by Nia Farrell
“Flexible.”
Rowena whipped out her cell phone, and Marcus turned his attention back to his steak while she called the wardrobe mistress. “Thursday at 2?” she asked him, receiving a nod. “Okay. He’ll be there. Thanks, Jewell. Bye.”
“Two P.M. Thursday. I’ll let security know you’re coming, to let you through the gate. And if you want to make the Domme wardrobe mistress’s day, wear leather. Jewell will love it.”
Marcus paused mid-bite. “Is that a good thing?” he asked, oddly nonchalant.
Rowena laughed, snagging the ticket that the waitress slid onto their table. “A happy Jewell is a good thing. She can be intimidating. But you’re not a sub. Let your inner Dom loose, and you’ll stay safe enough.” Not just because he was tall and built, with what had to be eight-pack abs.
“Promises, promises.” Marcus polished off his steak and chased it with a long drink of unsweetened tea, chilled, no ice. “I’ll head home and do some checking. If you don’t hear from me before, we’ll catch up Thursday, after my fitting.”
He scooted his chair from the table and grabbed his helmet. Rowena left a cash tip and paid the tab with her debit card, then called Breanna’s cell phone on her way out the door. When there was no answer, she hung up rather than leave a voice mail. What could she tell her sister? That she’d agreed to be present at three scenes after swearing that she’d never do another one? And when all was said and done, she might be kind of rich?
Once, the twins had shared everything. But in the past six months, it seemed that they’d both grown up and apart. MacDonald’s contract was just the latest thing that Rowena was keeping to herself rather than sharing it with her twin.
She had seventeen days to prepare. Two and a half weeks to set her guards in place and make sure that she made it through the triple play according to the contract terms. With Breanna performing music, Rowena would surround herself with friends she could trust, people who would see that Regina Wright stayed safe. Marcus was one. On the first night, her agents would attend the Roman orgy with her. For the speakeasy scene, she’d gotten just the woman she wanted to see draped on Marcus’s other arm: her friend Virginia—Gini—Shelton, the local librarian and an author’s best friend. Intuitive Elly would be coming the last night to play Lewis Carroll’s White Queen.
Meanwhile, Rowena had a blog to write, sketches to finish, and a television show to do. She’d been reading a series about men with ink and had arranged for a number of tattoo models, some with piercings, to be on her show tonight, along with the artists who’d done the work.
Some of it, of course, couldn’t be shown on the air, resulting in an in-depth discussion of hood ornaments and Jacob’s ladders and other private piercings. Thank God for five second delays.
Gini was still blushing when Rowena went to the library the next day to pick up an interlibrary loan book that had come in.
“I take it you watched,” Rowena whispered, respectful of where they were. Gini was barely five feet tall, cute as a button, with a heart shaped face and the slim, muscled build of a gymnast. She smoothed her pixie cut chestnut hair and cast a nervous eye toward the children’s section as her blush deepened.
“I can’t believe they do that,” Gini whispered. “It’s so…so…extreme.”
“Oh, honey, just wait until you experience Replay,” she said, amused by the mix of curiosity and alarm in Gini’s gold-flecked, green glass eyes. “I mean it. You need to see it for yourself. Expand that world of yours in a way that books and video can’t do. But you won’t be alone when you step back into the 1920s. You’ll have me,” she told Gini, smiling, “and we’ll have Marcus. Our favorite SEAL will be coming, too.”
Oh, the transformation, from nervous duckling to curious kitten. Gini and Marcus had met at a fundraiser 5K run, and she’d been having wet dreams about him ever since. Now if Rowena could just get Marcus on the same page.
Gini glanced at the clock. “I’m off in half an hour. Can you stick around? We can go for coffee or something and talk.”
Rowena killed her time in the children’s section, checking out the new acquisitions, focusing on the picture books. She loved the variety in the artwork, but to her, nothing topped David Pallidini’s illustrations for Twenty-six starlings will fly through your mind by Barbara Wersba. She was taking a nostalgic trip through Misty of Chincoteague when Gini found her. After a brief discussion, they decided to go for a pizza.
