Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2)

by Manda Mellett

  But what had he said before? My cheeks redden, recalling his harsh comment and the description he’d used about my lack of sexual experience; though there’s no doubt he’s right, I just didn’t like it being spat out at me. Especially in that way.

  I’ve already recognised his self-assurance, his confidence. Have already deduced he had to have had so much experience with women as to put him out of the reach of such a novice like me. But now I’m learning he’s in an entirely different league. He goes to Club Tiacapan; he has to be sexual Dominant, as he’s certainly not submissive! Why hadn't I cottoned on to that earlier? It should have screamed out at me, the way he acts, the way he behaves. That low, authoritative voice. I’ve written about enough Doms, trying to describe their psyche. So how could I have missed that this man sitting beside me is all Dom? As the realisation dawns, I turn my head to look out of the window, too nervous to even look at him now I’ve fathomed what he is and conscious this new fact about him both thrills and terrifies me all at the same time. I never expected him to know about, let alone be involved in the BDSM lifestyle. And he’s suggested taking me to Club Tiacapan? What would he expect of me there? Any expectation would be more than I could give. I look down at my hands, clasped tight together in my lap. Though he could have phrased it more kindly, he’s right; it’s only a technicality that I’m not an actual virgin. I shiver, feeling uneasy.

  He takes one of my hands in his; I feel the pressure of his fingers against mine. “Ask,” he invites, economically.

  I swallow, suddenly timid, wanting to check my intuition is right. “How can you possibly get me into Club Tiacapan?”

  “Simple,” he chuckles, “I’m a member.”

  I turn to stare at him. “But the fees… are you that rich?”

  He seems to grow a little tense, as if there’s something he’s not telling me, then relaxes and smirks, “I know a sheikh.”

  “The same one you got shot for? The one who gave you this car?”

  I watch him give an uneasy nod. He doesn’t glance at me again, and from his posture, I take it he would prefer I didn’t question it further. But I suppose it’s sufficient to resolve that mystery; I’d be very grateful too if someone had saved my life. So I get back to the main topic, “And you can really take me as a guest? Tomorrow?”

  He considers it for a moment, and then confirms it. “Grade A Security has thoroughly investigated your background, Mia. There won’t be a problem with your temporary membership in that respect. But there will be some documents you’ll need to sign. Discretion and confidentiality are critical due to the type of members we have.”

  “Do I have to sign in blood?” I try to lighten the mood.

  He remains serious. “No, but understand you’d be risking being ruined financially if you broke the agreement.”

  I’m not worried; I have no intention of doing so. “How do I get the documents?” I already know that there’s no website on the internet. Or not that I’ve been able to access.

  “I’ll get them sent to me by email. Your printer works okay, doesn’t it?”

  I tell him it does, well, when it hasn’t had a falling out with my laptop that is. Wifi, the ban of my life.

  We drive on in silence, heading back round the M25, which is surprisingly clear at the moment, though probably won’t be for long. Although the variable speed limits and fourth lane seem to have helped, particularly around Heathrow accidents happen with frightening regularity and traffic can build up in a flash. I find some amusement in the keen attention the McClaren is drawing, and almost preen in my seat with reflected glory, but my mind’s taken off the cars around us when he starts speaking again.

  “Really you need to have health tests done before going to the club and have the paperwork to show you’ve tested clear. But in your case, there’s not much doubt about that and I can vouch for you. You won’t be allowed to play in the private rooms without medical clearance, though.”

  So seven years abstinence qualifies me for the club. Hmm. Not being allowed into the private rooms? No worries. I don’t intend to play at all, so that doesn’t bother me one bit. I see him cast a sideways glance at me.

  “Mia, we’re going to need to talk about this. You’ll be going to the club with me, but you’ll be going as a sub. A submissive.”

  I know what that is, but I’ve never thought of myself in that way. Could he be right? Hiding my thoughts, I smirk. “I could be a Domme.”

