by Christy Poff
He gently removed the gag, Ainsley gasping.
"I am your slave. I'll wear anything you want me to—a tattoo, body piercings—I don't care. I am your slave. I love you, Brett."
Brett put his knees on the table near her neck, easing his cock to her lips.
"Do it, Ainsley while I..."
Before he finished his sentence, he groaned feeling Ainsley's lips brushing his balls. The only one to ever give him a mind-boggling blow job, Ainsley took him deep into her throat. He leaned over her, his tongue lapping her oozing pussy.
"Ainsley!"
* * * *
Peter Holmes sat watching Cannon's Vineyards waiting for a glimpse of his targets. He looked at a press photo of Brett Cannon, network news anchor. His real name Quincannon, he'd done some excellent work. Why had he hooked up with the likes of Ainsley Reynolds?
For the size of the operation he looked around at, he'd yet to see any staff at work unless they'd been given time off for some reason. If the staff was indeed off, it would make it easier for him to step in, kill them then leave—Rio de Janeiro his next destination.
The sound of a car driving up caught his attention. He saw a patrol car from the local police department stop at the front gates, check the drive then continue his rounds. From his spot in the brush across the street, Holmes began to get a picture of what he'd have to deal with. He decided another day or two would not hurt his plans. He needed to know everything.
Holmes went back to the roadside motel he'd checked into the day before and got some sleep. He'd check the local library and historical society in the morning for floor plans of the mansion and the winery, plus he'd catch up on the winemaking business. After all, new owners, accident in the winery itself—good way to cover his tracks.
"This just in ... Brett Cannon stars in his own story. Star reporter dies—film at eleven."
Peter Holmes laughed.
* * * *
Brett slid into the Jacuzzi with Ainsley. He pulled her next to him, kissing her.
"I love you, Ainsley."
"I love you, too. I..."
"Don't,” he said. “It's over and I'm not going anywhere."
She pulled her body along his, her lips finding him. Their kiss overwhelmed them, soft moans and groans filling the room. She pressed her body against his, rubbing her pussy along the length of his engorged shaft. His fingers played in her hair before he pulled her head back to gaze at her.
"Ainsley..."
"I'm sorry. I just cannot get enough of you."
"Baby,” he whispered before his mouth covered hers. Her hands went all over him, needing to touch him. She cried out when she felt him slide inside her, Brett taking her scream into his body when he kissed her.
His grip in her hair firm, he thrust his tongue into her mouth keeping time with his cock in her pussy. Again he pulled her head back, this time, his lips finding her firm nipple and suckling it. Ainsley's body moved with his, Brett languishing in pure Ainsley.
"Master!” she screamed. “Tell me what to do!"
"Love me, Ainsley, and never stop."
"I do,” she stated without hesitation. “I do."
"Good, because I sure as hell love you!"
Chapter 10
"I need to go look at some of the vines for our Merlot. One of the foremen told me he wanted to show me something."
"Why don't we take a picnic lunch with us? We can eat out on the terrace at the tasting center."
"Then maybe I can taste my wife?"
"I like the way you think."
An hour later, they left a basket in the tasting room then mounted horses to ride out into the fields. Brett loved riding, especially looking over at his wife. He groaned, seeing her ride in a tight sweater and jeans. He loved the sight of her breasts straining against the body-hugging top, her firm nipples peaked against the ribbed fabric. The horse's movement made for an even sexier, more seductive sight. Whatever your wish, it's working on me!
"God, what I want to do to you..."
"Sounds devilish."
"When we get back to the tasting room..."
Ainsley smiled.
"I love my slave when he's impatient."
"I love my mistress always but especially when she's torturing me with her gorgeous body,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the diamond and platinum wedding set he'd given her the day they married. He grinned realizing all he wanted to do was shower his Ainsley with gifts—anything she wanted.
They found the foreman who showed them a problem with several vines, which would lead to their destruction if the pestilence spread. They discussed what to do with the vines, then after asking the man several questions, Brett put him in charge of the Merlot operation.
