by Abby Gordon
To Seduce
& Satisfy
by
Abby Gordon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
To Seduce & Satisfy
COPYRIGHT Ó 2011 by Abby Gordon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, October 2011
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To those who believe in love at first sight
and make it last.
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Abby Gordon
AND HER BOOKS
“Model Fantasy is full of sizzling erotic exploits steeped in growing love and devotion, ... delivers another racy BDSM themed story-line that scorches the pages and presents the reader with an amazing tale of one woman's journey to sexual fulfillment and a man's realization of what his heart desires.”
~Vicci, Night Owl Reviews, 5 of 5 stars
“Impossible to put down, Model Fantasy seductively pulls you in from the first few pages. I thought Francine was a genuinely lovable character whose curiosity beams through the pages and Grant, as the dom trying to teach her, was written perfectly. Five Stars for Model Fantasy.”
~Emily, Sensual Reads, 5 stars
“What a fantastic ride from page 1 until the very end. Sassy sex, a hot boss, BDSM, bad guys, friends, a mystery man… YEAH BABY! Ms. Gordon has penned a story worthy of awards! I was so pulled in that the real world just melted away and the story was my ONLY focus for the duration. And did you see that cover? WOW! Simple, sexy, elegant.”
~Seriously Reviewed, 19.5 out of 20
Named Beck and Call one of their top ten for 2010.
“As a new author, Abby Gordon has managed to create something that readers will not only enjoy, but will remember her by. The characters are wonderfully developed, the story is intriguing, and the sex positively sizzles. A definite must for the TBR list, especially for fans of the BDSM genre.”
~Fern, Whipped Cream Reviews, 4.5 cherries out of 5.
Chapter One
Quincy paid the cab driver and nodded at the doorman. The agents of Hancock Securities were known to the employees of The Franklin Hotel. The desk clerk had his room key ready. He declined the offer of lunch from room service and headed up to the four-bedroom suite. Riding the elevator, he focused on trying to relax. He was in the States now. He didn’t have to look at everyone as if they were gunning for him. He took a deep breath and exhaled, concentrating on easing the tension in his muscles.
He scowled at the panel of buttons. He was in a damn hotel. He’d been living in one hotel or another somewhere around the world or in a fucking tent, if he’d been lucky, for over a decade. He was tired of hotels and tents. His fellow agents were like brothers, but, dear Spirit, he was so damn tired of living in a hotel and being alone.
Submissives at the Club were satisfying sexually, and he’d been content with that. Lately, though, he’d wondered if there was more. He kept telling himself he was crazy to even think like that, but he couldn’t help it. An image from three months earlier kept reappearing in his mind, taunting him with what he’d sworn he’d never want.
The elevator doors opened and he headed down the hall. Swiping the card, he went in and saw the arrangement of small statues on the coffee table. Watson and Jackson were in town. Pulling a similar statue out of a bag, he set it next to theirs.
Dropping his two duffle bags at the foot of the bed, he peeled off his boots, socks, pants, sweater, and tee. He pulled the knife from his boot and tossed it toward the pillows. Leaving the clothes in a black heap, he collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes, one hand on the hilt of his blade.
Pounding on the door woke him and he jerked awake. He was rolling to the foot of the bed, knife in his hands without thinking. Before he could open a duffle for a gun, the door opened and two men appeared. Recognizing Jackson and Watson, he relaxed and sat back on his heels. Exhaling loudly, his smooth, muscled chest rose and fell.
“Assholes,” he muttered, sheathing the knife. “I just got in. You can’t let me sleep more than…” he glanced at his watch. Not quite five o’clock. “Six hours?”
His two fellow agents leaned against opposite sides of the doorframe. With their broad shoulders, they effectively blocked out any light from the suite’s living room.
“No amount of beauty sleep could help your ugly mug,” Watson grinned.
“Come on,” Jackson said, tossing him a protein bar. Quincy ripped the end off and took a large bite. “Time for an ass-kicking in the gym.”
“You wish,” Quincy replied, digging through the other duffle for his shorts and tee. “Anything new happening in the city?”
“There’s some major shit going down at Keith MacLauren’s company.”
“He runs a software company, Watson.” Quincy frowned, pulling on the shorts. Shoving his arms through the sleeves, he tugged the tee over his head. “What shit could happen there? A binary code error?”
“Computer geeks,” snorted Watson. “You’re all the same.”
Quincy pulled out socks and sneakers, muttering, “And assholes never change.”
“Sexual harassment and intellectual theft is all we’ve heard so far,” Jackson filled him in.
Tying his right shoe, Quincy put the left on and considered that. “MacLauren doesn’t strike me as a man who would put up with that.”
“Word on the street has it that he’s fired half his programming division.”
“In other words, if I ever get tired of putting up with your shit, Jackson, I could probably get a cushy desk job?” Quincy smirked. Standing, he gestured the two out the door. “Let the ass-whoopings begin. Who’s my first victim?”
