by Cole, Harper
I tried to kick the tail lights out of their housing. I'd heard tales about the cops pulling vehicles over for faulty stop lights, and hoped maybe I'd get lucky. But they were screwed in somehow, and I did nothing but hurt my ankle. I was wearing thin slippers.
By the time the van pulled to a stop, I was shaking with cold and fear and pain, but I was still screaming as loud as I could.
The doors popped open. I had been fantasizing about leaping out and escaping but the reality was that I could not move. One of the beefcakes reached in and hauled me out, lifting me up so that my feet dangled in the air. I kicked and I screamed until he put his hand on my mouth again, and pinched my nose till I could not kick at all.
He let me breath again, and said, "Stop your shite or I'll knock you out, a'right?"
I went limp, and he took that as agreement.
We were on a gravel driveway that led up to a house surrounded by trees; I didn't think we'd driven far out of London but it was hard to tell. The sky was orange from street lights so I knew we were still in urban surroundings. The house was large with many yellow-lit windows, and I was carried into a spacious and opulent hall with a sweeping staircase and marble-looking floors.
I wasn't put down until we entered a huge room that was full of elegant couches, low tables, and sculptures everywhere. It was all red velvet and dark wood, and hissed with money.
My legs wouldn't support me; I buckled and fell to the floor, unable to catch my balance with my hands still behind me. I gathered a huge lungful of air again, preparing to scream, when a door at the far end of the room opened, and a man walked in.
That man.
The one from the car, who had offered me a job.
He smiled when he saw me, as if he had just bumped into me on the street and was delighted to meet me. He nodded at the man looming behind me.
"Jack, do free Ms. Turner's arms. Thank you. You may leave us."
The tape was ripped from my wrists, one more layer of pain on top of my sore ankles and throbbing jaw. The sight of this man had taken all the wind from me. I rubbed at my wrists, and stayed kneeling on the floor, watching him warily as he approached.
He stopped a few feet away. He was dressed in a dark suit, as if he had just stepped out of a business meeting, but he wore it with such ease that I guessed he never wore anything else.
"Welcome to my home. What's mine is yours, et cetera, et cetera," he said, waving his hand.
"Fuck you, you fucking fucker," I spat. Okay, not my most cutting retort ever, but it pretty much summed up exactly how I felt right now.
He made a tutting sound of disappointment. "Oh, Ms. Turner. Surely Andrew does not tolerate such language from a lady? I certainly don't."
"Fuck off." Andrew? Okay … what was going on here?
He stepped forward and slapped me across my cheek, the opposite way to where I'd been punched, but it made my teeth rattle nonetheless and I bit back my sob. It hurt like a mofo but I didn't want to let this jerk know he was getting to me.
"Ms. Turner," he said, his voice hard. "While you are a guest in my house, I expect a certain level of respect. A civil tongue in your head, if you please."
"I'm not a guest. I've been kidnapped."
"I am sorry to hear that," he said, sounding completely unconcerned. "You'll be here at my pleasure for a few days while I explain how beneficial it would be if you were to choose to work for me."
"Fuck you."
I knew it would earn me another slap, and I didn't care. He could knock me unconscious, but I wouldn't agree to work for him.
He raised his hand but hesitated, and I made eye contact with him.
I recognized him.
Those were Andrew's eyes looking back at me.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked before his hand connected with my cheek again and I was thrown to the floor.
He watched me as I scrabbled back to my knees, and tipped my head back defiantly. Once I was sitting upright once more, my butt on my feet, he said, "I am Leonard Walker-Wilkinson, my dear. Had you not worked it out?"
Sure I had, but only in the past ten minutes. What the fuck was going on? "You're Andrew's father."
"Why, yes. Of course. Sadly, my dear son and I have had some misunderstandings. Mostly from his stubbornness, I must add. I would dearly love to be reconciled with him. He needs bringing back to the fold."
"You're barking up the wrong tree," I said. "We're not in a relationship or anything. I'm not going to be any use as some kind of bargaining chip." What did he think would happen? He'd tell Andrew I'd be harmed if Andrew didn't come and make up with his daddy? It was bullshit.
"Oh, no, that's not at all what I have in mind. Would you like a drink? Something to calm your nerves?"
I bit back the instinctive "fuck you" that sprang to my lips. "No." Nor was I going to say "no, thank you." Fuck him.
"As you wish. No, I have no doubt that Andrew cares nothing for you. He cares for no one. I raised him well, my dear. He is a man, and one that I hope to be proud of one day, but sadly he has let his teenage rebellion drag out for far longer than is seemly. It is time that he returned to the fold, and to the role laid down for him in the family."
Now I wanted to argue with him. Andrew did care for me. Maybe not in any conventional way. But surely there was more between us than just sex? Or was I deluding myself?
"I'm not going to work for you." The feeling had returned to my limbs, now. I started to get to my feet. I hated that I was kneeling at this jerkoff's feet.
"You'll stay with me for a few days while I show you how wonderful life will be when you make the right decision. It won't compromise your current role, by the way. Oh, I know you're a feisty and ambitious young lady, and you can certainly continue with your current employment. Meanwhile, however, you'll do some fact-finding for me, that's all."
