by Flora Dain
The simplest thing would be to sit him down and ask him. But while I do my best to socialize, chatting with one group after another, he simply slips away and paces alone on the upper decks, phone in hand.
* * * *
After what seems a very long evening, I’m heading for our stateroom. I’ve met more millionaires than I can count. I really should feel pleased with myself. I’ve never spoken before to so many people at one time who are real fans. I’ve had suggestions for further programs and two invitations to visit and film—one from a collector of Chinese jade and another from an Italian art curator.
Mel and Ben would be over the moon. Even Janice would be proud. I only wish she was here to see it. Maybe she’d think me less of a failure—once I’d explained to her what Chinese jade is.
But I long for night when I’ll have him to myself and maybe find out what’s troubling him. All day I’ve tingled all over, aching for him, still hyper from our delicious afternoon flight and our heady sessions on Millin Island.
Laid out on a lounger at the side of the pool, I fantasized all afternoon about the night ahead.
Fifteen strokes.
I see myself peeling off an elegant satin gown, sashaying up to him naked, maybe bending gracefully over his knees—or holding out my wrists to be handcuffed…
This is really getting to me. A great Russian dance teacher once said that ballet’s like a drug. You constantly try to overcome yourself to achieve.
And so is this…
However far he takes me, I want more. Even if I’m scared. Especially if I’m scared.
Like he says, fear makes it fun.
But the reality, like all reality, is different. When I reach our room, still flushed with success and preening from so much interest in my work, he’s standing in the middle of the room, waiting. As the door closes softly behind me, I hear once again his low, quiet command and heat courses through me.
“Kneel.”
From now on I should stay silent, but I have to speak. “Are you angry about what the team is doing?” His unease must be something to do with Mel’s warning. Back at Beat Hall I might have sorted this in minutes, but I’ve been out of touch for days…
“What do you think?”
So I’m right. “Look, I’d like to help, but I’ve lost contact. I seem to have lost my cell phone.” It’s a terrible admission. It makes me sound so inept.
I’ve looked everywhere, and there’s been no hope of buying a prepaid.
Holding my gaze, he takes something out of his pocket and holds it up.
I gasp in dismay. “You’ve got it? Can I have it back?”
“No.” He slips it back in his pocket and looks at me coldly.
I try to stay calm. Don’t lose your temper with this man. It never works.
“Then…how is this my fault if I can’t contact my team?”
“Did I say it was your fault?”
“But you’re so cold. What’s wrong, Cade? Can I help?”
He sighs, his expression opaque. “It’s a bit late for that. The only way you can help now is to stay as close to me and as far away from your team as possible. How much do you know about what Simmons says he found?”
“The film footage of you? Nothing. Just that Mel wants to look into it. If I can’t contact her, then how can I find out anything?”
My voice is rising now, along with my temper. Once again I’m being accused of something other people are planning…
I watch him warily, all my happy anticipation forgotten, as he moves purposefully about the room, taking off his jacket, loosening his tie, snapping open his case.
I’m still kneeling. My dress is caught up under my knees. It’ll crease badly if I stay down here much longer. And what’s he doing in his case? He never wears pajamas…
Wait. He keeps his equipment in his case…
Among his clothes I’ve noticed the occasional strand of leather, the braided end of a crop.
Fear sends a throb of excitement straight through me. But something else occurs to me. “Something’s changed. It was okay before. Why’s it different now?”
He turns to me, his face stony. “Don’t play games with me. Naturally I expected trouble, Macallan’s a gifted reporter. I planned to stay one step ahead. I took the risk when I hired all of you and so far, it’s paid off. If everything goes to plan, the risk will have been worth it. Your colleagues might be good at their job, but I’ve got more money, better technology and good lawyers. And this week, I’ve got something even better than that.”
His strange, cold smile sends a chill through me. “I’ve got you. You’re the key to all this. As long as you’re with me, they can’t do much damage. Now to business. You’ve forgotten your training already, so we’d better recap. What happens when you kneel?”
I swallow, thrown off course by this sudden change of tempo. “I stay silent. Sir,” I add quickly.
“You stay silent. And how many strokes did you earn yesterday?”
His voice has lowered to a menacing whisper and instantly we’re back in our deeply private world where nothing else matters.
Heat burns deep inside and with it comes a new thought. Maybe this is how I reach him.
“Fifteen, Sir.”
He looks thoughtful. “We’ll add on five for speaking out of turn. So how many?”
Indignation turns to hunger. I’m supposed to feel shame but instead all I feel is fire. Sometimes this ritual is fun. “Twenty, Sir.”
But his spankings are relentless and efficient. How much more can I take?
His next words send a chill through me.
“You’re math’s more reliable than your word. I’m going to whip your breasts. First you strip then you shower and use the bathroom, then you come back here and kneel facing me. Got that?”
My breasts? Heaven help me… The heat flares into flame. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
I rise gracefully to my feet, avoiding his eye, and begin to unfasten my gown. So here it is, the scenario I’ve longed for and dreaded. And to my intense shame, though it sounds terrifying, I’m deeply, wildly excited.
