Auctioned to the Spanish Dom [The Spectrum Auctions 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More)

by Doris O'Connor

  “One slight problem with this,” Pedro said and Slade swore. “I need to fly into Faro, and—”

  “Fucking wise cracking Spaniard.” Slade wrenched the tablet out of his hand and shoved it back at him seconds later. “There, book on one and get the fuck out of my club. We’ll look after Peyton here, and—”

  “I can look after myself, thank you very much.” Peyton interrupted Slade, hands on hips, and threw the other man dagger looks.

  Slade grinned and bowed his head.

  “Of course you can, pet. I was merely reassuring our hothead here.” He winked at Pedro. “You always did like the feisty ones.”

  Peyton harrumphed and Pedro fell in love with her a little bit more. Now was not the time to act on those feelings though. As usual, the timing in his life fucking sucked, and he sighed and admitted defeat.

  “Fine, have it your way. I’ll go home.”

  * * * *

  Less than fifteen hours later, Pedro pulled up his hire car outside his childhood home. The sun was high in the sky and it was already hot enough to make him sweat when he stepped out of his air conditioned vehicle. A strong sense of déjà vu attacked him as he walked up to the wrought iron gate, opened it, and stepped through. The gardens in which José and he had played as children were just the same. Maria, their old housekeeper, who had seemed old back then, stepped slowly out from behind one of the bushes, and her lined face broke into a smile when she saw him.

  “Pedro, is that really you? It’s been way too long.” The words delivered in Spanish held that old familiar singsong quality, and his heart squeezed in his chest. Maria had been the closest thing to a mother he’d had after his mama died, and he blinked away the suspicious moisture lurking in his eyes.

  Leaning heavily on her walking stick, she hobbled across to him and Pedro froze when she reached up to trace his face with her weathered, arthritic fingers.

  “Older, but I bet not wiser, are you?”

  Pedro grinned and kissed the gnarled hand.

  “Ah, you know me so well, Maria. Please tell me they don’t still make you work for them. Surely, you are retired now? They better be looking after you.”

  Maria smiled and patted his hand.

  “Si, I have a nice little apartment overlooking the beach, but with your papa so ill, I’ve moved back in here for a bit. He will be so glad to see you.”

  Pedro snorted his disgust.

  “I doubt that very much, Maria.”

  The older woman smiled and Pedro tempered his long strides to her small steps as he helped her up to the veranda.

  “People change, hijo mío. Give him a chance. He’s not long for this world. It will be good to make your peace.”

  Pedro thought it wisest to keep his mouth shut. Peyton had said something very similar to him the last time he’d seen her. She’d accompanied him back to his house, watched him pack, and taken charge of his travel arrangements with an aplomb that had made him laugh.

  “Who knew you’d be this organized?” he’d teased, and she’d smiled. “Hey, this is me in work mode. I worked part time as a PA when I was at Uni. This is simple stuff, and means you won’t have to worry about it.”

  “And it makes sure I’ll go, huh?”

  Peyton had giggled and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Well, there is that. Besides, both Scarlett and Slade are on my back, and I don’t want to piss them off again. I kinda need their cooperation for that article.”

  Pedro had smiled.

  “Ah, yes, that elusive article. It’s important to you?”

  Peyton had nodded and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

  “It is. I’ll be honest and admit, originally it was to get that pay rise my boss dangled as the proverbial carrot, but now…well now, it’s just really important to me personally, you know.” She’d blushed the most delightful pink, and Pedro had sat down and drawn her on his lap. “I’m just not sure I can do it justice, not unless I go really specific.”

  “What do you mean, pequeñita?” he’d asked.

  “Well, this whole awful court case really opened my eyes. So many people will just not get what we have. They’ll just think it’s, well you know.”

  Pedro had tipped her head up and searched her expression.

  “Let them. It really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”

  “It does to me,” she’d whispered and he’d sighed.

  “Fine, use us as an example if it helps. Name me, for all I care.”

