I Will Not Beg

by Cherise Sinclair

Piper ran up the stairs to her one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor. Sure, she could use the elevator, but she hadn’t made it to the gym for a week, and she needed the exercise. Stella’s contended that women who’d been abused should make staying strong a priority. Learning self-defense was also high on the organization’s priority list. Get strong; stay strong was Stella’s motto.

  Couldn’t argue with that. Piper had been a terrified, cringing mess when she’d been dropped off at the San Francisco shelter. After she’d healed, the shelter sent her to Stella’s Employment Service, an organization that was so much more than a job-hunting firm. There, she’d gotten advice, found friends, and eventually landed a job. Several jobs, actually. It’d taken her a good year to climb out of the quagmire of abuse. To integrate the person she’d been before with the person she’d become. Was still becoming.

  Scars remained, emotional and physical, but she no longer…mostly…looked in the mirror and saw “worthless”. I’m Piper Delaney, and I cringe for no man.

  Except for last week. Embarrassment curled her shoulders inward. For years, she’d been the badass in her empowerment self-defense class…right up until last week when her sparring opponent had resembled the Defiler—and Piper had frozen. Completely.

  Dammit. Scowling, she took the steps faster. Over the past year, she’d started having problems with anxiety along with a few panic attacks. Apparently, PTSD had a delayed version—and wasn’t that a sucky thing?

  She lifted her chin. So, fine, she’d deal with the stupid panic attacks. And she’d get her ass back to the self-defense class, and there would be no more freezing like a wussie. Or missing days. She half-groaned and laughed because Saul would undoubtedly give her extra sit-ups as a punishment for the time lost.

  Still puffing from the stair climb, she entered her apartment and savored the silence. No roommates. Yay. Rent in the city was horrendous, but last month she’d finally been able to afford an apartment of her own. One she could decorate to her tastes. She’d painted one wall of the long, rectangular dining-living room a royal blue, which looked amazing with the Brazilian hardwood flooring and set off her white couch and blue-and-white chairs. Pictures and pillows added pops of gold and green colors. Maybe the view of the commercial building across the street wasn’t great, but her tall windows provided wonderful light, and the plants lining that south wall flourished.

  She smiled at the lingering scent of ginger cookies. They hadn’t lasted long at the office. Baking cookies and giving them away was the best of all worlds. She got to eat cookie dough, made people happy, and being generous kept her butt from outgrowing her jeans.

  In the living room, she curled up on her squishy couch and pulled out her phone to check messages. The downside of owning a business was that free evenings didn’t exist. Not that anything should happen on a Friday after five, but Murphy’s Law meant if she didn’t check in, the world would fall apart, right?

  Her business of providing household managers and services required a huge amount of juggling.

  Notepad at hand, she listened to the voicemails from Chatelaines. Two of her business friends wanted to do lunch next week. Absolutely yes. They were both crazy fun.

  There were a couple of scheduling requests. Easy enough to accommodate.

  The last was from a client’s daughter. “Piper, I’m calling from the hospital. Dad fell yesterday, and the doctor says he had a small stroke.”

  Piper stiffened. “Oh, no.” Not Mr. Middleton. Everyone adored him. He’d been one of her first clients when Chatelaines first opened. He’d thought a household management service was a brilliant idea and had encouraged her to expand her offerings. He was the sweetest man.

  Stubborn, too. As the message continued, Piper frowned. It seemed he was refusing to live anywhere but his home.

  “So, Piper, can you set up and oversee whatever help he’ll need to keep him safe in that big house?”

  Oh boy, that wouldn’t be easy. But…do-able. She hummed under her breath. His appointed chatelaine would need to talk with the hospital discharge planner. Although the hospital’s home health service would arrange therapists and equipment, Chatelaines would need to round up everyone else, including people to stay with him ’round the clock at first. That would take a bit of time.

  Wait…Dixon knew Mr. Middleton. As a paramedic, PT assistant, and charmer extraordinaire, Dix could persuade Mr. Middleton to be patient as arrangements were made. But Dix would need to see him first thing in the morning, even if it was a Saturday. Without some assurances, Mr. Middleton was liable to simply walk out of the hospital.

