by Cynthia Dane
“I said dinner, not a date. I want to discuss business.”
“I’m sure you do!”
“Not that kind of business. Investments.”
“Excuse me?”
Henry chuckled, although he must have done it far from his phone for as quiet as it was. “I want to discuss the possibility of investing in your business. Don’t tell me you couldn’t use some extra money in a place like that. You have a lot of expensive clientele to keep happy.”
“We already have investors.”
“And you don’t want more?”
Either her palm was sweaty or Henry Warren was making her phone burn in her hand. “I’m not sure it would be appropriate for us to have dinner.”
“It would be good for you to come down from your mountain and join me for dinner in the city. I’m in town for a few days.”
“You don’t live in the city?”
“No, but I keep a place here. I’m always looking for new ventures to gauge. Come have dinner with me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t do that. Go into the city, that is.”
“Fine. I’ll come there.”
Why was he being so stubborn? Men, men, men! “While I appreciate your vested interest in my business, Mr. Warren, I’m afraid that I am not open to new investors at this time.”
“You know, Monica, it could be that I want to get to know you.”
Well! She certainly wasn’t expecting candor like that. “You made that clear when you gave me your idea of a gift.”
“Have I offended you? Please, tell me if I have.”
“You haven’t offended me.” More like made my imagination run wild.
“Then you shouldn’t have any issue with having dinner with me. Tell me when. I’ll bring the drinks.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Monica stared at the collar on her desk. “I want to be your patron.” She imagined her and Henry sitting in a cozy restaurant, the man fawning over her while she in turn fawned over him. “Thursday. Five. If you’re even a minute late, it’s over.”
Another pause. At this rate he was going to kill her with the waiting. “Thank you for taking another chance on me. By the way…”
“Yes?”
He breathed deeply against the phone, that voice, those breaths burrowing into Monica’s ear as she felt a trickle of sweat come down her forehead and down her chest. “Never mind. We can talk about it on Thursday.”
Monica said the first thing to come to her mind, although she instantly regretted it. “I look forward to it.” No, no, no! What in the world was she doing? Don’t encourage him! Oh, she would encourage him all right. She let a smile cross her face before leaning against her desk and saying with a smile, “I look forward to how you try to seduce me next.”
Cat, mouse… who was who and which was which? Furthermore, how much longer would Monica be able to resist?
Chapter 6
The Wolf’s Den
The wine was vintage, sweet, and much more delicious than Monica wanted to give Henry credit for. He had spared no expense on the gifts he brought her, beyond the wine. Truffles, exotic flowers, and a transparent light red shawl that glittered in tiny rubies. Since these were given to her publically in the foyer, Monica had no choice but to accept them graciously. The food stuff was put out for their dinner, the flowers sent to the dining table, and the shawl? She handed it to Sylvia and asked her to leave it in the front hallway of the master suite. No way am I wearing it outside to our dinner in his presence.
“I don’t want you to think I bought it to impress you,” he said, as they walked side by side upstairs and toward a small balcony near the master suite. Monica arranged for a two-person dining table to be set up, complete with a lantern and a silk tablecloth. It shouldn’t get too dark while they ate, but Monica understood ambiance like her billionaire clients understood the stock market. He’ll think I’m flirting. She was. She was flirting so hard the outcome pointed to Henry bending her over the railing and giving her what they both wanted.
“I don’t think you did that at all.” Monica opened the door and waited for Henry to step through. Sometimes I get to be a gentlelady. “Because you know I would not be impressed.”
“In truth, I didn’t buy it. I found it in my sister’s bin of things she wants to get rid of. Asked her if I could give it to someone and she said yes.”
“How… well, I don’t know what to say to that.”
“I thought of you when I saw it.” Henry pulled a chair out from the table for Monica to sit in. She accepted, and waited for him to sit adjacent to her, both of their seats offering a view of the sunset as it came for the gardens. “You make me think of the color red. Passionate. Straightforward. Strong.”
Only one other man had called her strong before. Ethan Cole, my ex. He called her that when she broke down crying in his home shortly after he took her away from that awful prison belonging to Jackson Lyle. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. A weaker woman would have died in there.” “You flatter me, Mr. Warren.”
“What is your favorite color, anyway?”
Monica looked right into those bright blue eyes. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know your favorite color?”
“It used to be black.”
One of the maids came out with wineglasses and ice water to get them started. She knew what to do. Bring out the bread. Then the vegetable and soup course. Then the main course. Then dessert. If the bread wasn’t out of the kitchen within ten minutes, someone would get fired.
Henry waited for the maid to go back inside before asking, “Used to be?”
“Yes. Used to be.” Monica loved the simplicity of the color black. Yet it was strong, resilient, and so useful and loved by millions around the world. Black was the color of “goes with everything.” It represented an innocuous coolness that everyone could relate to.