  Peyton had sat up straighter and the excitement that had bubbled from her had been an almost palpable force.

  “Oh, no I won’t name you. What about your job etc., but if I could use us as the baseline of the article, kinda like a diary of a new submissive, that would work?”

  Pedro had laughed at her enthusiasm.

  “Whatever you think is best, pequeñita. I trust your judgment in this.”

  Peyton face had lit up like a Christmas tree, and Pedro grinned in remembrance.

  “Ah, I know that smile. You got someone special back in England, si? Maria asked, and Pedro’s grin deepened.

  “Yes, I do. Is it that obvious, Maria?”

  She smiled up at him.

  “Only to me, Pedro, and I’m glad you have. You must bring him home so that we can meet him.”

  Pedro laughed out loud and kissed Maria’s thinning grey hair.

  “I love you for that, but I don’t think that would be the best idea. And Peyton is very much a she.”

  Maria’s face lit up in a big smile.

  “Ah, even better.”

  The front door yanked open, effectively putting an end to that conversation, and Pedro stared at the younger version of himself.

  José and he stared at each other for a while, and then his brother nodded.

  “Pedro.”

  “José.”

  An awkward silence fell between them and Maria banged her walking stick on the floor.

  “Do not make me bash your heads together. Is that any way to greet your brother, José? Welcome him in, offer him some food. Come on now.”

  Pedro smiled down on Maria, but José’s expression tightened.

  “There’s no time. Papa is breathing his last and he really wants to see Pedro. What for, I have no idea. So, follow me and let’s get this over with. You’re on your own, I take it?”

  Pedro stiffened and swallowed down the bile at the back of his throat.

  “Yes, I am.” He was glad of that too. Peyton did not need to be subjected to this.

  “Good, I wouldn’t want any of your…whatever the hell you get up to these days to happen in my house.”

  Pedro balled his hands into fists, and took a deep breath. Beating his brother into a pulp the minute he got here would not be the best idea. Clearly José had turned into as big a bigot as their father.

  “Last time I checked, this was still our father’s house, José. He’s not dead yet.”

  José didn’t answer him, just turned on his heel, and marched up the stairs. Pedro followed at a more sedate pace, long-suppressed memories invading his skull with every step. This was such a bad idea. José waited for him outside their father’s closed bedroom door. It opened and a nurse stepped through with a grave expression on her face, and Pedro’s gut twisted further.

  The whiff of air that escaped through the open door held the heavy odor of impending death. Laced with disinfectant and that smell that sickly old people gave off, it made his stomach churn, and he cautiously stepped into the gloomy room. The velvet curtains were drawn against the sun. Only a small strip of sunlight shone into the room, and dust motes danced merrily in that tiny ray, in direct defiance of the somber mood of the occasion.

  “Pedro?”

  His father’s croaky voice sounded from the huge bed in the corner and Pedro stepped up to the man he once loved. He blinked several times at this washed out, frail version of his previously larger-than-life papa.

  “Yes, it’s Pedro, Papa.” José got to the bed b
efore him and helped the old man to sit up more. A coughing fit shook their father’s frame, and his breathing turned shallower.

  Guilermo Hernandez shooed his younger son away and gestured to Pedro to step closer.

  “Good, it is you. I didn’t want to die without seeing you one last time.”

  José swore and Pedro perched himself at the side of the bed.

  Guilermo held out a shaky hand and after a moment’s hesitation, Pedro took it. It felt clammy, the age-spotted skin stretched tight over the bones. Papa must have lost a good forty pounds since he’d last seen him, his face a skeletal mask of its former self, and Pedro swallowed hard to keep his emotions in check.

  It was hard to maintain one’s rightful anger, when faced with this shell of an old man.

  He squeezed his father’s hand.

  “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Guilermo’s breathing grew slower, and José sat on the other side of the bed and took their father’s other hand.

  The nurse bustled about, taking the old man’s pulse, and sighed as his breathing missed a few inhales.

