Echo of Redemption

by Roxy Harte

  “Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me.”

  H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds

  Chapter 22

  Thomas

  I am filled with trepidation as I enter the hotel’s lobby. At Glorianna’s request I am meeting her in the bar after hours. I am surprised to find her sitting at the bar, instead of a small table tucked into a corner. We’re alone except for a man playing soft jazz on piano…and of course, her armed bodyguards. Most senators aren’t afforded such luxury as secret service at their beck and call, but Glorianna is an exception. She’s swirling her drink like a woman with something heavy on her mind when she says, “Tell me you were surprised to hear from me.”

  I kiss each of her cheeks before sitting down on a bar stool beside her. She gives me a long, sensual look. Glorianna has always been a very beautiful woman, time and experience giving her an edge that adds to rather than detracts from her raw sensuality, especially now with at least one cocktail down, maybe two. She is toying with me, making me wonder why I am here. Am I to be bed sport? Or am I to be reprimanded for not bringing her my brother? She has most certainly heard news of his death.

  “You do not look like a man in mourning, Thomas, and I’ve been so very concerned about you. That’s assuming you heard about the blast in Shanghai?” She strokes the top of my hand. “Real tragedy there, fire out of control, no small loss of life. The question is did Henri eliminate your brother? After so many years getting him into place, I doubt that very much. Which leaves the questions, which of your brother’s many enemies went after him, and what retribution do you have planned?”

  I swallow hard. I hadn’t considered what my reaction would be if my brother was really dead. There would have been a reaction. I’ve been blowing it without realizing I was and if she has been watching me, no doubt Henri has been watching, leaving the heads of two international organizations watching me. So not good. I like it when they forget I exist.

  I take her glass of mostly melted ice and swill the remainder of her drink, although I rarely consume alcohol. “Sweetheart, I know you’ve heard that revenge is best served cold.”

  She lifts her finger for two fresh drinks. “I knew there must be a reason. So, you know who is responsible?”

  “Not yet. I’m still working on it. Perhaps you can make my job easy and tell me who had him killed.”

  The bartender sets two glasses in front of us and she answers, “Ah, but if I knew.”

  Licking her lips, she runs her fingers down the front of my lapel. I am very aware of two things simultaneously, her perfume and her two bodyguards leaving the corners to step nearer.

  Seeing my discomfort, she rubs her cheek against mine, whispering, “Relax. Don’t you think that if I wanted you dead, you would be so already?”

  I smile and laugh.

  She too laughs. Still leaning intimately near, she asks with hope filling her voice, “Come to my room?”

  By the question, it might be assumed I actually have a choice. I lean nearer, wrapping one arm around her back to pull her against me. Inappropriate for so public a place, for such a well-known political figure…because even after hours someone somewhere is watching…even if it is merely the piano man. Discretion is always called for, but tonight caution feels overrated. She and her men are watching me closely. Every facial reaction, every body movement. Reading body language is such an exact science and tonight I must convince them I am mourning.

  I whisper, “I may not be up to my usual expertise. Events have left me emotionally and physically drained.”

  “Perhaps tonight, I can comfort you? No props, no play, no games…just two people using each other to relieve the stress and heartbreak of the day.”

  I allow myself to slump a little, like I have been holding myself rigid and have found comfort in her words. Meeting her gaze I tell her, “That would be nice.”

  I allow her to lead me to the elevator. Of course we don’t enter alone. Three bodyguards, two in front of us and one behind. When we arrive at her floor, the two lead men exit first, looking left and right. I almost get the feeling there has been some breach to her security. Something is different. For a woman always so careful, so well guarded, it seems her men are especially on edge and I don’t believe the difference is me.

  She has a large suite of rooms and after a quick walk-through her men leave us alone in the master bedroom. Pulling her against me, I ask, “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

  She rubs her neck nervously and gives me a tight smile. “Nothing.”

  I lean my forehead against hers. “Liar.”

  She looks away but then quickly looks back at me, holding my gaze as she admits, “There was a threat. It’s nothing.”

  “A death threat?”

  She shrugs. “There are those who do not like one particular path I’m pursuing, and they want to make my success an impossibility. I don’t want to talk about that. I want you to kiss me.”

  I kiss her gently, and she trembles in my arms. I push her hair away from her face so that I can look deeply into her eyes. She is a woman troubled by something greater than a death threat, but I don’t press for answers. She called me because I am the one man she allows herself to be open and vulnerable with. For others she wears a constant mask of power and control. I surprise her, scooping her into my arms and carrying her to the bed. When I lay her down gently, she keeps her arms around my neck, holding tight, like she is afraid to let me go. She says urgently, “I need to know I can trust you.”

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “But I’m afraid you already have. I understand there must be certain secrets between us, but I cannot abide by an outright lie, Thomas.”

  She is a woman who has risen to a place of power solely on her own worth, most of her peers either loath her or fear her, and tonight despite her doubts in me, it is me she called. I sit on the bed beside her, allowing her to keep her arms roped around my neck as I gaze down on her. I ignore the insinuation that I’ve already lied to her and slowly start unbuttoning her blouse. Pushing apart the cloth, I reveal a delicately embroidered flesh-toned bra. I trace its scalloped lace edge with my thumb, liking the way her breasts rise and fall beneath the fabric with each breath.

