Maybe, With Conditions

by Mariella Starr

  Maybe, With Conditions

  By

  Mariella Starr

  ©2016 by Blushing Books® and Mariella Starr

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

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  ABCD Graphics and Design

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  Starr, Mariella

  Maybe, With Conditions

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-575-6

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  EBook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

  Chapter One

  Washington, D.C., early March

  It was a dreary day. It had rained at dawn and then cleared. Now the sky was overcast and promising more rain. There was a heavy, cold dampness in the air. It wasn't raining yet, but it wouldn't be long before it started, again. It was a typical spring for the District of Columbia. The day before, the temperature had risen to seventy-eight degrees, overnight it had plunged back into the low thirties. The Cherry Blossom Parade was this weekend. However, if the rains didn't stop, the delicate blooms would all wash away before the tourists descended on the city.

  This type of day encouraged people to stay indoors and Nicole Bennett looked forward to going home. She wanted to be in front of a crackling fire, with a hot bowl of soup, and a good book. She also wondered if she would ever earn enough to get out of the city.

  Nicole shivered as she stepped out of the cab at the Georgetown residence matching the address on her cell phone. It was a large beautiful Federal-style house with plenty of original architectural details. She had done her homework. In this neighborhood, a house built in 1797 by the relative of a founding father would have a price tag in a seven to nine million-dollar range.

  She was impressed because it was a beautiful home, but she wondered if the occupants would impress her. She was used to dealing with wealthy entitled people. It was a necessary evil since they paid her bills. She was firmly planted in her reality of middle class.

  Nicole wore a charcoal gray pantsuit, designer labeled and expensive, although she had purchased it at her favorite consignment shop. She knew the shop owner who called Nicole whenever something came in on consignment in her size five and was fabulous—her friend's description—not hers. Nicole had purchased a limited designer wardrobe without spending a fortune, or going into debt. She required such a wardrobe for client meetings. She gravitated to the sleek and sophisticated, so business suits met her needs. She considered them a uniform, part of the image she wanted to project. She didn't aspire to be chic or stylish, but she couldn't afford to make a wrong first impression, either. At twenty-three, she was still carded. Her youthful appearance was often a negative since many of her clients were older. They recognized her talent and her reputation, but upon meeting her face-to-face, they sometimes became skeptical. The initial meeting with a potential patron was crucial in determining if she would get the commission.

  Nicole sighed and rummaged through her large tote for a comb. She gave her hair a quick run through and with a flick of her wrist twisted her long impossibly curly copper-red hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore very little makeup, a smear of smoky gray on her eyelids and a little mascara to highlight her teal green eyes. Someone had once described her eyes as ‘come hither' sexy. Maybe they were, but her gaze was that of a no-nonsense professional. She was here with only one goal in mind. Get the job.

  She was barely five foot two inches in height, and slight. People who didn't know her thought she was frail. Those who knew her—knew better. She was strong, capable and possessed a temper, which she tried to keep under rigid control.

  Nicole Bennett was a survivor. She had fought to build a reputation in the art worl
d and to have her talent recognized. She was her art, or her art was her, she had never decided how it had evolved. Her mouth curved at the corners over her musings as she squared her shoulders. It was time to get on with it. She had bills to pay. She painted for wealthy patrons in the Washington, D.C., area and her rates and steady commissions placed her in a category of comfortable living. She did what it took to survive in an expensive city.

  She could have worked harder to earn more, but she learned a long time ago, wealth was not the key to her happiness. Time was more important to her. She wanted more time for her family and for her personal art. Portraits, human or animal, paid the bills, but they were not her true calling. However, pleasing wealthy clients was important to her livelihood. The bottom line was, they paid well.

  With a light step, Nicole rang the bell at the ornate front door entrance and waited. Suddenly, her hand dove into a raincoat pocket for tissues. She sneezed five times in succession and leaned against one of the pillars at the brick entryway.

  Perhaps for the hundredth time since she had left her bed, she wished she had been able to postpone this interview. Nothing was worse than having a person's first impression disrupted by a series of sneezes and symptoms of a head cold. She had been sneezing and coughing all morning, as she had the day before. More symptoms of her spring cold were now in evidence. Her eyes were watering and her headache was worsening. She dreaded a disastrous runny nose.

  "Of course," she thought, "I had to wait until this appointment to come down with a cold." Mrs. Windgate was leaving for England within the week, and the interview could not be postponed. Mr. Windgate was the British Ambassador. If Nicole got this commission, the portrait of Mrs. Penelope Windgate would give her entry into a whole new class of wealthy, political clients.

  She sneezed again as she picked up her large bag containing folders of references and reviews, along with her portfolio and camera. As composed as she could be under the circumstances, she rang the bell, again.

  She was shown into a library by a maid and left alone. She settled herself in a comfortable chair and waited for Mrs. Windgate to appear. In her experience, wealthy clients always wanted to make an appearance rather than greeting their guests at the door as normal people did. After about five minutes, the library door opened and an elegant, almost regal woman entered followed by a younger man.

  Nicole rose to her feet to greet the woman and after the introduction was made, she was motioned to sit again. She was glad to sit because her knees were a bit wobbly. The man was Dalton.

  She tried not to look at him, but she couldn't stop herself. He hadn't changed much. He was six foot two inches of gorgeous male. He still had the same trim, masculine profile. They used to laugh about him being a full foot taller than her. He was probably still ripped under the conservative suit. She remembered everything about him. She realized he was prematurely gray at the temples. He shouldn't have gray hair, she thought wildly. Dalton is only thirty.

  "Hello, Nicole,"

  At his greeting, she stiffened her spine and snapped out of the past. She made a short, clipped response trying to ignore him as she turned her attention to her client.

