by Jaye Peaches
“Her daughter is her Achilles’ Heel,” said Jason. “To fight so hard for any custody, and now she might lose everything due to her blackmailing habits. Well, we shall find out.” Gemma sensed the first real inkling of Jason’s ruthless streak.
Rothesay worked as an estate agent, giving her the opportunity to dip in and out during to the day to take her daughter to the dance class. She came across as friendly and happy to chat over the garden fence.
Emily, explained Jason, was a mystery. Emily had moved in with Rothesay two years ago, and the neighbour referred to her as the lodger. According to the busybody, Emily kept her head down if she appeared in the garden to hang out the washing or water the plant pots.
The neighbour suspected a scam: Rothesay claimed tax benefits of living alone when she clearly had a lodger. Other than the suspicion of fraud, there appeared nothing out of the ordinary to report. The daughter visited every other weekend. The neighbour remarked in passing he had rarely seen the three of them together.
Jason’s research had drawn a blank, but all that meant was Rothesay kept her activities away from BDSM clubs or parties.
“She could be using an alias?” queried Gemma.
“We have a photograph, which was taken secretly in the café, and nobody has recognised her. She’s a predator who operates in the shadows.”
Gemma couldn’t gauge Rothesay’s personality. She determined Rothesay liked to control women, as she had some hold over Emily. She also liked to threaten and intimate strangers whom she hadn’t spoken to directly or even seen in the flesh. Her blackmail style implied the grab-and-dash technique didn’t interest her. What gave Rothesay kicks was an extended, protracted game of blackmailing, eventually massaging her victim into an online playmate to torment and harass. Gemma wondered how many had offered to go to her house, or was she the first to progress the game to a new level of involvement?
“What do you want me to do?” Mindful of her need to be cooperative.
“Talk to Emily, as if she is still your friend.” Jason reached over and took her hand. His cool, dry fingers contrasted with Gemma’s, which sweated and trembled. “Things may appear brutal at first. I want them separated, and Emily out of the house then the team can search for the photos or any evidence of blackmail. We need Rothesay to shut up. She may try to intimidate Emily or scream the place down for the neighbours to hear.”
Out of his pocket, Jason took out a gag and handcuffs. Gemma shivered at the sight of them. Not for her, their presence indicated force, possible violence. She shrank back in her seat.
Jason tucked them out of sight again. “If it serves that Emily should see Delia Rothesay subjugated, it may break her hold over Emily. I don’t know what we are about to find in the house, and it is possible that Emily has been corrupted by Rothesay. The relationship is about to be exposed. You have to consider she may not be innocent.”
Not by choice, surely. Manipulation. “What if Emily wants to protect Delia? What’s it called, Stockholm Syndrome, brainwashed?” suggested Gemma.
“We’ll find out. Talk to her. Find out about her ethics. Does she know her photographs are being used, or is she ignorant of the nature of the blackmail? Remind her of her early years, when you knew her. What she did, what she was good at doing.”
“She mixed a mean cocktail!” She remembered Emily standing in a kitchen, shaking the mixer.
“When we’re there, indoors, make sure Emily sees your necklace. That way she knows you’re mine, that you trust me. Emily will understand its significance from her time at the fetish parties. This is important, Gemma. You mustn’t doubt nor question me in front of either of them. Emily has to believe she will be safer leaving with us.”
“What if she isn’t there?” Emily came and went freely.
Jason settled back in his seat and stared ahead. His face hardened into an indomitable expression. “The place has been watched all day. She’s there, Gemma.”
Arriving outside the house, Gibson parked a few cars down the road. Other vehicles lined up bumper-to-bumper along the kerbs. A typical residential street, with trees on the verges and a variety of small front gardens. A suburban, ordinary, and modest location for a blackmailer to live. Johnson and Martinson watched the house from a different car. Once Jason arrived, the two ex-policemen made their move. A knock on the door, the menacing appearance of a foot wedged in the gap, followed by a hard shove, and the pair stormed inside. Jason’s phone rang a few minutes later. Martinson gave them the all clear to join him.
