by Ruby Laska
“Wait here.”
He walked from the room, down the hall to the rest of the apartment’s rooms, and returned a moment later holding something in his hand. It was a mirror, Chelsea saw as he came to stand in front of her again. He picked up a candle—one of the tea lights, not the one he’d pleasured her with—and used it to illuminate her face, holding the mirror so she could see.
It was worse than she’d feared. Mascara formed raccoon-like rings under her eyes; her lips and chin were shiny with his semen. Some had landed on her chest, glistening streaks on the same skin that had been warmed with the wax. Her hair stood out everywhere, the stiff ends knotted, and her mouth was swollen and bright pink.
“Oh,” she groaned.
“You’re magnificent,” he said. “You are beautiful. Look at how you wear my seed. My hungry girl, you were so greedy for it.”
She couldn’t argue, but already her uncertainty was returning. This was not how she behaved. And she was not beautiful. Anyone could see it.
He set down the mirror and then, with a few flicks of his fingers, untied the knots. He pulled the silk from her wrists and knees and ankles and her body felt weightless at the sudden freedom, her aching wrists weak with relief.
“Please feel free to use my bathroom,” he said. “Shower, if you like. You’ll find everything you need, I think.”
He offered her his hand, and she placed hers in it. As he helped her up, a tiny kernel of something new—something that felt dangerously close to trust—bloomed inside her.
Once she had her footing, she grabbed the clothes that he’d forced her to fold so neatly and retreated down the hall as fast as she could without running. The open door at the end led to a large bedroom, its deep plum walls lit with small burnished lamps, a different view of the city laid out below a second balcony.
She could examine this private retreat another time, perhaps. For now, Chelsea wanted only one thing, and in a matter of seconds, she had it: she stood under the huge waterfall spray of steaming water, letting it sluice down her tender face, her bruised wrists, and between her legs where the ache left by their exertions had faded to a pleasant throb.
She stood under the water for what seemed like hours, but even though she helped herself to his luxuriant, leather-and-spice-smelling soap, his shampoo, it didn’t take so much time because she was trying to get clean.
No. She was trying to make it last. Because Chelsea was sure, deep in her bones, that no other man would ever be able to do what Ricardo had done to her body tonight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When he heard the shower being turned on, Ricardo finally let out the breath he had been holding for what seemed like hours.
When he’d seen her walk up the stairs hours earlier, the impressions he’d taken away from their first meeting came roaring back. His desire for her was instant, despite the fact that she had somehow managed to find an even more shapeless garment to conceal her curves, and her hair appeared to have been styled by sticking her head out of the window while driving well over the speed limit.
Those things were easy enough to fix.
At dinner, he forwent eating so that he could study her. There were so many ways in which she was unique, so many mannerisms and tiny gestures that he was certain she wasn’t aware of. The subtle differences in human experience comprised Ricardo’s chief field of study, no matter what the diplomas on his office in Madrid said. It was a study he had begun in his father’s tiny atelier in Segovia, over three decades ago, when Arturo de Santos allowed his four-year-old son to play among the fitting room curtains while he worked. Ricardo studied his father’s well-heeled clients and listened carefully to their discussions, and by the time he was ten, he knew which men were capable of cruelty and which would be unexpectedly generous; which had multiple mistresses and which were content with a single woman (or man); what their biggest regrets and dearest wishes were.
And most importantly, young Ricardo understood that it wasn’t only his father’s skill with a needle that kept the gentlemen coming back: it was the way his father made them feel as though he understood them. As though he truly saw them.
At thirty-six, Ricardo was surprised to discover a blind spot. His life and work left no room for a wife or even an exclusive commitment, but he thought he was ready to cultivate a few more serious relationships. He’d experimented widely and considered himself a proficient lover; he was no more vain about that skill than his father had been about being able to match plaids at a seam. It was a matter of study and practice, that was all.
But when he looked for a woman to serve as a companion, he discovered that he wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted. He’d long been able to read women and give them the kind of pleasure they craved, whether it was a firm hand or a soft touch, whispered compliments or fierce demands. A woman’s pleasure became his own; he could be satisfied as long as she was.
The one pleasure he rarely allowed himself was the one that he feared most in himself. Since a stroke ended his father’s career and threatened his decades-old business when Ricardo was eighteen, he had stepped uncomplainingly into the role of unsung hero. He’d taken over the books, hired skilled workers, contacted each client personally and humbly asked for their continued business, and soothed his mother and sisters while spending time each day with his father, pretending to need his guidance so the old man would still feel that he was contributing.
He never resented being his family’s unsung savior. It was his selflessness that saved them all. Putting their needs first had been the only way. But he longed for something that was his alone; something he controlled utterly.
When his mother died and his sisters were all living on their own, he was free to pursue his other passion, the labyrinthine international art trade. He earned his degree, studied with the masters of his field. He had been in cities all over the world and seen their greatest artistic treasures. He had done well and amassed more wealth than he’d ever imagined. He commanded respect and not a small amount of fear.
But something was still missing.
