“No?” His mouth twitched. “Thank you for letting me know.”
Her mouth dropped open, and her brain started to kick in, erratic as a motor with some salt water in the fuel. Other fathers hugged their children…both sons and daughters. They’d comfort them and hold them if a baseball smashed into them or when a big dog chased them. Her father hadn’t been…fatherly.
“At first, he treated you like a son. What happened when you grew older?”
Her own fault. Her own choice. She didn’t regret it. “I decided I was female and started dressing like one. Helping my mother. So I was…nothing to him.”
Master R was frowning again. “You would have been a beautiful little girl. How could any papá not be proud?” His knuckles stroked her cheek, and she…yearned.
“I guess you had a good father,” she said.
“I did.” His fingers ran through her tangled hair. “Kimberly. Terror can make us like children. If you didn’t run to your father—a man—to comfort you, and considering your experiences with men recently, I understand why you hid.” His level gaze held hers. “But, chiquita, you must understand that while you are here, I expect you to come to me and share your fears. Even if I am the one causing them.”
Why did his uncompromising look make her heart stutter? “Yes, Master.”
The corner of his mouth curved. “I like all the Masters I’m hearing right now, slave.”
She flinched, chilling as if arctic water was seeping into her core.
His eyes narrowed. “This is the type of thing we discuss.” He paused. Then his voice hardened. “Slave.”
He rarely called her that horrible word. Surely he couldn’t understand the effect on her. How could he?
Now he expected her to talk as her insides shriveled like a jellyfish on dry sand. Can’t talk. She pulled in a breath. Must talk. I’m braver than this. Her shoulders straightened a little. Gabi would tell her to pull up her big girl panties and spit the words out. “The word. Slave.” Could she bleach her mouth out? “I never liked it even…before. Now it makes me sick to my stomach. Ugly.” She bit her lip and forced the rest out. “When you call me that, it’s…worse.” As if her security blanket had a snake on it.
“Mmm.” He picked her up, tucking her easily onto his lap and against his chest.
Every muscle in her body relaxed at the enveloping comfort of his embrace. A reward. He was rewarding her for her honesty. Manipulative? Kind of. But she’d take it.
“You don’t look sick when you say master.”
“It’s not the same—not ugly.” She rubbed her cheek on his chest; his faded T-shirt was soft over his solid pectorals. His masculine scent mingled with that of the laundry soap and had come to mean safety. “I like the master word.” She considered and added, “Although sometimes I want to throw things at you when you make me use it.”
His laugh sounded different, deeper, when her ear was pressed to his chest. “Bueno. Is submissive better than slave?”
“I guess.” She tried to imagine him calling her that. “It’s kind of blah.”
“Mmm. Perhaps sumisa—or even sumisita? It means little submissive in Spanish.” He shifted her so her face snuggled into his neck. “Someday we’ll discuss why I think the word fits you.”
Sumisita. It sounded…sweet somehow. He’d called Gabi chiquita a couple of times, so that term didn’t seem very special. Gatita was…more hers. And sumisita was more…ownery. His way of saying “mine.” “I like that, Master.”
“Good.” He tipped her face up. His approving kiss made her feel as if her boat had entered the harbor.
“I put a blank journal in your sitting room,” he said. “And a limit list as well. You know what that is?”
A list of BDSM activities where a submissive could check off what she might be interested in trying…and what she absolutely wouldn’t do. Sometimes a club dom would hand her one. She nodded.
“Fill out the list, and we will discuss it.” He tapped her nose. “I doubt we’ll actually play much, but we have reached the point where I need to know more about what bothers you.”
“And the journal?”
“Is mostly for you. Faith agreed you should use it.” He paused. “I want you to write one page for me every day, and we’ll read it together each night. The rest is only for you; I won’t ask to see the other pages.”
A journal. Bleah. “I get Faith’s reasons. But why a page for—to—you?”
“To avert problems like today.” He stroked her hair gently. “There will be things you need from me. Thoughts you can’t speak but might be able to write. So. You will fill the page, even if your words seem foolish to you. Clear?”