With a pounding heart, Gemma gripped Jason’s hand, as he led her down the road with Gibson following. She almost turned back. What if it all went wrong, violent, and the police were called?
“Babe?” he halted next to her, a few feet from the garden path. “You don’t have to do this.” He caressed a cheek with the back of his hand. Under the streetlight, his face had been cast in shadow. Hers must have been lit up. He would see the anxious expression on her pale face. She rallied. “I’m fine. I’m doing this for Emily.” She stepped out ahead of him, making a point of getting on with the business at hand.
Johnson opened the door. A woman’s voice ranted in the background. With a deep breath, Gemma entered the living room and faced her blackmailer.
Dark hair and eyes gave her a foreign appearance, although her skin was pale. An attractive woman with an unnaturally smooth complexion, almost too cosmetic, possibly Botox involved. A seemingly youthful face, which had been layered with too much makeup. The wrinkles on her neck and the grey roots under her dyed hair hinted at her true age.
Gemma suspected Delia Rothesay engaged in the costly habit of age reversal and, along with her manicured nails and gold jewellery, she spent time and money on her glamorous looks. Red faced and teeth clenched, the woman fumed on her spot in the middle of the room.
The black eyes glared at the intruders. “What the fuck are you people doing in my house?” she snarled.
Chapter 27. Extraction
Three tall, muscular men surrounded Delia Rothesay. Even the lithe figure of Emma Gibson threatened with her hidden martial arts skills. Gemma, a supposedly soft target, straightened her back and found the courage to try to look menacing. Panic descended over Rothesay’s face. She had nowhere to run.
“Where is Emily?” snapped Jason, moving closer to the Rothesay, who started to perspire through the layers of foundation.
Rothesay gawped in feigned surprise. She bluffed with an edgy voice. “Emily? Who the fuck is Emily?”
The pressure around Rothesay closed in, and she shuffled backwards towards the fireplace. Reaching out a trembling hand, she grasped the mantelpiece.
“Search the house. Find her. Find the photos, anything incriminating,” Jason told Johnson and Gibson.
The two ex-police officers set about searching the house with quiet, determined efficiency and with minimal damage. Gemma remained close to Jason, within arm’s reach. He surveyed the room. Looking for clues about her blackmailer. Adrenaline bursts piled on top of each other in rapid succession. She wasn’t afraid. She realised it was excitement that kept her there. The need for vengeance.
Rothesay glared at her. “You! The whore at the dance school. You came, then. You should have come alone! You’ll fucking regret this!” Her voice wavered, in contrast to her threatening words.
Gemma feared Jason might strike the woman. His fists clenched at his sides, and a display of red-faced anger flashed across his cheeks. He kept himself between Gemma and her antagonist. His restraint pleased her. If anything, she wanted to give Rothesay a good slap about her face.
“I think we’ve heard enough of your hollow threats, Rothesay,” Jason took out the gag and handcuffs.
Rothesay shrank in stature, and she backed away from Jason. With Martinson’s help and Jason’s strong arms, it didn’t take long to restrain the repulsive woman. Wrists handcuffed behind her back and mouth stuffed with a ball gag. She started to drool with the effort of trying to cry out. Seeing Jason aggressively
bind another person alarmed Gemma. The speed at which he accomplished the containment and pinned the woman’s crumpled body on the floor was somewhat brutal.
Jason arranged himself in the armchair, legs crossed and face once again impassive. Binding the woman gave him control of the situation. Around the house were the sounds of Gibson and Johnson searching, ransacking the property. Johnson returned to the room, unperturbed by the sight of Rothesay handcuffed and gagged.
“Sir. There appears to be a cellar. The door is locked.”
“Check her handbag and pockets.” Jason waved at Rothesay.
Martinson rifled through a handbag, which had been found on a sideboard, and pulled out a plain key attached to a ring.
Johnson took the ring. A few minutes later, he returned.
“You’d better see this, sir.”
