HostileTakeover

by Joey W. Hill

  “I have something else to handle now,” Ben said, tilting his head in her direction. “Are we done?”

  “Yeah. Hey, don’t forget next Friday’s benefit.” Peter pushed off the wall. “Black tie. Stale finger foods, open checkbook. The girls are really looking forward to it.”

  Today was Thursday. Were they anticipating him being gone for the next seven days, such that Peter was mentioning it now? She held her tongue, though cold dread filled her stomach. Had she known him well enough to anticipate his escape out of town?

  Then Peter gave him a grin. “It will take you that long to get some unlucky woman to agree to be your date.”

  “I’ll ask your wife,” Ben said dryly. “You know she’ll choose me.”

  “Yeah. Keep it up, I’ll wrap your oversized appendage around your throat and choke you with it.”

  “Don’t you wish yours was long enough to do that?”

  “Gentlemen,” Matt warned in a mild voice. She knew he was a stickler about talking crude around women, at least in normal conversation. The others followed the same code, though she’d always noticed Ben strayed outside the lines more than the rest.

  Through Cass, she knew he’d lived on the streets as a kid. Maybe that was why he slipped in the manners department more often, though she’d never seen Ben treat the K&A women with anything but the greatest respect. That street experience probably contributed to his versatility as a lawyer, but he’d have made a good investigator as well, because he could easily adopt different personas. He’d delighted her siblings with his command of accents. Cajun, Irish, Midwestern, New England. What she found interesting was how the accents would show up unconsciously when his moods changed, as if the situation called forth that particular personality.

  When Matt rose and he and Peter headed toward the door, neither of them looked toward her, even though she pushed up on one elbow. Same situation as at Jon’s. She was Ben’s, a submissive waiting on a Master’s attention, and therefore not to be acknowledged by the other Doms in the room unless it was part of the plan. Given her immediate reaction to that thought, a nap hadn’t helped settle her as much as she expected.

  “Remember what we talked about.”

  Jon was in the room, standing by the door. He was addressing Ben, holding his gaze. Ben inclined his head, his mouth tight. “I’ll handle it the way I see fit.”

  “Just be sure you handle it.”

  Okay, she’d never heard Jon with that edge. Ben registered the challenge, eyes turning into shards of glass. “I said I would. Back off.”

  Jon nodded, his blue eyes just as cool. Then he turned, pulling the door closed after him.

  She wasn’t sure what to say. She was pretty sure that had to do with her, but she didn’t know what corner of the sheet to grasp to straighten it out. Surely Jon wouldn’t have told Ben what they talked about? Yes, of course he would. From her tea-party eavesdropping, she knew it caused Cass, Dana, Savannah and Rachel various levels of frustration. The well-being of their women came first, over and above issues of privacy, and all of the guys were hugely overprotective.

  The Knights of the Board Room was what they’d been dubbed by a columnist, years ago, and though the guys would roll their eyes if anyone brought it up, it fit. It was as much about their old-fashioned code of chivalry as it was about their behavior in business and charitable circles.

  Ben turned his chair then. She couldn’t read his countenance, but he rose, came to the couch, dropped to his heels next to it. His gaze covered her face, the open neck of the pink blouse, following the lines of her body down to the tailored skirt. As his gaze came back to hers, she was warmer all over, and more flustered.

  “I told you not to come here today. Why did you?”

  “Because you told me I had twenty strikes coming, and you only gave me eleven. So I still owe you nine.”

  His lips tugged, a sexy half-smile, but as he studied her, the smile thinned. “That was what you meant by unfinished work.”

  She nodded. “That, and that last document I didn’t complete.”

  Ben sighed. He put his hand on her hip, and before she could anticipate him, he’d slid those capable fingers to her right buttock, cupping it firmly. When she flinched, his eyes darkened. “I’m a sadist, Marcie,” he said softly. “But not that kind.” His touch eased and he stroked her curves, giving her body another glance. “You have no idea what you look like, sleeping on my couch, your neckline showing that lace edge of your bra, your killer legs curved up. All this beautiful hair.” His other hand threaded through it, cupping her face. “Come on, get up. I’m taking you out for a beignet.”