Papa Antonio’s was an Italian eatery, owned and operated by the same family for three generations. The grandparents were from Sicily and spoke almost no English. The parents were born in Sicily but raised in America, and carried on bilingual conversations that drifted in and out of English. The grandchildren were born here. While the granddaughters seemed happy to settle down with good Catholic local boys, the grandsons tended to return to Sicily and bring back exotic brides.
The interior was all dark wood and ambient lighting. Cozy booths and tables boasted red and white checked vinyl tablecloths, topped with condiment caddies sporting a laminated drink menu. The food more than made up for what the decor lacked in originality.
“You say Marcus will be there?” Gini set the house dressing aside and applied her fork to her unadorned house salad.
Rowena drenched hers with bleu cheese dressing and gently stirred. “All three nights,” she said. “With a contract that exempts me from play, I will be found where the view is the least offensive, or the most interesting. Whatever.”
She laughed when Gini shot her “the look.”
“Hey, I’m only human. Not dead. Not blind.” She glanced around and lowered her voice to the barest whisper. “Just because I’ve been doing without doesn’t mean I can’t live vicariously. Seeing someone else’s fantasy has kept me warm more than one cold night. And my batteries last longer.”
Choking on her drink, Gini coughed until her throat cleared. “TMI!” she hissed. “You’re not allowed to talk like that unless you’re ginger. The blonde you and especially the brunette you have images to maintain. Get your red wig on before you let fly. At least I’ll be expecting it.”
Rowena chuckled. “You’ll see ginger me soon enough. Just think. We’re going to be flappers,” she told her. “Arm ornaments for gangster Marcus. Imagine that man’s body sporting pinstripes, dressed to kill. Confess. Aren’t you glad you said yes?”
Gini shifted in her seat. Wet panties already?
Rowena pretended to not notice and dug in her purse for her phone. “I need to call Jewell—the wardrobe mistress—for an appointment to get you measured. When we go for your fitting, I’ll show you the club. Seeing the layout and equipment will help you understand what to expect. Yes, things will be done—very likely, some or most of them sexual. It’s a private party, so I won’t know exactly how it will play out until we get there. But I’ll make sure Sir Piers has an alcove away from the main action where we can listen to the music, if that’s all you want to do. I’m sure you’d rather dance with Marcus anyway.”
Gini chewed her bottom lip, her eyes glazing over. The girl had it bad, all right. “Dancing I can do,” she said slowly. “Listening to music I can do.”
What she really wanted was to do Marcus. Rowena was hopeful that their evening at Replay would loosen her up and help Marcus see what he’d been denying himself. Sex Addicts Anonymous wasn’t about celibacy. It was about healthy choices, healthy relationships. She just knew that meat eater Marcus and forager Gini could bring balance to each other’s worlds.
Rowena pulled Replay’s number from her contact list, called the resort, and was connected to the wardrobe’s extension. “Jewell, got another one. Flapper for Chicago. She’s just a spit—five feet nothin’. What about tomorrow afternoon? Is two-thirty too soon?”
Listening, Gini nodded to indicate her availability. “Great! Two-thirty tomorrow. See you soon!”
Rowena tapped the screen to end the call. “Okay, Miss Librarian. Here’s the deal. I will pick you up at 1:30 and take you to the re
sort. That way. we’ll be on time, no matter what traffic or road construction’s like, and you won’t have to go through security clearance alone. Wear casual dress and clean underwear—God, I sound like my mother. Okay, pretty undies. You’re getting measured. Jewell may want clothes off to get your stats, and you’ll want to look your undressed best.”
“Okay.”
Rowena tucked her cell phone back in her purse. “Next, don’t be scared of Jewell, especially if she gets her Domme face on. She likes to test people, and she isn’t above pushing buttons. Once she’s done her thing, I’ll give you the grand tour. Lastly, when you can go home and troll the internet on BDSM, try not to get any viruses on your computer. You wouldn’t believe the shit I picked up when I was just starting out and needed to research everything. Oh, pizza!”