“Stay here with Martinson,” Jason told Gemma.
She remembered not to speak. Tempting as it was to kick and yell at the woman, she kept her cool and gave him a nod. When Jason returned, the look on his face perplexed Gemma. He seemed almost uncertain and disconcerted.
“Emily is back there, in the kitchen” he said to Gemma, waving a thumb over his shoulder. “Go speak to her. There are still photographs to find.”
The pristine kitchen, its dimensions small in comparison to Gemma’s own gigantic ones, had a modern design with a small dining area. There were no pictures on the plain, lime-green walls, nothing to personalise the room except the presence of a few childish drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets. The daughter’s, probably. Given the noises above them, Johnson had returned to searching the house. Emily sat at the small table and nearby, her arms folded across her chest, hovered the watchful Gibson.
“She was locked in the cellar, Mrs Lucas,” explained Gibson.
A prisoner? “The cellar,” said Gemma. “Why?”
“It’s a studio—a photography studio. Rather small and pokey, with the remnants of a darkroom.”
She turned to the pale woman, who tugged on an earlobe, staring at the table. “Emily,” said Gemma. “You do remember me?”
“Of course,” muttered Emily without looking up. “Who are these other people?”
“My husband’s employees.” She gave away nothing else.
“You’re married, then.” She snorted. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Gemma walked over to the sink, keen to occupy herself with something useful. “You’re safe, Emily. Nobody here is going to hurt you. You should come with me, back to my house. Have a nice bath and something to eat—”
“I can’t.” She shook her head.
“Why can’t you leave?” Gemma turned the tap on to fill a glass of water.
“My photos. I can’t leave without my photos.” Taking the glass from her, Emily placed it on the table without drinking.
Gemma drew a seat opposite and perched on the edge. She spoke quietly. “You were locked in the cellar, Emily. You’re free—”
Emily interrupted for a second time. “To keep me safe. I have a key.” She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a key.
Gemma stiffened. What the hell was going on? “Safe from what?”
“You—in case you got nasty and didn’t do as Delia asked.” A small flush of pink crept over Emily’s face. She twirled a finger in circles across the table. Not once had she looked directly at Gemma.
“Me? Nasty?” The idea shocked her. “I came to take you away, somewhere safe and protected. Are you telling me you are involved in this blackmail business?” Gemma glanced over to unfazed Gibson, who merely shrugged her shoulders.
Emily frowned, hunching her shoulders further down. “No, no. Not like…you wouldn’t understand.”
Gemma ran her fingers through her hair, perturbed by Emily’s reticence to explain her circumstances. “So, where are the photographs? The kinky ones of me?”
“I don’t know. I mean, the originals. Delia scanned them and printed off the digital copies. The originals, she hid somewhere, with others like them.”
Gemma heard footsteps behind her and turned. Jason had appeared. He leaned against the doorframe and scowled. “Has she said anything about the photographs? This is taking too long.”
“She says she doesn’t know where they are,” answered Gibson.
He snapped his fingers. “Okay, get her out of here. Take her, as we arranged.”
“No!” implored Emily raising her voice. She scraped back her chair and, for the first time, Emily looked at Gemma, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “No, you can’t make me leave, not without my photos.”
“What photos?” asked Gemma, learning forward.
“They’re everything to me, my life’s work as a photographer, my current assignments. You paint. I remember you said you painted. Could you abandon everything you ever did? She keeps the others hidden. I don’t know where. I had to go through them, give her names, who I knew, where....” Emily’s face crumpled at her culpability.
“Is that the only reason you don’t want to leave? Rothesay doesn’t have a hold over you?” asked Jason.
“Hold over me? Of course she has a hold over me. I love her.”
The statement devastated Gemma. She slumped in her seat. All of the emotions of fear she’d layered over Emily were dashed away. Instead, something much simpler had captured Emily. “You willingly took part in this, in blackmailing people?”
“No, not…. Please, it’s not like that.” Emily hid her face in her trembling hands.
