A vision immediately appears before my eyes, taking me from the pleasantly lit restaurant, taking me away from the miraculous creature sitting opposite me. White sheets. White walls. And the green screen of a heart monitor. The sound of slow, mechanical breathing fills my head. I realise, when a soft hand lands on my wrist, grounding me, that the noise I hear is my own laboured breaths.
I slam the door closed on my mental filing cabinet and shake Haydee’s hand off, reaching for my glass of wine. It’s not Scotch, but it will have to do for now.
Haydee watches, concern etched in her soft eyes.
Ask, I think.
Don’t ask, I immediately correct.
Haydee offers a smile and slips her stockinged foot between my legs, ingenious toes start massaging my cock.
We don’t make it home. I take her in the bathroom at the back of Angelo’s between the dinner and the dessert. It might not be under the stars, but there’s still time.
Chapter 6
“Free and safe.”
Monday arrives with all its usual rush of business. It’s well past noon by the time I can spare a minute to check on Haydee’s legal status. I’m calm when I enter her name in the system. Not because I have faith in Haydee’s innocence, as such; I’ve been a police officer too long to be blinded by appearances. But because this is just another part of my job. How many times have I checked up on a status of a suspect? How many times have I delved into a pet’s criminal history to ascertain their impact on my professional standing?
Too many. Haydee is just one more.
But when I hit enter, I realise I’m fooling myself. Haydee was never just “one more.”
Her name comes back clean. No prior arrests. No outstanding warrants. Nothing but a speeding ticket when she was seventeen. I stare at her name on the screen. At her date of birth confirming she is almost too young for me. At her visa requests and international travel history.
Ten years she was in England. Returning home only once during that period. Ten years is a long time. Why did she return after such a lengthy stay? There’s something there, but it’s not until well past six in the evening that I have time again to devote any attention to it.
My contact at the Department of Internal Affairs will have left for the day, so I use what I can in our system. It’s limited, as far as international travel for New Zealanders is concerned. But I manage to pin down a flag in our access to Interpol. It’s not attached to Haydee’s name, but her name is attached to the file. And the file is classified.
I could try Interpol itself, but instead I delve deeper into our local governmental computer systems and locate an address in London that Haydee used as an overseas contact. Anything else and I’ll have to either wait for my acquaintance at the Department of Internal Affairs to arrive at his office tomorrow or try Interpol itself.
I already know Interpol will be a bust. If a case of theirs is classified, then chances are it involves terrorism. Terrorism makes the authorities very nervous and my enquiring about a lover would not sit well.
No, my only chance is her former home in England, and as luck would have it, I have a contact there that could work.
I stand up from my desk and check that Christine has indeed left for the day, then take a moment to consider my options. This is more invasive than I have ever been with a sub before. I take my role seriously. Their care and needs are paramount in my mind. Haydee is no different in that regard. What she needs, even if she is unaware that she may need it, I will give. But this, what I’m about to do, I fear is my need. Not Haydee’s.
Will it make a difference if I discover her secrets? Will not discovering them mean I fail to provide what she may need? What if whatever secret lurks in her past affects our present?
I can’t lose Haydee and so my mind is made up.
I settle myself into my seat and flick through my Rolodex. I pull out the card I need and then enter the international number into my telephone. It’s now close to seven in the evening here, which means it will be close to seven in the morning there. If I know Gerald, he’ll already be at work.
The line is unusually clear when the call is connected. The number I have is not a direct dial, so I end up going to the station’s main desk. A woman answers, her accent throwing me for a second. Haydee hadn’t picked one up, she sounds delightfully Kiwi.
“This is Superintendent Ethan Keen, from South Auckland Police in New Zealand,” I say. “May I please speak with Chief Superintendent Gerald Minns?”
There is a long pause, and I picture the woman translating my words into a recognisable form of English. It takes her ten seconds to come back with a reply. Equally as foreign to my ears.
But in the next instant I’m transferred through to another line, which I take it to mean she finally understood my request. Three rings later and my friend picks up.
“Ethan! This is a surprise. How long has it been?” Gerald says. “Four years?”
“Possibly five,” I counter, a smile evident in my voice. “The conference in Hawaii,” I add.
“That was some bloody conference, wasn’t it? I think it took me a solid week to recover.”
“That’s because your lot was outnumbered four to one by the Antipodes.”
“Yes, but we’re not counting the Australians, are we?”
“Who does?” I offer.
He chuckles for a few seconds and then cuts to the chase. “What can I do you for?”
I pause to gather my thoughts. I could be honest; Gerald understands my world. But the classification of the Interpol file has me treading carefully. I just don’t know how far this reaches yet.
“I’m looking into a New Zealander who recently returned from ten years living in London,” I say. “I need to know if you have anything on her that could shed further light.”
“What’s the name and DOB, then?”
I rattle off Haydee’s full name and grimace as I read her date of birth. God, she’s young. Only eight years older than Lara. Thankfully, I was still very young myself when we had Lara. It helps to dull the sting, but only marginally.
“Hmmm,” Gerald says several seconds later. “Her name does come up.”
