Текст книги "The Gilded Chain"
Автор книги: Lauren Smith
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Epilogue
Royce Devereaux leaned back against the bar, grinning lazily, as Katrina Evans blew him a kiss good-bye. She sauntered away in those killer heels and black lace lingerie. He was still fully clothed in his jeans and a black t-shirt. They’d only done a minor scene tonight, a light spanking and a little more. He’d been too distracted to get into it tonight, not when they were alone. Half the rush was taking a woman to unbelievable heights of pleasure, knowing others could see her come apart screaming his name.
That hadn’t happened tonight. It had been a nice evening. Nice. He grimaced. His nights used to be explosive, mind-blowing, but never nice. He was born to be bad. Born to be wicked, and he hadn’t yet found a woman who could keep up with him.
He studied the other doms in the Gilded Cuff. Many of them were preoccupied with their own subs, unaware of his scrutiny. They were immersed in their own love affairs, bodies entwined. Royce felt a momentary flare of nostalgia he couldn’t quite place, causing him to give in to an uncharacteristic sigh. It used to be fun. He, Emery, and Wes breaking in new submissives with games and using wicked sex toys. Their world had seemed limitless. Until now.
Now it’s just me. The sharp pang of anger and jealousy shot through him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
His phone vibrated in his jeans pocket and when he checked the screen, he saw a text from Wes.
“She said yes.”
That was it. Royce growled softly, his fist clenching around the phone before he shoved it back into his pocket. Wes had flown out to Colorado that day to propose to Callie Taylor.
Royce spun to face the bar and reached over the edge to grab a nearby bottle of bourbon and a shot glass. Tonight was not his night. He was totally alone since Kat’s departure, and now he was completely fucked and not in the way he wanted, because the last of his best friends had just gotten engaged.
To Wes and Callie, he thought, as he downed the first of what promised to be a series of shots. The liquid burned his throat and he savored it, tilting his head back to the ceiling and letting it wash through him.
“Royce?” Aria Lexington, the Gilded Cuff’s top domme and gatekeeper of membership check-ins, walked up to him. Wearing her usual dark suit and black glasses with her hair in a sleek yet sexy chignon, she was a man’s perfect librarian fantasy. Not his though…He liked a submissive woman in bed, one he could spank, not one who’d rather spank him.
“What do you want?” he replied as he turned to face her, filling his glass of bourbon as he met her gaze.
“There’s a young woman in the lobby. She says she has to talk to you. Her name is Mackenzie Martin.”
Royce froze, the bourbon spilling over the edges of his glass and onto his fingers before he recovered and hastily set the bottle on the bar. It thunked hard against the wood surface and drew the attention of the bartender, who quirked a brow in concern.
“I was going to turn her away, per our privacy policy, but she seemed earnest and she’s not dressed for the club, if you get my meaning. She actually seems a bit frightened, and well…it looks like she’s been roughed up by someone.”
Kenzie was here? For a moment Royce’s brain short-circuited. His teacher’s assistant was standing in the lobby of his club? The club she wasn’t supposed to know about. And she was roughed up. Someone had hurt her…
“Let her in,” he told Aria. “She’s one of my graduate students. My TA.”
Aria straightened her glasses and blinked. “Are you sure? We had a ban of all students from the university at your request.”
“Aria,” Royce growled low. Even though the woman was a domme, she responded to his alpha dominance and lowered her head a few inches.
“Very well. You should come with me. She seems a bit skittish and insisted she speak to no one but you.”
Every muscle in Royce’s body tensed. What had happened to his TA? They rarely shared a civil word to one another and for her to seek him out was…abnormal. Adding to that what Aria had said about her being skittish, that wasn’t good.
Aria led Royce through the main club floor. When she opened the door to the lobby, one of the club monitors, Bruce, stood just outside watching something in the corner of the room far away from him.
“Where is she?” Royce asked him, glancing about the partially dim lobby.
Bruce gave a little nod indicating a bench on the far wall by the door. There, dripping wet, her eyes wide, hands clenched into fists, was Kenzie Martin. Royce took in her posture, the way her arms curled around her chest, her cable-knit sweater hanging limp about her body. She looked like a half-drowned kitten. Her jeans were dark with water and soaked with mud on one side as though she’d fallen. A small tear of her jeans on one knee caught his eye because of the bright crimson slash of blood. A bruise marred her cheek on the left side. Her head was bowed as though she was tired and attempting to hide or make herself appear smaller. They were the actions of a creature who’d been recently attacked.