  “Café du Monde?” Her expression brightened. She loved the view of Jackson Square, the artists, the musicians and impromptu performances.

  “Maybe another day. I want a good beignet, one where the dough is still handmade each day, not squirted out of a mass-production tube and served in a corral with a dirty floor and wall-to-wall tourists.”

  “Ouch. I love it there.”

  “Well, you’re young and stupid.”

  “Better than old and grumpy.”

  He gave her a pinch that made her yelp. “On your feet and leave your purse. I’m paying.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You never let anyone treat you.”

  “We split the check all the time. Just not with women.”

  “Sexist pig.”

  “Oink, oink.”

  He took her to Café Beignet, which was a few blocks off Jackson Square, but she had to admit it was more intimate and relaxed, and the beignets melted in the mouth. They enjoyed them first, though he made her order a lunch she was sure she wouldn’t finish. Everyone seemed determined to make her eat.

  As she finished off the last of the beignet, she was aware of his silent regard. She was licking the sugar off her fingers, because no one could resist doing that with a good beignet. She wished he’d let her clean his fingers with her mouth. She’d take them in deep, a clear reminder of what he’d let her do for him last night. The hinge of her jaw was sore and all she wanted was to do it for him again.

  Reaching across the table, he caught her wrist. Bringing her fingers to his mouth, he sucked the remaining sugar off, sending electricity crackling all the way from her wrist pulse to her toes, awakening every major erogenous center in between.

  When he was done, she had that queer little shake happening again. She couldn’t stop it. “Ben…”

  “Ssshh.” He reached out, slid his knuckles over her temple. “Easy. Just breathe.”

  “I-I don’t know why I k-keep doing that.”

  “I do. Last night was your first time, wasn’t it?”

  When she would have looked away, his grip tightened. “Marcie, any question I ask, you’ll answer, and you won’t lie to me. Not now, not ever. You understand?”

  She managed a nod, though her teeth started to chatter. “Damn it…”

  “Focus on me, what I want. Answer.”

  “Yes.” She met his eyes, gripped their steadying influence, so her voice could stop quivering as much. “I’ve been to clubs, like I said. I just watched. I did a lot of Internet surfing.” Plus enough fantasizing to launch an adult Disney World.

  “Did you go to the clubs alone?”

  “I took one of my friends with me the first time. She isn’t into the scene, but I thought she was okay with me being that way, and would go with me to make it safer. She didn’t like how…mesmerized I was by it. It kind of freaked her out. After that, she pulled away from me, and I became more careful about who saw that side of me.”

  “You went alone after that?”

  “Only a few times. They were safe places, classy clubs. Then when I was in New York, Lucas’ friend, Marcus Stanton, took me fairly often. He went as a chaperone,” she added. “He’s a great Master, but he’s utterly devoted to Thomas. I got to watch them have a session, hand him things. I’m not stupid, Ben.”

  His jaw eased a fraction. “No, but you’re reckless as hell.”


  “That’s the pot calling the kettle black. What do you call that death trap you drive?”

  “A high-performance driving machine, an engineering piece of art.”

  “An expensive metal phallus.” She snorted. He was still holding her wrist, playing with her fingers, and it was extremely distracting. She hoped he never stopped. “So are you going to take me to a club?”

  “Nag, nag, nag.” He sighed, sat back.

  “As my mentor,” she persisted. “You can show me how the deeper stuff works. We’re already…I mean, I could go as your sub-in-training. You could help me.”

  Ben regarded her with those sharp green eyes. “Marcie, do you think you can con me?”

  “No.”

  Just that steady look, an unspoken correction, and butterflies swarmed. “No, sir.”

  He inclined his head. “I’m willing to give you a short mentoring period. If you’re using it to get something more from me, you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak. I’ve no intention of taking things beyond that.”