"Thank you, sir,” he said, “ma'am. This is an honor. I don't know how I can repay you."
"Do a good job and don't let me down,” Brett said, Ainsley agreeing.
"You've got my word."
"Good."
The man left them to get started on taking care of the problem. Once he'd disappeared from sight, Brett and Ainsley took a walk, leading their horses.
"You have a keen sense when it comes to judging character."
"Comes from the need to know who to trust and who not to. When you have sources, you need to know if they are on the up-and-up, the same with confidential informants."
"I see and how did you judge me?"
Brett dropped to his knees.
"I knew right away I would spend the rest of my life with you."
She lifted her sweater, baring her breasts to him.
"I think I want my slave to arouse my nipples and make me want to come for him."
"Yes, Mistress, anything."
* * * *
After finishing lunch, they went into the wine cellar located off the tasting room. Brett wanted a bottle of champagne for later and chose one of the bottles from the rack. They left, went outside to where their horses waited and prepared to head back to the house.
Once he'd helped Ainsley into her saddle, Brett went to put the bottle in his saddlebag. As he put his foot into the stirrup, he froze.
"Don't move, Cannon, or whatever your damned name is."
"What do you want?” Brett asked, stalling for time while he slowly set his foot back on the ground.
"I want her,” the man said, “after I deal with you, unless..."
"Unless what?"
"I do you both at the same time."
"You sick son of a bitch."
"I owe it all to her."
Cautiously, Brett let his hand slide down the saddle to where he'd stowed the bottle. The flap lay over it loosely enough for him to grab the neck of the bottle and get a good grip on it.
"Brett, what's wrong?"
Brett used Ainsley's unwitting distraction to pull the champagne bottle out, turn around and hit his captor.
"Run, Ainsley! Run!” Brett screamed.
"You stupid bastard!” Peter Holmes yelled. He started firing randomly, hitting Brett in the leg. Brett's horse, Zinfandel, bolted at the sound of gunfire while Ainsley rode away. Holmes emptied his weapon, fumbling for another clip.
"I ought to kill you right here and now!” he informed Brett.
"As long as she gets away, do what you...” Brett groaned from a kick to his side. He screamed in agony when Holmes pressed his boot heel into the gunshot wound.
"Fuck you, Holmes!” Brett cursed, trying to dislodge Holmes.
Holmes aimed the gun at Brett's chest and ordered him to get up. Painfully, Brett tried to move, noticing a good-sized shard of glass from the broken champagne bottle. He put his hand over it, picking it off the ground before he hid it in his pocket the first chance he got.
Holmes shoved him into the tasting room and into a chair. When Brett leaned over to grab his leg, Holmes cold-cocked him with the grip of the gun. Holmes found some heavy cord, binding Brett to the chair. He cut off a piece of duct tape and pressed it over Brett's mouth. On the slim chance Brett could free himse
lf, Holmes taped Brett's hands and feet while leaving the cording in place.
"Now, to go find your wife..."
* * * *
A little slow catching on to what was happening, Ainsley waited for Brett to mount Zinfandel. She heard a commotion and looked to where she expected Brett to be.
"Brett, what's wrong?"
Instead, she heard breaking glass, a skittish horse and a scuffle.
"Run, Ainsley! Run!” Brett screamed.
Without questioning him, she turned Chardonnay away from the winery. About to kick the horse into a fast gallop, she didn't have to. Gunshots spurred the horse into a run, Ainsley grateful he hadn't reared and thrown her to the ground instead.
Holding the reins as tight as she could, she felt a cool breeze on her face along with a burning sensation along the left side of her head above her ear.
She felt another stinging pain in her shoulder but urged Chardonnay on, knowing she had to get as far away as she could from Peter Holmes. Brett had taken on the role of master and she couldn't disobey him.