  She is not a luminous beauty, perhaps she never was, but nevertheless she is capable of captivating me, of making me desire her. She attempts to kiss me but I resist, knowing that the moment our lips connect we will get lost in the physicality of each other. We have to resolve her concerns. I will not be ordered dead a week from now because she felt I lied to her tonight. I tell her, “You can trust me in all things concerning your person, your security, and the safety of this nation.”

  “That was carefully worded, lover.”

  “I can give you no other assurances.”

  “Because you play for more than one team?”

  “Since you have granted me asylum, I have worked only for you but you know that.”

  She nods. “Answer me this, has Henri forbidden you from telling me if your brother was recovered alive.”

  I answer her honestly. “Henri did not find a body, but then you know the physical amount of destruction in Shanghai would have made it impossible to identify any human remains.”

  She trembles and I know that it is anger, brimming just under the surface. She wants to slap me and ask me plain questions to which I respond with answers not twisted in wording that make them more true than false; but she also knows to do so would get her nowhere. She sobs against my mouth, “I want to trust you, Thomas. Please don’t disappoint me,” and I finally allow her to kiss me.

  Reaching behind her, I unfasten her bra so that I can pull the fabric cups below her breasts. “You have beautiful breasts.”

  I run my tongue over the tops of each mound and nip at her flesh lightly. When I again look at her face, I find her head tipped back and her eyes closed. I take one of her tightened nipples into my mouth, biting gently until she moans. I suck softly, easing the pain before biting
again. Arching her back, she cries out and I am compelled to treat her breasts even more roughly, sucking, nipping, squeezing them.

  “God, Thomas! I cannot wait. You must fuck me.”

  I slide my hand between her thighs, pushing against the tight fit of her skirt. “Pantyhose? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  She looks at me with a smirk on her face. “They’re practical, and I never said you wouldn’t have to work for it. Besides, garters and stockings are the trademark of ladder-climbers and whores.”

  Roughly, I jerk her shirt halfway down her arms and roll her onto her stomach. She can’t struggle and can barely resist as I force her skirt up to her waist and pull her pantyhose down. Forcing her onto her knees, I command, “Stay in that position.”

  Her face is pressed into the pillow, making it impossible for her to watch as I stand and pull my shirt off. I unhook my belt, unbutton and unzip, but otherwise do not remove my clothes.

  “Please, take off your clothes,” she commands in a muffled voice.

  “Not this time.” I climb onto the bed and straddle her legs. Probing her with my fingers, I find her wet, ready. “Urgent need is best vented quickly.”

  Reaching into my pants pocket, I withdraw a condom and quickly unwrap it. I slide it over my stiff erection and realize she is touching herself, rubbing her clit in earnest.

  I thrust, filling her in one deep stroke with such suddenness she grunts. I push deeper, making her moan. “Too much?”

  “God, no! Fuck me. Make me forget the doubts I have in you.”

  I thrust again before setting up a rhythm. Reaching around her, I cover her massaging fingers with my own, feeling her touch herself. “Yes, yes.”

  With a sudden sweetness our rhythm matches and I can tell she is close to orgasm. I thrust a little deeper and am not surprised when her orgasm overwhelms her.

  A while later she is sleeping. It is the way our relationship works. Although normally I give her an intense scene before the sex, but after the sex she always sleeps. She told me once she never sleeps so well as when I am in bed beside her.

  I don’t sleep and even though it was after three when I met her, dawn seems a long time coming. It is a relief to escape alive but no comfort when, as I am leaving, she says, “I know you will do the right thing and should your brother actually be alive, know my offer still stands. I will give him protection, just as I’ve harbored you.”

  I wish I knew what benefit she hoped to gain by having his loyalty. If I did I might not fear turning him over to her as much as I do.

  “We make our own lives wherever we are.”

  L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea

  Chapter 23

  Garrett

  I enjoyed being in The Attic tonight. It was a nice distraction, and Lord knows I need it. Work has always been my answer to stress. Long days and longer nights mean less time to think. Exhaustion is a good thing.

  I’ve added myself as a Dominant on The Attic’s private session schedule. With both Thomas and George away, it only makes sense. The hard part will be explaining to Kitten I intend to spend even more time away from her. It can’t be helped. I just hope she sees it that way. Somehow, I don’t think she will.

  Returning to the penthouse after noon, I find Kitten stretched out on our bed. She is reading a book, and I am surprised when she doesn’t stand and run to me. “That must be a damn good book.”

  She keeps reading, not understanding I am expecting her show of obeisance at my feet.

  “Listen to this. Primal Beginnings believes there is a link between the primal period of our life and who we become as adults.”

  I’m too exhausted to make issue. I join her on the bed, lying down, resting my head against the pillow, closing my eyes. Bed good. “Primal period?”

  “The time between conception and one year of age is extremely important. It says there is a correlation between what we experience in the womb and many physical and mental health issues.”