****
Hearing the ringtone reserved for incoming calls from his boss, Quincy was out of the shower and reaching for the cell phone on the bathroom counter. On either side of the phone sat his knife and watch. His left hand drifted over to the thick-handled blade next to the towel. Survival instincts died hard.
“Yeah, boss?” he greeted his employer. He glanced at the watch that did so many things he often forgot its original function. The utility knife covered what the watch missed. Eight-thirty. He’d been in his room twenty minutes after a grueling three-hour workout with Watson and Jackson. “What’s doing?”
“Meet me in the emergency room of St. Vincent’s,” came the clipped Bostonian accent of Ben Hancock. “Bring all your gear. It might be a while before you check back in.”
“En route,” Quincy acknowledged.
In ten minutes, everything he owned was packed into the duffle bags and he was striding into the lobby of the hotel. Pausing at the front desk, he handed the key card to the clerk. Watson and Jackson appeared with their gear as well. Immediately Quincy felt his ‘shit went down’ radar hit full alert. From the way the other two set their shoulders, he knew they’d done the same.
“Checking out,” he told the woman on the other side of the counter. The other two agents put their cards next to his. “Bills go to Hancock Security.”
/> “Yes, sir,” she nodded. “Come again to the Franklin, gentlemen.”
Barely nodding in response, he headed to the underground garage and tossed the bags into the back seat of his extended cab truck. Punching the hospital into his GPS, he made a right as he reached the garage exit. The identical trucks driven by Watson and Jackson were behind him.
What could have happened for his boss to call him back to duty within twenty-four hours of completing an assignment? Hancock liked to give his men at least a week between domestic assignments and even more from international work. Quincy had just returned from a ten-week assignment in Egypt. Must be something serious to deprive him of what should have been two to three weeks off.
“Shit,” Quincy whispered. “One of those bastards must have gone after MacLauren…”
That would explain why Hancock was calling him back. If one of his best friends had been attacked, Hancock would assign his best to protect him.
Pulling into the hospital parking lot, he backed his truck into a spot. Watson and Jackson pulled in on either side of him. In silence, the three men strode under the emergency entrance canopy. Ben Hancock, Matt Adams, and Will Cooper were waiting for them.
“Here’s the situation…” Hancock spoke quietly. “I received a call from Keith MacLauren. His assistant was attacked in her apartment about an hour ago by one assailant that was seen by two of her friends, both of whom work for MacLauren. They heard her screams and came to her rescue. They were both injured. We’ll be providing round-the-clock security for the assistant and the two friends.” He glanced at Adams and rattled off an address. “That’s where the women live. All three on the third floor. See what the layout is like and if there are any unoccupied units on that floor. If not, you’ll be bunking with them.”
Adams pulled out his small hand-held and began tapping. He smiled.
“Boss, looks like the one next to the assistant is empty. I’ll call and secure it. There’s a parking garage half a block west.”
“Good. Make the arrangements,” nodded Hancock. Adams hit dial and turned slightly away to talk. “Quincy, you’re on the other two. MacLauren’s company went through some internal crap today. I have no idea if this attack is connected, but this puts these women in the middle of some sort of shit. Let’s not have any more collateral damage. Start thinking about how to work your cover, if one’s possible.”
Quincy nodded as Hancock’s phone beeped. Ben read the text message.
“They’ve moved the women to the eighth floor. Let’s go, gentlemen.”
They followed him, staying quiet and alert. Quincy didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Once on the eighth floor, they saw the knot of people clustered outside a room.
“Looks like police and medics, boss,” Will murmured.
“I’ll ID myself,” Ben said quietly. “The rest of you stay quiet.”
On a plastic chair beyond the door, a young woman with short dark hair sat with a medic on one side and two officers on the other.
“…yes, I know Mr. MacLauren is here,” she was saying to the medic. “But I’m not leaving Serena and Claire until I know that they’ll be safe.” Her gaze went to the six men striding down the hall. “Hancock,” she sighed, relaxing slightly. “Keith said he’d called you.”
Without a word, the five men separated while their boss stopped and faced the door. Quincy went to stand behind her.
Hancock addressed the uniform near the door, showing his ID. “Ben Hancock. These are my men. Where’s MacLauren?”
“He just went in with Miss Gardner. Miss Traydon screamed during the exam,” the officer grimaced in dismay.
“Who could blame her,” shuddered the seated woman. She was holding an ice pack to her face. “That man attacks her for a second time…”
“Allegedly attacked, Miss Sheldon,” the detective corrected. “He hasn’t been…”
“Allegedly,” she rolled her eyes. Quincy liked that she didn’t back down. “Whatever. He’s on tape for the first one, and Claire and I caught him this time. I don’t know how anyone can say alleged.” She closed her eyes and turned her head. Pain and horror rippled across her face. She took a deep breath and regained control of herself. “He ripped her clothes off and was on top of her. He was strangling her and…”
“And banged her head against the floor,” a second woman came from the hospital room and added. She walked over and sat next to Debbie. “When Debbie went after him, he threw her against the wall.”