His blood boiled and he clenched his fists. She’d been hurt and he was going to kill whoever had touched her.
“Dr. Devereaux?” She sat up when she saw him, her chocolate-brown eyes darting from him to Aria and then to Bruce.
“Kenzie, what’s happened?” He left Aria and Bruce as he strode over to her and knelt down on one knee so he was level with her. He cupped her cheeks and turned her face, inspecting the damage. Her long lashes fluttered and a single tear trickled down her bruised cheek. It glistened beneath the muted lamplight from the wall sconces and he brushed it away with the pad of his thumb.
“Can I speak with you privately?” she whispered, her gaze flicking to Bruce and Aria, who were still in the lobby, watching them intently.
“Okay, sure. There’s a room in the club where we can have some privacy.” He offered her a hand.
Normally he avoided touching her because she was so tempting. There was too much fire in her, too much sass, and he wanted to dominate her right into his bed…spank the sass right out of her until she was begging for him to take her. But she was off-limits. He’d never slept with a student at his college and he never would. It was a line he wouldn’t cross. And Kenzie had made it clear what she thought of him romantically, which was nothing. Rather than blush at his mildly inappropriate remarks that sometimes slipped out while they worked late on grading assignments, she just fired right back at him with some remark that put him in his place. Namely as her professor and not as a potential lover. Now, when her frightened gaze and trembling lips set off every instinct in him to protect her, she was more off-limits than ever.
She slipped her hand into his without questioning him. He led her past Aria and Bruce and into the club. Most of the subs and doms were getting up to leave for the night, but a few couples still lingering in the club eyed them with interest. Kenzie shifted closer to him, an almost unconscious move as he took her back to one of the private rooms.
She followed him inside but skidded to a halt when she saw the massive bed in the center of the room. Her almond-shaped eyes widened.
“What—”
“Relax, Kenzie. It’s just a bed. Sit down and tell me what happened.” He guided her over and gently pushed on her shoulders until she sat. Then he walked over to a dresser and opened the top drawer. Every private room kept a first-aid kit handy just in case the play got a little rough. He flipped the case open and dug through its contents until he found some antiseptic pads and a couple of Band-Aids. Tearing the packet open, he walked back to her and lifted one of her legs onto the bed so it was easier to reach. Her knee was scraped, the cut was not deep, but still bloody.
“This may sting,” he warned softly. The cool cloth wiped away the dirt and blood as he rubbed gently at the cut.
Kenzie bit her lip, but made no sound. After he cleaned the cut and covered it with a Band-Aid he treated her scraped hands the same way. Once that was done, he cupped her chin and tilted her head to look up at him.
“Tell me what happened.”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“I was in your office finishing up putting the exam scores into your database.” Kenzie paused, licked her chapped, split bottom lip, and then continued. “Three men broke into your office while I was there.”
His blood began to pound a steady, fast rhythm deep inside his head. Flashes of the past, of old fears, threatened to resurface. No, this wasn’t twenty-five years ago. He wasn’t a little boy whose friends were taken by masked men.
“And?” he prompted, burying his dark thoughts of his past.
“They were looking for you, Dr. Devereaux. They attacked me before I could act. One hit me a few times.” She touched her cheek and then met his gaze. It was all steel and courage in her eyes.
Damn, what a woman Kenzie was.
“I pretended to be unconscious and overheard them talking to someone on the phone. When they weren’t looking, I jumped out of the office window behind your desk.”
“What? That’s a second-story window!”
Kenzie’s responding chuckle was full of pain. “Yeah. One hell of a drop. It’s how I got so banged up. I sort of scaled down the drain pipe until it broke. I’m just glad I had my car keys in my jeans and not my purse. I drove straight here.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police or go home?”
Two red spots colored her cheeks. “I thought they might check my wallet. It has my driver’s license in there with my apartment address on it.”
“You should have gone to the police.” He turned his back on her as he walked over to a trash bin to dispose of the cleansing wipes and Band-Aid wrappings.