  She glanced at the clock. Dix and Stan, who lived across the hallway, were having their rooftop party today. That would be a perfect way to hand over the rest of the cookies. Dix loved old-fashioned gingerbread. Last Christmas, he’d helped her bake—and frost—gingerbread men. And he’d insisted on eating the cutouts he’d decorated with mustaches, bowties…and enormous erections. She’d almost busted herself laughing.

  Yes. She’d take cookies to the party and bribe her favorite employee. Although an inducement probably wasn’t needed. Dixon adored Mr. Middleton.

  First, she needed to shower to remove the odeur de chien.

  Earlier, a somewhat intoxicated friend called to ask Piper to walk her two golden retrievers. Piper grinned. Mickey’d been totally lusting after the guy she’d met at the bar.

  Piper could have found someone to walk Mickey’s dogs. Chatelaines contracted services like cleaning, landscaping, personal care, and dog-walking, and kept extra help—like Dixon—on staff for flexibility. But she hadn’t wanted to hand over the task. Hey, she’d worked as a dog-walker on arriving in SF and still missed playing with the fuzzies.

  Although now, she smelled like dog. Golden retrievers loved to snuggle.

  And Piper gave people—and animals—what they needed.

  Jumping to her feet, she headed into the shower. Clean up. Dress. Get pretty. Because men would be at the party and finding a man-friend was on her list of goals.

  Turning on the water, she grimaced. Stupid goals.

  Why were business goals so much easier to achieve than personal ones? She’d already checked off most of Chatelaines’ objectives. Well, until recently when a new service-provider company started infringing on her market. She’d have to up her game to find new clientele. Otherwise, business life was good.

  Achieving her physical goals? She was doing fairly well.

  Her social goals? She had lots of friends.

  But when it came to a romantic interest? Total fail. Each year, she added find someone to love to her list. Each year, she’d try, date once or twice, and give up.

  This year, she hadn’t even tried. It was turning into summer, and she’d stalled long enough.

  Breathing in the soft fragrance of her lemon and lavender soap, she sighed, because there was no guy to enjoy her scent.

  In college, she’d loved the boy-girl dance. Flirting, dating, those first heady steps to becoming lovers. Then her stepbrother Jerry had introduced her to Master Serna, his friend from the Kansas City race track.

  A shudder ran through Piper as she remembered the headiness of feeling submissive in the presence of a Dominant. She’d been so thrilled. Convinced she was in love.

  She’d opened the door to her own nightmare, and there she’d stayed, stuck for far too long because she’d been so very gullible.

  Now, after the Defiler, the boy-girl journey was either a boring desert of sand…or a dark maze filled with terrifying creatures.

  Even though the shower was still steaming, the water felt cold on her skin. Getting out, she dried off and then pulled out the mascara and shadow to enhance her brown eyes. She might not be gorgeous, but she was pretty and interesting…and her big eyes were totally great.

  As she made them even more striking, she bit her lip. Dating was a problem, no doubt about it. Average nice guys simply didn’t interest her—at least, not sexually. The dominant types were what turned her on�
�and, ever since the Defiler, they were also the types that sent her anxiety skyrocketing.

  Surely, she could find a pleasant vanilla man where there was some chemistry. She just had to keep looking. And she would.

  There, a plan for the evening. Get Dixon nailed down for Mr. Middleton and meet a nice, attractive man to date.

  What to wear, what to wear…

  Her bedroom closet was easy enough to get into. The day after moving in, she’d removed the door and stored it under her bed.

  She eyed her clothes. It was the first day of June. Red would be good. Heck, red was always good. She chose a scarlet forward-ruffle midi skirt and added a black, red, and white striped sleeveless top. Black stiletto sandals because her five-foot-three body liked the extra inches.

  A small black crossbody clutch with appliquéd leather tea roses held her phone, business cards, and keys. Glittering hoop earrings sparkled nicely against her ebony hair and matched the stacked bracelets on her right wrist.

  Because sparkle meant party, right?

  Carrying a plate of cookies, she went down the hall and took the elevator to the sixth floor.

  On the rooftop terrace, mini olive trees alternated with planter beds containing herbs and red geraniums. Bright and sunny, the terrace was perfect for parties—and this gathering was in full swing. People at umbrella-topped tables nibbled on finger foods. Wood benches and lounge chairs held more guests. Some millennials were sunset-watching at the waist-high railing. A bigger cluster of people surrounded the bar area where Jameson Stanfeld, Dixon’s roommate and lover, was helping a hired bartender.