The arrival of hot food eliminated any awkward pauses which might otherwise have ensued. Rowena had had another late lunch with her sister, catching up on Breanna’s trip, and didn’t need much beyond her salad. Most of the veggie lovers’ pizza went home in a box with Gini.
Settling in for the evening, Rowena prepped for her next television show, revisiting an erotic romance series that she had given a golden rating and a glowing review. Anyone who could make an engineer (okay, rich kid/former race car driver turned automotive engineer) so damn sexy deserved a five plus. With that done, her thoughts turned to another engineer who’d made his fortune in software.
She pulled up the best picture she’d found of Micheil MacDonald and had to rate him five of five. He’d been photographed on the deck of a sailboat, legs akimbo, his unbuttoned shirt blown open in a teasing reveal, one hand grasping a rope, the other gripping the rail. His slightly narrowed eyes scanned the distant horizon, and there was an intensity to his face that made him look as if he could propel the ship by sheer willpower alone.
Backtracking, she clicked on images, entered the billionaire’s name plus “bare chest,” and silently promised to buy more search engine stock. Her order was filled, then supersized. Micheil Malcolm MacDonald had a glorious male chest, with just the kind of hair pattern that her fingers itched to explore. Without the power suit armor he normally wore, he looked approachable. Accessible. And, she had to admit, totally hot. He spent enough time in the sun to have some tan and enough time in the gym to keep his thirty-year-old body in excellent shape. On the surface, he was more than she expected, but what kind of man rented a resort and shelled out half a million dollars for the pleasure of anyone’s company?
More importantly, why her?
While the question was mildly unsettling, she was more inquisitive than worried. Maybe it was because of the last scene he had chosen. He could have been a pirate or a musketeer or gunslinger or any number of reality-based roles there were to play. Instead, he had opted for a fictional character. She had to admit, she was intrigued. Why Wonderland? Why the Mad Hatter?
Curiouser and curiouser.
She drifted off to sleep, contemplating Micheil MacDonald’s magnificent chest and counting the hours until she saw Marcus again and heard what he had found.
Chapter Four
“Nothing?”
Marcus shook his head. “Nothing that you don’t already know. He’s pretty quiet. Talented. Focused. Just a billionaire who’s raising his daughter, building his company, and throwing his little brother the birthday bash of a lifetime. You’re only twenty-one once.”
“But forever legal,” Rowena quipped, following Marcus’s gaze. He’d fastened it on the door of the wardrobe department, where Gini was getting measured. Oh, yeah. This was going to be good.
Micheil MacDonald, on the other hand, was getting more problematic. She didn’t want to like him. It seemed somehow easier to take his money that way. But last night when she’d gone back to her bare chest image search and right clicked a photo to save it, the image flipped to the next picture.
The MacDonald family. Wife. Husband. Child.
Shit.
What kind of man left his family to party at a BDSM resort? Or was his wife coming too? Had he hoped that Regina Wright might be open to a threesome with them…?
She had really hated him at that moment. Thankfully, a cooler head prevailed. She’d clicked “view page” and found the story of the software designer who’d lost the love of his life in a car crash that had injured their little girl.
Oh shit. Oh God.
Doing the math, she figured Alexis was around five, just shy of kindergarten. Given her fraternal line’s IQs, Alexis might still enjoy picture books but was likely intelligent enough for early readers or short chapter books. Instead of hating MacDonald and wondering how to insulate herself from him, she was busy thinking what she could send home with daddy.
“So,” she said slowly, seeking a larger percentage of Marcus’s divided attention. “What’s Jewell come up with for you?”
“Patrician, former general, no hand, wounded in the emperor’s service. Gangster with gloves. Knave of Hearts with gauntlets. You called it.” The look he slid across at her said it would be the only time he’d let Jewell top him. His inner Dom was definitely out and looked all too ready to play.
“Vestal Virgin. Flapper. Alice,” she recited, appreciating Jewell’s sense of humor and her cleverness. Making Regina Wright off limits at the Roman orgy would set the tone for all three of her appearances in the triple play.
