by Linda Barlow
He smiled. “Go directly to Hell, Ms. Harrington. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. Wait for me there. One of these days, I’ll get bored and join you. Save me a seat in the Eternal Sauna. Tie me to the same stake with you in the flames.”
Leaning back, he admired the juxtaposition of the single red rose and the 6-by-9 photograph. Hmm. He reached for the phone and dialed the concierge. He asked for the number of a reputable florist.
Not entirely wise, he reminded himself a few minutes later as he placed his order.
He smiled at the Target’s lovely face.
But worth the risk.
“You have another admirer?” Blackthorn asked, lightly fingering the soft petals of the opening rose. It graced the center of the coffee table in her living room, its loveliness accented by a delicate silver bud vase.
April blinked at him. “You didn’t send it?”
“No.” He was surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy.
“It came without a card. I assumed it was from you.”
Damn, thought Rob. He wished it had been.
They had come to the end of another week, and made no further progress. Both he and the authorities had questioned Kate de Sevigny. The FBI techs had gone over Rina’s computer with the most sophisticated of high-tech gear, trying to recover the files that Kate had insisted she’d seen. But either Rina—or somebody else—had been very careful. The files had not been recovered.
And the floppy backup diskette, if indeed it existed, had not been found.
Meanwhile, he’d been unable to develop anything on Kate’s father. His ex-wife’s accident had never been treated as a possible homicide, and without some kind of physical evidence there was no reason to reopen the case. Besides, Christian, it turned out, claimed to have an alibi for that night. Some woman named Augusta whom he’d met at the courthouse where the custody case had been decided. Marty and his people were checking it out, but they weren’t enthusiastic about this particular line of thinking.
“It’s almost as far-fetched as the JFK conspiracy theory,” Marty had said.
The case was cold.
Blackthorn was beginning to wonder if it would ever be cleared.
“Supper’s ready,” April called from the kitchen. She had invited him over for dinner. He’d told himself he ought to refuse the invitation and distance himself from his involvement in one of the principals in a murder case. But his rational and sensible thoughts on the subject kept getting undermined by flashbacks to the pleasures of his first night in her arms.
She’d resisted him in so many ways—his impression of her right from the first time they’d met had been of his own pursuit and her resistance. The fact that he hadn’t been pursuing her romantically at that point didn’t make any difference. From the moment he’d tackled her in Anaheim to the chase through Central Park, to the moment at Isobelle’s party when she’d come willingly into the shelter of his arms, he’d been after her. And when she’d finally surrendered, there had been a wholeheartedness about it that had taken his breath away.
Yet, at the same time, on some level at least, it had alarmed him. His feelings for her were too strong. He liked her, first of all—liked her spirit, her energy, her warmth. He liked the fact that she’d overcome an emotionally wrenching past and had made a success of her life professionally, and he admired the way she was so determined to confront and resolve her various emotional demons.
And, in addition to the liking, he felt a powerful desire for her. Her joyful sensuality had completely bewitched him. It had been so long since he’d known anyone like her. Jessie, much though he’d loved her, had never been passionate and uninhibited about sex.
Still, he had to keep reminding himself that she was a woman who’d been abandoned by the most important figure in her life. Later, she had been betrayed and attacked by the lover she had turned to for affection, barely escaping with her life, and then by a system of justice that had seen her as the archetypal bad girl—villainess, not victim. On some level, he knew she’d been haunted by these events.
He did not want to cause her further pain.
He did not want to be the next person in her life who got close to her and then walked out of her life.
He certainly shouldn’t be here tonight, knowing that each night they spent together would get them in deeper. He wouldn’t be here, except… except…
For the past few days he’d begun to feel free, for the first time, of his obsession with Jessie. It was scary to see the glimmerings of freedom, and even scarier to realize that it felt good. But these were emotions that he simply couldn’t resist exploring.
He wandered into the small kitchen. She was tossing the ingredients of a salad—he could see various kinds of baby lettuce, scallions, cucumber, goat cheese, tomatoes. She was broiling swordfish shish kebabs with mushrooms, onions, and fresh basil. “Smells wonderful,” he said, lifting her hair and kissing the back of her neck.
“Mmmm. Stop that or I won’t get the salad finished.”
He slipped his arms around her from behind and toyed with her breasts through the silky summer blouse she was wearing. “We could skip dinner,” he suggested as she arched backwards against him, making a soft sound in her throat.
“Oh, no,” she said, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “I don’t cook very often, but when I do I expect my efforts to be savored!”
“Okay, we’ll savor the feast first—” his hands slipped down over her belly and brushed across her thighs “—then turn our attention to a different hunger.”
She turned in his arms so they were chest to chest, thigh to thigh. “Are you hungry for me?” she murmured.
“Ravenous,” he said.
She laughed joyfully. “Let’s eat later,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Justin, I need your help,” Isobelle said to the leather-crafter who ran the Bleecker Street specialty shop Scenic Pleasures.
Justin took her hand and kissed it. “For you, lady, anything.