“Yes, Master.” Homework. Frigging what-I-did-on-my-slavery-vacation homework.
“Such a pout,” he murmured and kissed it right off her lips. His lips were warm, firm, controlling. His hand tightened in her hair as he took her mouth, punishing before he finished in gentleness.
Her head swam as if she’d downed three quick drinks.
When he pulled back, his gaze smoldered with as much heat as she had simmering inside. His expression hardened. “Now about what you took from the toy cabinet…”
She buried her head in his neck. Oh God.
“Bring them here and lay out everything neatly on the ottoman. For your punishment, you will pick one of the toys—just one—which I’ll use on you sometime in the next few days.”
“When?” she whispered.
“Wrong response. Try again, sumisa.”
“I’m sorry, Master.” More. She should say something more. “Whatever Master wishes.”
“Very pretty.” He kissed the top of her head and set her on her feet. “Off you go now…and, Kimberly?”
Trying to remember what all she’d taken—that huge dildo, definitely don’t want to pick that—she turned. “Yes, Master.”
His lips quirked as if he was trying not to smile. “Next time when I say we will play, I do not mean hide-and-seek.”
Chapter Seven
A few days later, Raoul practiced in his dungeon with the door locked. Using a whip was a skill a dom couldn’t afford to let grow rusty, not if he didn’t want to mark up the bottom.
He’d watched from the tower room as Kimberly walked on the beach with Gabi. The sun had glinted off his sumisita’s dark hair. Her tan had darkened from her frequent walks, and her skin glowed with the return of her health. Kimberly had shoved Gabi into the frothing surf, her face alight with laughter. To see her so carefree lightened his heart.
And having her out of the house meant he could practice. Although the crack of the whip probably couldn’t be heard outside the dungeon, he’d take no chances. She didn’t need to know how much he enjoyed bullwhips.
After stretching up until his arms and shoulders were loose, he started. An empty space on the wall held various practice targets—today newspapers were between the wide clamps. He worked on slicing delicately through only the top layer of paper. At intervals, he’d lash the adjacent piece of suede, checking that the cracker on the end barely raised the nap.
What was there about the crack of a whip that was so erotic?
His phone rang. After finishing his swing—only a fool pulled a stroke—he took the cell from his pocket. A private number. His gut tightened as he answered. “Sandoval.”
“Raoul, it’s nice to hear your voice. This is Dahmer…the Overseer. Is this a good time to talk, or should I call back?”
“Your timing is excellent.” Raoul reminded himself of what must be brought up. The location. Referring Sam.
“How is the merchandise working out? Any problems?”
Raoul forced a laugh. “Well enough, although buying…used…wasn’t my smartest choice. The previous owner left some dents.”
“Not surprising. The prior owner has a temper. But I’m happy everything else is good.”
“Yes. In fact—”
Dahmer cleared his throat. “Phones are—”
“Not a prob
lem.” Paranoid bastard, as Buchanan had said. “I have a friend who admired the merchandise. He’s rough on his playthings and hopes to purchase something sturdier.”
“Well.” A pause. “We do have an upcoming event. Perhaps if he qualifies, he might attend.”
“He’d enjoy that.”
“As I did with you, I’ll need to see your friend in action. It decreases the chances of…ah…unexpected visitors.”
He meant cops. “Speaking as a buyer, I appreciate the precautions.”
“Is there a location you prefer? Your house or a Tampa club?”
Raoul didn’t want to foul his home with Dahmer’s presence, yet taking Kimberly to a regular BDSM club with no safeguards in place was totally unacceptable. A few days ago, he’d discussed an alternative with Buchanan and Kouros…and then Z. “Since public clubs are noisy, perhaps you would be my guest at the Shadowlands?”
“The Shadowlands.” Dahmer paused. “I’d like that. The club has an amazing reputation.”
“Well deserved.”
“About the audition scene you planned to do at this visit…”
“Yes?” Raoul’s hand tightened on the phone. He’d hoped Dahmer would have forgotten. How to blow him off?
