I did it. I entered the room. Then I lingered at the entrance, and tried to form an impression of the space.
Sumptuous. Soft golden lighting, pale grey brocade walls. A band played softly in one corner, and a large u-shaped bar dominated another corner, with small tables dotted around. A raised stage was in front of me, most likely used for floor shows, though it was empty at the moment. There was a pleasant hum of conversation, and I was relieved that the conversation didn’t stop when I walked in. I’d been afraid of sticking out like a sore thumb.
I looked around. There were a few dozen men and women, all impeccably dressed in evening clothes. Nothing overly obvious about the place revealed it to be a sex club. Not at first glance, at any rate.
Then, I felt a gaze on me, and a voice spoke in my ear. “While I’d hoped to see you again, Alice, I didn’t anticipate it being quite so soon.”
I swivelled around to confirm, but I recognized that voice, with its smooth, smoky, amused undertones. Enzo Peron.
Of course.
***
Enzo:
For a year, I’d stayed away from Casanova. Taking shelter in BDSM sex clubs had been an instinctive response after the debacle that was Maria. But all wounds heal, and this one had as well, and I found that I wanted more. I wanted involvement and commitment; I wanted something real.
I didn’t entirely understand why I made my way to the club Friday night. It was tied up in the shimmer of desire that had hovered in the air at Alice Blackwell’s apartment. The touch of her hand on mine had awakened some kind of need in me.
Was I saying good-bye to Casanova? Was I running away from it, or was I running towards the familiarity of the club I’d belonged to for so many years?
I didn’t know, really.
Then I saw her there and laughed out aloud, and raised a silent toast to the universe, and to the gods of chaos and coincidence. Because Alice Blackwell at Casanova, wearing the blue wristband of a submissive, looking around with curiosity and without the slightest hint of fear?
Yes. This was going to be so good.
***
She looked at me, fire and defiance in her eyes.
“I refuse to be judged by you,” she snapped.
I laughed. “I’m not judging you, Ms. Blackwell,” I replied. She might not have realized it, but she was leaning closer to me, her legs clenched together, her lips slightly open. She was broadcasting arousal, loud and clear. And I was human, and I wanted her. “May I buy you a drink?”
She looked at me, her eyes flashing, before she nodded, a slight gesture of assent.
We took our seats at the bar, and Shaun, the Irish bartender that had worked at Casanova for the last four years brought me my usual whiskey when he saw me. “Haven’t seen you here in a while, Enzo,” he said cheerfully in fluent Italian.
“Alice is American,” I told him in English, so he’d switch languages. “Alice, a drink?”
She gave me a look that I couldn’t decode, before she turned to Shaun. “Could I get a glass of white wine, please?”
I surveyed her. She was beautiful and glowing, and she was radiating anger and nervous tension. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
She glared at me. “I don’t like being judged.”
That was the second time she had said that. “Why do you think I’m judging you?” I asked her directly. “For being here? I’m here. Surely, I can’t claim any moral high ground.”
Her eyes flashed. “What, I’m not the crazy American heiress who thinks everyone is constantly out to get her?” she mocked. “I know my reputation, Inspector Peron.”
Okay, she was on to something. I hadn’t judged her, but she was more or less repeating the prevailing sentiment at the police station.
“I prefer uncovering my own truths,” I said. My thumb brushed her lip, just for an instant. “Why do you care what other people think?”
“Other people have been judging me my entire life,” she answered softly, leaning closer to me. She took a sip of her wine. “I was married at nineteen. Everyone in Houston thought I’d wrecked my husband’s first marriage, and his ex-wife Deena was happy to let everyone believe that. My own parents thought I’d only married Ian for his money.” She swallowed. “Forgive me if I’m not as stoic about judgement as you are.”
I laced my fingers in hers. This woman brought out every protective instinct in me. Her hand felt soft and warm, and oh-so-right, and as I ran my thumb on the pad of her hand, she looked at me, startled.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Why aren’t you stopping me?” I countered. “All you need to do is pull away your hand.”