* * * *
For the breast whipping, I’m to be cuffed to the bedposts at the end of the bed by my wrists and ankles. He wants me leaning forward in a long curve, so my breasts thrust forward and all my limbs are stretched and rigid.
“The usual way is to strap you into a chair and bind your breasts so they grow hard then flog them. But I like a little movement. And I like to see you posed. Makes it more fun.”
Now his tone’s light, almost cheerful. He might have been discussing the finer points of golf.
As he checks my cuffs and the fastenings that suspend me from the posts, his manner subtly changes and he becomes silent, withdrawn. When I’m fixed into position, he runs a hand over me, making me shiver.
“A ball gag would be sensible, with other people so close, but I might need your mouth. Can I trust you not to make too much noise?”
I nod, wide-eyed. How can I answer that?
He lowers his voice to a murmur. “Maybe I’ll blindfold you instead. Make it more intense.”
He slips a sleep mask over my eyes and instantly everything’s dark. Now I’m suspended in air, my legs splayed wide, my breasts thrust out—a puppet on a string, a toy for his pleasure.
He takes a long time to prepare. Objects land on surfaces, doors open and close, something pops, something clinks, something whispers. At one point I catch the soft beat and the languid melody of a slow jazz number. It rises and falls in the background over a low, rhythmic beat.
And all at once something slides over my skin, the unmistakable slither of leather as the soft, cruel fingers of some long, many-stranded whip lands on my back like some giant creature coming in to land then snakes around my waist. It travels slowly up between my breasts and around my neck, claiming its prey, marking out territory.
I take a long, juddering breath and it starts. Stroke after stroke lands softly then eases over me, like
a giant, questing hand. Just as I start to relax into its rhythm, it whistles through the air and lands with a sharp, multiple snap as each separate strand makes contact across my breasts.
“One.”
Quivering, I wait for more, but nothing happens. After a long pause, something hard touches my nipple and I cry out in surprise. It’s wet, and in seconds, my confused nerve endings tell me it’s cold.
Ice. It slides slowly all around one breast then all around the other as I shiver and gasp. Finally it circles my nipples, making them numb and—as it bounces off them—hard. Just when I think they’ve lost all feeling, the whip lands again, stinging and merciless, the lashes zinging around my waist and snapping into my curves.
“Two.”
Then something soft, so soft it might be a real animal. Fur. I shiver as it creeps slowly up the inside of one tight, quivering thigh, along my groin then down the inside of my other leg. I’m wondering where it’s headed next when something soft, warm and deliciously wet circles one of my taut, pebble-like nipples—his tongue.
He takes my breast into his mouth, sucking hard then he pulls away and the air over my moistened skin is suddenly cold as the whip lands again. This time it makes me jump.
“Three.”
And so it goes on, seemingly for hours. I lose track of time. It’s impossible to tell hot from cold as sensation follows sensation. At one point his lips find mine as he kisses a dribble of fizzing champagne into my mouth.
Heavenly.
Another time his mouth, full of fizzing bubbles, fastens eagerly over my wide, gaping slit, probing and guzzling greedily with his tongue while the bubbles sparkle and tease around my tight, throbbing little center.
It’s delicious, terrifying torment. The low sound of the jazz clarinet, the long leather lashes, now harsh, now fond, and the trails of fur, ice, tongue and fingers all come together in perfect, synchronized rhythm. Everything blends into a symphony of teasing, endless pleasure.
Is it twenty? It seems more, yet it’s never enough. By the time he’s finished, I’ve lost count. Sensation after sensation tingles through me. My bewildered nerve endings struggle to keep up, trying to tell hot from cold, sharp from soft, pain from pleasure.
Finally each new blow feels the same.
I give up trying to work it out and simply endure and enjoy, treating each new caress whether it stings or soothes as an act of love, a precious link between us, a contact only he can give.
At last I’m too tearful for any more and he releases me and carries me, trembling all over, to the bed.
And somehow, when the pleasure finally comes, after he’s slowly made love, murmuring into my ear, kissing my neck, touching me softly all over my breasts that are still aflame from his whip, my climax is so intense I dissolve into sobs, crying into his shoulder like a lost soul.
This has been deeply, achingly intense. I curl up in his arms for the rest of the night, whimpering whenever he moves. And more than once when I wake suddenly, I catch him gazing at me, his eyes glittering in the darkness as if he can’t get enough of the sight of my face.
* * * *
Next morning he’s nowhere to be seen. Sunlight streams into our rooms but I’m alone in the bed. I shower quickly, slip into pale linen crop pants and a silky top and sandals and go on deck.
Early swimmers are already gathering around the pool and bulky business types are ordering breakfast. At last Cade joins me and we eat on deck out in the sunshine.
Guests come and go, greeting us and talking about themselves with the cheerful ease of people on holiday. We get no chance to talk.
At one point Sir Gerald sits with us, and I decide to pry while Cade is talking to out of earshot with a group of politicians.
“Cade’s told me very little about himself, Sir Gerald. What was he like when he was young?”