“They said something on the phone that had me worried and made me afraid to get the police involved. I think they have an inside connection to the police department here. And they seemed to want to talk to you about illegal trafficking. I didn’t want to get you in the middle of something…” She trailed off and he understood what she meant. She thought he was involved in something illicit and didn’t want to bring that to the police. Talk about TA loyalty.
Royce faced her again as he considered everything she’d told him. He didn’t have any enemies that he was aware of. He didn’t owe money, and he certainly hadn’t crossed anyone to the point that they would hire thugs to break into his office.
“Illegal trafficking…” he mused aloud. “I have no idea what they’re talking about.” He hoped that would reassure her. She didn’t look that convinced.
“Dr. Devereaux, I’m afraid to go back to my apartment.”
He knew for Kenzie to admit her fear of anything meant it was serious. He was responsible for her injuries and he needed to protect her. To do that, he had to figure out what the hell was going on.
“I’ll take you somewhere safe tonight.” He knew just where to bring her.
Kenzie let her bandaged leg drop off the bed. “Where?”
“My home.”
Her lips parted but he silenced her with one of his dom scowls. It had cowered many a rebellious submissive in the club before.
“Until I figure out what’s going on, I want you near me. Allow me to protect you. Understood?”
She nodded, eyes wide.
“Good. Now, let’s get out of here. The quicker we figure this out, the better.”
If he didn’t resolve this issue soon, he’d be in deep shit. Kenzie under his roof was going to drive him insane with lust. He knew the moment her natural sass returned he’d be tempted to bend her over the nearest flat surface, spank her, and then fuck her until they both couldn’t walk. And that was bad. Really bad.
If he couldn’t maintain his control, she’d end up in his bed, and his most important rule would be broken.
Every passion has its price… See the next page for an excerpt from THE GILDED CUFF by Lauren Smith. AVAILABLE NOW
Chapter 1
Emery Lockwood and Fenn Lockwood, eight-year-old twin sons of Elliot and Miranda Lockwood, were abducted from their family residence on Long Island between seven and eight p.m. The kidnapping occurred during a summer party hosted by the Lockwoods.
–New York Times, June 10, 1990
Long Island, New York
This is absolutely the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Sophie Ryder tugged the hem of her short skirt down over her legs a few more inches. It was still way too high. But she couldn’t have worn something modest, per her usual style. Not at an elite underground BDSM club on Long Island’s Gold Coast. Sophie had never been to any club before, let alone one like this. She’d had to borrow the black mini-skirt and the red lace-up corset from her friend Hayden Thorne, who was a member of the club and knew what she should wear.
The Gilded Cuff. It was the place for those who enjoyed their kink and could afford to pay.
Sophie sighed. A journalist’s salary wasn’t enough to afford anything like what the people around her wore, and she was definitely feeling less sexy in her practical black flats with a bit of sparkle on the tips. Sensuality rippled off every person in the room as they brushed against her in their Armani suits and Dior gowns, and she was wary of getting too close. Their cultured voices echoed off the craggy gray stone walls as they chatted and gossiped. Although she was uneasy with the frank way the people around her touched and teased each other with looks and light caresses, even while patiently waiting in line, a stirring of nervousness skittered through her chest and her abdomen. Half of it had to do with the sexual chemistry of her surroundings, and the rest of it had to do with the story that would make her career, if she could only find who she was looking for and save his life in time. Her editor at the Kansas newspaper she wrote for had given her one week to break the story. What she didn’t know was how long she had to save the life of a man who at this very moment was in the club somewhere. She swallowed hard and tried to focus her thoughts.
Following the crowd, she joined the line leading up to a single walnut wood desk with gilt edges. A woman in a tailored gray suit over a red silk blouse stood there checking names off a list with a feather pen. Sophie fought to restrain her frantic pulse and the flutter of rebellious butterflies in her stomach as she finally reached the desk.
“Name, please?” The woman peered over wide, black-rimmed glasses. She looked a cross between a sexy librarian and a no-nonsense lawyer.
A flicker of panic darted through Sophie. She hoped her inside source would come through. Not just anyone could get into the club. You had to be referred by an existing member as a guest.
“My name’s Sophie Ryder. I’m Hayden Thorne’s guest.” At the mention of her new friend’s name the other woman instantly smiled, warmth filling her gaze.