It also made her think of darker days now. Days that practically ruined her ability to love what the color black had to offer and why she should embrace them all. These days, she gravitated toward the color white to get her mind off it. White was refreshing and as versatile, in a cheerful sort of way. Except Monica’s room was still black and red. No wonder she felt chills every time she went to bed. Regardless of how much she tried to distance herself from her past, it was always there, waiting for her.
Henry leaned on his elbows and looked between her and the lamp in the middle of the table. “Black and red go well together.”
“Those are the colors of my room.”
Monica knew what hand she played, and she was not disappointed to hear him say, “I should like to see it.”
“I’m sure you would, Mr. Warren. I’m an impeccable decorator.”
“As stated by this entire mansion.”
The maid brought out the bread right on time. Henry insisted on cutting it up and buttering it while Monica watched the sun begin its descent behind a grove of trees. I should be doing that for him. Every time someone did something for her, Monica felt the compulsion to tell them, “No, no! I will do that. Please, let me serve you.” In a more common life she would be happy to work retail and waitressing. Maybe work up to being a maid like one of the workers in her Château. She loved to make other people happy and fulfill their needs. The day she realized she got off on it was a strange, yet liberating one.
“A part of me is surprised that you agreed to have dinner with me.” Henry left the bread on his plate but didn’t touch it. “I thought for sure that after my faux pas you would want nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not true.” Monica nibbled the corner of her crust and was grateful that a gentle breeze kicked up and washed away the crumbs. “I rather like you, Mr. Warren. I think you misunderstood the intentions going on.”
“Oh? And what were those?”
She glanced at him, coolly, the corner of her mouth teasing her cheek with a smile. “You can’t buy my desire. You have to earn
it.”
The wineglass was at the edge of his lips, It remained there, the white wine still in the glass as he gazed at her over the rim. “And how do I do that?”
Monica shrugged. “Make me trust you. That’s not an easy thing to do.”
Henry put the wineglass down and licked his lips. “I bet it wouldn’t be, considering what I know about you.”
“And what do you know?” The shields were up. Monica scooted back in her chair, ready to be angry at him.
“I know that you used to be with Jackson Lyle. After you two broke up, he was bought out of his shares at Jackson-Cole. Something happened.”
“Is that it? You want to know what’s going on in the business world through me? Because I don’t have any insider information. I didn’t know anything going on in his life besides what he wanted to do to me.”
She feared that Henry would push the issue… maybe ask what he wanted to do to her. Humiliate me. Hurt me. Bruises weren’t supposed to be a part of her lifestyle.
Henry didn’t say anything. All he did was place his hand next to hers on the table, where her fingers clenched a napkin and ignored the bread waiting to be consumed.
Monica did not accept his invitation to be touched. That was reserved for a man she could trust – and as attracted as she was to Henry Warren, she didn’t know if she could trust him yet. For all she knew…
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said. “Whatever you went through, it must have been awful. Nobody really likes that guy in the business world. We deal with him because we have to.”
“We?”
The hand disappeared. “Why, yes. I won’t say I know him personally, but he does pop up in many of my spheres. I’ve only met him on a handful of occasions. I never guessed he was into that sort of lifestyle.”
“You mean domination and submission.”
“It seems to be the sort of life that can easily turn dark. With the wrong person, that is.”
You have no idea. How could he, as a man? Men held all the power. That’s what Monica liked about the situation, but it didn’t save her from the evil that sometimes burst from it. She wanted a man to control her in the bedroom, to tell her what to do sometimes, to make her life easier… but not to rule that life. That’s what Jackson ended up doing, and she paid for it.
The maid returned with their soup course. Neither of them picked up their spoons. I’m being a terrible hostess. Making it all about her past, failed relationships… “Enough about me, Mr. Warren. Tell me more about yourself.”
“I’m terribly boring. My job is boring, my hobbies are boring. My house is boring because I’m too busy to do anything with it.”
“What do you do?”
“Mergers. Acquisitions. Buy places. Sell them off. Keep the profits. Time-honored tradition my great-grandfather started a hundred years ago, and now here I am. I may have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I intend to earn the right to keep it.”
“That’s noble.” Sounded like what Jackson and most men of old money did. Either that or they married rich before telling her that their own fortunes were crumbling. Monica looked like a woman of means, but she would hardly say that she was. If she lost the Château, she would have next to nothing. All the money I personally make goes back into it. Not the best financial planning, but she wanted her business to succeed before worrying about her own future. “At least you keep yourself busy. I’ve known men who rest on their laurels and pretend everything is going to continue the way it always has. Life doesn’t work out that way. It’s good to be prepared and stay busy. What do you do for fun?”
“I told you, my hobbies are boring too.”