Oh Jeez. He wanted me to be some kind of spy? What, against his own son? I shook my head. "No. Just let me go."
"I believe that one million dollars is a not-inconsiderable sum."
I stopped. Everyone had their price, didn't they? I wasn't lacking money. But a million? Sure, a billion would be better. But a million …
No, no, no. I shook my head again, more vehemently. "No!"
"It would help your sister. It is such a shame that they are going to take away their house. Where will they go? Your mother doesn't have room."
"You fuck." I couldn't stop the words, and he reached out and struck me again, and this time as I tumbled back the world went black around me, and my last thought was that I had to choose.
The money. Or Andrew.
Chapter Ten - Andrew
While I waited for the police to arrive at Jas's flat, I prowled around. I didn't touch anything, but I wanted to get more a flavor of who she was.
A workaholic - that was the overriding impression that I had. She was careful, clean, neat and obsessive.
I had suspected she was desperate to control all aspects of her life, but seeing her shoes laid out in color order, and her pristine kitchen, and her careful stack of books ranked by size, made me realize just how desperate she was. There would be a reason, I knew.
I told myself that she needed a Master. Someone like me, obviously, who could ease the burden. I could step in and take control for a little while, and allow her to relax.
If only it were that easy. I'd been around plenty of dungeons, and I'd indulged in lots of BDSM sex play, and I'd had some submissive girlfriends. Yet my relationship with Jas had the potential to be different and I wasn't quite sure what the difference was. I felt a greater responsibility and it made me both excited - and nervous.
I wasn't usually a nervous person.
I had never wanted to be a "lifestyler" and if I were completely honest, I wasn't sure if people really lived as Master and Slave or Dom and Sub all the time. Of course, some people said they did, but I couldn't quite comprehend it.
I wasn't sure what to do.
My musings were interrupted - to m
y relief - by the arrival of London's finest from the Metropolitan Police. It had taken them forty minutes, and they had sent a fat cop with egg on his chin and a PCSO - essentially a "plastic policeman" with limited powers. They wore the uniform and strolled around to make the public think there were more police around than there really were.
I explained the situation and they took some notes but they seemed unconcerned. I insisted that the signs of forced entry were worrisome but they shrugged.
An adult woman living alone was considered flighty. Who knew what such types got up to, it was implied.
By the time they left - a scant fifteen minutes after they had arrived - I was fuming. I didn't even have a crime reference number as they were not convinced a crime had taken place. It wasn't my accommodation so I could not insist there had been a break in.
The PCSO had been maddeningly patronizing. "She'll turn up again. They usually do. My missus once went off for a week. We'd had a row, you know. Huge argument. Plates smashed, the lot. Anyway. Let us know when she comes back. She can report the break-in to us. If there was. You'll probably find she's just had a bit of an upset. Some women, eh? Eh?"
I would have smacked his silly mouth if I could have done. I could only snarl at them and watch them walk away.
* * * *
I had made Jas's flat as secure as I could by calling out a late-night locksmith. It wasn't cheap but I was hardly short of cash. Then I made my way home, and spent a fitful and restless night.
I was able to contain myself until midday the following day, and then I broke. I rang the police and tried to establish what they were going to do. I had hoped that speaking to someone on the day shift might be more amenable than the rejects that had been relegated to night duty.
I was informed, with curt derision, that it was "not a priority" and the call was abruptly terminated.
Not a priority? I had emphasized to them Jas was new to London; she was involved in large business deals; that she had clearly been targeted.
Had the police been leant on?
Who had that sort of power?
Who had any sort of power, I thought. I knew one man who might be able to help me untangle all of this.
But it would be a bitter pill to swallow to go and ask him for help.
How much did I really want to help Jas? A lot, I had to concede. But enough to go and beg my father to help me? He could insist that the police gave us assistance. Hell, my father had enough contacts throughout government and the civil service to start his own investigation and find her.
If I were to meet up with my father, it would make the old bastard very happy. He was behind those messages on my phone. He'd been ramping up the campaign since I'd returned to London. I knew he expected me to join him in business and politics and the fact that I'd spurned his carefully managed empire had disappointed him. But children had to make their own way in life - he just didn't seem to be proud that I was doing exactly that.
Still, how long could we continue this rivalry? We were at an impasse. Maybe if I went to ask for his help and advice, it would start to build a bridge between us, and he would eventually come to understand that I needed to be independent of him. I could make my own way, without his influence.
He would make me beg, I thought. I would have to eat a lot of humble pie. I'm a Dom, damn it! No one tells me what to do - not even him.
But for Jas?
My father was the only one I knew that had enough power to help me now.
Chapter Eleven - Jas
I awoke in a luxurious bedroom, my legs tangled in fine cotton sheets. There was a soft light filtering through the drapes. I was naked, and alone.
I sat up carefully and felt my face with my fingers. My cheek was tender to the touch, and my feet throbbed. There was red, broken skin on my wrists from the tape. I was hungry yet feeling nauseous, too. And my head pounded.
On the table to my right was a pitcher of water and I was thirsty enough to chance it. So it might be poisoned or drugged? So what. Things could not get any worse, could they?
