The Pleasure Slave i-2

by Gena Showalter

  Julia snorted in disgust. Men were not a prize; they were an affliction. A disease upon society, and at the moment, she couldn't think of a single reason she had decided to seduce one.

  She was better off alone.

  Alone.

  The word echoed in her mind over and over, chafing against her deepest dreams and desires until she succumbed to the truth. She didn't really want to be alone. She wanted romance, damn it, complete with moonlight and candles. Promises of love and forever. Soft, sweet music and wandering hands. Hot, gyrating bodies. She wanted to feel beautiful, admired and gloriously special.

  Because Peter was as plain and shy as she was, he would know how it felt to want those things and would do everything in his power to give her what she craved. She knew it. Of course, she now had to defuse his fear of infuriating her "brother," which might prove difficult considering Tristan had practically hacked him in two with a mere glare.

  Oh, lighten up, Julia. She'd built her business with nothing but her wits, and she could build a relationship with Peter doing the same. So what that her seduction had taken a wrong turn. So what that she couldn't see him or otherwise engage in any type of activity with him until her lessons with Tristan ended. She'd wait, and when the time was right, she'd smooth things over. Perhaps by then Peter would find her so irresistible he'd fall on his knees and beg her to date him.

  Feeling lighter, freer, she hummed under her breath as she rooted through the trunk of her sedan. Minutes later, she found the package of black men's briefs, extra-large. Slipping the item under her arm, she sauntered into her house. Tristan lounged on the living-room couch and, even in his relaxed pose, he radiated authority and consuming fury.

  Her light mood vanished. She gulped. "I found your briefs," she said, placing the package atop the coffee table.

  Without glancing at her, he replied, "Thank you, master."

  His steely tone cut like a knife, and shards of guilt uncoiled deep within her. "I didn't want to order you inside, Tristan, but you gave me no choice. You were angry, and I didn't want you to take your emotions out on Peter."

  Nothing. No response.

  "He's not as strong as you are," she continued, "and if you had hurt him, you would have been arrested."

  When Tristan still didn't move or acknowledge her in any way, she struggled against a sharp ache in her chest. Had she caused irreparable damage to his pride? Had she ruined their growing friendship?

  "Tristan, please say something."

  "Is that a command?"

  "No."

  Only silence greeted her.

  After a brief hesitation, she slipped from the room.

  Tristan watched her go, hating his existence more at this moment than ever before. She'd dishonored him, embarrassed him and dismissed him. Circumstances he'd endured a thousands times before, but all the more potent now as they mingled with his need to possess and conquer.

  He was letting himself care for her, and he knew better.

  Curse him, he knew better! She might challenge him, draw him and anger him. She might confuse him with her illogical speech. And most times, she might simply captivate him. But none of those things mattered. He had to remain disciplined, had to keep himself distanced. One day she would die, or mayhap even lose his box, and he would continue on—on to another woman.

  Every muscle in his body tensed. Relaxed. Tensed again. The thought of Julia alone, with no one to care for her, did not settle well within him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, and catching a hint of Julia's sweet, lingering fragrance, he leaned forward and studied the portraits on the small table in front of him. In one, Julia perched next to a girl who was slightly older. While Julia's eyes were green, the other girl's were big and blue. Both looked so young, somber and defeated, and Julia did not resemble the spitfire he knew her to be. In another, the same two girls were splayed atop a bed of bright emerald foliage, their eyes sparkling and staring up toward the heavens, their lips lifted in sad, wistful smiles.

  'Twas the same smile Julia wore before walking away from him moments ago.

  He could not leave things as they were.

  He knifed to his feet and followed the direction she had taken. What he planned to do with her, or to say to her, he didn't know.

  He found her in the bathing chamber, preparing a bath. Water burst from a small opening, filling a white, oblong container. A long, blue robe covered her from shoulders to toes. Her hair was plaited high at her crown, and a few tendrils cascaded down her temples. She looked so tiny just then, so fragile.