“The master scheduled to do the fireplay demonstration this month is unavailable, and I’ve had difficulty finding fireplay scenes erotic enough for our buyers. Someone mentioned you give a fine show.”
Someone. Would that be the bastard who had scoped out submissives from the Shadowlands for the slavers to kidnap? Raoul’s jaw clenched. “Good to hear.”
“For your audition, I’d like to see a fireplay scene with your new toy. If you do as well as I’ve heard, I’ll book you for the coming auction.”
The coming auction. Raoul paced across the room, thinking. He wouldn’t be on a waiting list. Since Sam might not be cleared as a buyer, this might be the best chance to get a person into the auction. But what about Kimberly? Raoul stared at the bullwhip and wished Dahmer was close enough to serve as a target.
If Kimberly could manage the scene in the Shadowlands, the FBI could find an agent to play his submissive at the auction. It might work. Agree now; back out later if needed. “A fireplay scene it is. The Shadowlands is open Friday and Saturday. Which night suits you?”
“Let me check my calendar.” Silence. “Next Saturday would be good. Ten o’clock?”
“Fine. We’ll meet you in the parking lot and go in together.” Raoul punched the Off button. He tightened his grip on the bullwhip. A crack, and he slashed through every layer of newspaper.
* * * *
Master R had been awfully quiet since yesterday, Kim thought as she took her beach walk. Was something wrong?
Had he gotten upset that she’d retreated to her private sitting room right after Gabi’s visit? But after talking some fears over with her friend, she’d needed to regroup. Maybe Gabi had told him to give her time alone?
He hadn’t seemed upset at supper last night. Just silent.
Still, before bed, he’d read “his” designated page in her journal and laughed at her insulting description of his temper. He’d hugged her for sharing how she felt like a piece of meat in the inspect position. So he probably wasn’t upset with her. If anything, he’d been gentler than normal. Sweeter. Snugglier.
Okay, she wouldn’t worry until he told her she needed to. Instead, she took a breath, enjoying the tang of the salt air. In the distance, laughing gulls circled over something on the shore, squabbling and diving. Farther out, pelicans flew in a line, probably heading toward Clearwater.
The air off the water tugged at her T-shirt, blew her hair in her face, and lightened the humid heat a little. The wind off the Atlantic in Savannah was much more effective. She remembered the welcome ocean breeze when she’d go out on the trawler with her father. Her father…
She frowned, remembering Master R’s questions about him. Had she ever run to Father for comfort? Hardly. He’d been a gruff man, dark in both nature and appearance. His Native American mother had gifted him black hair and wide cheekbones; his father had left him the fishing boat.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts. His life had revolved around the trawler, and until her rebellion, so had hers. But she’d hated how horribly he treated Mom. “Fat cow.” “Can’t do anything right.” “Stupid as a stump.” Mom had worked like a…a slave for him, and he never said thank you. Never noticed unless something wasn’t perfect.
One day, Kim had yelled at him for calling Mom names. He’d backhanded her into the wall. After that, Kim stopped pretending to be his son. She’d gone out for cheerleading, worn makeup and pretty clothes. He’d called her a whore and a stupid slut. God, she’d hated him sometimes.
She stopped and frowned at a small sand castle. A red bucket lay nearby. High walls, a moat around it. No bridge. Smart kid. Keep the world out and stay within. Much safer that way.
Kim turned and headed back, shaking her head. Odd how she’d hated her father, yet her mother never had. It had taken Mom years to regain her independence and stop doubting everything she did. They’d both worked their asses off after he’d died, drunk, in a car wreck. The stab of pain hit her unexpectedly. His life had been the stupid trawler, and when the boat had died, so had he. Mom hadn’t been enough to live for. Neither had Kim. Hell, they were only women. Slaves.
Not slaves. Mom was an office manager at a real estate firm now, and Kim was a marine biologist. So there, Father. We’re better off without you. That hurt too. Mom should have…have left him, shouldn’t have taken his abuse.