Apart from the bed and the table, there was nothing else in the room. I pulled at the sheets, thinking I might create some kind of kimono or sarong from one of them. I was planning on smashing my way out through the window.
I had just begun to wrap a sheet awkwardly around my body when the door opened and I froze.
It was that man. Andrew's father. Leonard Walker-Wilkinson. Or, Jerkwad-Asshat as I was calling him in my head. Total Jerkwad-Asshat.
I was still sitting in the bed, but at least I was covered up. I straightened. My instinct was to start hollering and demanding that he release me, but I bit my tongue.
"Ms. Turner. I trust you slept well?"
I glared, but did not speak.
He paused but when it was obvious I was going to stay silent, he went on. "I shall have some clothing brought in for you. I should like you to join me in the drawing room and I shall explain my business proposal in greater depth. I shall also explain the - ahh, let us say - the penalties that might arise should you refuse my generous offer. Gemma will come in to attend to you momentarily."
He whisked away and no sooner had the door closed than it opened again, and a bland, mousey sort of woman crept in. She had dull brown hair and no make-up, and she was carrying a pair of smart black slacks and a cream sweater. She laid it all out on the bed, along with some lingerie and a hairbrush, and then stepped back, folding her hands together in front of her.
"So don't I get a little privacy to dress, then?" I said.
She looked at the end of the bed, not at me, but she said, "No, you do not."
Her flat and defiant tone of voice took me completely by surprise. She was not going to be a pushover. Still, I had to try. "This Leonard jerk take a lot of women prisoner?"
"He takes no one prisoner. Dress, please. He is waiting."
"I will be going straight to the cops, you know. You really wanna be an accomplice in all this?"
I swear the corner of her mouth lifted in a sneer or a smile or something. "Dress, please."
I snatched at the clothing and dressed with angry, jerky movements.
* * * *
The sullen Gemma led me out of the bedroom and along a bare corridor, down some stairs and into a wide and luxurious room. This place was a total head fuck. Some rooms were prisons; some were palaces. This particular room was tricked out like Downton Fucking Abbey. There were long windows at one end, and through the gauzy drapes I could see wide green lawns and trees. So we were at ground level, then. Perhaps I could throw one of the marble busts through the glass and make my escape.
I inched forward.
Leonard Jerkwad-Asshat stood up. He was still in a dark, sober looking suit, and he smiled as if he was delighted to see me. Once I had felt comforted and relaxed by that smile.
Now I wanted to rub broken glass in his face.
"Come," he said, beckoning me to the table at the far end of the enormous room. "Let me show you-"
There was a tap at the door and a butler from the nineteenth century oozed in. Seriously, he was wearing a bow tie and looked like he'd been scrubbed with a brush dipped in history. He whispered something in Leonard Jerkwad-Asshat's ear, who raised his eyebrows, and then nodded.
The ancient retainer slid out - I swear he was on castors. Maybe he'd been recruited from the Addams Family. And a moment later, my heart nearly flipped out my mouth when Andrew walked in.
"Ahh." Leonard moved closer to me, and gripped my elbow firmly. I pulled at it, but his clasp was iron. "So. Welcome home, Andrew. Have you come to beg for her?"
Andrew's face was sheer horror. He glared at me, and at his father. "What is she doing here?"
"She…"
"How did…"
"Did you not…?"
Andrew shouted above all the confusion. "What is she doing here, you bastard?"
Their faces were alike as I looked from one to the other, trying to unravel what was happening. They had similar build, a
nd similar facial expressions, too - in both cases, this was fury, right now.
And I felt a glimmer of fear. Leonard was the father. Andrew was the son. And both were alike.
I could choose Leonard, and money. But I wanted to choose Andrew … yet was he not the same as his father? I could see so many similarities and a trickle of doubt began to slowly fill my heart.
And Andrew wanted me to submit to him. Just as his father expected people to fall at his feet.
Leonard kept his hand tight on my arm. "She's here to work for me, Andrew. As I expect you shall, too. It is most fortuitous that you are here. Shall we make the most of this serendipity? Let us talk business."
"With you? Never. Never! Jas, what happened? Are you here willingly?"
"Hell, no!" To emphasize my point, I tried to pull free of Leonard's grip. "This asshole's ape-men broke into my apartment, dragged me here, and he won't let me go."
"Father!" Andrew strode forward, and Leonard simply raised his right hand, palm out, as if it had some magical power.
"Stop, Andrew," he said in that firm, calm, I-shall-be-obeyed voice that teachers have.
It should have worked. Most parents have that way of saying something that takes you right back to being a kid again.
But it didn't work this time.
Andrew surged forward, right into our faces, and slammed his hand onto Leonard's wrist. "Let her go."
Leonard must have been surprised because he loosened his grip enough for me to wrench myself free. I dashed across the room toward the door, and then turned. I wanted to be close enough to an exit but I also needed to see how this was going to play out.
Leonard was furious. He had gone purple in the face, and he roared at his son. "Andrew! You have no respect, no sense of honor, no sense of duty - nothing! How do you expect to come into your inheritance if you continue to willfully ignore your responsibilities to the family?"