“Yes, of course. She called and mentioned you’d be coming. Welcome to the Gilded Cuff, Sophie.” She reached for a small glossy pamphlet and handed it over. “These are the club rules. Read over them carefully before you go inside. Come to me if you have any questions. You can also go to anyone wearing a red armband. They are our club monitors. If you get in too deep and you get panicked, say the word “red” and that will make the game or the scene stop. It’s the common safe word. Any doms inside should respect that. If they don’t, they face our monitors.”
“Okay,” Sophie sucked in a breath, trying not to think about what sort of scene would make her use a safe word. This really was the most stupid thing she’d ever done. Her heart drummed a staccato beat as a wave of dread swept through her. She should leave…No. She had to stay at least a few more minutes. A life could hang in the balance, a life she could save.
“There’s just one more thing. I need to know if you are a domme or a sub.” The woman trailed the feather tip end of her pen under the tip of her chin, considering Sophie, measuring her.
“A domme or sub?” Sophie knew the words. Dominant and submissive. Just another part of the BDSM world, a lifestyle she knew so little about. Sophie definitely wasn’t a domme. Dommes were the feminine dominants in a D/s relationship. She certainly had no urge to whip her bed partner.
She liked control, yes, but only when it came to her life and doing what she needed to do. In bed? Well…she’d always liked to think of an aggressive man as one who took what he wanted, gave her what she needed. Not that she’d ever had a man like that before. Until now, every bedroom encounter had been a stunning lesson in disappointment.
The woman suddenly smiled again, as though she’d been privy to Sophie’s inner thoughts. “You’re definitely not a domme.” Amusement twitched the corners of her mouth. “I sense you would enjoy an aggressive partner.”
How in the hell? Sophie quivered. The flash of a teasing image, a man pinning her to the mattress, ruthlessly pumping into her until she exploded with pleasure. Heat flooded her face.
“Ahh, there’s the sub. Here, take these.” The woman captured Sophie’s wrists and clamped a pair of supple leather cuffs around each wrist. Sewn into the leather, a red satin ribbon ran the length of each cuff. The woman at the desk didn’t secure Sophie’s wrists together, but merely ensured she had cuffs ready to be cinched together should she find a partner inside. The feel of the cuffs around her wrists sent a ripple of excitement through her. How was it possible to feel already bound and trapped? They constrained her, but didn’t cut off her circulation, like wearing a choker necklace. She wanted to tug at the cuffs the way she would a tight necklace, because she was unused to the restriction.
“These tell the doms inside that you’re a sub, but you’re unclaimed and new to the lifestyle. Other subs will be wearing cuffs; some won’t. It depends on if they are currently connected with a particular dom and whether that dom wishes to show an ownership. Since you’re not with anyone, the red ribbons tell everyone you’re new and learning the lifestyle. They’ll know to go easy on you and to ask permission before doing or trying anything with you. The monitors will keep a close eye on you.”
Relief coursed through Sophie. Thank heavens. She was only here to pursue a story. Part of the job was to get information however she could, do whatever it took. But she wasn’t sure she would be ready to do the things she guessed went on behind the heavy oak doors. Still, for the story, she would probably have to do something out of her comfort zone. It was the nature of writing about criminal stories. Of course, tonight wasn’t about a crime, but rather a victim—and this victim was the answer to everything she’d spent years hoping to learn. And she was positive he was in danger.
When she’d gone to the local police with her suspicions, they’d turned a blind eye and run her off with the usual assurances that they kept a close eye on their community. But they didn’t see patterns like she did. They hadn’t read thousands of articles about crimes and noticed what she did. Somewhere inside this club, a man’s life was hanging by a thread and she would save him and get the story of the century.
“Cuffs please.” A heavily muscled man reached for her wrists as she approached the door that led deeper into the club. He wore an expensive suit with a red armband on his bicep, but his sheer brawny power was actually accented, rather than hidden, by his attire. It surprised her. She’d expected men to be running around in black leather and women fully naked, surrounded by chains, whips, and the whole shebang.
The man looked at her wrists, then up at her face. “You know the safe word, little sub?”
“Red.”
“Good girl. Go on in and have a good time.” The man’s mouth broke into a wide smile, but it vanished just as quickly. She smiled back, and bowed her head slightly in a nod as she passed by him.