How could a wife suffer as many restraints as a collared slave?
Kim snorted. And gee, look at me now. I’m a slave, just like you were, Mom.
When she returned to the house, Master R would put those cuffs on her wrists. And she’d feel torn. Like she wanted them. Hated them.
She sometimes hated him too, but she was starting to want him more. Need him. She worked to win his smile, loved it when he laughed.
Don’t go down that liking path, Kim. First, he was just doing what had to be done to get the slavers. Second, he’d want his girlfriend to be a slave. That’s so not me. So, Ms. Romantic, do not get attached. He’s another team member like the FBI agents. Clear?
She looked up at the house and stopped.
Master R stood at the foot of the steps to the beach, leaning back on the railing, arms crossed on his chest. Just watching her.
That was nothing new, but the way her heart leaped… Now that was a problem. Dammit, heart, didn’t we just have a talk? Weren’t you listening?
She detoured around the weathered chair on the shore and paced toward him, trying to ignore the delight fizzing in her veins like frothy surf. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees, in exactly the correct position, and bowed her head.
“ Muy bonita,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “You are so very pretty.” He grasped her arms and lifted her to her feet with that effortless strength that took her breath away. “Now, I need to talk with you.”
Wasn’t that what a man said to his wife when he was going to ask for a divorce? Honey, we have to talk? She grinned. At least, not being married, she’d sidestepped that one. “Yes, Sir?”
“The Overseer called yesterday.”
“The—” Her knees buckled. He tightened his hands on her arms and held her up, his brown eyes steady on her face. A cold sweat broke out over her skin, and her heart raced until her chest hurt, hurt bad. Maybe she was having a heart attack, and her air was all gone and—
He shook her once, making her head jerk on her shoulders. “Kimberly!”
She gasped in a breath, then moaned as her eyes fixed on the house. He’d come here. Maybe he was already here. Her lungs squeezed down again.
“Look. At. Me.” Each word was accompanied by a ruthless shake.
Her gaze returned to his face.
“There. Much nicer.” He smiled, the tiny lines beside his eyes crinkling. “Did you know you
r nose is pink?”
“Have you gone crazy?”
“Have you gone crazy, Master.” Still gripping her arms, he bounced her, obviously testing if her legs would hold her up. “I’m perfectly sane, thank you. Kimberly, we meet him at the Shadowlands next Saturday for drinks. For a civilized conversation. He’s not going to run amok and slaughter the club members like chickens.”
His bland tone made her choke on a laugh, but she gave him a dark look. “So little you know.” Her legs started to work, and she stood under her own power.
He leaned against the railing again, clasping her waist and pulling her between his long legs as he liked to do. Why did that make her feel safe instead of trapped? His eyes were level. Intent. “There’s something else, gatita. We will do a scene at the Shadowlands. A fi—” He broke off and said, “An erotic one.”
She was the Titanic hitting an underwater iceberg. Hulled. Sinking into the freezing water. “A scene?” In front of the Overseer? The burn of anger—of betrayal—drove the ice away. She hit his wide chest, once, then over and over. “No. No. No!”
His hands were still around her waist; he didn’t move as she pounded on him.
Her fists slowed. “No,” she whispered. She’d agreed only to pretend to be his slave, not to do a scene with him. But then she saw the tightness of his jaw. Not anger—unhappiness. She pulled in a shuddering breath. “Tell me why.”
He curved his hand around her nape in support. Comfort. “During my initial interview, Dahmer said they bring in people to do scenes for the entertainment of the buyers, and I thought that might be another way to get into an auction. The night I bought you, I agreed to an audition during the follow-up visit.”
“I vaguely remember hearing you.” But she’d hurt badly enough that their conversation was a blur. Vance had mentioned it at Gabi’s house too. “There’s a waiting list though.”
He sighed. “That’s the problem. He wants someone for this coming auction. If Sam’s referral falls through, this might be the only chance to get in. I’d use an FBI agent at the auction, not you. But next weekend”—his jaw tightened—“Dahmer expects to see you.”