The older man beams at me, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, rather like his son’s. “We all had a rough time after my wife went. Then came the terrible teens… He was quite a handful there for a while. They both were. Mind you, I was out of the country on diplomatic business for most of the time. Izaak looked after them then.”
He talks easily, like he tells this story often. He looks at me in mock despair. “He was welcome to them.”
I stare at him, appalled that he’s so blasé at missing his son’s youth. “So you saw very little of him while he was growing up?”
I try to keep my voice neutral but it’s an effort.
He gives me a small, superior smile then waves his hand round at the crowded decks. “My career had to come first, naturally. Diplomacy is very demanding.”
I glance round at the millionaires lazing on the sun loungers. “Yes, I can see.” I’m careful to keep a straight face.
He gives me a sharp look. “Then there was all that trouble with Fran.” He shakes his head sadly.
Fran again. Now I’m getting somewhere. “There were problems?”
He rolls his eyes. “She went to pieces, just like her mother before her. All that time in clinics. Rehab, you’d call it. Cade pulled her round eventually. When he sets his mind to something, he always succeeds.” He glances at me with a hint of real pride. “Chip off the old block there. Ah, here’s the Ambassador. Angelo, allow me to present Tunis, a former dancer. She’s here with my son.”
* * * *
Now Cade’s slipped away again. At last I find him pacing the upper deck, phone in hand. When he sees me his eyes gleam as he draws me into his arms. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you look in the morning?”
I smile into his neck and press against him, drinking in his delicious aroma of costly aftershave laced with a hint of male animal. “How would you know? You never wake up with me.”
He kisses me gently. “I like to watch you sleep. But this morning I had business.”
His phone buzzes again. He answers it with his arm still firmly around my waist.
I feel his arm stiffen.
Something’s wrong.
After a few seconds the call ends abruptly. He turns to me with a strange expression. “That was Nera. I have to leave. Something’s come up. You must stay here.”
Nera again. I stare at him, horrified. “No. No. You can’t do that. I’m yours for the week, remember?”
I’ve known him ten days. It feels like ten lifetimes. And soon we’ll part, maybe forever. I scan his face, panic rising. “We can’t lose our last few days together. I don’t care what’s happened.”
He puts his arms around me and holds me tight. “Trust me, Tunis. It’s better this way. You’ll be safe.”
I can hardly hear what he’s saying. I can only see the pain in his eyes, mingled with something else—fear. It sears my heart. “I’m safe with you. I’m coming with you. You need me.”
His face contracts, and he closes his eyes for a moment. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s terrifying.
When he speaks again, his voice is husky. “You’re right. I do need you. That’s the trouble. That’s why you’ll be safer here.” He swallows, like he’s coming to a decision. “Okay. You can come too. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
On the flight back, Cade is moody. He refuses to tell me what’s wrong.
Lisa, our hapless attendant, hovers with coffee and drinks, but he waves her away with an impatient twitch of his fingers.
She gives me pitying looks. She thinks we’ve had a fight.
The minute she leaves us, we do fight.
He takes my phone out of his pocket. “Still missing this?”
Startled, I stare at him. “Yes. Can I have it back?”
“No.”
I feel a sudden chill. “Why not?”
“Let’s check your texts.”
I stare in shocked, silent outrage as he scrolls through the list.
He starts reading them aloud, his voice calm. “Just landed at Tenerife. Janice getting a suntan… Dad. Here’s another. Call me. Call me. Call me… Mel.”
He looks at me, thoughtful as a broody poet, his eyes burning into mine. “Anything to say?”
My heart sinks. “Would it? Blow you sky-high, I mean? If it came out you weren’t there that night?”
“Why do you ask?” His voice is soft—too soft.
I frown. “Well… Would it?” I wait for him to explain, dismiss my fears with a wisecrack and a grin. Nothing happens. His expression stays blank.
“See what I mean?” He slips my phone back in his pocket. “The inner reporter never sleeps.”
* * * *
At Beat Hall preparations are now under way for the coming festival. As we come in to land, we can see the grounds already teeming with activity. Staging is being erected and cabling laid. Recording vans and container trucks are gathering on a remote field, out of sight of the main house.
On the short drive through the grounds, Cade relaxes a little as he talks about the festival.
For two weeks each year, Beat Hall becomes Izzy’s domain as he spins the magic that brings in the crowds. The grounds here will be flooded with a sea of people, the night sky bright with dazzling color, the ancient house transformed into a living backdrop for acts from all around the world.
It will delight thousands of fans, launch careers—and make a staggering amount of money.
On the drive, Izzy’s waiting to greet us. “Hi, you guys. See the ol’ man?”
He and Cade exchange a few terse remarks about Sir Gerald and his circle. When Izzy offers to show us round, Cade shakes his head. “I’ve got to find Nera. Catch up with you later.”
I’m happy to stay and bask in Izzy’s lazy Southern drawl. First he leads me over to meet a group of technicians and as we walk around, I marvel at the scale of the event taking shape here. Catering, toilets, amusements and emergency tent cover will be provided for thousands of people. It sounds like a logistical nightmare, but he makes it all sound like an afternoon picnic.