"I would like to, Stephen." There was a catch in her voice. "It never even occurred to me that you might hurt me. No one ever had. But you did hurt me. I waited for you. I was certain you'd be back for me. I fell crazy in love with you that day, but you disappeared."
Okay, it seemed he could make it worse, after all. "I’m so sorry," he said, really floundering now.
"I gave you my body and my trust, but you never even answered my emails. Now you’re back, with all your years of experience set against my years of marital wretchedness and abuse. I’m not the same sunny, carefree girl I was that summer, so I can’t blame you if you’re disinclined to call this, this, whatever it is, a ‘relationship.’"
She fled into the living room, to one of the large windows, where she stood staring out to sea. He moved in behind her and slid his arms around her waist, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. He loved the fragrance of her beautiful hair, the silky softness of her skin.
When she remained resistant, he murmured, "I'm sorry, love. Of course it’s a relationship. I hope it will be a long, happy one, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure of that."
He felt the tension drain from her body—she went from being rigid and stiff to supple and soft, and he felt once again the sharp, driving pulse in his dick that she always inspired in him. She turned to settle into his arms, and raised her lips in a peace offering. He kissed her gently and drew her closer, while she nuzzled his neck and ran her fingers over his shoulders in a tender way that made him want to shelter and protect her always.
"I’m sorry I’m such a mess. The last thing I want is to turn into Psycho Damaged Chick. I want to get my old self back—that happy, adventurous girl I was when we met. But I seem to have lost her somewhere along the way."
"I’ve dated one or two Psycho Damaged Chicks, and trust me, you’re a long way from winning that title." He stroked her cheek, and touched her bottom lip with his thumb. "As for that old self of yours, she’s still in there. I can see her, laughing, shining. Come on—smile for me."
She drew a couple of deep breaths, then tilted back her head and grinned. Mischief lit up her blue eyes. "Relationship, relationship, relationship," she teased him.
He made an elaborate show of wincing, as if the word had sent him into a tailspin, and she laughed. "Deer in the headlights, Silkwood? Who’s panicking now?" She punched him lightly in the bicep. "Relax. You’re such a male."
He felt an almost breathtaking relief. Just like that, she put an end to the uncomfortable discussion. A moment later, she made an innocuous comment about the Celtics game that was on that evening, and soon they were laughing and joking about their favorite professional sports teams.
Wow. I am serious about her, he thought.
Chapter 22
Viola was having a rough week. The end of semester rush was on at the college, with students panicking about work that was due but unfinished. And she was hard-pressed to get her final exams prepared and the various assignments and term papers graded. She seemed to catch the students' anxiety. Or was it her own that was tormenting her?
Her nights were restless, too. In the middle of the week, she woke from a darkly sexual and threatening dream in which Derek had changed back and forth into Stephen in a manner that freaked her out. When she jerked into full consciousness, her heart was running hurdles in her chest. It seemed to flop back into place as she sat up, only to race off at top speed as if it were trying to out-pump all the other hearts in the neighborhood. Sweat broke out and her intestines cramped. A feeling of doom descended and once again, she thought, "Fuck. I'm having another goddamn false heart attack."
Without Stephen’s warm body and comforting voice to calm her, the attack persisted for what seemed like forever. This sucked. Nobody would even know if she lost consciousness and died. She had her cell phone in her slippery palm, wondering if she should dial 911 and declare a medical emergency. But then she thought how embarrassing it would be if she summoned an ambulance when there was nothing wrong with her.
She finally remembered to breathe from deep in her belly and exhale slowly. She began to shiver, and she had to pee. When she got up to go to the bathroom, her legs felt so weak she was afraid she might fall. It was two in the morning and pitch-dark, which didn’t help. She didn’t want to call and wake one of her friends at this time of night just because she was feeling panicky.
She went into the kitchen made herself a soothing cup of hot chocolate, then curled up on her living room sofa to drink it. She wished she could stop stressing. She'd never thought of herself as a worrier, but Derek and the damn divorce must have changed her.
Stephen wasn't helping, either, she decided. She kept hearing his Bad Boy voice urging her to "scream now for me."
Stephen and his damned Bartholomew Giles.
She knew it made absolutely no sense to equate the two, but he had that weird-ass medieval dungeon.
Was she really safe in there with him? What if he assaulted her? What if he raped her? What if he put her in the hospital as Derek had done?
Her brain hurt. None of those things, she told herself irritably, were ever going to happen. Stephen was warm, sweet, and affectionate. He made her laugh. He was a genuinely nice man, who had comforted her when she’d been freaking out. He'd handled her panic attack with patience and understanding. He'd given her tender and reassuring aftercare.
The thing was, Derek had seemed trustworthy, too, until he’d beaten her unconscious. As far as she'd known, her ex had never harbored any violent fantasies. He hadn’t been into chains or floggers or mock-torture devices. He hadn’t created any fictional psychopaths who specialized in brutal inquisitions. If Derek could do what he had done, what was to stop Stephen, with his dark imagination, from doing something even worse?
Even as she tormented herself with these thoughts, she was aware how damaging they were. She and Stephen were good together. This could be the beginning of something awesome.