  “Not long now,” she said, and Pedro nodded, and blinked away tears. Time ticked by slowly with no one saying anything, as they waited. Maria entered and an officious-looking man, who had solicitor written all over him. Pedro briefly wondered what that was all about, and then his attention was snared by his father once more.

  Guilermo’s eyes flew open and he whispered his wife’s name before he breathed his last with one last slow exhale.

  “Time of death. Sixteen hundred hours exactly.”

  Pedro reached across to close his father’s unseeing eyes, and José yanked open the curtains and flung the window wide open, while the nurse pulled the covers over Guilermo’s head.

  “Well, that’s that then.” José said, and he scowled at Pedro. “He’s finally at peace. I’ll expect you want to stay for the funeral. Your old room is long gone, but you can have one of the guest rooms, I suppose.”

  “Don’t put yourself out on my account, José. I can stay in a hotel.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  His brother tried to walk past him, but Pedro stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “What the fuck did I do to you that you hate me so much, José? Why call me back here at all, when you so clearly don’t want me here?”

  José shrugged his hand off and swore.

  “I didn’t get a choice in the matter. Papa changed his will at the last minute, and wanted to see you. Don’t worry, I have every intention of fighting you for it. No way will I let you get your hands on Papa’s estate, not after the way you just left us.”

  Pedro sighed and shook his head.

  “I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.”

  José snarled.

  “Yes you did, and you chose your lover over us. He may have forgiven you, but I never will.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The plane’s wheels touched down on Heathrow soil with a bump and Pedro breathed a sigh of relief. Finally. It had been a grueling three weeks in Spain. With his father buried and his affairs in order, Pedro was free to get on with his life. In the end it had been surprisingly easy. Guilermo had indeed changed his will, bequeathing half of his estate to Pedro on the proviso that he returned to Spain and gave up his proclivities.

  Pedro grimaced, and released his seat belt as the plane taxied to a stop.

  The old man still tried to get his claws into him from beyond the grave. It was beyond ridiculous, and Pedro had shaken off the dust of his home country with ease. That part of his life was over and done with. In time, he would visit if only to show Peyton where he’d grown up. He’d missed his bratty sub. Pedro had maintained radio silence, his emotions too raw to deal with anyone or anything else, and bar the odd text from Peyton which had simply said, Thinking of you, Sir, she hadn’t made any demands on him.

  It had been kind of refreshing to not be in constant communication with the outside world, but Pedro was more than ready to jump back into his old life with both feet running.

  He turned his phone back on while he waited for his luggage to turn up and frowned at the amount of missed calls from Peyton.

  What in the blue moon was going on?

  There were several from Scarlett and Slade and texts from Peyton.

  Please ring me. I’m so sorry.

  What the fuck was she sorry for? Before he could dial her number, his phone vibrated and Slade’s name flashed up.

  “Pedro, thank god, I’ve caught you. You just landed, right?”

  Pedro frowned and fished his suitcase off the carousel.

  “I have, but what the fuck is going on? I’ve got like dozens of missed calls from Peyton. Is she okay? Has something happened?”

  Slade swore down the phone at him.

  “You could say that. Look, come straight to the club. Don’t talk to anyone, and for god’s sake don’t read the papers.”

  Pedro’s gut twisted in on itself, and he crunched his teeth. She’d said she was sorry. Surely not?

  “Why? What the fuck has happened, Slade? This has to do with Peyton’s article, right?”

  The silence at the other end of the phone made Pedro swear, and several people in front of him jumped out of his way as he picked up his pace, not caring who he ran into in the process.

  “Fucking answer me, Slade. What. Has. She. Done?”

  * * * *

  Peyton tried his phone for the umpteenth time, but this time she didn’t even get through.

  Fuck. Bursting into tears, she threw the phone across the room, narrowly missing Alicia, who carried a tray with two cups of hot chocolate on it. With reporters camped out on Peyton’s doorstep, she’d sought refuge at her sister’s house.