My stomach drops. I lean back in my chair and swivel until I can see the clouds outside my window.
“Any convictions?” I force myself to ask. If she had been convicted of a crime, it must have been minor. There was no indication she was kicked out of England on anything I’ve found so far.
Gerald lets out a long sigh. I can picture him taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Tell me this,” he says. “Has she been hurt?”
The question throws me completely. I lean forward and stare at the floor, my mind racing.
“Why would you say that?” I demand.
“Has she?” he presses.
“You mean physically?”
“Well,” he says, hedging. “Is she in trouble?”
“Jesus, Gerald. Give me something to go on here.”
“Her file has been suppressed, Ethan. I can’t give you details.”
“Suppressed?” Not many cases are subject to name suppression. Usually it’s invoked for the victim’s protection.
Safety. When Haydee feels safe, she feels happy.
“Gerald,” I say. “She’s not in trouble, but I need to know what I’m dealing with here. Was she hurt when she lived in the UK?”
“If she’s not in trouble, why are you looking into her?” he argues.
“It’s my responsibility,” I say automatically.
“Keeping her safe?” he shoots back, no doubt already putting it all together.
Silence ensues for a good few seconds. Neither of us willing to back down.
“Her name is attached to a classified Interpol file,” I offer, instead of the myriad demands coursing through my head.
“Look, I can’t give you specifics,” he finally counters. “Anything I say could have been learnt through the case file and not from national news. But if I we
re to offer you anything, it would be a tag-line. The tag-line was well used in all the main rags throughout this country. It was a big deal. I think it was The Sun who coined the term.”
“And the term is?”
“Harassing Hoorah,” he says, not making any sense. “It was a benchmark case,” he adds. “Brought about changes to one of our most controversial laws.”
“When?” I demand.
“Well, I can’t tell you when the case was, because that would be breaking suppression. But I can tell when the law was changed.”
I wait patiently, but patience is not my friend right now. I almost open my mouth to yell at my old friend, when he speaks.
“2012, Ethan. The law was changed in 2012. A lot of people have Haydee Armstrong to thank for it. They just don’t know her name.”
We hang up not long after that. Having exhausted small talk and any attempts to lighten the conversation so our relationship doesn’t come out of this encounter too scathed. I already know it will be a long time before Gerald takes a call from me again. He pushed the limits to tell me what he could, and even then it wasn’t nearly enough.
I find the law half an hour later. The Protection from Harassment Act 2012. Prior to that date stalking was not considered an illegal offence in the UK. It was considered harassment, and would usually result in a six month sentence if the evidence was exceptionally strong. Post 2012, stalking causing a fear of violence could gain the stalker a maximum sentence of five years behind bars.
Forty minutes later I discover why the law changed. A primary school teacher in Redding was stalked by a colleague for two years. Details are more difficult to obtain. Name suppression was given early on in the case, but the location had already slipped out, causing Haydee to change schools and start all over again. I uncover more on whistle-blowing sites, some of which were prosecuted and had to withdraw half of what they’d published.
But I find enough. I find Haydee. And a dark world of manipulative behaviour that led my precious goddess into fear. Fear for her life. Fear for her sanity. The type of fear that changes someone. The stalker received a three year sentence, that’s how bad the details of the case were.
He’ll be released on parole later this year.
That’s why she’s come home.
I don’t know what to do with this information. I don’t know how to process it. How to proceed. Do I confront her? Bring up a part of her life she’s running from? Make her relive it all over again? But my need to know how bad it was, how much damage it did, is all consuming.
I pour myself a Scotch and sit and stare at the clouds as dusk turns to night and the stars attempt to shine through the gaps in the heavens. I sit there for two hours nursing that one glass of whisky.
And I come to a conclusion. Haydee will never suffer like that again. Even if it means she never relives it, never tells me exactly what happened. Even if I have to watch how far I push for her company, even if I have to deny myself the tools needed to see to her care in the most efficient and knowledgeable ways. I know enough.
I know Haydee was manipulated to such a degree that things she had said were taken out of context and used against her.
I know her stalker was unpredictable, so much so she was caught off guard on several occasions in public settings.
I know she had trusted him and he had let her down in the most sinister of ways.
I know enough. And it will never happen to her again.
It is with a heavy heart and a turbulent mind that I make my way home to Redoubt Road. To my Haydee. She’s mine now, there’s no denying it. I’d like to think I’d claimed her before I knew an iota of her past. And it’s true. But I can’t deny the resolve that has settled over me since my phone call to England this evening. I can’t deny my need to protect her has been shot into overdrive, blasted into outer space.
Haydee trusted him. She believed him someone he was not. And she paid the price.
I unlock my back door and enter the alarm code. Then make my way to my office, switching on lights as I progress through my sprawling home. The dining room beckons to the side. I can’t help but flick a glance at the table, up to the chandelier. The office is a mesmerising light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I stand inside the doorway and stare at the desk. Haydee has marked my house. It’s as much hers now as it is mine.