“I’ve got to talk to you.” She glanced around at the customers—only two at the moment, a gay couple who were examining leather and chain harnesses. The shop sold a wide selection of leather garments, including skirts and trousers, corsets, vests, bras and bikinis. They also sold D&S toys—whips, paddles, collars, and various kinds of restraints. “Can we go downstairs?”
He nodded and left the shop in the hands of his assistant, a petite red-haired woman whom she vaguely remembered seeing at a party with her female lover.
The shop opened onto the four-story townhouse that Justin had owned in the Village for over twenty years. “Downstairs is the dungeon,” he reminded her as they went into the residential part of the house.
Isobelle nodded. “I know.”
He looked at her closely for a moment, but said nothing. Together they descended to a dimly lit basement that had been reappointed as a D&S dungeon. Isobelle had been to several scene parties there. It contained the usual wall-mounted shackles, a set of wooden stocks, a paddling bench, a bondage swing, and various rings hanging from the ceiling.
There was a worn sofa against one wall where people could sit to cuddle or rest. She went to it and sat down, held out a hand to Justin, who joined her.
He was about medium height—not much taller than she was—and stocky. His hair was salt and pepper, as was his mustache. He had large dark eyes that were very seductive. Isobelle had no doubt that much of his power with women came from simply gazing silently at them with those expressive eyes.
“What’s the matter?” he asked her.
Isobelle bit her lip and considered her answer. She and Justin had never been lovers, since they were both exclusively tops, but they’d supported each other through various heartaches and relationship bust-ups. She’d known him for several years, and they liked and respected each other.
“Hey,” he said. “I can see that something’s wrong.”
“Look, you’re one of my closest friends in the scene.” She gave a britt
le laugh. “And people in the scene are just about my only friends these days.”
“They’re good people,” Justin said.
“I know. Why do all the vanilla people think we’re so goddamn weird?”
“Not to mention sick, sadistic, and dangerous,” he said dryly.
“It enrages me sometimes. I’ve always thought it was a lot healthier to acknowledge one’s dark places and to find harmless ways to play with these sides of ourselves than it is to hide, repress, and deny all that stuff.”
“That’s for sure.”
“People are hurting each other daily in all sorts of underhanded ways—and denying it. Yet they see a dominant carefully and lovingly disciplining a submissive and they say it’s perverted.”
Justin said nothing. She knew he’d heard it before—everybody in the scene shared similar opinions. She wasn’t saying anything new… just putting off what she’d really come here to say. And to ask.
“Justin, we’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve seen you play. I know your partners trust you. I know you’ve earned and deserve the faith they have in you.”
He looked at her, obviously curious about where this was leading.
Spit it out, for chrissake. “I want to submit to someone. No. I need to submit. Not as any kind of permanent thing. Just once. You’re the only person I can think of whom I trust enough to dom me.”
“You honor me,” he said quietly.
“Will you do it?”
He took her hands in his. She thought he looked a little bemused, yet, at the same time, pleased. “If you’re sure it’s what you really want.”
“It’s—it’s necessary.” She glanced around the dungeon, noting the bondage frame, the shackles. Funny how different it looked knowing that she would be yielding—instead of taking—control. She could see where it could be a scary place, after all.
Rina, she thought.
“Isobelle?”
“I’m all right.” She managed a smile. “I’d like to do it now, today, if that’s all right with you.”
“Look, let’s take it slowly, okay? Let’s just sit here for a while and relax.” He leaned back and put one arm around her shoulders. “I’m trying to get used to the idea that one of the dearest and most beautiful dominas I know is asking me to top her,” he said wryly. “Would you like to tell me why?”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
He looked at her with those brown eyes and considered. “Am I correct in assuming that there’s some kind of emotional conflict going on?”
Isobelle laughed shortly. “You could say that, yes.”
He nodded. “In that case, we’ll plan for an emotional safeword as well as a physical one. If things get too heavy for you, use it and I’ll stop instantly.”
“Of course. But—” she hesitated “—I don’t want a novice submissive’s scene. I want it severe. As intense as you can give, without causing harm.”
“So what you’re asking for is a punishment. There’s something you’re feeling guilty about, and you’d like me to give you a means of expiation.”
She laughed nervously. “You’re very wise, old friend, but let’s not psychoanalyze this too much.”
“Fair enough. Tell me one more thing, though. You couldn’t just switch with Charlie?”
“No. I don’t trust him to know what he’s doing as a dominant. Besides,” she paused, “I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be seeing Charlie.”
His eyes grew speculative. “It’s not working?”
She clenched her fists. “No.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged.
He caught her hand in his. “Now, huh?”
“If you have the time and the energy.”
“Now is fine. I should tell you, though—it might change things between us.”
“Meaning what?”
Justin’s dark eyes twinkled at her. “Meaning if Charlie’s on the way out, and there’s any chance that you can play the submissive role, I’m not sure I want to agree to ‘just once.’”
He was telling her that he could be more than just her friend. She shook her head slowly, touched. But he didn’t know her, not really. He didn’t know what he was asking. “I can’t think about that now,” she said.