“I highly doubt that. There must be something.” Even reading could be an adventure. Assuming Henry had good tastes, of course.
“Reading is perhaps the only hobby I can regularly indulge in.” Ha! I knew it. Finally, Henry touched his soup, declared it delicious, but still too hot for him to completely eat at the moment. “I’m fluent in French, so I like to read the original works of authors like Proust. Oh, and the Marquis de Sade. I assume you’ve heard of him.”
Monica’s mouth twitched again. “I have. I’m afraid I don’t think much of him, though.” Of course she knew the word “sadistic” came from that man. She also knew why. Many Doms heralded him as some sort of father of their sexualities, which perturbed Monica, since the Marquis was infamous for coercing his servants. Jackson admired him way too much. She hoped Henry wasn’t the same way.
“His works are fascinating, but perhaps for all the wrong reasons.” That was all Henry said on the matter, and Monica did not press him further.
Over the course of dinner she learned a few more things about him. Henry’s parents were alive, but they lived in their favorite vacation home in Montana, where his father had a ranch and his mother made jewelry for a “living,” not that she needed to. He currently lived in their main house with his younger sister, who was in grad school getting her MBA. They almost sounded like a normal upper middle class family until Monica remembered that Henry Warren was probably one of the richest men in the country. He could do anything with his life… so why was he spending it with her?
“I also like to paint here and there,” he said at the beginning of their final course. “Nothing in particular. Just whatever moves me.” Henry pointed to the sunset, now sinking fast behind the trees. “Like that. I would like to paint that if I had the chance. The way the light passes through the branches of those evergreens and illuminates the labyrinth is simply breathtaking.” He glanced at her. “Looks nice on you as well.”
Flattery would get him nowhere. Monica knew what he was up to. “Thank you.” She would take the compliment anyway.
“So what do you do for fun?” Henry was on his second glass of wine. Monica was still on her first, but she could see the bottom of her glass. “I have a hard time believing you do this for fun all the time.” He motioned to the Château.
“Believe what you will or won’t. My work is my life now.”
“No movies? No books?”
“I read occasionally, but I’ve found recently that most of the stories I used to enjoy now only frustrate me.” They reminded her of her old relationship. Monica devoured books – dark and comedic – about alpha males and their unwitting women. She particularly enjoyed the recent trend of billionaires and mafia bosses and, and, and… Nope. Too much like real life. Few women could say that!
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you can enjoy them again soon.”
Henry’s voice wasn’t empty, nor was it full of sarcasm. When they made eye contact, Monica saw nothing but warmth in his eyes. It’s a ruse. A game. That’s what she had to tell herself in order to survive. No man actually cared that she enjoyed “A Billionaire Love Story” ever again. Because they’re not real. She thought she had that kind of love once. Perhaps she was too jaded by the heartbreak.
“If I may ask…” Henry’s fingered the stem of his glass, leaning back in his chair with one leg over the other and his eyes downcast. “What happened between you and Jackson Lyle? You were a famous couple in our circles, even if only by legend.”
What a strange thing to say. “Bad things.”
The awkward silence she created was not lost on the man dining with her. Henry continued to stare at the table before finally looking up and gazing at Monica’s figure in her chair. The maid came, taking away their empty plates and replacing them with a dessert of key lime pie. Perfect for a warm evening.
Yet Henry continued to gaze at her, those unwavering blues caressing Monica’s body as if they truly touched. If she closed her own and also leaned back in her chair, she could pretend that Henry stood right next to her, truly caressing her arm, her cheek, and even her hair as he wrapped each dark strand around his fingers and promised to make her feel better.
I’m tragic. What was even more tragic was how pointless it all felt. Henry Warren couldn’t cure her of her heartbreak. S
he was a stupid girl to even pretend that it was possible, even in her fantasies. It was those fantasies that made me hang on to him for so long. When in love, the heart fucked shit up. “He hurt me. In ways you could never imagine.”
It was too easy unloading her secrets onto him. Henry was a courteous listener, at least, not once interrupting Monica as she attempted to put into words the horrors she went through.
“Everything started innocent enough. Isn’t that how it always goes? One day I was a girl in a lounge looking for a little trouble. I found it. His name was Jackson, and he bought me a drink and told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s young girls like me back then who fall for that shit.”
“Long story short, he became my Dom. I was happy to serve him. We were deep into the lifestyle, you see. It’s how I wanted it, and he grew accustomed to it. He would come home, I would take off his clothes for him, make sure there was a bath ready, order his favorite foods, and then do whatever he told me to do. Sometimes it was sexual, and sometimes he told me to leave him alone, so I did. I suppose this sounds boring, the way I’m telling it. To those in the lifestyle, it is boring. We were just another sub/Dom domestic pair.”