  “Why not?” She met that stare dead on now. “Am I not good enough for you?”

  “I’m not looking for that. Not with you.”

  In her lap, her hands curled into fists. “Ben, do you think you can con me?”

  He leaned forward. Something dark moved in his expression, something more than a little bit scary, but there were things that scared her far worse than pissing Ben off.

  “Do I have to rip your fucking heart from your chest to prove my point, Marcie? Do I have to break you?”

  “You can’t. You won’t. Give it your best shot.” He could probably hear the rabbit thumping of her heart, but she’d have a full-scale cardiac arrest before she’d back down. “It’s all bullshit,” she said quietly. “Everyone’s looking for that. You’d walk through Hell for me, for Cassandra, for every member of your family. But I’m not the one afraid of surrendering myself fully. You are.”

  That darkness became something full blown, something ugly, lonely and violent. Then it was gone, the smooth lawyer back in place. It was a startling transformation, one that made her more uncomfortable than she wanted to admit.

  He sat back now, picked up his beer. “We’ll see about that,” he said casually. “Because if you want me to mentor you, full surrender is what I’m going to demand. As well as full honesty. How did you know how to do what you did last night? You weren’t new to it.” Something deadly entered his gaze again, only this time it had an erotic edge to it. “Who taught you to take a dick that size down your throat, in your ass?”

  Thank God they were in a quiet corner. He’d spoken in a low voice, but some words just had a way of carrying. She kept her gaze fastened on his, sure she’d be mortified into speechlessness if any heads turned.

  “There was no who, not exactly. I went to chat rooms, asked questions. Talked to Thomas because…” She stopped. She was pretty forward, but she wasn’t sure she could finish that statement.

  “Because when you were in the club you noticed Marcus is pretty good sized.”

  “Yes.” She pressed her lips into a line. “I also talked to Dana.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, Dana…she’s seen you. I mean, not seen you, since she’s blind, but her tactile senses…”

  Despite Ben’s black cloud expression, she suddenly had to fight against a laugh, remembering some of Dana’s more colorful descriptions. “Before that, I eavesdropped a lot. All of them—Dana, Rachel, Cass and Savannah—have been meeting for third Sunday tea at Cassandra’s house since they came into your lives.”

  Her cheeks colored. “So I practiced. Mostly on inanimate objects.”

  Maybe it was best if he didn’t ask further questions. If CSI had seen the back of her dorm closet they would have profiled her as a full-blown stalker. That was where she hid all her notes, pictures, articles and other data on him—particularly those letters. She’d run copies of them so she could make notes, underline certain parts. Yeah, that would seem a little stalker-crazy.

  Except she knew her prey. If she wanted him, she had to come prepared. He was the first investigation she’d ever undertaken, and the longest she’d pursued. She knew how wrong it was, a submissive stalking a Master, but she hadn’t known how else to go about it.

  If she could crack Ben O’Callahan, get him to claim her for his own, everything else would be a cinch. She could uncover secrets that would bring down governments. Or build new ones.

  He could look at her like she was a stalker—which was sort of what he was doing now—but she knew she wasn’t. The letters gave her confidence, the full picture. At a key point, she’d known she had his heart, no matter that he was trying to convince her that its weight in her hands was an illusion.

  “You’ll stay at my Garden District place tonight,” he said, startling her. “I’m taking the day off tomorrow. We’ll spend the day preparing you, then we’ll go to Progeny in the evening. And that’s it.”

  Her mind raced over the possibilities. She couldn’t believe he’d agreed to the club, let alone an overnight at his house. “You want me to stay with you?”

  “Don’t read too much into it,” he said bluntly. “I’ve decided you can’t be trusted on your own until this is resolved.”

  That pricked her ire a little, but she pushed it down. “I think I can probably handle one night at your place,” she said lightly.

  In point of fact, she could cartwheel from Royal Street all the way to his house. Or, more appropriately, walk on her knees…if he required that.

