallery with her tour group: motioning, gesturing, and explaining. And yet, half of her was focused on the beautiful man with the piercing eyes.
Every time her gaze was diverted for a second, there were those eyes. Around a corner. In the background. There. Gone. Back again. For over an hour. Then…nothing.
He disappeared behind a large display and did not reappear. Saturday secretly scanned the crowd for the next 30 minutes, but she didn’t see him again.
She re-focused on her spiel about the current sculpture in front of her. Forty-five more minutes, and Saturday was navigating her last group through the gallery. Almost there. Her feet were killing her. Whyyy did I decide to wear heels? She had just been relieved of her duties, and was eager to get some well-needed time off of her feet.
Finally. Saturday plopped down on the nearest bench, gingerly rubbing her now heel-less (Thank Heavens!) feet. Focused on soothing her poor, fatigued soles, Saturday did not notice the tiny moan that escaped her mouth, nor did she notice the shadow that was now descending upon her.
“That good, huh?” said a familiar voice from above her.
Behind the Blindfold: A Sexy Mystery Duet Page 1