She moved through the open door into another world. Instead of a dungeon with walls fitted with iron chains, Sophie found the Gilded Cuff was the opposite of what she’d anticipated.
Music and darkness ruled the landscape of the club, engulfing her senses. She halted abruptly, her heart skittering in a brief flare of panic at not being able to see anything around her.
The dungeons and screams she’d expected weren’t there. Was this typical for a BDSM atmosphere? Her initial research had clearly led her astray. It wasn’t like her to be unprepared and The Gilded Cuff certainly surprised her. Every scenario she’d planned for in her head now seemed silly and ineffective. This place and these people weren’t anything like what’d she’d imagined they would be and that frightened her more than the cuffs did. Being unprepared could get you killed. It was a lesson she’d learned the hard way and she had the scars to prove it. The club’s rule pamphlet the woman at the desk had given her was still in her hands and a slight layer of sweat marked the glossy paper’s surface.
I probably should have glanced at it. What if I break a rule by accident?
The last thing she needed to do was end up in trouble or worse, get kicked out and not have a chance to do what she’d come to do. It might be her only chance to save the man who’d become her obsession.
Sophie made her way through an expansive room bordered with rope-tied crimson velvet drapes that kept prying eyes away from the large beds beyond them when the curtains were untied. Only the sounds coming from behind the draperies hinted at what was happening there. Her body reacted to the sounds, and she became aroused despite her intention to remain aloof. Around here, people lounged on gothic-style, brocade-upholstered couches. Old portraits hung along the walls, imperious images of beautiful men and women from ages past watching coldly from their frames. Sophie had the feeling that she’d stepped into another time and place entirely removed from the cozy streets of the small town of Weston, on the north shore of Long Island.
The slow pulse of a bass beat and a singer’s husky crooning wrapped around Sophie like an erotic blanket. As if she were in a dark dream, moving shadows and music filled her, and she breathed deeply, teased by hints of sex and expensive perfume. Awareness of the world outside wavered, rippling in her mind like a mirage. Someone bumped into her from behind, trying to pass by her to go deeper into the club. The sudden movement jerked her back to herself and out of the club’s dark spell.
“Sorry!” she gasped and stepped out of the way.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, bodies manifested in twisting shapes. The sounds of sexual exploration were an odd compliment to the song being played. A heavy blush flooded Sophie’s cheeks, heating her entire face. Her own sexual experiences had been awkward and brief. The memories of those nights were unwanted, uncomfortable, and passionless. Merely reliving them in her mind made her feel like a stranger in her own skin. She raised her chin and focused on her goal again.
The cuffs on her wrists made her feel vulnerable. At any moment a dom could come and clip her wrists together and haul her into a dark corner to show her true passion at his hands. The idea made her body hum to life in a way she hadn’t thought possible. Every cell in her seemed to yearn now toward an encounter with a stranger in this place of sins and secrets. She trailed her fingertips over the backs of velveteen couches and the slightly rough texture of the fabric made her wonder how it would feel against her bare skin as she was stretched out beneath a hard masculine body.
The oppressive sensual darkness that slithered around the edges of her own control was too much. There was a low-lit lamp not too far away, and Sophie headed for it, drawn by the promise of its comfort. Light was safe; you could see what was happening. It was the dark that set her on edge. If she couldn’t see what was going on around her, she was vulnerable. There was barely enough light for her to see where she was headed. She needed to calm down, regain her composure and remind herself why she was here.
Her heart trampled a wild beat against her ribs as she realized it would be so easy for any one of the strong, muscular doms in the club to slide a hand inside her bodice and discover the thing she’d hidden there, an object that had become precious to her over the last few years.
Her hand came to rest on the copy of an old photograph. She knew taking it out would be a risk, but she couldn’t fight the need to steal the quick glance the dim light would allow her.
Unfolding the picture gently, her lips pursed as she studied the face of the eight-year-old boy in the picture. This was the childhood photo of the man she’d come to meet tonight.
The black and white photo had been on the front page of the New York Times twenty-five years ago. The boy was dressed in rags, and bruises marred his angelic face; his haunted eyes gazed at the camera. A bloody cut traced the line of his jaw from chin to neck. Eyes wide, he clasped a thick woolen blanket to his body as a policeman held out a hand to him.
