Forbidden Fantasy

by Tiffany White

  “The trade-off in such an arrangement is usually the man’s money and power for the woman’s youth.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he said, his finger playing at the cleft in his chin again. “Ours would be a somewhat different arrangement. Still, in one important way it would remain traditional.”

  “I don’t understand,” Zoe said, toying with the napkin in her hand.

  “The fact that we are equals does not change the fact that you must be prepared to submit yourself to me— totally.”

  “Submit…?”

  He nodded.

  “But how is that equal?”

  “It is for your own pleasure as well as mine.”

  “You can’t believe that.”

  “It is the truth.”

  Angry she began to shred the napkin she’d been toying with. “What if I don’t wish to cater to a man? What if I found that role to be unfulfilling?”

  He reached to still her hand. “You are confusing me with the man you left because he neglected you. I’ve told you I would not make the same mistake. As long as you are my mistress, your wishes will also be catered to—by me. I will make it my business to see that you find your role to be…fulfilling.”

  She pounced on his words. “As long as I’m your mistress… And how long were you planning that to be?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to see, won’t we?” he said, his leg brushing hers as he stretched. His boot kicked something lying on the floor beside her handbag. Reaching down, he picked up her camera.

  “Nice camera.” Looking at her through the viewfinder, he played with the automatic zoom lens. “Nice view, too. Would you consider posing for me? We could start with you fully dressed as you are now,” he offered, his tone hinting at an erotic progression.

  “Will you put that down!” Zoe demanded, flushing with embarrassment. It annoyed her that she couldn’t tell when he was playing with her and when he was serious. Good heavens, perhaps he was serious about everything! Or maybe everything was play.

  She shook her head, confusion reigning.

  He clicked off a shot of her before putting the camera down. “I think we’re going to have to work on the submission part of our arrangement.”

  “We don’t have an arrangement,” she reminded him with a tight smile.

  “Right,” he tossed back with male arrogance and a touch of boyish charm.

  “Why don’t you slip off your jacket and let me take your picture?” he coaxed, leaning close and running his finger lightly over the crests of her breasts spilling from the rigid bustier. “Damn, this thing is hot looking….”

  “Why don’t you slip off your jacket and let me take your picture?” she countered, slapping his playful hands away.

  “Touché,” Grey said, giving up with a great show of reluctance. “New camera, I see. Did you buy it to take souvenir pictures of your trip to Paris? Or are you toying with the idea of photography as another career?”

  Zoe’s smile was sheepish, a bit shy. “I don’t know. I guess I am toying with the idea. I wish I had been in Paris several months ago. The Galerie Montaigne’s first exhibition featured Man Ray and I would liked to have seen it.”

  The waiter returned to clear their plates and inquire about dessert.

  “Why don’t we linger over tarte du jour?”

  “What time is it?” she asked, returning her camera to its original resting place beside her handbag on the floor.

  “The bistro doesn’t close until midnight. We have plenty of time.”

  “I…”

  “Indulge me.”

  Taking her silence as acquiescence, he ordered the tarte du jour for two.

  The waiter returned with the open-faced tarts a few moments later, set them down with a flourish and left.

  Blue eyes surveyed her from across the table. “We share a weakness for sweets. It will be interesting to find what other… um… weaknesses we have in common, don’t you agree?”

  “I haven’t agreed to be your mistress,” Zoe reiterated, starting on her dessert.

  Grey lifted his fork to his mouth. “Haven’t you?”

  “No. I can’t believe I’m even talking to you about such a thing. It must be Paris or the strange mood I’ve been in lately.”

  “Coward.”

  “I’m not.”

  She noticed something then. She wasn’t lonely. She was having fun. Even wondering whether he was all an act or really desperate for her was… exciting. He was pursuing her like a man possessed.

  Stalking her.

  Seducing her.

  Sweet-talking her.

  And he was succeeding. She might resist a while longer, but she knew what the final outcome would be. She would go with him, because she would never be able to forgive herself if she didn’t.

  She had to give him a chance.

  She had to give herself a chance.

  It was a risk… but so was living.

  “Want to know what I think?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  She waited, watching as he leisurely licked an errant crumb from the back of his fork, his knowing eyes assessing her.

  “I think…” he said, puncturing the air between them with his fork, “I think you want to.”

  There was a hint of wickedness in his voice.

  “Oh, yes, I think you want to real bad. This mood you say you’ve been in. You feel restless, don’t you? Edgy…hot, even.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Baby, you can beg for anything but my pardon and get it. Come on, I dare you. Or are you too afraid? Too afraid to chance exploring your intimate boundaries? Is that it? Are you too afraid to know?”

  “I…”

  He wasn’t going to give her a chance to retreat to safety. “Consent to be my mistress for one week. With no running out, no second thoughts. If you want to call it over at the end of the week, so be it. I’ll grant you whatever you wish.”

  She stared at him over the chasm of temptation. The lyric of a song played in her head. “…the devil had blue eyes and blue jeans.” Closing her eyes, she leaped.

  “Okay.”

  He tilted his head slightly in approval of her decision. “See? That didn’t hurt a bit.” Lifting her hand to his lips, he brushed kisses over her fingertips, then signaled the waiter for the check.

