by Remy Landon
POINT OF RELEASE
by
Remy Landon
Copyright © 2014 by Remy Landon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system) without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference, with no implied endorsement.
Cover design by Michelle Preast of Indie Book Covers
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To the readers of Point of Submission who have been so kind, supportive, enthusiastic and patient. Thank you - this one’s for you!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
chapter one ~ Carlo
chapter two ~ Cassandra
chapter three ~ Carlo
chapter four ~ Cassandra
chapter five ~ Carlo
chapter six ~ Cassandra
chapter seven ~ Carlo
chapter eight ~ Cassandra
chapter nine ~ Carlo
chapter ten ~ Cassandra
chapter eleven ~ Carlo
chapter twelve ~ Cassandra
chapter thirteen ~ Carlo
chapter fourteen ~ Cassandra
chapter fifteen ~ Carlo
chapter sixteen ~ Cassandra
chapter seventeen ~ Carlo
chapter eighteen ~ Cassandra
chapter nineteen ~ Carlo
chapter twenty ~ Cassandra
chapter twenty-one ~ Carlo
chapter twenty-two ~ Cassandra
chapter twenty-three ~ Carlo
chapter twenty-four ~ Cassandra
chapter twenty-five ~ Carlo
chapter twenty-six ~ Cassandra
chapter twenty-seven ~ Carlo
chapter twenty-eight ~ Cassandra
chapter twenty-nine ~ Carlo
chapter thirty ~ Cassandra
chapter thirty-one ~ Carlo
chapter thirty-two ~ Cassandra
chapter thirty-three ~ Carlo
chapter thirty-four ~ Cassandra
chapter thirty-five ~ Carlo
chapter thirty-six ~ Cassandra
chapter thirty-seven ~ Carlo
chapter thirty-eight ~ Cassandra
chapter thirty-nine ~ Carlo
chapter forty ~ Cassandra
chapter forty-one ~ Carlo
chapter forty-two ~ Cassandra
chapter forty-three ~ Carlo
chapter forty-four ~ Cassandra
chapter forty-five ~ Carlo
chapter forty-six ~ Cassandra
chapter one ~ Carlo
Brock.
The name shot through Carlo like a missile, tearing into his gut as he sat immobilized with disbelief on the edge of the bed, the alarm clock in his hands and his breath coming in hot, harsh gasps. At this point, there was no solid proof, but the feeling was so strong, so sure, it gave weight to his instinct laying cold, thick, and heavy within him.
He turned the clock over, running his finger along the slot where the SD card would go. Where it should have been.
The intense desire to know how this had happened was overshadowed only by a paralyzing feeling of dread, snaking up his spine and gripping until he almost couldn't breathe.
He was unaccustomed to being shaken like this. He would not allow it. Regroup, he berated himself. Fucking regroup. Maybe his fears were unfounded, and there was some explanation.
Setting the clock on the bed, Carlo leaned forward to look at the nightstand, his eyes scanning its surface in the hopes that somehow, the card had simply become dislodged. Nothing.
Perhaps it had fallen onto the floor. He stood up to shove the nightstand away from the wall, knocking over the lamp, and got on his hands and knees to look on the carpet. Again...nothing.
Sitting back down on the bed, his heart plummeted. The card was gone. But when? And how?
His hunch that it was his colleague flared brightly within him once again, quelled by his penchant for logic. Think rationally, he told himself. Who had been in his house? Cassandra, of course, but she had never been left alone in his bedroom. His housekeeper, Rose, would have been in here to clean yesterday (she came every Friday), but there was nothing out of the ordinary about this clock to cause her to investigate further. Even if she had dusted it, she wouldn't have ever—
And then the connection was made.
Rose also worked for Brock.
The realization reverberated in his brain. Brockton Dall. Betraying him once again.
“Mother fucker,” Carlo said in the stillness of the room, marveling at the softness in his voice when he had rage pulsing in his veins. He raked his fingers through his hair, hating that his hands were trembling, hating himself for not destroying the card earlier, hating the feeling of helplessness spreading through him like a malignancy.
He had to get to Cassandra. He had already made the decision to tell her about the game, about his past...he would have preferred to ease into it, of course, but if it meant getting to her before Brock did, he would find a way to tell her everything—now. The thought of Cassandra learning about the contest from his sleazy, traitorous former colleague was almost more than he could bear.
But there was a chance he wasn't too late. There was every reason to believe Brock was simply holding onto the card for evidence, planning to use it for blackmail. That would definitely be his style. If Cassandra hadn't been told, Carlo would then have the chance to tell her himself, as gently as he could, and thwart Dall's blackmail attempt. Then he would be rid of that son of a bitch once and for all.
Carlo clenched and unclenched his fingers and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply for a few seconds to calm himself. Standing up from the bed, he reached his bedroom door in a few quick strides, grabbing his phone from the top of his bureau on the way out. He would make a call to Rose while he drove to Cassandra's apartment, to confirm what he already knew.