  In his usual button-down shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, Stan was serious eye-candy. As she approached, she saw a handsome chestnut-haired man trying to flirt with him—not that the Homeland Security Special Agent was reciprocating.

  Breaking off his conversation with the man, Stan pointed at her. “There you are. Dix tried to find you an hour ago.”

  Piper smothered a smile. In San Francisco, his Texas accent was just plain fun. “I had a couple of dogs to walk.”

  Stan frowned. “I know you have people who work on-call. The owner isn’t supposed to have to fill in like that.”

  “This was for a friend, not a client.”

  “Soft-hearted Piper.” He shook his head. “In that case, what would you like to drink?”

  “Uh, I’m not here to—”

  “Piper!” Blond, slender, and far cuter than she was, her friend Dixon let out a whoop of delight and dashed across the terrace. His enthusiastic hug almost knocked her off her feet, and she staggered back.

  Right into another man’s hard body. “Careful, love.” Gripping her upper arm to steady her, he rescued the tilting plate of cookies.

  With Dixon wrapped around her, she couldn’t even turn to thank the guy. She could only laugh and hug her friend back. “Dixon, you’re incorrigible.”

  “I’m so glad you came.” Wearing a bright blue tank and floral shorts, her friend released her. “And you give fantastic hugs, sweetpea. Oooh, I have a great idea. You should grow a dick, then Stan could keep us both as pets, and we’d have awesome three-way sex.”

  “Wh-what?” Sputtering a laugh, she shook her head. “How much have you had to drink, you doofus?”

  Blowing his blond hair out of his eyes, he gave her a smug look. “Lots. You’re way behind.” His gaze stalled on something behind her. “Hey. Ethan’s got cookies. That’s your red plate. Did you bring goodies?”

  “A bribe, Dix, they’re a bribe.”

  “Oh, I’m really bribable.” He blinked his big brown eyes. “Wait. Why am I accepting bribes?”

  She snickered. Was he even sober enough to know if he could fit Mr. Middleton into his schedule? Worth a try. “It’s like this…” She launched into the explanation.

  “Oh, that sucks donkey balls.” Dix scowled. “He’s a great old guy. I’ll go by the hospital first thing in the morning and talk him into staying put till we’re ready for him.”

  “Perfect. You’re wonderful.”

  “Of course, I am.” Dixon focused on something behind her, then puppy-whined. “Piperrrrr, tell Ethan those are my cookies.”

  Piper turned and saw the man holding her plate.

  Whoa, Stan had major competition for the most-devastatingly-handsome prize. Tall, broad-shouldered, leanly muscular with stunning royal blue eyes. Somewhere in his thirties. His dark brown swept-back hair, mustache, and well-shaped stubble beard were mind-bogglingly masculine.

  Model-perfect chiseled features were marred by a slightly crooked nose—probably from being broken. Looking closer, she could see a few scars on his face. One was almost hidden by his right eyebrow. An elegant cheekbone bore a tiny scar. Her gaze dropped to the hand holding her plate. More white scars disfigured his golden tan. Like with her self-defense instructor, the man’s skin held the map of fighting.

  When she saw interest light those blue eyes, she realized she was gawking at him like an idiot. God, Piper.

  His piercing gaze sent her back a step, and then, instead of ogling her body as so many men did, he studied her face.

  A disconcerting hum of arousal swept over her—something she hadn’t felt in far too long.

  Chemistry, it was just chemistry. But…wow.

  After a second, he turned to Dixon and flashed a smile. “I do believe these are now my cookies. For you Yanks, possession is nine-tenths of the law, is it not?” He deliberately took a bite of a cookie.

  Dixon pouted. “I thought you were a nice person, Ethan, but that’s sadistic behavior.”

  The man’s masculine chuckle didn’t ease Piper’s realization that Dixon might not be joking. Stan and Dixon were Dominant and submissive. Of course, their lifestyle friends would be here.

  A cold chill ran up her spine.