“Claire was smarter,” Debbie smiled, then winced and adjusted the icepack. From his position behind her, Quincy could see the swelling and coloring on her temple. A man had done this to her, and she wasn’t cowering. She was pissed about what had happened and wanted justice. He liked the strength in her and respected that. “She jumped on his back.”
“You’re the one who told me to grab his mask.”
“You pulled it off?” asked one detective, glancing up from her notes.
“I saw his face,” whispered Debbie.
“Does he know you saw him?”
“He was looking right at me. Yeah,” she nodded. “I’d say he knows I saw him.”
“Quincy,” Hancock said quietly.
Raising his gaze from the woman, he nodded at his boss, not needing to be told that she was his number one priority. His total focus, until Hancock said otherwise, was Debbie Sheldon.
Claire sighed. “I just recognized his voice.”
Keith MacLauren emerged from the room and Quincy listened as men were assigned to guard Serena Traydon. Watson and Jackson, on the next shift, headed to the elevator.
“You’re sure?” the woman detective pressed.
“I’ve worked for him for three months. Believe me, I know his voice,” she nodded.
“How could you?” As the shriek echoed down the hallway, Quincy put a hand on Debbie’s shoulder and stepped slightly in front of her. Watson and Jackson had just passed the obviously upset woman in the corridor and raced back toward them. Debbie tapped the back of his hand and he glanced down at her.
“That’s Keith’s cousin,” she whispered. “Penny Davidson.”
He nodded as the petite blonde threw herself at MacLauren and pummeled his chest.
“How could you do this to me?” she demanded, struggling to get away. “You’re pathetic! You’re jealous of Mark so you bribed Serena to lie. Just like all those other women lied about Duncan and the other men,” she cried, flinging her hands at Debbie and Claire. “So desperate for attention that—”
“We did not!” Debbie yelled, rising to her feet. “We did not lie!”
Quincy tensed, ready to step in front of his charge. He put his hand back on Debbie’s shoulder to be able to pull her behind him.
“And you…” Penny turned on Claire. “You just want him for yourself so you—”
“What?” Claire protested. “I’ve had a boyfriend for months. I wouldn’t date Mark for a million dollars.”
“Look at us,” Debbie demanded. “Do we look like we had a good time with your fiancé? He attacked Serena more than a year ago and nearly raped her tonight, ripping off her clothes before we could get to her.”
Penny didn’t move, shaking her head at Debbie’s words. “That’s impossible. Daddy and Uncle Ken said he was a good man,” she whispered. “He was the only one they’d approve of.”
“Then your daddy likes a rapist,” Debbie told her, lowering the ice pack she’d been holding to her cheek. “Does this look made up?”
Penny stared at the two indignant, bruised women for a long moment then turned to Keith.
Debbie sighed and shook her head. “That family makes mine look normal.”
“Which family?” Quincy asked.
“The MacLaurens,” Claire answered, studying Debbie’s bruise. “It doesn’t look like you’ll have a black eye.”
“I hit the wall with the side of my head, not the front,” Debbie replied, shifting the icepack. She sat back down and put her hand on her ribs. “
My right side is a bit sore. I think I’ll pass on kickboxing classes for a while.”
“Good, then we can go to yoga,” Claire smiled.
“I am not a pretzel,” Debbie rolled her eyes.
Quincy listened to the women, wondering at their conversation. They were talking about being thrown against walls and bruises as if this were an ordinary day. As she was his priority, he studied Debbie and saw the effort to stay calm in her expression. She was so close to breaking, but she focused on staying composed and telling the police what had happened. The women linked hands. Quincy sensed a strong friendship between them, a loyalty and caring he’d never seen between women.
Well, yeah, he reminded himself, because the only women you know are submissives at the Club or are part of Hancock’s family. Kind of tough to judge based on that experience.
“…you have anyone who can keep an eye on her? If she sides with me, she could be in danger.”
“Only myself.” Hancock sighed.
Quincy whipped his head around. What the fuck? The boss was going to protect someone? He saw Hancock’s hard expression and glanced at Adams who stood outside Traydon’s door. Adams was as surprised as he was—the boss ran things, he didn’t guard. Something was definitely going on. When two more men arrived, Hancock gave his agents the signal that they could maintain their positions. Claire rose and hurried to one of the men. His charge shifted in her seat, muttering under her breath. Quincy caught, “they’ll hurt her again,” before she tried to stand up. The medic caught her arm.
“I want you to take it easy,” he frowned. “I’d feel better if you stayed overnight.”
“Out of the question,” she said firmly, eyes on Claire in the embrace of one of the men. “I can’t leave Claire alone.”
“Quincy will take you home,” Ben told Debbie, then looked at Keith. “You need to get home as well. You’ve been a busy boy today.”