Emery Lockwood. The sole survivor of the most notorious child abduction in American history since that of the Lindbergh baby. And he was somewhere in the Gilded Cuff tonight.
Over the last year she’d become obsessed with the photo and had taken to looking at it when she needed reassurance. Its subject had been kidnapped but survived and escaped, when so many children like him over the years had not been so lucky. Sophie’s throat constricted, and shards of invisible glass dug into her throat as she tried to shrug off her own awful memories. Her best friend Rachel, the playground, that man with the gray van…
The photo was creased in places and its edges were worn. The defiance in Emery’s face compelled her in a way nothing else in her life had. Compelled with an intensity that scared her. She had to see him, had to talk to him and understand him and the tragedy he’d survived. She was afraid he might be the target of another attempt on his life and she had to warn him. It wouldn’t be fair for him to die, not after everything he’d survived. She had to help him. But it wasn’t just that. It was the only way she could ease the guilt she’d felt at not being able to help catch the man who’d taken her friend. She had to talk to Emery. Even though she knew it wouldn’t bring Rachel back, something inside her felt like meeting him would bring closure.
With a forced shrug of her shoulders, she relaxed and focused on Emery’s face. After years of studying kidnapping cases she’d noticed something crucial in a certain style of kidnappings, a tendency by the predators to repeat patterns of behavior. When she’d started digging through Emery’s case and read the hundreds of articles and police reports, she’d sensed it. That prickling sensation at the back of her mind that warned her that what had been started twenty-five years ago wasn’t over yet. She hadn’t been able to save Rachel, but she would save Emery.
I have to. She owed it to Rachel, owed it to herself and to everyone who’d lost someone to the darkness, to evil. Guilt stained her deep inside but when she saw Emery’s face in that photograph, it reminded her that not every stolen child died. A part of her, one she knowingly buried in her heart, was convinced that talking to him, hearing his story, would ease the old wounds from her own past that never seemed to heal. And in return, she might be the one to solve his kidnapping and rescue him from a threat she was convinced still existed.
She wasn’t the boldest woman—at least not naturally—but the quest for truth always gave her that added level of bravery. Sometimes she felt, when in the grips of pursuing a story, that she became the person she ought to be, someone brave enough to fight the evil in the world. Not the tortured girl from Kansas who’d lost her best friend to a pedophile when she was seven years old.
Sophie would have preferred to conduct an interview somewhere less intimate, preferably wearing more clothing. But Emery was nearly impossible to reach—he avoided the press, apparently despising their efforts to get him to tell his story. She didn’t blame him. Retelling his story could be traumatic for him, but she didn’t have a choice. If what she suspected was true, she needed the details she was sure he’d kept from the police because they might be the keys to figuring out who’d kidnapped him and why.
She’d made calls to his company, but the front desk there had refused to transfer her to his line, probably because of his “no press” rule. Thanks to Hayden she knew Emery rarely left the Lockwood estate but he came to the Gilded Cuff a few times a month. This was the only opportunity she might have to reach him.
Emery ran his father’s company from a vast mansion on the Lockwood estate, nestled in the thick woods of Long Island’s Gold Coast. No visitors were permitted and he left the house only when in the company of private guards.
Sophie tucked the photo back into her corset and looked around, peering at the faces of the doms walking past her. More than once their gazes dropped to the cuffs on her wrists, possessively assessing her body. Her face scorched with an irremovable blush at their perusal. Whenever she made eye contact with a dom, he would frown and she’d instantly drop her gaze.
Respect; must remember to respect the doms and not make eye contact unless they command it. Otherwise she might end up bent over a spanking bench. Her corset seemed to shrink, making it hard to breathe, and heat flashed from her head to her toes.
Men and women—submissives judging by the cuffs they bore on their wrists—were wearing even less than she was as they walked around with drink trays, carrying glasses to doms on couches. Several doms had subs kneeling at their feet, heads bowed. A man sitting on a nearby love seat was watching her with hooded eyes. He had a sub at his feet, his hand stroking her long blond hair. The woman’s eyes were half closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure. The dom’s cobalt blue eyes measured her—not with sexual interest, but seemingly with mere curiosity—the way a sated mountain lion might watch a plump rabbit crossing its path.