Letting the horse follow its own path, Ainsley tried to deal with the stinging pains she endured. She felt weaker, her grip tighter on the reins. She couldn't see where she was, her eyesight blurred from tears and pain but she thought they'd gone into a wooded area.
She could no longer hold on. Chardonnay jumped a branch or something, Ainsley sliding off into the underbrush. She rolled a little, ending up on her stomach face down in soft dirt. She tried to roll to her back but couldn't. She felt weaker, her head spinning. With her last bit of strength, she cried.
"Brett, I'm so sorry..."
* * * *
Brett felt nothing but scorching fire in his right leg from the bullet invading his body. He looked down seeing the damage from it and Holmes’ boot. He prayed Ainsley had gotten away to safety. Trying to move impossible, he knew Holmes had made sure he wouldn't go anywhere, which meant the bastard had to be out looking for Ainsley.
He tried to reposition his body in order to get the shard of glass from his pocket but to no avail. Never in his life had he felt this helpless and he rued the fact Ainsley would suffer for it. Looking down, he noticed the bleeding from the gunshot wound had started to abate. Relief hinted in one corner of his mind while the rest was consumed with worry about his wife.
This went on for several hours. Finding new strength, Brett would struggle against the unforgiving bonds, always losing. Several times, the wound in his leg began to bleed, each time more than before.
Weakening, he fell into a shocky daze. Fevers followed by shivers wracked his body. He'd been sick like this once before when he'd been assigned to report on tensions in Iraq. He and several others had been captured and imprisoned, tortured for information and their gear destroyed. One of his interrogators laid a heated piece of steel across Brett's back. Instead of answering the question he had no answer to, Brett kept his mouth shut, enduring the horrendous pain. His captor ground sand into the wound causing infection to set in. He would have died had Delta Force not reached them when they did.
Brett now tried to concentrate on trying to manage the pain but shock took over. Once again, failure festered in his mind.
Ainsley...
* * * *
Ainsley remained where she'd fallen from her horse. She felt cold between the invasions to body and the dirt she lay on. Her face stung from stickers in the bushes cutting her when she rolled. Her back in pain, she could tell something was terribly wrong. Then she figured out exactly where the additional pain centered. Her leg broken, she lay at the mercy of whoever came looking for her.
Tears welled in her eyes. She felt every good thing in her life slip through her grasp, Ainsley's loss overwhelming. She began talking to herself, delirious and terrified.
The chill of early evening made it worse, Ainsley shivering though hot with fever. Sounds of the night added to her fears.
"Brett..."
* * * *
Peter Holmes spent the waning afternoon hours and into early evening searching for Ainsley Quincannon. Her flight from outside of the winery complicated his plans for his final act against her. With Quincannon near death, Holmes wanted to concentrate all his attentions on the one woman who single-handedly changed and destroyed his life.
The sun almost down, he finally found her lying in the brush on the perimeter of one of the fields. A wooded area edged along what Holmes figured had to be the property line. Going closer, he smiled.
Blood trickled along the side of her face from the graze one of his shots left. Checking further, he saw the spot on her shoulder where the blood permeated her blouse from another hit.
Deciding she was no longer worth his effort, he looked around searching for a thin stick. Finding one, he took it to her, cutting more wounds into her already damaged body. Once his rage left him, he started gathering downed branches, covering her with them. Satisfied, he walked away from her, leaving his nemesis to die a slow death.
"I'll tell your husband ... Hell, I won't tell him anything."
Slipping behind the wheel of the four-wheel drive vehicle he'd taken from the motel he'd been staying at, he drove back to where he'd left Brett Quincannon.
He walked into the tasting room, taunting his hostage but stopped, frozen in the silence of the huge room.
"This is fucking impossible!"
* * * *
"Damn it, Brett, what the hell did he do to you?"
Jim Pearson raced to his friend's side while officers from the FBI, San Francisco PD and the local police department searched for Peter Holmes. Pearson had flown west to not only protect New York City's interest in the case but because he wanted to see it out. Seeing his friend in this condition caused his skin to crawl but he couldn't think about it. Brett Quincannon needed immediate help.