Despite the suggestion she'd floated about sticking with vanilla sex, she didn't think that was really what she wanted. She'd been excited by the kinky stuff. She had let him tie her up nine years ago; how could she possibly fear it now?
She was pacing in the living room of lonely house, her thoughts going round and round, when she noticed car lights outside. She lived on a quiet street without a lot of traffic, especially at this hour. She wouldn't have thought much about it except that the lights seemed to be coming from right in front of her house.
The lights went out. But there was no sound of a car moving away. Was someone out there? Maybe it was Stephen? Had he driven up from the Cape to see her? She felt a surge of excitement and listened for the sound of a car door closing, footsteps coming to her door.
But she heard nothing.
She approached the window. Moving the shade aside just a bit, she peered out. There was a car parked in the street just to the side of her house. In between her place and the next house. Because it was under a tree, which cast an even deeper shadow in the dim night, she couldn't see what kind of car it was.
It was unusual for someone to park on her street. People had driveways, garages.
Someone was in the car. It was quiet, engine turned off, but there was a faint glow coming from within, from the dashboard, perhaps.
Someone was watching her house.
Derek.
She snapped the curtain closed as panic gripped her again. It couldn't be Derek. He was in Australia, on the other side of the globe.
Hullo. Heard about airplanes? They're these things that take people from one side of the world to the other.
He can't come back.
Why not? It's not as if he was deported. He left of his own accord.
Her heart was pounding again. Her palms were sweating. Last night, just as she'd been falling asleep, her phone had rung. Thinking it was Stephen, she'd answered, but whoever was on the other end hung up.
Wrong number, she'd figured. Or maybe one of those super-anno
ying marketing calls.
But what if it hadn't been a wrong number? What if Derek was calling her the way he'd done before leaving the country? What if he was back and obsessed with her again?
Fuck. What should she do? Call the police? And tell them what? It wasn't illegal to drive down her street. Or even to stop. Maybe it had just been someone who was lost. Maybe they'd stopped to pull out a map. The cops would laugh at her. One hang-up and a strange car on her street didn't prove a thing.
With trembling fingers, she lifted the edge of the curtain just enough to peek out.
The mysterious car was gone.
Her breath rushed out in relief. She pulled the curtain back for a better look. No car. For a crazy moment she wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing. But no. Down at the end of the street, she saw the red glow of brake lights, then a turn signal. The car made a right turn and disappeared from her neighborhood. It had been there, but now it was gone.
She was getting paranoid. It had probably been a driver taking a cell phone call or sending a text. She'd pulled over herself to do that many times.
Stop acting crazy. Derek is thousands of miles away in Australia.
The next day at the college, she was a wreck. She couldn't concentrate on her work, and she had a really bad day of teaching. Usually she felt energized by her interaction with the students. But this time she barely had their attention. Her lecture came out sounding dull and her attempts to get a group discussion going fell flat. She was relieved when the hour crawled to a close and she could dismiss them.
When she began sneezing and feeling unwell, she was almost glad. No wonder she was having such a terrible day. She was coming down with the flu or something.
Late that afternoon when she got home, she made some hot tea, took some aspirin and wrapped herself up in a blanket on the sofa. Then she called Stephen to tell him that they should probably cancel their plans for her to go down again to the Cape when the weekend started. She didn't want him to catch her cold.
He didn't pick up the phone, though, and she hung up rather than leave that particular message. If she was going to cancel on him, he deserved an explanation. And a chance, maybe, to change her mind.
* * *
Stephen knew as soon as he heard her on the phone that evening that whatever had been bothering Viola all week was not releasing its grip on her mind and heart. She sounded worried and distant. He tried ignoring this and being cheerful, but she didn't respond with her usual enthusiasm to any topic he raised. He finally stopped trying to coax her out of her mood and asked, "Viola? What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. I have a cold and I might be going crazy, but other than that, I'm doing fine."
"Your voice does sound a little hoarse."
"Yeah, and I'm skulking in my own bedroom with the lights off."
"Skulking?"
"No, not really. Just feeling sorry for myself. My teaching sucked today. It's probably because of this damn cold."
"Well, bundle yourself up in bed and wait for me. I'll come up and take care of you until you feel better."
"No, don't. I mean, thank you so much for offering, but I don't want you to catch whatever I have."
"I never get sick. And even if I did, so what? We'll feel sorry for ourselves together. Just let me make sure the dog sitter can take care of Rusty for the weekend, and I'll drive up."
Another silence. He was getting a bad feeling about this. "I need some time, Stephen," she said.
Fuck. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. "Some time for what?" He could hear the way his own voice had hardened. Everybody knew what it meant when a woman "needed some time."
"It's not just my cold. I've got some issues I need to work on."
"Issues you need to work on?" He couldn't believe he was hearing these clichés from his bright, laughing Viola.
"I know it sounds trite, even ridiculous, but please don't give up on me. I just need to figure some stuff out."
"Viola, there is no way I'm giving up on you, or on what we've begun to discover again with each other. If you need time, I will give you time. But maybe there are ways I can help you. I'm a helpful guy. If you're worried, I'm a good listener."