  He was also a bastard!

  Dalton Calloway did not participate in the interview. He barely noticed what was being said. Making the trip to Washington, D.C., had not been his idea. He hated leaving his work and he was not one for taking time off. His grandparents had been particularly insistent about him accompanying them for this visit before his aunt left for England, again. He didn't know great-aunt Penelope very well as she had lived in Europe most of his life. She was the older sister of his grandfather, and he had been pressured into taking the trip with his grandparents. Then, at the last moment, his grandfather, Roy Mac had canceled. He had claimed he wasn't feeling well enough to make the journey, so Dalton had made the trip with his gran. A week in Washington, D.C., was Dalton's idea of Hell.

  His gran had flown home this morning for undisclosed reasons. He would leave tomorrow as the airline had not been able to book him a ticket on the same flight. His gran had sworn her leaving ahead of schedule was not a medically related emergency concerning his grandfather. It was the only reason Dalton had not charted a private plane. His itinerary for the next couple of days had been set until he walked into this library.

  The sight of Nicole stunned him. She had been his college sweetheart, but he had not heard from her in six years. She had grown even more beautiful with a flawless complexion except for a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Her eyes were the same, those striking teal green eyes. He took in every detail from the ridiculous high-heeled boots she wore, to her bright copper red hair hidden in an ugly knot at the back of her head. He remembered her hair spread out over a pillow, as he plunged himself deeply and satisfyingly into her.

  Dalton gave a start, got to his feet. He stood in front of a window with his back to her. He wasn't looking out the window. He was looking at her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. He wasn't surprised where his thoughts had gone instantly. He was a man and men reacted to physical memories. He turned slightly to adjust his pants covering the erection he was unable to stop. She had not changed much since he had seen her last and neither had his reaction to her.

  "Dalton?"

  "Yes, Aunt Penny," he replied shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

  "Ms. Madison says she doesn't present a contract until later in the process."

  "Why not?" he asked with a jolt as he realized her last name was different. His gut twisted at the discovery she must have married.

  Nicole glanced in Dalton's direction but she did not look at him directly. She focused somewhere over his shoulder before returning her attention to her potential client.

  "I don't need a contract for the preliminary stages of the work, Mrs. Windgate. I paint my portraits from an array of photographs I take in the initial stage. Most of my contact with you will be done through online communications. I will do a preliminary pastel drawing, photograph it, and submit it for your approval. If we agree and you are satisfied with my approach to the work, then I will provide a contract for digital signature. At that point, I must know if I am meeting your expectations before proceeding. You will be able to suggest any changes you think are necessary and I will incorporate them into a second pastel."

  "It's a lot of work on your part. What if your client changes their mind? You have a loss of time spent on the preliminary drawings and the client might decide to keep what you send them," Dalton said.

  "I'm not concerned about time loss. I'm concerned with rendering a portrait which pleases my client," Nicole disagreed. "Besides, a digital photograph of a pastel drawing with 'Proof' stamped over it would not be suitable for framing. Someone would have to be an expert in digital photo processing to remove the markings."

  "I saw Mrs. John Rainer's portrait and was quite impressed. Your work is remarkably good," Mrs. Windgate said. "However, if you'll excuse me for saying so, I didn't expect someone so young. I also thought there would be sittings."

  "Sitting for a portrait is a very time-consuming process, Mrs. Windgate, and most people don't have the time. They also find it uncomfortable sitting for the many hours it would require. Then there is the issue of juggling both of our schedules. I believe you are due to travel to England within the next few days. If sittings or face-to-face meetings were required, this would cause us quite a problem.

  "Instead, I will take a series of photographs today, which will take approximately thirty minutes. I will pose you, talk to you, and tell you what expressions I want. I will take a lot of photographs. From those, I will determine what I believe is the best combination of features and poses, and present you with preliminary sketches. When we both agree on the final pose and expression, I will proceed with a pastel portrait, which I will send you for approval, along with the contract. After I receive your feedback and the signed contract, I will begin painting. I will make you aware of my progress through photographs of the different
stages of the portrait until its completion."

  "Why don't we have coffee or tea while I make up my mind?" Mrs. Windgate suggested. She rose to her feet and excused herself.

  Nicole grabbed for a tissue out of her pocket and sneezed four times before laying her head back against the chair and shutting her eyes.

  "You sound terrible," Dalton commented.

  "It's only a spring cold."

  "What have you been doing with yourself since we last met?" Dalton asked.

  "Making a name for myself in the art world," Nicole said deliberately. She wished he would go away. Dalton Calloway had left a permanent mark on her life and her soul.

  Mrs. Windgate was gone for a long time, but there was no further conversation between Nicole and Dalton. She was not in the mood for casual chitchat. Her host finally returned followed by a maid carrying a tray. Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Windgate agreed to allow Nicole to take photographs of her.

  Nicole did this expertly, taking shots of the woman from every angle and every change of light in the room. When she was finished, Mrs. Windgate excused herself again, after asking her nephew to see the young woman to the door.

  "I can see myself out, thank you," Nicole said bluntly packing her gear.

  "Why are you so hostile?" Dalton asked. "You were the one who left. You were the one who disappeared."

  Nicole shot him a fierce look and shook her head. "Really? It's amazing. I remember our parting quite differently. You rejected me. You flat out told me you didn't want anything more to do with me. I was not good enough for you. If I remember correctly, you cited my immaturity and lack of focus," Nicole said bitterly.

  "I thought we were both too young to be so intensely involved," Dalton disagreed. "We were too young to jump into a committed relationship. At least, I was. I was at a turning point in my life! I did not reject you. I said we should cool it for a while and reevaluate what we both wanted. The next thing I knew, you were gone."