“Out of here.” Jason jabbed the air over his shoulder with his thumb. “And take my wife home, too.” He left the room.
Gibson pulled Emily to her feet, none too gently. The action triggered a state of panic in Emily. She elbowed Gibson back. “No! I can’t go without them! Please…. Gemma, please don’t make me.”
Gemma took once last shot at reaching out to Emily. “My husband is a good man, a very good man. A powerful person, Emily. He squashes people like Rothesay under his feet. After today, if you don’t want to, you’ll never see Rothesay again.”
Emily shook off Gibson’s grip and reached out to touch Gemma’s arm. “Just let me take the pictures,” she sniffed.
Gemma wrinkled her nose. Emily smelt of the damp cellar, a musty odour, and of cheap perfumes, too.
Emily started to snivel, leaking tears. “My photos, they’re not just prints. Most are stored digitally on my computer. Disks, etc.” The lanky figure of Emily shrank. Gemma didn’t understand what had been going on in the house, but Emily deserved some kind of sympathy. She gave Gibson a look of expectation.
“Oh, come on, then. Don’t worry,” soothed Gibson, patting Emily’s arm. “We’ll sort it for you, okay? Your cameras, too. But then you must leave.”
Gemma returned to the sitting room. Rothesay remained on the floor, glaring at those about her with an increasing look of fear. Gemma didn’t care about the mistreatment of her blackmailer. Let her be humiliated. Even straight-laced Martinson brushed aside Jason’s handling of the woman.
Jason, seated once again in the armchair, frowned. “Gemma. You’re supposed to be leaving.”
She crouched down by his chair and whispered. “She’ll leave, but she wants to take her photo collection. They’re her life’s work. Print and digital. She doesn’t know where the others are hidden. The blackmail ones.”
“Yes, I know. So she says,” growled Jason. “Very well, get them, and then go,” He gestured over his shoulder at the door.
Gemma rose just as Rothesay shouted “bitch” into her gag. She didn’t know if Rothesay meant Emily or Gemma.
“Shut up!” snapped Jason.
Rothesay went quiet. Gemma backed away, leaving her rather formidable husband waiting for his security team to search the house. Jason drummed his fingers along the armchair. A tactic to keep attention on him. His own personal protection officer stood over Rothesay, legs apart and arms crossed behind his back. Martinson played the soldier that evening.
As Gemma walked out of the do
or, she heard Jason address Rothesay. “We’ll find those photos, Rothesay. If they’re up your arse, I’ll find them. Perhaps if I were to lock you in the cellar, leave you there, and throw away the key, how long before somebody thinks to look there?”
Gemma scurried away. She didn’t want to hear her husband threaten another person, even if she knew he would never follow through. Would he? He didn’t break bones, he’d said, but would he imprison somebody?
With Emily’s help, Gibson and Gemma gathered up the precious photographic material. Not just her photos, but items that she treasured and kept in her tiny upstairs room. As Emily realised what was happening wasn’t a dream, but a reality, she perked up and seemed to accept her impending departure. Gemma couldn’t fathom out her reactions. Emily stated she loved Rothesay and yet seemed resigned to leaving at short notice. Nothing made sense. The sooner she could talk to Emily alone, the better. She wanted the truth.
Gibson loaded the boot with the boxes while Gemma led Emily away from the house to the car. She did what Jason had asked—removed Emily—and she had to trust her husband to deal with Rothesay. They sped off, back to the White House and Gemma’s privileged existence.
With Gibson listening carefully from the driver’s seat, Emily opened up and told her story. She began by asking Gemma a direct question.
“Who is she?” Emily cocked her head at Gibson.
“My protection officer.”
“Protection officer? None of this feels real.” She fingered the leather upholstery. “Wow,” she muttered.
“I sometimes think that myself.” She patted Emily’s thigh.
“Your husband, is he your Master, too? Your necklace.” She pointed at Gemma’s neckline.
“Yes, he’s my Dominant, and I’m his submissive. Were you forced to be her slave?”