  * * * * *

  They returned to work and finished out the day, though Ben made her use that pillow while she completed the paperwork for him. While she was on her best behavior, infallibly professional, her blood was simmering below the surface every time she stole a look at him. Working at his desk, moving around the office talking on his hands-free, interacting with the others as they came in and out for different things. She would be spending the night at Ben’s. The idea of it, of what might happen, made her flushed and high strung, though she did her best to cover it.

  When the day was over, instead of taking his car, they took the trolley. Marcie had never appreciated how narrow the wooden two-seat bench was. Ben necessarily stretched a long arm across the back, pressing her against his side, his thigh against her leg as they clattered along the track from downtown. Though she’d grown up in Baton Rouge, she was well acquainted with New Orleans. Still, it had been awhile since she was here.

  She enjoyed recalling the landmarks as they went along, the crush of people wandering Canal Street, that view streamlining into St. Charles’ never-ending offering of restaurants. Each had a unique flair, like bohemian middle-aged women, old enough to be comfortable and confident in their skin, yet young enough to exude color and style. As they passed through the religious school district, she saw a few students still on the grounds in their uniforms of crisp white shirts and navy pants or skirts.

  Ben had them get off at Audubon Park to join the joggers and cyclists along the walkways there. In the quiet nooks where statues and gazebos sat by the water, they occasionally glimpsed homeless people camped, absorbing the tranquility the way they were. Ben guided her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they strolled that way. She imagined them doing it a hundred years ago, her in petticoats and a stylish hat, him in a suit that wouldn’t differ too much from what he wore now, at least in cut and style. The man did know how to dress.

  “Your work today impressed me,” Ben said. “The Kelly-Bergerson brief was pretty much perfect. I’ve had rookie lawyers serving under me who don’t have your command of the terminology.”

  She warmed to the praise. “I’m good at business languages. My roommate at college was pre-med. To help her memorize, I’d string together her medical terms in a dirty way. Want to hear?”

  Ben quirked a brow at her. “Is your mind always in the gutter?”

  “No more than yours. Besides, it was for a good cause, to help her become a bet
ter doctor.” Marcie nodded to a shirtless jogger who passed them. “His rectus abdominis is well defined, but his external obliques still need work. Though his rectus femoris just invites the tongue.”

  His gaze glinted. “Careful, there.”

  Marcie freed her hands to clasp them together, sighing with dramatic effect. “His phalanges gripped her pes anserinus to pry them apart. Pushing his rectus femoris into her gluetus maximus, her pubic symphysis was pinned against the bed. He forced his pollicis into her suboccipitals, pressing her frontal bone into the mattress.”

  “I don’t think romance fiction has anything to worry about from you.”

  She sniffed. “I might open up a whole new field. Doctors reading romance.”

  “I think they’d prefer the layman terms. Otherwise, it would be a busman’s holiday.”

  When they left the park, they strolled along the broken sidewalks that led them into the residential areas. Tilting her head back, she studied the thick waterfall of colorful beads hanging from the oaks, competing with the Spanish moss. “I love that they let these stay in the trees.” Reaching up, she tried to snag a pretty silver strand, but she was too short. She gave a valiant hop, putting all her effort into it, and her fingertips brushed it. “Shoot.”

  “Here, brat. Little tease.” He bent, wrapped his arms beneath her buttocks and boosted her up his body to give her the extra head of height she needed. Marcie caught the beads, untangled them and drew down two, a silver and a shiny green. She was hyper-conscious of his arms around her, the way her mound pressed into his abdomen. When she looked down, bracing her hands on his shoulders, she could tell he wasn’t unaffected either. He let her slide down his body but kept her close until she rested between his feet. His hands adjusted downward, way low on her waist, curling over the tops of her buttocks, pinching the folds of her skirt between his fingertips.

  “I could have done it with a few more jumps,” she defended herself. “It’s just about building momentum. But your help was appreciated.”