  How did this all go so terribly wrong? Peyton had been so proud of her article. It had been a recollection of sub x’s experiences at the hand of Master Z, and both Scarlett and Slade had given it their seal of approval. It showed the joy and freedom to be found in a consensual lifestyle relationship, and Peyton had timed the release of her piece to coincide with Pedro’s return home. She’d poured all of her love into that piece.

  What her paper had actually published, however, under her name for fuck’s sake, had been a twisted version of her account. The pictures she had taken for her own needs had been blown up, making her marks look far worse, and Pedro had been named. What’s more, they had a shot of him with his hands wrapped in her hair, marching her to her car.

  The angle at which that had been taken made them look as though he was forcing her, which had been strictly speaking true, but they’d indulged in a little capture fantasy at the time.

  The article had twisted it into something nasty, with her as the victim of his nefarious ends.

  To her sister’s credit, she hadn’t asked any questions when Peyton had turned up on her doorstep. She’d just given her a hug and had set her up in the dining room on the sofa bed. Heavily pregnant, Alicia had just turned the last free room in the house into a nursery for the twins she was expecting, which would be babies number seven and eight. Peyton had no idea how Alicia maintained her sunny disposition under the circumstances.

  She jumped up to take the tray off her sister, and Alicia gave her a grateful smile and lowered herself carefully on the big comfy armchair facing the garden. The rest of her brood were bouncing around on the trampoline, with the youngest chasing their new puppy around the garden. It was such a scene of tranquil domesticity that Peyton started to cry again. Not that she was ready to bring up a brood of kids, but if she had been, then she would have wanted Pedro to be the father, and there wasn’t much chance of that now.

  “Oh, Peyton, don’t upset yourself so. He’s not worth it, you know,” Alicia said, and Peyton swiped the tears off her face and picked her phone up off the floor.

  “A man who treats you like that…you could do so much better.”

  Peyton shook her head and bit her tongue. If her own family didn’t believ
e her, then who would? Fuck it, she knew the truth of their relationship and even she had flinched at that article.

  “I told you, it wasn’t like that, Alicia.” She handed a steaming cup of chocolate to her sister and took a cautious sip from her own cup.

  “James said, you would say that. ‘Battered wife syndrome’ or something, he called it, but don’t you worry, he’s taking care of this. That man won’t get away with this.”

  An ice-cold hand squeezed around Peyton’s heart.

  “What on earth do you mean?” When her sister didn’t reply, just smiled and shrugged her shoulders, she barely resisted the urge to go and shake her by the shoulders.

  “What has he done, Alicia?”

  The doorbell rang but neither woman paid it any heed, until James stepped into the room.

  “She’s right here, Officer Anderson. I’m sure my sister-in-law will cooperate with the police enquiries. If not, well, the pictures speak for themselves, don’t they? I’m assured by the commissioner that you are just the man to handle this, so sort it. I want that man brought to justice, and my family name kept out of it.”

  “Quite so, sir.” Mike said, and he smiled at Peyton. For her part, she sat back down with a bump. Seeing Scarlett’s sub here in her sister’s house in full uniform was just too bizarre. She knew he was a cop of course, but she thought he worked undercover and was plainclothes, unless he’d been assigned specifically to deal with this.

  “Is there somewhere private I can talk to Ms. King, sir?” he asked, and James nodded.

  “Of course, use my study. You will not be disturbed in there. This way.” He looked at Peyton and his gaze narrowed. “Show Officer Anderson the way, Peyton, and I expect you to cooperate. Alicia has been upset about this enough. This whole thing isn’t good for her and the babies.”

  Mike’s jaw clenched, but he maintained his professional smile and gestured for Peyton to lead the way. She wanted nothing more than to wipe that aloofness of her brother-in-law’s face, but he had given her refuge, and besides he was right. Her sister did not need any added stress right now, so she swallowed her angry retort and led the way to the study.