  After paying it, he led her outside into the cool Paris night. He liked Paris best at night; liked the light and architecture… the mood.

  Taking Zoe’s hand possessively, he guided her down the sidewalk past the rose marble facade and tinted windows outlined in polished brass of the new Louis Vuitton megastore.

  A bit farther along in their stroll, he turned down a cobblestoned side street, pausing beside a shiny black Porsche, sitting like a spider awaiting its prey.

  As he inserted his key into the lock, a glint of something caught Zoe’s eye. It was the moonlight glancing off a pair of silver handcuffs, dangling from the Porsche’s rearview mirror.

  4

  ZOE FOUND the soft leather’s caress against the back of her stockinged legs disturbingly sensual as she slid into the passenger seat of Grey’s car.

  Grey loped around to the driver’s side as she glanced nervously around the basically black interior of the sports car. Instinctively running her hands along the edge of the seat, she failed to allay her anxiety or find a seat belt.

  No one had to tell her Grey was a kamikaze driver. He looked far too comfortable sitting in the complicated-looking cockpit in his bomber jacket, his hands at home on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked, as Zoe’s hand continued searching.

  “The seat belt. I’m sure this car is an open invitation to taking curves at breakneck speeds.”

  “Air bags,” he explained, calmly putting the Porsche into gear. “One each.”

  “How comforting.”

  He glanced at her, his expressio
n sardonic. “And here I thought you were throwing caution to the winds, coming with me.”

  “Maybe I’m having second thoughts,” she said, glancing covertly at the rearview mirror.

  “They aren’t allowed,” he replied, his words a warning as he turned his eyes back to the road.

  The chestnut-tree-lined grand boulevards of Paris flew by; a blur of cafés, boutiques, museums and cinemas. As they left the city she caught sight of a gargoyle atop Notre Dame cathedral and wondered fancifully if the gargoyle were any relation to the man beside her. Well, at least in spirit—she had to admit the man sitting next to her had the patrician good looks of a wealthy vintner’s spoiled heir—someone who raced cars to annoy his stuffy family.

  As they left the brilliantly lit city behind them, the full import of what she had agreed to began to sink in. It occurred to her then that her recent mood of ennui had slipped over the borderline into insanity. “Where are we going?” she asked, a little late, to be sure, as they were already on the autoroute; glamorous, seductive Paris behind them, the French countryside ahead.

  “The countryside where I’ve rented a château.”

  “Is it far?” She covered a yawn with her hand.

  “Just go to sleep. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

  “I’m not sleepy,” she lied. Zoe realized she was taking the biggest gamble of her life—and she didn’t have the clothes for it. “We’ll have to turn back. All I have is what I’m wearing. I don’t have any of my things with me.”

  “Nice try, but no deal. I’ll buy you anything you need. Now why don’t you relax and try to get some sleep on the way?” he suggested.

  Grey slipped a Michael Bolton cassette of romantic ballads into the car’s sound system. The strains of the singer’s heartrending, “How am I supposed to live without you?” flooded the car as she laid her head back against the seat.

  She could tell they were going very fast, though she felt only a fraction of the car’s power was being used. Like the man driving it, the car seemed to have a vital reserve.

  Glancing back at him, she thought he seemed to be at one with the rhythm of the car. She admired the light touch of his fingertips on the wheel as he took the corners smoothly. Her eyes moved to the large speedometer gauge centered next to the tachometer in the cockpit—and just as quickly looked away. There were some things it was better not to know. They flew into another turn and she experienced a sense of exhilaration when they exited the tight corner—the car and the man’s composure were phenomenal.

  Grey opened the sunroof and the sweet wine scent of the countryside filtered into the car. Feeling oddly coddled, Zoe fell asleep, not waking until she felt herself being lifted by a pair of strong arms.

  “What…where…what are you doing?” she asked, pushing against his hard chest and blinking her eyes groggily.

  “You were sleeping,” he explained. “I decided to carry you rather than wake you.”

  “We’re there… already?” Squinting in the darkness, she could just make out the steeply pitched slate roof of the château and the dormer windows. As Grey carried her up the stone path toward the front door a heady scent assailed her nose, causing her to sneeze.

  Grey’s chuckle was low as he bent to unlock the oak front door. The ancient door’s window was decorated with intricate iron grillwork. Shouldering his way inside, he carried her effortlessly.

  Switching on a lamp, he headed for the stairs.

  Zoe noted a French Renaissance-style table near the door and had a fleeting glimpse of vaulted ceilings and slate floors as they passed a couple of Louis XIV armchairs and several gilt-framed paintings.

  “I can walk, you know,” she said, when they reached the top of the stairs.

  “Now you tell me, after I’ve carted you all the way up here.” Making a mock pretense of being winded, he set her down in the upstairs gallery and opened the bedroom door. The light he switched on when they stepped inside shed a soft glow over the faded cotton print covering the bedroom wall.

  “Make yourself at home.” He handed her the camera and handbag he’d slung over his shoulder. “I’ve a few things to attend to downstairs.”