“I don’t know.”
***
Alice:
That was a lie. I did know why I couldn’t stop him. It was because the blood was pounding in my head, and a long-forgotten lust was dancing in my body.
My husband Ian had been dead for three years. I hadn’t slept with anyone since his death; I hadn’t wanted to. But tonight, I wanted this tall stranger who looked at me with such understanding in his eyes when he asked me why I cared about the judgement of the world.
He exuded raw, powerful masculinity. He moved with feline grace. And as my gaze was locked in his, he placed his other hand on my thigh.
“All you need to ever do, Alice,” he said, his voice gentle beyond belief, “is say no, if you want this to stop.”
He was making no effort to conceal the fact that he found me desirable. A sudden picture of me kneeling at this man’s feet, with a collar around my neck ran through my head, and I bit my lip. Did I want this? I didn’t know. But I knew I wanted him.
My hands were shaking, and he could see my nervousness. There was a moment of silence, before he spoke next. “Do I make you nervous, gattina?” he asked.
“Yes” I replied.
He smiled at me. “I only bite on request,” he said. He swept my hair out of the way, and bent his mouth towards my neck. He kissed me softly, and I felt my body melt towards him in response, as sparks of arousal ran through me.
I pulled back. His eyes were hazy with lust, and a sudden panic filled me. What was I doing? Someone wanted me dead. Someone had tried to break into my apartment, and I was sitting here, flirting with a near stranger in a sex club? Was I insane?
I couldn’t do this.
“I have to go,” I whispered, pulling my hand free of his grip. Then, I fled.
Chapter 5
Enzo:
The man is angry. He’s always angry when he’s been drinking.
He’s screaming at Antonio. The specks of spittle fly as he yells and shakes his fist. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, see the blood-red in his eyes.
I watch carefully. I know what’s going to happen next.
Sure enough, the man unbuckles his heavy leather belt and pulls it free. He doubles the belt, his hands shaking. He’s barely aware of what he’s doing. In the morning, he’ll remember nothing. He never does.
Tatiana’s huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth, her fingers stuffed in her mouth, her eyes wide and terrified. “Get out of here, Tia,” I yell. “Go away.”
She doesn’t move. She just stares in panic.
She knows what’s going to happen. We all do. We’ve lived this moment, many, many times before.
He’s just seven, Antonio. He is hungry. He didn’t mean to steal the piece of bread. He’s just a child.
“I’m going to beat the devil out of you, boy,” the man roars. His hand lifts up in the air, to bring the belt down on Antonio. On any part of his body.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’m the oldest. This is what I do. I move between them, and my body acts as a shield for Antonio. The belt rains down on me, but though the pain is agonizing, I’m content.
Antonio and Tatiana are safe for another day.
When I turn around to look at Tia, I don’t see her face. I see Alice Blackwell there instead.
***
I sat up in bed
, my heart beating in my chest, and I looked at the small radio-clock at my side. Five-twenty-three, far, far too early to wake up on a Saturday morning. But I didn’t think I’d fall back asleep.
Here’s the thing I’d learned about the nightmares. When I had them, after so many years, it was usually because my subconscious was trying to tell me something. And right now, it was telling me that something wasn’t right with Alice.
She had been terrified yesterday at her apartment. She’d tried to hide it, but her hands had been shaking and her eyes had been wide with fear.
Maybe because it was because of the way I’d grown up, maybe because of what I did for a living, and maybe because I felt something for her that I hadn’t felt in a very, very long time, I felt compelled to try to peel back the layers and discover why she was so afraid. Because last night, at Casanova, she hadn’t been afraid. She’d been fire and passion and sweetness, and she’d opened a door in me that I thought was locked away forever.