Carefully he removed the tape from Brett's mouth.
"I need a medic—now!” he yelled.
"Yes, sir,” an officer said before keying his radio with the request. “I need paramedics and immediate transport for ... Sir, his injuries?"
"Gunshot wounds with severe bleeding."
The officer repeated what Pearson said then joined him while Jim worked to free Brett from the chair.
"Ainsley..."
"Brett, where is she?"
"I ... told ... her ... to ... run..."
"When? Where?"
Brett couldn't answer him, Jim concerned.
The paramedic quickly tried to stabilize his patient, immediately working to stop Brett's bleeding. Brett unconscious, Pearson stood back and watched the medical team place Brett on a flight stretcher then move him outside to a waiting ambulance which would transport him to a medical helicopter that would fly Quincannon to San Francisco General.
"Did he say anything?"
"Only that he told Ainsley to run."
"Did he say when or where?” Eric Kane asked.
"No, he lapsed off before he could say anything more,” Pearson said.
Kane motioned to one of his agents. Once Carlin joined him, Kane instructed him to get three search teams operating.
"I want dogs and thermal imagery."
"Yes, Mister Kane."
"Eric, I'm going to the hospital with Brett. He'll need someone to tell him what's going on. Keep me posted."
"Okay, I'll stay in touch."
Pearson nodded then ran to where the medics gingerly loaded Quincannon into an ambulance.
"I'm going with you,” he announced, showing his badge as a reminder about why he was there. He also realized someone would have to sign off on any treatment and with Ainsley missing, it left him to be there for his friend.
An hour later, Jim Pearson paced in the hallway outside the trauma room waiting for word on Brett's condition. A trauma doctor met with him a short time later.
"I'm Doctor Longoria, head of trauma here at the hospital."
"Jim Pearson, NYPD and close friend of Brett Quincannon. How is he?"
"He took some solid hits to his tors
o and the rope left ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. The bruising looks worse than it is and I see no problem with his eyes."
"What about the gunshot?"
"Surprising, the bullet came out easily. I thought it would take surgery to remove it but I did it in the trauma room. Whoever ground a work boot into his leg did damage but not as much as he hoped to."
"How so?"
"The tread on the boot is deep. It seems the shell fit into one of the deep gaps which kept it from going in any further. He's a lucky man."
"When can I see him?"
"Not for a while yet,” Longoria said. “He'll come out of it on his own schedule."
"He's not in a coma, is he?"
"Not exactly though he is unconscious. We're on his schedule."
"I don't understand,” Pearson said, disbelieving his friend's condition.
"Basically, it's up to him."
* * * *
Kane had his men search for Ainsley Quincannon, splitting them into three groups. He assigned several agents to coordinate the search efforts for their fugitive.
He met with Paul Carlson, who took charge of the immediate area along with Chief Hatcher. Their officers did a search of the exterior while gathering evidence inside the building.
"Sir, we've found something,” one of the officers stated.
"What, Johanson?"
"Blood trail, sir."
They went outside meeting Kane and several FBI agents.
"Someone is bleeding and they headed toward the fields."
"Have you advised the search teams?"
"Yes, sir, as soon as I found it."
"Good work."
"Thank you, sir."
Kane looked out over the fields and the flurry of activity, praying they would find Mrs. Quincannon alive. But as time went on, the prospects faded.
"Sir, what if our perp comes back here? Won't we scare him off?"
"Good thought,” Kane agreed. He ordered the area cleared in order to make it appear as if no one had been there. Kane and one of his agents entered the building and waited in the dark for their suspect to return to finish off his hostage. A short while later, they had company.
"This is fucking impossible,” echoed through the quiet building.
Kane watched a few moments waiting for the right moment to act. It came a few minutes later after Holmes’ obvious shock wore off.