Ricardo had had loyal employees and devoted assistants. Slavish admirers and a thick black book of contacts. He had the power to change the fortunes of men—of entire dynasties—overnight. But he had yet to meet the woman he hungered to make his own. To dominate, to control. To be worshipped by and to own.
Until Chelsea. He had never met a woman so obviously desperate to submit.
He wasn’t sure how he knew: she worked so hard to appear strong and invulnerable, and for the most part she succeeded.
But Ricardo de Santos, devoted student of human nature, saw what others missed. And once he understood her deepest, most secret longing, reading her hopes and dreams was practically child’s play. A few discreet inquiries, the report he’d paid for, and then the gift he’d called in a favor or two to secure—he’d made sure she couldn’t refuse him.
The Marcus Ryder painting wasn’t easy to obtain, but a few well-placed calls and a little-known loophole in international customs law brought it to him. It was far from inexpensive, but money was not a concern.
That taken care of, Ricardo had been free to turn his attention to the seduction. Sending Boris to the gallery had been an inspiration; no woman could turn down the sweet old gentleman. He’d taken a chance, commissioning the custom-sewn lengths of red silk last week. And a bigger chance, using them to bind her.
But it was hardly an uneducated guess. And the glazed hunger in her eyes, when she saw what he was doing, had confirmed that suspicion.
It hadn’t even particularly shocked him how naturally she fell into her role, how perfectly she submitted to him.
What he hadn’t been prepared for was how far he’d let his own desires play out. How, by the end of the evening, he’d had to concede that he was no longer directing the dance but allowing himself to be driven higher and harder by every sigh, every moan.
After an hour together, he knew he wanted to see her again…and again.
A
fter four hours together, he was shocked to realize that he didn’t want to be apart from her. Not for a day. Not for an hour.
But the life he had created for himself made that impossible. Ricardo could and did have everything he wanted in life.
Except for love.
That had once, not so long ago, seemed like a more than reasonable trade.
Now he wondered how far he would go, what he would risk, to have her.
Surely one woman could not be worth toppling everything he had worked to build.
But how could he protect himself from the fire that raged between them?
#
When Chelsea finally came out of the bathroom, her damp hair plastered to the back of her neck, wearing her comfortingly familiar clothes, Ricardo was back at his post by the French doors, staring out over the city, arms folded.
“You found what you needed?” he asked politely.
Oh God yes, Chelsea wanted to respond. All these years when she thought she knew what she needed, she had been wrong. All those hard-won moments of release were nothing like the pleasure she’d felt tonight.
Instead, she merely nodded and gave him a measured smile. “Yes, thank you.”
“I’ve called a car. It will be here in a few minutes.”
“But—but it’s barely after midnight.”
“Technically, the night is over. Don’t worry, niñita, you more than upheld your end of the bargain. We will discuss the rest soon, I promise. For now, you need rest…and I’m afraid I still have some work to do tonight.”
Chelsea felt lost, standing next to the same chair that she’d been bound to and fucked in, earlier. She’d thought she would be here until morning. At first the prospect had worried her; over the course of the last few hours, she’d come to hunger for it. For falling asleep in his arms. For feeling his breath on her chest as he shifted in the night.
Instead, he was dismissing her. He was polite, but brisk—almost businesslike. And he was clearly ready to be alone.
“Oh.” Chelsea nodded, trying to look relieved. Yes. Of course. Me too—gotta run, big day tomorrow. All these sentiments that she’d used dozens of times before on other men eluded her now.
Ricardo took her hand and led her to the top of the stairs. Someone—him, no doubt—had opened the door at the bottom, and she could see down past the gardens to the street, where a sleek town car waited, its engine purring. A man stood at the passenger door, waiting.
It was all over so fast, she didn’t have time to process what had happened. Not that it was complicated: they’d made a deal; she’d ridden the rapids of the evening, each dizzying moment more spectacular than the last. On top of that, she’d won, whatever that might turn out to entail. Tomorrow she could think about the reward Ricardo had promised, the mysterious collector and the work he might or might not have on offer for sale.
Tonight, however, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. Ricardo released her hand. So he wasn’t walking her all the way to the car. Fine. She ought to be able to handle a dozen stairs and a few more yards to the car.
“Well, good night,” she said. But before she could take the first step, his hand was in her hair, tugging, just hard enough to make her turn around.
“You have no idea of your own potential,” he said softly, and then his lips brushed gently against hers.
Their first kiss, it occurred to her. And after everything they’d done, it felt like the most intimate.
But too soon, it was over. “Will I see you again?”
The question came out in a rush as he pulled away from her. So against her rules—Chelsea never suggested a second meeting. That was a job for whoever was in her bed; one they never failed to follow through on.
But she couldn’t imagine not being with Ricardo again. The shocking things they’d done, the way he’d made her feel…she didn’t fully understand it, but for the first time in her life, she’d felt like she actually fit with a man. Which was crazy, because nothing about her was submissive…nothing else about her, she corrected herself, holding her breath and waiting for his answer.