“No problem.” He switched to a more businesslike tone. “I have to ask you a few practical questions.”
“Yeah, I know the drill. Okay, I’m healthy, I have no heart problems, no asthma, no back or other skeletal problems, no HIV or other STDs, no phobias that I know of. My safeword is simply ‘safeword,’ which is easiest to remember and unmistakable. Nylon rope is fine, so are leather cuffs. I know you won’t use metal handcuffs or anything else that could cause nerve damage in the wrists. Any kind of whips, canes, and paddles are okay. Oh, and that reminds me—”
“Whoa.” He put one hand over her mouth. “Easy. I can see it’s not going to be easy for you to give up control.”
He released her, and she smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I do trust you.”
“Keep repeating that and you’ll begin to believe it deep down, where it counts.”
She drew a deep breath. “Justin, I don’t want you to think that I—”
“Shh. Intellectual trust is different from physical trust. The second I will have to earn.”
She liked him very much, she thought. Too bad she hadn’t chosen a man like Justin in the first place.
“When I was a kid, I had fantasies of submission,” she admitted. “I still have them, sometimes. But I’ve always been afraid of it. Afraid to give up that control.” She laughed shortly. “The men I’ve trusted have almost always betrayed me.”
“Well, you’ll find no betrayal here.” He rose and walked to a wooden chest on the far side of the room. He rummaged inside it then lifted something out. When he returned Isobelle could see that it was a slave collar made of soft black leather. “This will help with the transition into power exchange,” he said, showing her the locking mechanism and the small padlock that would fit through the rings. “It should fit you.” He held it out. “Put it on.”
Isobelle could feel her heartbeat quicken. She’d put collars on many male submissives, but she’d never worn one herself. “Help me,” she said as she struggled to secure the end flaps of the collar.
He shook his head. “I want you to do it yourself. Donning that collar means you’re surrendering your power, your control. It symbolizes your submission. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Beneath her apprehension she was beginning to feel aroused. Maybe it would be okay, after all. Justin was very experienced. He knew exactly what to do, what to say.
She got the collar fastened and, with trembling fingers, she slipped the padlock through the metal loops and clicked it closed. There was a tiny brass key in the bottom of the lock. She removed it and put it solemnly into the palm of his outstretched hand.
From the chest Justin removed a pair of leather wrist cuffs and a matching pair of ankle cuffs. She saw him checking the cuffs, and she knew he would gauge each item he used for its safety and be meticulously careful in every way. Within reach was a medical pack that was undoubtedly well-stocked with first-aid supplies.
He also extracted several paddles, cats, a riding crop, and a cane from the wooden chest. He saw her looking at them and raised an eyebrow. “One would think you’d never seen toys like these before.”
“Let’s just say I’ve never seen them in precisely the way I’m seeing them now!”
Grinning, Justin took her hand and pulled her to her feet. He led her over to the standing bondage frame that dominated the center of the room. It was constructed of sturdy two-by-fours that appeared to have been sunk into the concrete floor about six feet apart. There was a crossbar overhead, higher than a tall man could reach. Metal rings were set into the wood at several intervals on the uprights and the crossbar. Thick nylon rope hung from several of the rings.
He took her face between his palms and gently kisse
d her lips. It felt nice, she thought. Very nice.
Then he stepped away from her and picked up the cuffs. “Wrists first.”
She suddenly felt vulnerable, helpless, and although she trusted him, scared.
But she was glad she felt these things… that she could feel them… that she was not—as she had feared—dead inside.
Rina, she thought again, as Justin came toward her.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Her lover was with her again.
He’d been there every night this week.
But he left early in the morning. Invariably.
He was going to do it here, Morrow decided. In her apartment. Not during the night, of course, for obvious reasons. His instructions were very clear on that.
He would wait until he was sure she was alone. Tomorrow morning would work just fine.
Gerald Morrow’s hunt for his new prey had brought him to the laundry room in the basement of her co-op apartment building. Getting past security had been ludicrously easy, especially on a Friday night. He’d simply waited outside across the street until he saw a large bunch of yuppie joggers headed inside, then quickly joined them. He’d dressed in nylon athletic shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes, so he melded right in. The security guard had barely given him a glance as he piled into the elevator with his “friends.”
He’d then had the leisure to check various floors to get the layout of the place, the fire doors, and all the exits. The laundry room had provided him with a change of clothing—jeans and a shirt taken from separate dryers.
He had also gotten the key to her apartment, which was an unexpected bonus. He had planned to lock-pick his way in—a particular specialty of his. But in the course of checking the security desk in the lobby from the stairwell, he’d seen the guard leave his post about an hour ago, probably to go to the can. The guard had taken the precaution of locking the lobby door and posting a note to inform any resident who wanted to get in that he’d be back in five minutes. Morrow had quickly ducked in, pulled open a few drawers, and found a supply of extra keys to most of the apartments. He’d located April Harrington’s and slipped it into the pocket of his new jeans.