  “Um-hmm,” I answer, feeling the pull of sleep.

  “I want to take their childbirth classes.”

  “Sure, sure, childbirth classes. Good idea. Lamaze. Your doctor can arrange it.”

  “No. You aren’t listening. I want a Primal Birth, doula assisted.”

  I am suddenly awake and sitting up. “Are you out of your mind?”

  She looks hurt.

  “You are having this baby in a nice, safe hospital with lots of medical staff around to help in the event of an emergency.”

  “No. I’m. Not.”

  She climbs out of bed and throws on a robe, storming out of the bedroom before I can get another word in. What the hell? Where did this come from? Primal Birth? Doula? I follow her. Finding her sitting on one of the sofas in the living room, the book she’s been reading in hand. “What are you doing? Come to bed.”

  “I slept last night. I’m not tired. If you want we can talk after you wake up, before going to the club.”

  I tower over her. “Or you can put this ridiculous idea out of your head right now and throw that damn book of quackery away.”

  “Just because it’s my idea and not yours doesn’t make it any less important. I’ve studied all of the different approaches to childbirth, and this one resonates with me.”

  “Resonates with you? What are you talking about?”

  “Pregnancy, childbirth, motherhood. They’re all sacred journeys. I have to pursue the path which feels right for me. I do not want to feel like a victim of the medical establishment. People go to hospitals when they are ill, when they are injured, or when they are preparing to die. I am bringing new life into the world. I do not need medical intervention. I need a support team.”

  “You are not having this baby without a doctor present.”

  She smiles sweetly. Too sweetly. “That’s why I have you.”

  “I am not a doctor.”

  She arches her eyebrow. “Oh, really? Because I thought our dining room table doubled as an operating table a few weeks ago.”

  “This is not open for discussion.”

  She stands up and confronts me nose to nose and eye to eye. “My body, my decision. Those are your words. If you don’t want to be part of this, Jackie has already volunteered to stand in as my birthing partner.”

  Jackie. That explains so much.

  I am her Master. I could force the issue if I wanted, but I’d rather her see the logic herself. “In a hospital, if you decide you need a medicinal intervention during the process you will have options.”

  “I won’t need it.”

  “If you do.”

  She holds up the book she’s reading and points to a line of highlighted text, reading, “Hospitals are unnatural environments where all control of the experience is taken away from the parents, leading to anxiety, especially for the male whose instinct is to protect the female. A hostile environment is forged when doctors interfere with instinct.”

  “My instinct is to protect you, and by having a hospital birth, we will be in the safest environment possible.”

  “Read the book. Please?”

  “It won’t change my mind, Kitten. I am resolute.”

  She crosses her arms. “Do you know what oxytocin is?”

  “It’s a hormone.”

  “Correct. It’s released naturally by a mother unless a doctor intervenes using its synthetic version, Pitocin, to induce labor because he’s in a hurry to get to a golf game.”

  I sigh, wishing Joel would have never sent her home alone. Where in the hell did she get that book? “Physician’s do not misuse medication for personal gain. It’s been proven that the use of Pitocin reduces the amount of time in labor for the benefit of the mother and the child, not the doctor.”

  Kitten rolls her eyes. “It blocks the natural release of oxytocin!”

  She flips pages, finding more highlighted text. “My maternal instinct may be delayed or completely blocked. It’s been scientifically proven that the lack of oxytocin crossing the placenta at the appropria
te time can cause severe social problems. Our babies could have life-long issues with anxiety, trust, love…bonding.”

  “I’d like to read that study.” I kiss her forehead before turning away to go back to the bedroom. I need sleep, not arguments. “Like it or not, this conversation is over. I have six hours to sleep and then I’m doing another double shift in The Attic.”

  She follows me back to the bedroom and stands looking at me with huge, disappointed eyes and a pouty lip while I strip and crawl into bed. I don’t ask her to join me. “Are you coming to the club tonight or staying home?”

  “Does it matter?” she asks sarcastically, a needling reminder that I have been a horrible, neglectful Master of late.

  I scrub my face with my hands. I’m exhausted, no good will come from more conversation. “You matter, Kitten. Please come to bed, or go to the other room. I need sleep.”

  “Will you promise to read the book?”

  I close my eyes to her pouting, knowing I would agree to anything to make her happy. “We have a doctor’s appointment next week. Let’s make certain everything is going well before you even entertain further ideas of natural childbirth. I know you haven’t considered it, but there is a higher instance of Caesarian section delivery associated with twins.”

  “Go to one Primal Birth meeting?”

  It seems ridiculous to my tired brain that we are even having this conversation since I won’t allow her to have anything but a hospital birth. “I’m not going to change my mind, but I will listen to what they have to say at one meeting.”

  “Thank you, Master.” She throws herself onto the bed, onto me, wrapping her arms around my neck and covering my face with kisses.

  I regret agreeing, knowing how disappointed she’ll be when I won’t support her plans but at least with her stretched out beside me, I can finally sleep.

  “The woodland’s silent smile where flowers raise their heads and Venus bids you welcome. Loose your girdle, come to bed. Indulge yourself. Give in to love.”