A slight breeze ruffled his hair as he climbed into his Mercedes M-Class SUV. It was a beautiful October night, the sun a glorious, burning ball hovering on the edge of the horizon, streaking the sky with orange and pink. Less than an hour before, he would have considered this a perfect evening.
His stomach roiled as he slid the gear shift into drive and sped out of his driveway. It was incredible, really, how quickly one's perspective could change. All day, he'd envisioned a leisurely drive to Cassandra's place, filled with nothing but eager expectation. But now...there was only anxiety, and dread.
Picking up his phone, he commanded Siri to call his housekeeper. She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Mr. Leone...hello.”
“Hello, Rose.” He forced his voice to be smooth, pleasant. “I'm calling to ask you about the alarm clock in my bedroom.”
A hesitation. Fuck.
“Yes?”
“This particular model has a memory card, but it seems to be missing from the slot.” He paused. “Would you happen to know anything about this?”
“Oh! I, um...” Rose's voice trailed off. She cleared her throat. “I hope I'm not ruining anything by telling you.”
“Ruining anything?”
A sigh. “Yes. Mr. Dall called me yesterday morning and said he wanted to surprise you. He asked me to get the card out of the back of the clock for him...said it was some sort of private joke he was planning, and that you'd get a big kick out of it. Where yo
u two are friends, I just figured it would be okay.” She paused, her tone anxious. “It was an awkward position for me to be in, since I work for both of you. Ordinarily, I never would have done something like this, but Mr. Dall knew all about the clock, and he reminded me he has one just like it. So I figured this was something between the two of you, and it would be all right if I went along with him.”
Carlo gripped the steering wheel with his left hand, his knuckles whitening. He could barely ask the question. “So you took the card yesterday, Rose?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Dall has it now?”
“Yes.” Her voice was strained. “Mr. Leone, please forgive me if I did anything wrong. I know that you and Mr. Dall are good friends, so I honestly didn't see the harm.”
Good friends. “You never should have given my personal property to anyone. You've violated my trust, Rose. I'm going to need to think about whether your services will still be needed.”
She gasped. “Mr. Leone, please don't be angry with me. Please.”
Carlo ended the call and threw the phone into the passenger seat. He stepped on the gas pedal, and the car surged forward. Now, his only hope was getting to Cassandra before Brock did. For a fleeting moment, he considered calling her, but what would he have said? Have you talked to Brock? It would be an odd question to ask her, and he didn't want to bring up that bastard's name if he didn't have to. He would know whether or not Brock had gotten to her the second he saw her face.
You've violated my trust, Rose. On one level, he understood why Rose had done what she did. But the trust was broken, most likely irreparably. He laughed bitterly, shaking his head at the hypocrisy. He was considering firing his housekeeper for her transgression, yet he expected Cassandra to forgive him for his major betrayal?
God, please don't let it be too late. Don't let it be too late for the two of us.
He guided the Mercedes around a bend, not caring that he was driving too fast, not caring about anything except finding Cassandra and making things right. He would fight against this loss of control threatening to weaken him yet again, and he would do everything in his power to halt his world from its slow unraveling.
chapter two ~ Cassandra
Willpower regarding Carlo, Cassandra decided, had packed its bags and gone on an indefinite vacation. Ever since she had truly acknowledged her intense feelings and allowed herself to consider the possibility of Carlo as more reality than fantasy, there was a lightness, a wide-open-meadow kind of perspective that had overtaken her, bringing with it a sense of abandon. Scary as hell, but invigorating at the same time. The idea that she now felt willing to give in to him, not only physically but emotionally, was arousing and liberating. She wasn't going to be stupid and adolescent about it, but God, she wanted to tell him, show him—in many different ways. She couldn't wait to see him tonight, and it was for that reason, and that reason only, that she pushed her burning curiosity aside and shoved Brock's envelope in her jeans pocket for the time being, since she needed to hurry and finish her barn chores so she could get home. To Carlo.
She would read Brock's note in the car, since there was no way in hell she could wait until she got home. And since she strongly suspected Carlo had put Brock up to this, it only made sense to be informed, before she saw Carlo.
She swept the floor vigorously, her last job of the evening. Ingrid, being the anal taskmaster that she was, always insisted on a spotless stable aisle. It almost looked like you could eat off it. Almost. Windswept Stable was impeccable and held to Ingrid's high standards: saddles polished with a rag and saddle soap at least once per week and protected by stretchy cloth covers in the tack room, bits wiped clean after every use, water and grain buckets scrubbed daily, grooming essentials stored in individual brush boxes for each horse...and of course, the horses were all kept in a constant state of polished perfection. Sonya, Ingrid's stepsister who also worked at Windswept but would be leaving after the holidays to study abroad, used to joke with Cassandra that Ingrid would make them buff the wings of horse flies if she could.
It was because of Ingrid and her lofty expectations that Cassandra always made sure to do a quick scan of the stable before leaving, because everything needed to be in its proper place—including the dressage whip she spied on the bench near the cross-ties.