There had been something in the air between us, right from the start at her apartment. She’d recognized it and she’d immediately denied it, moving away from me, sitting a safe distance away. And I should have done the sensible thing - treat her as I would any other person who came to the police for help.
I’d been sensible my entire life. Today, I wasn’t going to follow that path. Today, I was going to veer off and seek out the unknown.
But, there was an order to things. First, she needed to be safe. Then, I’d need to figure out who was trying to break into her apartment and why. Finally, after all that was done, there’d be space for both of us to explore the chemistry that danced like a tangible thing between us.
I picked up the phone and called Antonio. My best friend was the most dangerous man in Venice, the head of the Thieves Guild.
For obvious reasons, Antonio and I never talked about work. But this one time, for this one woman, I was prepared to make an exception.
***
Every instinct was screaming that I wasn’t looking at a petty break-and-enter, and I had learned to trust them. Which meant something more sinister, and if anyone could figure out who was trying to break into Alice’s apartment, it was Antonio.
“I need your help,” I said without preamble when he picked up.
“Of course,” he replied automatically. “Anything.”
“Has any of your crew broken into Alice Blackwell’s apartment?” I asked him openly.
“The American woman?” Antonio asked. “Doubt it. Let me check.” He was silent for a minute, and I heard the sound of typing. “No,” he replied. “Not one of us. Why?”
I filled him in on the scratches on her lock. “I want her guarded, if you can spare the men,” I asked him. I couldn’t have a couple of cops follow her without a lot of resentment about the extra protection the American was getting. Antonio’s job was sometimes easier.
“Of course,” Antonio replied. I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“What?” I asked, wincing as I heard how defensive I sounded.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I’ll get a couple of guys to watch her,” he said. “Outside her apartment, at her bakery when it opens, tailing her. That should keep her away from serious trouble.” The best bit about Antonio was that he didn’t waste time with a hundred questions.
“Thank you,” I said.
Chapter 6
Alice:
I woke up Saturday morning, still dazed at the intensity of my reaction to Enzo. I’d practically thrown myself at him. I had wanted him to do sweet, depraved things to my body. There was something about him, the way he held himself, the slow ghost of a smile when he looked at me – he made my pussy ache in need and anticipation and arousal.
I wandered out into my living room, and there, pushed underneath the door, I found another envelope. My heart started pounding, and bile rose in my throat. I moved forward shakily, and slid open the contents. A photo of me from last night, taken somewhere on my walk either from or to Casanova. And scribbled on the photo was one word in red ink. ‘Slut.’
I couldn’t stay in my apartment anymore. The idea that my mysterious letter writer had been separated from me by just a thin wooden door? Every muscle in my body trembled in panic. I grabbed my purse and my keys, and I ran away, trying hard to outrun my fear.
***
Enzo:
I found her in a small café not far from her apartment. She was sitting in the sun, her eyes fixed on a newspaper in front of her. I cursed under my breath. I’d seen the article about her bakery in La Nuova Venezia this morning; it had included several snide comments about how the Americans were going to revolutionize baking in Venice.
“Feel like company?” I asked, walking up to her.
She looked up at me, quickly blinking away her tears. Damn it, she’d been crying at that article? I was going to kill Luigi Costa.
Her smile was tremulous. “Hi,” she said softly.
Something was the matter. Everything in her body language displayed fear. Last night, before she’d run away, she’d been luminous and alive. Today, she was a different woman, terrified and hurting. What the fuck had happened?
“What’s wrong, gattina?” My hand closed around hers.
She took a deep inward breath, and I could almost see her walls clicking back in place. Damn it. When she looked at me, she smiled a polite smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Why are you here, Enzo?” she asked. “Is it to try and convince me to be your submissive at Casanova?”
I laughed, surprised at her directness. “I am attracted to you,” I responded, matching her honesty. “It doesn’t happen very often. And if you want to sub for me at Casanova, I’d very much enjoy it.” I took a sip of the espresso the waiter had set down in front of me. “But in the meanwhile, gattina, if you need someone to lean on, I’m around.”