  Seeing her like this lanced him with a spear of tenderness. She was life and beauty. She was innocence, utterly and purely. Sometimes, like now, he felt unworthy of the merest glance from her. She deserved only happiness.

  The last vestiges of his anger eased, and he shook his head in shock. How did she slay his riotous emotions so quickly? How did she make him feel so conflicted… and yet so content? He knew not the answers.

  "I thank you for the underwear, Julia."

  With a surprised gasp, she jerked her gaze to the doorway. To him. When their eyes met, her expression softened. "You're welcome," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I—"

  "I know. And it is okay," he replied, borrowing one of her favorite words. He propped one shoulder against the door frame. Fragrant steam wafted through the small room, billowing around her like a loving caress.

  As she watched him, she wet her lips with her tongue. Just as before, his breath caught. How tempting it was just then to push her against the coldness of the wall and fill her with the heat of his flesh, to drown the mounting silence of the room with the screams of her pleasure. And she would scream. He would make sure of it.

  Tristan had to force himself to remain where he was. Control. He would control his reactions to her.

  "After you bathe," he said, "I wish to go to this mall of yours." He missed the excitement and revelry only a market could provide, yet knew visiting such a place would bring memories of his friends, memories that made him long for impossible things. Yet he desired more time with Julia, wanted to make her smile again. Wanted to see her in the clothing he chose for her—but only because he had given her his word, he forced himself to add.

  Her grin slipped. "How about we go tomorrow instead? It's been a really long day."

  "And if tomorrow is a long day, as well?"

  "Why don't I just close the store? We'll shop in the morning. That way I'm guaranteed to be perfectly rested."

  Satisfied with that, he nodded. "At tomorrow's dawning, we shall venture to the mall."

  When the door closed behind Tristan, Julia sank to the edge of the tub. She never, never closed her shop. Not for sickness. Or weather. Or a broken limb. That she even suggested such a thing was shocking.

  Tristan had no idea of the magnitude of what she'd just done.

  Did she?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  All Of Your Choices Must Be Based Upon Whether Or Not They Please Your Master

  When the mall opened the next day, Julia and Tristan were there, waiting at the doors. She tried not to picture the Closed sign on her shop's front window and the customers knocking on the glass, confused and angry.

  With a sigh, she strolled beside Tristan. They headed for a chic boutique that carried only the hottest fashions. Even in jeans and a T-shirt—and hopefully briefs—Tristan generated quite a bit of feminine appreciation. Not that she cared. He could entice all the women he wanted with his dangerous swagger and otherworldly eyes.

  Julia's nails dug into her palm as she recognized her thoughts for the he they were. The jerk had better not be doing any enticing, not after he agreed to the first parameter. The death glare she leveled at him contained enough heat to incinerate him. Surprisingly his gaze never once strayed to another woman.

  By small degrees, the muscles in Julia's body relaxed. She wasn't jealous, she assured herself. She was simply guarding her investment. Her tutor. If someone lured him away, who would give her datin
g etiquette lessons? No one, that's who. I'm pathetic, she thought. Meanwhile, Tristan dove into their adventure with the eagerness of a teenage boy locked inside a room with naked, horny women. Once they reached Coco's, he hopped from one rack to the other, tossing garments her way. "You will try this one. And this one. And this one." He held up a short red Band-Aid—such sheer, barely there material couldn't be called a dress—wicked intention gleaming in his eyes. "This one will be fun to remove."

  "I'm not wearing that," she told him with a shake of her head.

  "Aye, you will."

  "That's just so… sexy. Too sexy for me."

  "Julia, Julia, Julia. There is no such thing as too sexy for you."

  "I need conservative clothing. I wouldn't feel comfortable with three-fourths of my skin showing."

  He arched a brow. "Who is the expert here?"

  "You are," she grudgingly admitted.

  "Exactly."

  He grabbed another slinky dress, this one a flowing, gauzy white. On and on he went until she stumbled under the weight of the clothing. After a while, her arm muscles shook from exertion.

  "I need to work out," she muttered.

  "I once served a woman who insisted she have at least one hundred gowns to choose from every day," Tristan said, as he hunted through a new rack of garments.