"The thing is," she said slowly, "I'm trying to get more competent solving my own problems. Both my father and my—my husband," her voice shook slightly as she said that word, "exerted a lot of control over me. I allowed them to do it. It was so much easier that way. I can't let that happen again."
That's what she actually said. But what he heard was, "First my father dominated and controlled me, and then my husband did. Now you come along, acting just as dark and controlling as they were. They hurt me. You might too. You want to hurt me. You get off on it."
"If it's the sex, Viola, that's—" he strove for the right word and came up with "Negotiable."
"It's not that."
No? He suspected the sex was a lot of it. He really ought to have taken things more slowly.
"And it's not you," she insisted, making him groan. "You were so comforting last weekend. You took such good care of me when I freaked out. I really appreciate that."
"I'll always take care of you. That's what dominants do."
"I guess I'm afraid I can't give you what you want. You're a very attractive guy and a successful author. There must be legions of women yearning to be invited into your dungeon. You could probably sell tickets!"
He shouldn't have shown her the dungeon. He'd known that, dammit, and he'd done it anyway. "Babe. Don't worry about the damn dungeon. We needn't go anywhere near the place."
She'd sighed. "I'm trying to figure out why I'm all anxious and neurotic."
"You had a flashback, a panic attack and sub-drop. It happens sometimes. But we can work it through together."
"I know the age difference between us is small now, but maybe it's still a factor," she went on, introducing yet another issue. "You seem to have everything together. You know what you want to do with your life. Your career is thriving. You know what you want in bed, and you're not afraid to ask for it. You own your own home. You're, like, established. Whereas my life is such a mess. I don't even know if I really want to continue teaching. I mean, sometimes I really hate teaching. I don't feel sure or confident about anything. Plus, I'm still afraid of Derek. What he did to me is still messing with my head. I'm a wreck compared to you."
Stephen zeroed in on one particular statement: "What do you mean, you're still afraid of Derek? Isn't he in Australia?"
"I guess so. But his shadow has stayed behind. The memory of him still frightens me, and I have to get over that. I have to convince myself that I will never be a victim again."
"And you think," said Stephen in a much colder tone than he had been using just a moment ago, "that because I write books about a character who is violent, and because, let's face it, I enjoy dominating and hurting my lovers in bed, that I might make a victim of you someday?"
"I just need to figure some things out. I wish I had a better way of explaining it, but I don't."
"I thought you were coming here for the weekend. If you want to stay home because of your cold, that's fine, but I'd like to be there with you. Are you telling me you don't want to see me?"
"I do want to see you. I just need some time alone first."
Some instinct warned him not to argue. This wasn't a problem that arguing could solve. "Okay. Take some time. If you want to talk to me, I'm here. I'm not going to be seeing anyone else. I want you, babe, and I know you want me. But I'm not going to push you and I'm not going to control you. When you feel comfortable being with me, let me know."
Without another word, he closed the connection.
Chapter 23
"Slayton."
"Jeff. It’s Stephen."
"Dude. What’s up."
Stephen hesitated, then blurted, "I fucked up. I need advice."
"Does this have something to do with Viola?"
"I really like her. I was under the impression that she reciprocated
."
"But?"
"But now I'm not so sure. She's kind of avoiding me."
"Because you fucked up?"
"Looks like."
"Is this the sort of thing we need to discuss over a couple beers?"
"Yeah. Or something stronger. "
"Your place or mine?"
"I’m already on the road. Unless you’ve got something going tonight."
"Sadly, no. The Love Doctor bar is open."
"I’ll be there in an hour or so."
"Drive safely. You haven’t been drinking yet, right?"
"Stone cold. Not until I get there."
Two hours later the two men sprawled on the leather sofa in Jeff Slayton’s den. Two sets of boots propped up on the messy coffee table in front of the big screen TV, on which an NBA game was proving to be a rather boring blow-out. Lying around them in Jeff's messy house were some items that Stephen thought were almost as amusing as the stuff in his dungeon—wooden and steel swords, claymores, and armor. There were also some costumes, and Jeff was wearing a handmade leather vest that he said had been designed by a craftsman who created medieval clothing. "I'm organizing for this summer's Renaissance Faire," Jeff had explained. "I'll be giving a workshop on Medieval Battle Techniques."
Stephen had admired the leatherwork, but his heart wasn't in it. When he saw fine leather garments, he envisioned Viola wearing them. And looking sexy as hell.
It was Saturday night and the weekend was half over. He'd resisted calling Viola, although he'd been tempted to do so every fifteen minutes or so. He had sent her a text asking how her cold was. She'd responded that she was feeling better and thanked him for his concern. Brief. Polite. Distant.
Goddamn.
At half-time Jeff hit the remote to click the TV off. "So. You gonna tell me how you fucked up?"
"I did something stupid."
"I get that. Spill."
"Do you know anything about why Viola split from her husband?"
"Not really. I figured it was the usual—people get married too young, grow apart, separate, all for the best in the end. There were no kids involved, right?"
The Dangerous Hero Page 17