“And Gini?” he asked, a little too casually.
“Also a flapper. We’ll be your arm candy. Think you can handle it?”
Marcus grinned. “Just call me sugar daddy.”
“I’ll be calling you Marcus Flavius before that,” she reminded him. “And hopefully genius sooner yet. If you find anything on MacDonald, let me know.”
***
The next two weeks passed quickly. Guitar lessons Monday nights. Television show Tuesday nights. SAA meetings Wednesday night. Thursday nights off, then performing music at Replay on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Guests started coming in for the Triple Play as early as Monday, with most coming in Wednesday for final fittings.
On Thursday, Rowena returned her interlibrary loan book a day late. She apologized to Gini, silently wishing she had another ticket for this evening’s concert. As soon as Elly was off work, the two of them were headed for a girls’ night out at a 1940s musical tribute.
With time to kill, she dropped by the bookstore to check out the new arrivals. Her Kindle might be loaded, but nothing compared to a book, either modern paperback or leather bound classic. For Rowena, the feel of a book was beyond tangible. It was…magical. As if each page was a touchstone connecting her with the pathos and passion that went into the writing.
Grabbing a basket, she pulled a new sci-fi novel and a copy of Canticle for Liebowitz for one of her vets who’d expressed an interest in it. A couple of new hot romances. Three sizzling BDSM novels to feed her need for erotica. Past the classic literature section, she rounded the corner and stopped in her tracks, frozen in place by the sight of Micheil MacDonald, browsing the shelves in the children’s section.
She noticed his hair first, thick, tousled, its ruddy color as vibrant as if he’d just fingerpainted it with cinnamon and auburn and burnt sienna. Light streaming in through the store window was trapped in the strands, shifting, gilding them with gold as they curled behind his ears and brushed the collar of his light blue button-down shirt, worn tucked into dark blue slacks.
He looked tired, as if he’d worked all night and slept little, finishing some project or other. Yet instead of going to his suite to rest and recoup, he was here, kneeling among the children’s books, thinking of the daughter he’d left behind and what he could bring her to make up for his absence. She’d bet money, if he opened his wallet, the first thing she’d see was a photograph of little Alexis.
Something in her melted a little. Just a little. It was like a gift from the Universe, having the opportunity to meet him without prejudice, as mild-mannered blonde haired English major Rowena Campbell, not red haired erotic
blogger Regina Wright. It didn’t hurt that she was dressed in her Ginger Rogers pants, loose legged slinky fabric with a sheer overlay, paired with a broad shouldered blouse for a retro 1940s look. She’d parted her hair down the middle and twisted back each side, pulling her hair away from her face but letting the waist-length waves hang loose and long behind her. For once, she looked like the nice twin rather than the naughty one.
Taking a breath, she put on a smile, cradled her book basket in her arms, and entered the children’s section.
Rowena started in the young adult shelves and worked her way across, eventually catching up to MacDonald, still on his knees in the early readers. He was waffling between a book on dinosaurs, one on horses, and a third on the latest animated princess film.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” she told him, “that little girls love horses. My recommendation? This one, unless you’re looking for more.”
Micheil MacDonald’s gaze swept over her, from patent leather ballerina slippers to her dance hall hair, before meeting her eyes. Frowning slightly, he looked closer, as if their singular color was as complex as his hair. She could almost hear his mind sorting the possibilities. Malt whisky. Butterscotch. Golden brown. Dress, hair, eyes. She was different. A curiosity.
Micheil MacDonald, it seemed, appreciated puzzles. Intrigued by the conundrum she presented, he stood up. The air shifted with him, carrying a masculine scent of woods and musk. Towering nearly a foot taller, he peered down into her basket and scanned her selections. Interested to see what he thought of her choices, she didn’t object when he pulled the top book about a Dom billionaire and his submissive and flipped it to read the back blurb. One eyebrow raised. His lips curved in a slow, sultry smile that was hot enough to melt panties.