  "Well, hel-lo there, gorgeous," a strong, masculine voice said. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

  "Thank you, yes." Relieved, Julia craned her neck until she saw over her bundle. "I need these placed in a dress—"

  The salesman never even glanced her way. He stared at Tristan, totally and completely transfixed. She almost laughed. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. The word «gorgeous» should have tipped her off. Men usually referred to her as "Hey, you."

  "I'm Gary," the salesman said to Tristan. "I'll be your personal shopper. Or anything else you want me to be."

  Gary had beautiful black hair, fashionably styled and cut just 'above his collar. He wore no jewelry save for the black onyx ring on his right index finger. He stood taller than the average man; the top of his head reached Tristan's shoulders. His clothes were perfectly tailored and overall he presented one very attractive package. It was quite obvious he wanted to slather Tristan's naked body with whipped cream and have himself a double-dip sundae. He gave Tristan a full-body, I-wish-I-had-X-ray-vision once-over. Tristan didn't seem to notice. "We need no assistance," he said.

  "Yes, we do," Julia spoke up. "I'm buying a hip, new wardrobe and I need all the help I can get."

  "Excellent, excellent." Too lost in the fantastical maleness of Tristan, Gary spared her the barest of glances, one that asked, Are you still here? She couldn't blame him for his inattention. She often found herself in the same predicament whenever Tristan neared. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, gorgeous," he told Tristan.

  "I did not throw it." Tristan gripped Gary's offered palm, studied it, then dropped it.

  "Are you sure there isn't anything I can get for you?"

  "Aye. I am most sure."

  Julia doubted Tristan realized he was being hit on, and she wasn't going to be the one to tell him. In fact, she needed to rein in Gary's lust before the situation mutated into one of death and disaster. "Would you mind helping me carry these outfits into a dressing room?" she asked him. At last her arms gave out, and she dropped the bundle with a whoosh. "I'd really appreciate it."

  Finally he awarded her his full attention. "I'd be glad to help, darling." With an imperial frown, he snapped his fingers and another sales associate flew to his side. "Take these to dressing room four."

  The pretty young girl, no more than twenty-two, bent down, hefted up the clothes, then started moving away, albeit slowly.

  "Wait!" Gary called abruptly. The girl froze. With his forefinger and thumb, he pinched a white bubble-knit skirt from the top of the pile. "Unless you want to look frumpy," he told Julia, his tone properly disgusted, "this simply will not do. Your body cries out for something elongating. Think stiletto heels. Slimming black pants. Dark gray top. You're about a size—" He wrapped his palms around her waist, taking her measurements. "Eight, right? A snug eight, I'd say."

  With a speed and grace at odds with his massive size, Tristan pinned the salesman against the wall, leaving the poor man's feet dangling in the air. He appeared every inch a cold, hard killer, from the predatory gleam in his gaze to the ticking muscle in his jaw.

  "There will be no touching my woman. Understand?"

  Far from being frightened, Gary closed his eyes in surrender, as if he'd just entered the gates of paradise. "Possessive, are we? I like that in a man."

  "Do you understand?" Tristan demanded, enunciating every syllable.

  Julia was just about to order Tristan to release the salesman, when Gary spoke.

  "Oh, yes, I understand. But what about you?" A slow grin played at Gary's lips, and his eyelids cracked open, revealing a suggestive, eager glint. "Is it permissible to touch you?"

  Tristan released him as if he'd just mutated into nuclear waste, and Gary dropped to the hardwood floor with a thud. Thank God she'd taken Tristan's sword away. He might have skinned the salesman alive.

  But you gave him a knife, remember?

  Her eyes widened. Stupid, stupid, stupid: Sweat popped up on her brow as she glanced around the boutique. People were openly staring, some concerned, others merely entertained. With Tristan's warrior speed, he could slice Gary to ribbons before she uttered a single word to stop him.

  "You haven't answered my question, gorgeous." Gary gave Tristan a flirtatious wink. "Is it permissible to touch you?"