  As she turned away, a woman in her forties hurried across the terrace to halt in front of Ethan. A silver choker with a dangling heart proclaimed her a slave for anyone in the know. Reddened and swollen eyelids said she wasn’t a happy slave.

  Piper’s stomach tightened.

  “Sir Ethan, for you.” The slave offered the man a drink as if the glass were a golden chalice made for a king.

  Sir Ethan. At a non-lifestyle party? How pretentious. Even the Defiler hadn’t used D/s titles when out in public.

  Not my business.

  “Thank you, Angel.” Sir Ethan handed her a cookie. “You may have one glass of alcohol.” His voice was deep and smooth. Almost familiar.

  Because of the English accent, he sounded almost like the Dom who’d shown Piper how to free herself. Annoyance prickled her nerves. No one should sound like her champion. No one.

  “Thank you, Sir. But could…” Holding the cookie, Angel gave a surreptitious glance toward the exit.

  His lips firmed. The Dom’s answer to the unspoken question was clear.

  Angel’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Let’s get you something to drink, sweetheart.” After handing Dixon the plate of cookies, Ethan put an arm around his slave and led her away.

  Piper relaxed. Maybe the Englishman wasn’t completely heartless. At least he was getting the woman a drink.

  “Here, Piper.” Having abandoned helping the bartender, Stan handed her a glass of red wine. “Start on this, pet. You’re going to stay for a while, aren’t you?”

  Pet, hmm? Obviously, Stan had been drinking, since he usually kept that dominance stuff firmly reined in.

  As for his question… Did she want to stay at a party that undoubtedly contained Masters and Doms? “Not long. I…uh…have work to do.”

  He raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “He’s a human lie detector.” Dixon snickered. “You’re screwed, Pip.”

  “Why leave?” Stan asked. “You love people, and as a business owner, you know making contacts is part of the job.”

  “So there,” Dix muttered.

  “Of course. You’re perfectly correct.” Arguing with Stan never seemed to
work for Dixon; she doubted she’d have better luck. Of course, sneaking out of a party was a time-honored tradition, right?

  “Hey, Abby.” Hand in the air, Dixon waved at a woman. “C’mere. I have someone for you to meet.”

  In a sedate green top and tan dress pants, Abby had short fluffy blonde hair and calm gray eyes. Professional, quiet, and the total opposite of Dix’s exuberance.

  “Abby’s a university professor,” Dixon said. “Abby, this is my boss, Piper Delaney.”

  Piper held out her hand. “It’s good to meet you, Abby.”

  “And you.” Abby shook hands, then smiled at Dix. “Last I heard, you had three jobs. Which one of your bosses is this?”

  “Piper owns Chatelaines Services.” Stan stole a cookie from the plate Dixon held, handed it to Abby, and took one for himself.

  Dixon gave him an affronted frown. “Those are my cookies, Sir.”

  Another Sir. The love—and power exchange—between Stan and Dixon was what Piper once wanted. It wasn’t their fault that their relationship occasionally reminded her of how her search for a Dom had led her straight into hell.

  She gave herself a subtle shake. Dixon’s Master was a good man.

  “Chatelaines is an intriguing name. What does your company do?” Abby nibbled on the cookie, then took a bigger bite with a pleased hum.

  “Everything,” Dixon said smugly before Piper could answer. “It’s named after la chatelaine, the female head of a medieval château—the keeper of the castle. Now, in the twenty-first century, our chatelaines will help run your home. Grocery shopping needed? Sure. Arranging cleaning services? Sure. Do your dogs need their shots? Your chatelaine will set it up and a dog-person will take the dogs to the clinic for you. Car problems? Your chatelaine will arrange for someone to take the car in. Landscaping a mess? Your chatelaine will oversee the contractor. Need to host a Christmas party for your employees? Chatelaines will get it done—and provide a host or hostess if you need one.”

  Abby’s hand stalled on the way to her mouth. “That sounds like having a butler and wife rolled into one.”

  Piper took over. “Basically, yes. Just imagine having someone to handle the frustrating minutiae of your life. When you get home from work, there’s food ready to microwave and clean clothes in the closet. If a faucet gets a leak, someone else will deal with the plumber. Someone will deal with your washing, mending, ironing—and buy your clothes, too. These days, people in the workforce need that kind of pampering.”