“What does that word mean, gattina?” she asked, her brows furrowed. “You called me that last night as well.”
I smiled. “Kitten.” So she had noticed I’d called her that last night. She reminded me of a kitten, this woman. Soft and warm, terrified, yet brave and curious. She had layers to her; layers I desperately wanted to uncover.
“I might have claws,” she retorted.
I laughed in startled surprise. She was flirting with me. “I would be incredibly disappointed if you didn’t, Alice,” I responded.
She raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she asked. “You don’t like your women soft and pliable and obedient?”
“In bed, maybe,” I responded. I pulled her hand into mine, and raised it to my lips, nibbling the fleshy pad on her palm and feeling the tremble run through her body. “But otherwise?” I looked into her eyes. “I like them spirited,” I said, “but above all, I like them fearless and unafraid.”
“Is it that easy then to maintain that distinction?” she challenged.
I was puzzled. This wasn’t a question that someone with some experience with dominance and submission would ask. “Alice, how much prior knowledge do you have of BDSM?”
“None,” she responded, and I cursed silently under my breath. I never played with inexperienced submissives. Ever. Damn it. “I’ve been curious about BDSM for a very long time, but my husband Ian wanted no part of it,” she clarified.
I took a deep breath, trying to push back the instinctive fear that had risen. I was old enough to know myself, to know that I was interested in Alice. And she wasn’t Maria, from so long ago.
She had noticed my hesitation, and I could see the ire flash in her eyes. She took a long drink of her tea, and set some money down on the table. “Thank you for your company, Enzo,” she said. Then, she left.
Chapter 7
Alice:
Enzo Peron could go fuck himself. At the club last night, he hadn’t made any secret of the fact that he was interested in me, and I hadn’t concealed my attraction either. And then he found out I didn’t have any prior BDSM experience, and a mask had fallen instantly into place.
Fine. I had almost been ready to ask him if I could sub for him tonight. I’d been seconds from speaking the words and asking for a second chance.
Casanova held a hundred thousand euros of my money as a deposit. I’d paid another insane sum of money for a trial membership. I gritted my teeth and told myself I didn’t care if Enzo wasn’t interested. There were other men in Venice, and I was going back to Casanova tonight. And if this person who was relentlessly stalking me knew I was going to a BDSM club, and I ended up in the tabloids? Well, I was constantly being sneered at by the tabloids for my imagined sins. Perhaps this time, I’d at least get some enjoyment out of the experience.
Fuck it. Fuck it all.
***
Enzo:
I stood in the shadows of the room and watched her. She was laughing and chatting with Liam Callahan at the bar and though I generally liked Liam, at this moment, I was ready to punch him.
You don’t get involved with inexperienced submissives, I reminded myself. Then Liam laughed and leaned in to whisper something in her ear, and I knew that though it didn’t make any sense at all, I had to act.
I walked over to the bar and placed my arm around her waist, drawing her into my body. “Hello again, Alice,” I said.
I could see the colour rise in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed fire at me. For an instant, I was ashamed. She had every right to expect me to leave her alone, and she was justified in being furious with me. Yet, I stayed. It was selfish of me, but I couldn’t let go.
Liam looked at Alice with a raised eyebrow, then at me. “You two know each other?” he asked with interest.
“Oh, we know each other,” Alice replied sweetly. “Will you excuse us, Liam? I’d like a private word with Enzo.”
Yup. She was furious. I braced myself.
***
Alice:
I was angry. I was also completely aroused, more turned on than I wanted to admit at the idea that Enzo had come up and put his arm around me, claiming me. He wanted to play games? I could play games. So, when we entered a private space, I shut the door and gave the room the most cursory of looks, to ensure we were completely alone. And then, I reached behind my back to unzip my dress, stepping out of it.
An Heiress in Venice Page 2