  "Nay," he growled. "No touching. Not me. Not Julia."

  Relief crashed through her like the waves of an ocean. The imminent threat of attack had passed. Everyone would live.

  Undaunted, Gary simply continued on. "What about these?" He shuffled through a rack of pants and, with a flourish, swished out a silky black pair. "These will make your woman look fab-oo, darling. Simply fab-oo."

  No longer resembling a thundercloud of wrath, Tristan stroked his chin, giving the slacks a thorough inspection. "Nay. I want Julia to wear a gown that is soft and feminine, that flows around her ankles. That means no drocs."

  "No pants," she translated.

  "If that's what you want, gorgeous, that's what you shall have." With a flick of his wrist, Gary tossed the slacks aside. "This way," he called, sailing off. Julia followed, Tristan close at her heels. "Here you are, dear, and don't be shy. We want to see everything you try on. Absolutely everything."

  "I'll show you," she said sternly, and waited, tapping her foot, for him to leave.

  He got the hint.

  "Of course, of course." Smiling with delight, he waved one hand through the air. "I'll just keep the big man occupied, all righty?"

  Her delight far surpassed his, and she gave him a grin of her own. "I would like that, thank you."

  Tristan opened his mouth to protest, but she slammed the door shut and clicked the lock in place. Julia slipped out of her jeans and T-shirt. Clad only in her mismatched bra and panties—next item of business: lingerie—she stole a moment to study herself in the mirror. A single bulb hung straight above her, its bright rays unforgiving. She turned left, then right, then left again. A frown pulled at her lips the entire time. No matter what the angle, the image stayed the same. Unattractive. Diets didn't work for her, damn it, and she would never be model slim. A short size eight was not the same as a tall size eight.

  "Mirror, mirror on the wall," she muttered, pivoting for a back view. Her frown deepened. For some reason, her butt seemed extra wide today. How was that possible? Did fat cells reproduce? Before she worked herself into a good panic, she turned her attention elsewhere. Her breasts were nice, a definite handful. Would Tristan like them? she wondered, then scolded herself for even caring.

  "Mayhap we should forget the gowns and leave you just as you are. No man could resist you like this."

  Heart slamming in her
chest, Julia uttered a panicked scream and spun… only to find Tristan watching her. Because of his immense height, his head towered over the dressing-room door, giving him a perfect view inside.

  Right now, his eyes burned with the same heat that had flared to life right before he'd kissed her.

  "What are you doing?" she screeched, snatching a dress and molding the material to the outside of her body. Her bra and panties covered crucial areas, but that didn't save her from embarrassment. Or arousal.

  The grin he gave her reminded Julia of a naughty toddler who had just found a piece of fuzzy candy under the couch cushion. "Think you I would not remain nearby in case you had need of me?"

  "I don't need you," she rushed out. "I swear." The fire in his gaze blazed all the brighter, as if she'd offered him a scorching innuendo and had every intention of seeing it through. "Oh, but you do have need of me, little dragon," he said softly. "You do." The ominous words sounded like a promise and had nothing to do with changing her clothes. "One day soon I will prove that to you."

  She decided to change the subject before her tongue turned to rubber and her body to a quivering bundle of need. If only he didn't smell so seductive or look so erotically dangerous. So… yummy. "Wh-where's Gary?"

  In the space of a heartbeat, Tristan lost his passionate glow. The hollows of his cheekbones brightened with horror, and he offered in a strangled whisper, "That man desires me, Julia. As a lover!"

  "I know," she replied, and prayed he missed the sudden trace of laughter in her voice. He didn't. His eyes narrowed.

  "You know?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "And yet you left me alone with him?"

  Her lips pressed together, and again she answered, "Well, yeah."

  Watching her, he drummed his fingertips atop the door ledge. "Mayhap I should do to you what I did to him."

  A gasp slithered out of her throat. The hard slash of his brows had her picturing severed limbs and blood-soaked wood floors. "You didn't kill Gary, did you?" Only silence greeted her, causing her veins to crystallize with ice. "Tristan, please tell me you didn't kill him."