Oh, God—the whip. A rush of heat to her face then, remembering the last night with Carlo. The feel of the riding crop as he had dragged it over her bare ass, her skin erupting in goosebumps as she fought the urge to quiver, because he had commanded her to remain absolutely still.
Are you ready?
She had whispered, yes. And then the crop had struck her. Even though she knew it was coming, it had still surprised her and hurt like hell. She had never been with a man who had been into spanking, honestly would never have dreamed she would want to participate, but with Carlo...she had found herself wanting to please him, make him proud of her. She had told him she was ready—really, really wanted to believe it—but she'd been overwhelmed. Cried, even. And that reaction had effed everything up.
But now that Carlo had agreed to see her tonight, there was hope. Both of them needed to step out from behind their barriers and talk—really talk, without her hiding behind spunky protests and without him distracting her with those incredible smoldering eyes. Although that really wasn't his fault. They needed to get everything out in the open, and then they could—hopefully—move forward. She wanted to share her past with him. And she would ask him to do the same.
So there would be conversation to bring them closer together, and after that, there would be sex—steamy, passionate, rough, tender, deep sighs, soft moans, take me right now/can't get enough of you kind of sex. The very best kind.
Cassandra felt an ache in her lower abdomen and a fullness in her heart. This was the effect he had on her: making her feel empty and ready to burst at the same time. There were contrasts with Carlo, always.
Picking up the wayward dressage whip, she walked briskly to the tack room and opened the door, greeted by the pungent scents of leather, saddle soap and Neatsfoot oil. She clicked the whip into the holder on the wall, swept her gaze across the rows of saddles and decided that everything was in its place.
Everything except for her, she thought, smiling wryly. She was not where she needed to be right now. But soon, she would be—in Carlo's strong arms.
British Drummer, a/k/a Brownie, lifted his head from his hay and nickered to her as she came out of the tack room. He was the only horse here who would actually take a break from eating to acknowledge her. She loved all of the inhabitants here, but Brownie—he was undeniably her favorite.
She went to his stall to stroke the white blaze on his face. “See you tomorrow, buddy,” she told him. “Big plans tonight...wish me luck.”
He snorted at her and she jumped back, grinning, remembering how he had done the same to Carlo the first time he and Cassandra had met at Windswept. Good thing she'd be showering before Carlo arrived.
She went into the stable office for her jacket and took her keys from the pocket. Locking the barn door behind her, she hurried into the parking lot, the sun's rays low and feeble. Now, to see what Brock had given her.
She fished the envelope out of her jeans pocket as she climbed into her Chevy Malibu. Unfolding the note inside, she smoothed the creases of the paper and began to read the typewritten words.
Cassandra: You already know that Carlo and I are colleagues, but what you don't know about is our connection beyond the company. The two of us have enjoyed an ongoing, spirited competition—Carlo will be able to tell you more.
Enclosed is an SD card which can be played in virtually any computer or TV. Watch this as soon as possible...it will give you more insight into the man that is Carlo Leone. There have been many participants I've had the pleasure of seeing, but I have to say, you are the best by far. The game is no longer, but the memories—those will last forever. Happy viewing!
Cassandra's brow wrinkled in confusio
n. Participants? A “spirited competition?” What the hell did Brock mean? Now she was even more intrigued.
She slid her hand into the other coat pocket, finding her phone. Maybe she should call Carlo, ask him point blank what this was all about. She hesitated, then shook her head and turned on the ignition. No—she would wait...follow Brock's instructions and see whatever it was he wanted her to see when she got home. If Carlo was involved in this and there was some sort of surprise, she didn't want to ruin things by asking him about it.
The drive from the stable in Manheim to her home in Elizabethtown was twenty minutes, but Cassandra was so preoccupied it felt like no time had passed when she pulled into the apartment complex. Her head and heart were packed with questions and scenarios, and rivers of emotions ranging from aching want to shuddery uneasiness surged through her. Brock's note was distracting her a bit from her bright, fierce desire to see Carlo. But soon, after she watched whatever it was on the SD card, that little mystery would be revealed.
Cassandra unlocked her apartment and stepped in, hanging her coat on the rack just inside the door and kicking off her Dansko clogs. Better put them in the closet; she didn't need the entryway smelling like equine. Or what came out of equines, although Carlo probably wouldn't mind, seeing as he had grown up with horses.
Glancing in the full-length mirror, she flashed back to when she had leaned against Carlo and studied their reflections, the night of his sister's engagement party. We look good together, she had said. They contrasted each other in appearance as well as personality: Carlo, tall and rugged with his tousled black hair and blue-gray eyes, and she with her petite build, auburn hair and what Carlo called her “seaglass”-colored eyes. When she was being nice to herself, she could admit she was attractive, but Carlo made her feel beautiful and sexy—as if he had never seen a more gorgeous woman.
Enough daydreaming; she had to get ready. She would take a quick shower, and she could view whatever it was on Brock's card while her hair dried. Carlo preferred her hair down, anyway—she could let it air dry and style it in long waves.