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 your 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.”