  Crossing the room, Zoe set her handbag and camera upon a painted satinwood writing desk inlaid with decoration. The fancy iron bed nearby, dressed in white lace-trimmed linens, looked as softly seductive as a new bride.

  Her thoughts, however, were decidedly unbridelike. Steamy, sweat-slicked lovemaking; those were the images her mind was painting when she thought about the way Grey looked at her.

  Decidedly unbridelike thoughts, yes. But perfect thoughts for a mistress. Had she really agreed to such a thing?

  On her way to the alcove in the bedroom housing the porcelain metal ball-footed tub, she stopped at a skirted dressing table. She studied her reflection in the mirror, thinking she should look different somehow. But no, she didn’t look particularly wicked. She looked like an average American woman with clear blue eyes and long tawny hair. She looked classic, confident even… not at all wicked.

  But she felt wicked.

  Grey had been right about her feeling edgy and restless. Having slept on the drive out from Paris, she was wide-awake now, though a little travel weary. What she needed was a bath; a long, lazy, decadent soak.

  A lavish assortment of scented oils, powders and soaps filled a pretty basket set next to the tub. A heated brass towel rack beckoned with its thick, warm towels. Giving in to the idea, she turned on the tap.

  When she walked back to the bedroom and began undressing, she could hear Grey moving about down stairs. She wondered what he was doing as she laid her sweater, T-shirt and short skirt upon an old wicker chair, draping the black hose she peeled off over the back of it, as well. Was he opening the curious assortment of packages she’d seen on the table on their way up the stairs?

  What could be in them? she wondered as she walked naked to the tub. Her hair swung forward as she added scented bubbles beneath the splashing faucet. Retrieving a plastic-coated rubber band from her handbag, she pulled her long tresses into a makeshift ponytail without the aid of a mirror. Wispy tendrils escaped and she blew them from her face as she stepped into the tub of warm, fragrant water.

  Sliding down into the rounded tub, she felt the enveloping water’s soothing caress and swished her legs back and forth to create undulating waves. Reaching for one of the scented soaps, she worked up a rich lather and used a natural sponge to slick it over her damp body, scrubbing busily until her skin glowed.

  Then, scooping handfuls of water, she rinsed off the creamy suds. Cleansed and tranquil, she leaned back, letting relaxation seep over her while her mind drifted off—her eyes slowly closing as she thought about why she was there and what she wanted.

  Why she was there was the easier question to answer.

  She’d come because the person she’d been before she’d married would have come. Before she’d willingly assumed a subservient role in her marriage, she’d been an adventurous person, curious and unafraid to take risks. As a teenager she’d often had to pick the lock on the front door to let herself out—or in—after hours.

  Her husband, being a cop, had been paranoid about her safety. While he hadn’t exactly kept her under lock and key, he had expected her to remain at home, a traditional wife. It had been a role she’d gloried in at first, but it had come to chafe.

  What she wanted was the harder question to answer.

  While she hadn’t been happy or fulfilled in her marriage, she had to admit the life she was leading in Paris was also lacking. What she needed was some sort of balance.

  The balance of a relationship that allowed growth but provided nurturing. She had a lot to give and needed someone open to receiving and exchanging affection, emotionally as well as sexually.

  By taking action, she’d come alive and in the process had perhaps allowed herself to be seduced by darker yearnings. She realized she was following a path paralleling her husband’s.<
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  He’d been seduced by his career, a job that allowed him to explore the darker side of his nature. If she were perfectly honest, she would have to admit part of her husband’s appeal had been his profession.

  Yet while he’d been growing and changing, he’d expected her to remain the same. They’d been almost children when they’d married, neither of them knowing a lot about each other or about life. Back then they hadn’t known or begun to explore who they really were. Puzzling over the riddle of who she was, she drifted off to sleep.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Zoe awoke in the fancy iron bed in the bedroom of the château. Rising on her elbows, she surveyed the room, ascertained she was alone and that it was morning. Peeking beneath the sheets, she saw she was naked. And her clothing was gone.

  Where were her clothes? For that matter, how had she gotten into bed? The last she remembered was being in the bathtub.

  Winding the smooth white sheet around her, Zoe went to the tall casement windows dressed in filmy lace panels and discovered the windows were bolted shut. Apprehension prickled her spine as she glanced down to see a courtyard below paved with cobblestones. Beyond the courtyard lay a garden with formal beds, gravel paths and a fountain. Moving to another window, she looked down past the gray slate shingles of the steep roof to discover beds of French lavender lining the stone path to the entrance to the château. The clean sharp scent of the lavender was no doubt the cause of her bout of sneezing upon arrival.

  Her eyes narrowed at her next discovery. The black Porsche they’d arrived in still sat out front. The rearview mirror had lost its adornment, however.

  Leaving the windows, she made a search of the room for her clothes, even going as far as to check the wicker laundry hamper in the alcove. She came up empty handed. And the door was locked—from the outside.

  Was she a mistress or a hostage? Tugging the trailing sheet around her, she plopped onto the bed in frustration. Her rash decision hadn’t left her with many options, it seemed.

  Even if the windows hadn’t been bolted, the pitch of the roof was too steep to climb, not to mention that she was on an upper level of the château.