  His barked laugh is one of disbelief. “Mia, I really can’t see you leading a man by a collar and leash or attaching a cage to his balls.” He continues laughing as I huff, but to be honest, he’s right. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do if someone wanted to be dominated by me. Which causes me to wonder, perhaps I am a sub? I’d really never thought of myself that way.

  “You’re a Dom?” I summon up the courage to ask for the confirmation I don’t really need. His manner and his caring, protective nature have given him away. Again I shiver, wondering what it would be like to place myself utterly and literally in his hands and under his control. Despite my fears, I shift a little in my seat, trying to get more comfortable as the thought makes my stomach muscles contract. I wonder just what he likes. If I’m going to the club with him, will I be his submissive? No, of course, I won’t, he’s probably got someone there he’ll be playing with.

  Don’t be stupid, Mia, you don’t want to be anyone’s submissive. The thought, almost shouted in my head, brings me back to my senses. Having been forced and raped, I’ll never willingly give up control. My visit to the club is purely for research. A tremble shudders down my body as memories return; of being tied up and unable to defend myself in any way. No, Jon’s just getting me into the club. He can go play while I watch, listen, absorb, and learn. I’ll fade into the background; I’m used to that.

  After a while, I realise he hasn’t answered my question; he hasn’t confirmed or denied my assumption. But then he doesn’t have to. I already know the answer. There can be no doubt about it. He’s a Dom.

  Turning off the motorway Jon takes the Epping road. As we get closer to home, I have something else to worry about as I start dreading what might be waiting for me at home. Tension starts to creep over me again as I wonder whether my stalker paid another visit. Could he, even now, be lying in wait for me? As if anticipating my concern, Jon drives straight past my house and pulls into the car park of the Blazing Donkey. I give a sigh of relief as he cuts the engine, and find it hard to believe it was only yesterday we were last here So much has happened it seems much longer ago that that. I look at him questioningly as he parks the car.

  “Food,” he says, aptly giving the reason with just one word, then gives me an apologetic smile. “Do you mind going in and ordering for us? I have a couple of calls to make first.”

  Gently teasing him, asking if this is his way of getting a drink out of me, and then waving his protests away, I tell him, of course, I don’t mind. After checking what he wants, I go inside to be greeted by the landlord like an old friend, although I’ve not been here very often. To be honest I resent paying the cost of one glass of wine when I could get a whole bottle to drink at home for the same price from a supermarket.

  It’s mid-afternoon, and once again the pub isn’t crowded. The landlord confirms they’re still serving food so, having bought a wine and Jon’s choice of real ale; I collect a couple of menus from the rack on the bar, and take them to the same secluded table we were at before. Coming to the Blazing Donkey is becoming a habit, I smile to myself as I sit down and wonder what calls Jon’s making that he needs privacy for, then realise that I'm probably not his only case.

  The case, a job. That’s all I am to him, and I’ve got to remember that. No use yearning over something that’s out of reach to me. Yearning? I pull up sharply. My body may be having a perfectly normal, albeit very unusual for me, reaction when I’m forced to be in close proximity with an extremely attractive member of the opposite sex, but that doesn’t mean I’m going, or even want,
to act on any physical urge. And though I can’t help but like the man well, who wouldn’t? He’s so sexy, kind, a natural protector, but I certainly can’t afford to form any emotional attachment. It must be the situation we’re in and his role as my bodyguard that naturally makes me dependant on him causing me to see things which aren’t there. God, what would he think if he knew some of the thoughts going through my head? In your dreams, Mia! And don’t forget he’s a Dom, not a man someone like you should get involved with.

  And then the man in question enters the pub, pausing in the doorway to scan over the occupants, before coming striding across to me as if he owns the place. Confidence oozes off of him. He sits, pushing back strands of dark hair which have flopped over his forehead and flashing that charismatic smile. Even though I’m wary of that look, as if he’s laughing at a joke which I’m not privy too, his attractiveness zooms up into the stratosphere. I admit it; this man is sex on legs, and a woman would have to be dead not to respond. My mouth purses as my welcome dies on my lips, and I turn and look in the other direction, afraid I’m going to give myself away. My pep talk had no effect on my libido at all.