I drop my briefcase on the desk, not bothering to unpack it, and then take the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. There’s a fireplace in the bedroom, already set and waiting to be lit. I check the time and set a match to the kindling, watching as the flames lick higher inside the hearth.
I have to tread carefully. My need to protect her has me wanting to just hold her in my arms. Do nothing more than whisper sweet words in her ear. Promises of safety. Assurances of trust.
But I can’t do that. Haydee sees me in one light and one light only. She sees me as the man who comes to her rescue out under the stars, but doesn’t release her. She sees me as the man who gives her safety, while setting her free to explore her sexual side. She sees me as her master, who will take care of her needs. The man who chains her to him and then uses her body for his own release.
Haydee needs that. She needs to know I control everything. Without that control she would be lost.
As would I.
It’s unfair. It crushes my heart. For the first time in twenty-five years I understand my lifestyle completely. And I wish it wasn’t needed at all. For her. For me. For both of us.
But it is. Needed. I need her complete submission. And she needs me to dominate within certain set criteria.
The bedroom.
In public.
Everywhere.
Haydee needs me to handle it all, so she can breathe easy. Knowing she won’t say the wrong word and have it used against her. Knowing the chain is my promise to her, and when she wears it, that promise is reconfirmed. Knowing I will punish her for bad behaviour and reward her for good. Knowing I will lose myself in her body, any way I so choose. Knowing she will be set free in exquisite release, and still feel safe enough to enjoy it. Knowing it will happen every single time.
She needs it. So I will give it her. Even though all I want is to hold her close, keep her safe, block out the rest of this ugly, foul world.
I’ll give her what she needs. And maybe, with time, we’ll trust each other enough to keep each other’s secrets.
I hear the door downstairs open, the alarm beeps its warning and then silence. If she is climbing the stairs, I do not hear her steps. She floats, this woman I am growing more fond of with every day. She glides. Such grace in face of such horror. How has she survived?
I turn as she enters the room. She’s surprised I’m here, waiting. And ordinarily, I’d let her set herself up without my interference. But the need to see her overrides any sane thoughts. Relief is the first emotion I feel. She’s unharmed. Lust is quickly on its tail.
I smile, running my eyes over her dress and heels. I love her high heels, they make her statuesque. The dress is simple, but well made. It moulds to her figure, hugging the curves and accentuating her assets. She has so many, I can’t even count.
I spread my arm out and indicate the bed.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I enquire.
Her head tips down and she walks towards the large platform that dominates the room. I can already picture her golden skin against the plush black bedspread. Her hair will be lost in amongst the dark colours, but her body will shine like a precious metal.
She starts stripping with each sensual step she takes. First one shoe, then she steps lightly out of the other. The dress slides down her perfect body and pools on the rug beside the bed. Her bra is next, then her lace panties. And finally, one leg up, foot resting on the side of the bed, and she methodically takes off her stocking. Unhooking it from the garter belt, rolling it down slowly, as though she has the entire night to get into position as requested.
“You’re teasing, Haydee,” I remark. “I mig
ht just have to punish you for it.”
She doesn’t speed up. If anything, she goes slower. I’ll take that as a “Yes, please.”
I’m smiling, I realise. And quickly school my features. I lean back against the mantle to the fireplace and watch as she climbs up onto the massive frame. Her willowy body dwarfed by its utterly ridiculous size. I know for a fact that four people can easily sleep in it. At least, one man and three women can.
But looking at Haydee as she lies back on the bedspread with such an infinite look of peace on her sweet features and I can’t imagine the bed taking more than just her. She’s made for it. She’s made for me.
I watch as she adjusts her chain, making sure it lies down between her breasts and pools just above her pubis. A straight line to her centre that seems to taunt. I’m rock hard in my pants, and I realise I’m still in uniform when I glance down at my erection. No wonder she was so surprised when she walked in the bedroom.
For a moment, regret fills me. Haydee doesn’t do well with surprises. But then I tell myself, it’s not this sort of surprise that she fears. Perhaps the uniform reassures her. It’s hard to guess, but her relaxed form suggests she’s calm.
I walk to the end of the bed and look down at her body. Her eyes are on my epaulets, not my face. Still submissive, but curious.
“Do you know what these mean?” I ask. She shakes her head, biting that bottom lip of hers, letting me know she’s unsure if she’s broken a rule by looking at them. “A crown and one pip,” I say. “It means I’m a superintendent. I’m a divisional head in the New Zealand Police. It means,” I say, starting to undo my tie and top shirt buttons, “that I’ve made it my life’s role to look after people. To watch out for them. To keep them safe.”
Her eyes dart up to mine. The shirt is gone, I’m working on the trousers now.
“Do you feel safe with me, Haydee?” I ask.
Immediately, her head nods. And again I am consumed with relief.
“Now,” I say, my trousers slip over my hips and I push them and my underwear to the floor. My erection springs free and slaps against my stomach. The sound seems very loud in the warm room. “Once I remove this uniform, I am still the same man. Still a cop. Still dedicated to my role. But there is one difference.”
A Twist Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 2.5) Page 7