“If you will see me,” he said gently, “I will send the car for you next week. I must leave town for a few days, but I will be back on Tuesday. Will that suit you?”
“It—yes. Yes.” She was tongue-tied, at a loss for anything more than grateful, needful acceptance.
“The car will come to the gallery at closing time. Until then, mi bella.”
As she clattered down the stairs and out into the night, she could feel the place where his lips had brushed against her skin and longed to touch it with her own fingertips, to somehow lock it there, to remember forever. The driver nodded to her and opened the back door, murmuring a greeting. She ducked gratefully into the car’s interior, looking back at the building. But the stairs were dark, and she couldn’t make out any details.
The driver did not ask her address but turned the car in a wide U and started back in the direction of her home. Chelsea sighed and leaned back into the seat. Her hand brushed against something on the seat next to her. She picked it up—a small, rectangular package tied in the same red satin that her bindings had been sewn from.
She untied the ribbon and pulled away layers of rustling tissue—and gasped. In her hands was the painting that Ricardo had promised. In her father’s signature bold strokes and glorious colors, a perfect likeness of the little terns that had hopped around the tiny patio where he liked to work in the afternoons. And there: there was her father’s signature, “M Ryder, 1989” in the sure, sloping hand that she knew so well.
She clasped the painting to her chest, almost sobbing in shock and joy. Ricardo had made a gift of the work. She wouldn’t have to empty her savings or take out a loan. She wasn’t sure why he would do such a thing—but now that she had the new work in her hands, she wasn’t ever letting it go.
The driver chuckled softly as the car glided smoothly through the quiet neighborhood.
“What,” Chelsea said, embarrassed to have been overheard.
“Mr. de Santos said you would be pleased, Miss.”
CHAPTER NINE
As the elegant town car glided down the street, another car pulled away from the curb. It was nothing special, an ordinary sedan in a color no one was likely to remember. Nothing about the car could be traced to the man who had purchased it; the deal had taken place in another state and the broker translated both the driver’s Russian and the urgency of his request for anonymity. The outline of a gun under the driver’s jacket, as well as a mountain of cash, had convinced the seller to forget the details of the deal immediately.
Tonight, the car had been concealed under the overhanging boughs of a tree festooned with feathery red flowers. The driver of the car had waited, smoking occasionally, for a very long time. To amuse himself, he had memorized every feature of the red flowers. If called upon to describe them later, he would have been able to give a description that any competent botanist could use to identify the flower as a callistemon pauciflorus. But the driver was unlikely to come into contact with a botanist. That was not the nature of his job.
He followed the town car, staying several car lengths back but close enough that he wouldn’t be at risk of losing his quarry in traffic.
This was the sort of work for which Vlad Aksyonov was better suited.
CHAPTER TEN
By Monday of the following week, the painting that Ricardo had given Chelsea was hanging in a place of honor on the wall perpendicular to the other four Marcus Ryders. Chelsea’s favorite employee—a clever girl named Naomi, who she’d hired straight out of Stanford, encumbered with a philosophy degree and no other job prospects—asked immediately if it had been painted by her father.
Naomi had arrived without any formal art training other than trailing her mother around the galleries of her native Chicago, so her knowledge was deep in the Impressionists and otherwise rather thin, but she took to the job quickly and had been educating herself. It was no secret
to Naomi and the other two members of Chelsea’s staff that she was trying to obtain as much of her father’s work as she could, even if they didn’t know any details of Chelsea’s background other than the version she used professionally: a private school education (it didn’t get much more private than the Fairy Godfathers’ salon) and an apprenticeship with Meredith Tipton. If Naomi and the others wondered what Chelsea did with her time when she wasn’t working, they were wise enough not to ask.
But in the days following the night she spent with Ricardo, Chelsea wished that she was close enough to someone that she could share at least a little of the thrill of her new lover. By now it was starting to feel like a dream. By the next morning, actually, it had seemed like something she’d imagined—except that she’d awakened with faint red marks on her wrists and legs and marvelously moist skin wherever the wax had fallen and an aching jaw from being pounded hard by Ricardo’s huge cock.
Not that she could tell that to even a close girlfriend, Chelsea thought, blushing as she worked at her desk. Even if she left it at “I met someone,” there wasn’t anyone to tell. The Fairy Godfathers—well, they were too much like her dads—and it would be much too weird. Meredith would be relentless, pressing her for details she could never bring herself share. Besides, even though they had made plans to see each other again, Chelsea had no way of knowing what she meant to Ricardo. Was she one of several lovers? A brief indulgence while he was in town?
She would have to come up with some sort of credible story, though, because she couldn’t wait to show Meredith the painting, and Meredith would know its value and the impossibility of Chelsea affording it.
Which led to her other problem.
She had to thank Ricardo for the gift. Actually, what she really ought to do was return it—it was much too grand a gesture—but she could never bring herself to do that. Still, its provenance was a problem. If she ever hoped to show it or lend it, she would have to be able to prove it wasn’t stolen. And since Ricardo was an authenticator, that shouldn’t be a problem. Unless…