  Oblivious to the thoughts going through my head, he peruses the menu. I order a burger; he goes for the steak. Once he comes back from placing the order, he gets out his laptop which, having been caught up with assessing his physical characteristics, I’ve only just noticed he’d brought in with him. He opens it and calls up a program. Leaning forwards, I can see pictures of my house, all taken from different angles. Raising my eyebrows, I glance at him.

  He nods, thoughtfully, and offers an explanation. “I thought it best to check what’s being going on while we’ve been out before we go back to your house. We don’t want any surprises.”

  I cock my head to one side. “We can do that?”

  “Yes, the cameras have motion sensors, so we can see anything that’s triggered them since Howie installed them yesterday. I’ll set up the program on your laptop too, later.”

  “Hopefully they won’t have picked up anything,” I say, sipping the wine that I’d watched the barman pour, and hadn’t taken my eyes away from while I was standing at the bar.

  “Here’s something.” He presses a button, and a video starts to play. Something had caused the cameras to start filming during the night, the pictures are black and white from the night vision cameras, but they’re surprisingly sharp and clear. I hold my breath, worried about what I’m going to watch, but it’s certainly not my stalker, it’s a pair of deer, jumping over my fence and munching on my plants!

  “Huh!” I laugh with relief and surprise. “I wondered what was eating them.”

  We watch for a while until the deer jump away again, and the camera shuts down. Apart from the postman arriving this morning, nothing else triggered them again. “See,” Jon says, looking at me reassuringly. “It’s safe to go home.”

  He thinks of everything to make sure I’ve both physically and emotionally safe. Just like a Dom taking care of his sub. I shake my head to get that thought right out of my mind. He’s good at his job is all!

  The food, while not exactly gourmet is satisfying, but we don’t linger after we’ve eaten it. When we arrive home, I’m nervous when I open the front door and see the pile of letters on the floor beneath the letterbox. Having a quick scan through them, I’m relieved when there’s doesn’t immediately appear to be anything amiss; it looks like I’ve got a couple of credit card statements and some flyers for things I don’t want or need. There have been no messages on the home phone either. My stalker appears to have given me the day off. Or perhaps he’s seen Jon with me and given up? That thought is a bit concerning, what if he’s holding off while I’ve got protection, lulling me into a false sense of security? If nothing else happens, Jon will probably close the case and leave me alone. You’re thinking too far ahead, woman, just deal with it day by day. I don’t tell Jon my worries; I keep them to myself. For now, I’m safe, and that’s enough.

  The rest of the day passes quickly. Jon settles himself to read more of my books, which makes me uneasy. It’s awkward watching him reading the words I’ve written; I don’t want to see his facial expressions, or hear any comments he might make. Generally, I don’t care what anybody thinks – like it or not, buy the book or don’t – but with him, it’s as if I’m baring my soul. And now I know he’s got the experience to know what he’s talking about. What if he can see things I’ve got wrong? I try my best to be accurate, but lack the practical experience to be confident I’ve got everything right.

  Seeing my uneasiness, he did take the time to explain he’s not reading them for fun or titillation, instead using them to get a feel for anything that might have triggered my stalker. But even so, I’m still too embarrassed to stay in the same room while he reads, so I secrete myself in my upstairs office, quickly getting lost in the goings on of my characters and putting in half a day’s word count; far more than I expected to do. I’m on a roll, this could be my best book yet, and the emotional turmoil I’m going through continues to inspire what’s appearing on the page.

  In the middle of the evening, I’m brought out of a particularly intense scene when he comes up to ask to use my printer. Giving him the printer name I stretch, rolling my neck and shoulders. Goodness, it’s already dark outside! I’d totally lost myself there.

  The printer jerks into life beside me. When it stops churning out paper, Jon picks up the sheets, collates them, and, after helping himself to my stapler, brings the documents over to my desk. Pulling up the spare chair, he sits next to me, giving me a probing look as he hands them over. There are two documents, one fairly thin, one thicker, and both have the heading Club Tiacapan on them written in gold script. Engrossed in another world with my characters I’d almost forgotten about our previous conversation, and that I would need to sign them. If I wanted entrance to that exclusive club, that is.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  I cock my head to one side, querying his question.

  “To come to the club tomorrow?” He clarifies.

  As a response to his searching gaze, I give a definite nod. After a second, he looks away and points to the top one. “This is the confidentiality agreement.”

  Picking it up, I start to read it through. As I interpret the paragraphs of legalese I realise what he’d told me had been right; they’ll basically bankrupt me if I break the agreement. But I have no hesitation signing it; it provides protection and the promise of anonymity for me as much as anyone else.

  Then he picks up the second document and lays it down. “You know what this is?”

  I glance down, and for a second I forget to breathe. Looking over at him, I gasp softly, “A limits list?” Of course, I should have expected a club with the reputation of Tiacapan would go through all the formalities. At the other type of club I’d been planning to go to I’d probably either be given a brief checklist on arrival or even, nothing at all. Having thought about it, Jon is right. Going to that kind of place would have been a risk. Belatedly I realise how grateful I am he’d stopped me.

  He nods, confirming that is indeed what he’s just laid down. “You write about limits, so I know you’re familiar with them. Have you ever filled a list in before?”

  I snort. “Of course not!”

  He smirks. “I thought you might have filled one in for fun or as part of your research. Anyway, you need to have this completed before tomorrow.”

  With a dismissive shrug, I pass it back to him without writing anything. “I don’t intend to play, so it’s pointless.”

  For a second, he just stares at me as his face tightens into a frown. He doesn’t look particularly happy with my response. “You’re the one who wanted the experience. Deciding what you are and aren’t comfortable with is all part of that. How can you write convincingly about something you haven’t done?” His knuckles knock twice on the papers on the desk, and then he stands and strides to the door. Pausing, and turning back before leaving the room he tel
ls me, “You won’t get entrance unless you complete that form and sign it, and it’s put on record at the club. So, if you want to go with me tomorrow, I suggest you give it some thought. I’ll give you some space to decide what to do. If you want to come to the club, complete it. If you’re having second thoughts, then don’t. There’s no problem either way, no harm if you’ve changed your mind. I’m not pushing you to do anything you’re not ready for. It’s your decision, Mia.”

  Before I can stop them, or consider how wise they are, words fly from my mouth, “If I don’t come with you tomorrow, Jon, will you still be going to the club?”

  He looks astonished I’ve asked, and so am I. Why should I care what he does on his down time? And surely he must get time off at some point, although up to now he hasn’t left my side. Holding up his hands, his palms facing me as if to ward off any further personal enquiries he finally replies, “Perhaps not tomorrow, but sometime, yes. I regularly go, Mia. I’m a member, as I told you.”

  Not wanting to analyse why that answer hits me like a rejection, I turn back to the papers he’s left on my desk as I hear his heavy feet clomp down the narrow wooden stairs. It appears futile to protest. If I want to go to the club – and boy, do I want to go – I need to complete the blasted form. Dexie, I may need some help here! With one finger I slide the paperwork towards me.

  The instructions are clear. I have to put ‘No’ to things I absolutely wouldn’t try under any circumstances and ‘Yes’ or ‘Maybe’ for other activities. My first inclination is to put a resounding negative response on every item on the page; every single entry on the list terrifies me, but I’m certain he won’t be letting me get away with that. And worse, if he’s right, it will deny me entry to the club. I suppose that makes sense, why would anyone want to go to a BDSM club when they weren’t prepared to take part in any activity at all? Unless, of course, they’re an author like me and simply going to get some ideas to spice up their books. I grin to myself, I’ve no intention of playing in the club, but to gain admittance, I have to pretend and go through the motions. So, now I’ll just have to pull up my big girls pants and get down to the task I’ve been set.