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Challenge to Him
ISBN # 978-1-78184-445-8
©Copyright Lisabet Sarai 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright August 2013
Edited by Eleanor Boyall
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
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Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-melting and a sexometer of 2.
This story contains 45 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 6 pages.
CHALLENGE TO HIM
Lisabet Sarai
All the wealth in the world can’t buy willing surrender.
Andrew MacIntyre, heir to a vast empire of railroads, mines and mills, is the second or third richest man in America, and by far the most eligible bachelor among the society folk summering in Newport, Rhode Island. His mother has filled their opulent mansion with marriageable daughters of bankers and industrialists, but Andrew knows none of these callow young women can satisfy his perverse sexual needs. No respectable girl would ever consent to being bound and beaten, to serving and obeying him the way he craves. His money gives him the freedom to purchase anything except his heart’s desire—a submissive partner to share his life.
Independent, progressive and well-educated, labour activist Olivia Alcott has dedicated herself to improving the lot of the workers who toil in the factories that have made Andrew and his class so wealthy. The strike she organises triggers a confrontation between her and the handsome billionaire. Although their disparate backgrounds and values make them natural foes, something stronger draws them to one another—an intuitive recognition of complementary fantasies.
Andrew offers Olivia a bargain—better working conditions for the mill staff, in return for a weekend of her unquestioning obedience. Olivia will help him deflect the attentions of the potential mates assembled by his mother, as well as providing more intimate services. Given Olivia’s origins, a more enduring relationship appears impossible—but Andrew is not the sort to give up something he wants.
Dedication
To GCS. Who else?
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Van Cleef & Arpels: Van Cleef & Arpels International
Wedgwood: KPS Capital Partners
Chapter One
“Andy! Come play with us!”
Andrew MacIntyre peered over the edge of his newspaper. A diminutive, pastel-clad figure gazed up at him from the foot of the terrace where he was finishing his breakfast. Flaxen curls framed her fair, conventionally pretty face. At the moment, her rosebud mouth was twisted into an exaggerated pout that he found distinctly unappealing.
“I’m sorry, Miss Linton. Did you say something?”
“Come play croquet, won’t you? You so rarely join us. And you’re so very good at the game.”
He surveyed the vast expanse of lawn sweeping down towards the sea. A bevy of female forms attired in ankle-length summer frocks ambled about on the lush green backdrop, chattering and lazily swinging their mallets. They were far enough away that he could barely discern their features under their hats, but he knew who they were. Henrietta Linton, Mary Beth’s younger sister. Louise Vanpatten and her cousin Thelma. Cynthia Bellamy. Selena Larimer. Plus his own sisters, Letty and Ann. Aside from his siblings, all were guests whom his mother had invited to Wavecrest for a festive week leading up to Independence Day—all unmarried daughters of wealthy bankers and industrialists.
“Perhaps after I finish my coffee and the business pages.” He favoured her with a slight smile. Her ecstatic expression improved her looks considerably. “Maybe another ten minutes. Will that do, Miss Linton?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you, sir!” She added the honorific in an unconscious response to his formality. Andrew grinned wryly as she scampered away, back to her giggling friends. Indeed, he wouldn’t mind playing with them, but not the sort of game they had in mind.
Closing his eyes, he summoned an image of Mary Beth and Henrietta, naked save for their chemises, bound to two of his mother’s ghastly mahogany dining chairs. Their wrists fastened behind their backs, their thighs strapped open, their blonde tresses loosed and tumbling around their worried faces…the vision was delicious. He preferred his women dark-haired, but the Linton girls’ pale skin would mark nicely, either with the rope or the crop. If he married one of them, she’d have to submit to her husband’s desires, wouldn’t she? Still, it would be far more entertaining to have the two of them together.
He shook his head to scatter the lewd pictures and drained his coffee cup. In the distance, summer sunlight sparkled on Narragansett Bay, too bright to gaze upon for long. Later, it would be hot, and there might well be a thunderstorm by dusk. His cravat was strangling him. He felt the first twinges of a headache.
Any of the women on the lawn would accept his proposal in an instant. He was, after all, tall, athletic, well-favoured, intelligent and charming, not to mention owner of the second or third largest fortune in America. But none of them would willingly accede to his unusual sexual demands, he was certain. They were too young, too unformed and far too proper, more concerned about society’s expectations than their own desires.
He wanted a woman whose needs complemented his own, who craved the sort of discipline he so loved to administer. His social position and responsibilities made that a hopeless dream. No woman of his own class would risk her reputation by engaging in that sort of behaviour, even in private. If indeed any of his cohort had passions that matched his, they would never admit it, even to their spouses, for fear of divorce and disgrace.
Back at Yale, in desperation, he’d occasionally strayed down to the port and hired a woman of the town to play the role of his slave. No matter how tightly he tied her or how hard he whipped her, those experiences were never truly satisfying. How ironic that he could buy almost anything in the world, but not the thing he wanted most.
Leaning back in his chair, he lit one of his French cigarettes and drew in a lungful of fragrant smoke. Some ash tumbled onto the crisp white tablecloth. He let it lie. Give the swarm of servants that infested this place something to do.
“Andrew, dear—must you smoke?”
His mother swept out onto the granite-tiled terrace, the skirts of her orange tea dress swirling around her. She planted a proprietary kiss on the top of his head. He balanced his cigarette in the saucer so he could take her hands in his own.
“Good morning, Mother. You’re looking lovely today.”
With her flawless complexion and raven curls laced with silver, Catherine MacIntyre did cut
a handsome figure for a fifty-year-old widow. His father had favoured more sombre hues and she had dressed to please him, but since the end to the mourning period two years ago, she’d taken to wearing bright colours and rich fabrics, in the most fashionable Paris styles.
“Don’t change the subject. Why do you persist in such a filthy habit?”
“I’ve many filthy habits,” he replied with a chuckle, remembering his recent fantasy. “In any case, it relaxes me. Now that Father is gone, I’m under a great deal of stress.”
“Your wife won’t appreciate it, I can tell you.” His mother seated herself at the table and signalled the maid hovering inside the portico to bring her some coffee.
“My wife will do as I say. If I ever have one.” Andrew took another puff of his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke out over the lawn. He was not in the mood for another harangue about the fact that it was time for him to choose a bride and settle down.
Fortunately, his mother knew him well enough to drop the topic. She sipped her coffee and nibbled at the toast he’d left uneaten on his plate. “Saturday’s ball is taking shape quite nicely. Mrs Fisk has responded in the affirmative, and I’ve learned that Stephen Harper and his family—you know, the Philadelphia Harpers—are summering in Newport, so of course I invited them. Their daughter Charlotte just graduated from Mount Holyoke—she’s apparently brilliant as well as lovely. I don’t think you’ve ever met them, but Renata Harper and I got on splendidly at Sarasota last year…”
Andrew’s mood darkened. He despised the formality and superficiality of his mother’s parties. All his business rivals would be there, he had no doubt, nodding and smiling externally while tallying the cost of the food and the opulent furnishings and plotting how to outdo the MacIntyres at the next social function they organised. The women would be tarted up in their silks and jewels, all bare shoulders and perfume, flitting about like tropical birds. Heaven help him if he touched them, though. Fingertips resting on their corseted waists during a waltz—that was pretty much all he could expect, when he really wanted to strip off their finery, chain them to his bed and ravish them until they screamed for mercy.
His position required him to serve as his mother’s host. He’d have to smile incessantly and endure endless gossip, taunted all the while by the ripe, fragrant female flesh whirling around him.
“You will introduce her to the local girls, won’t you, dear?”
His mother’s hand on his forearm brought him back to the present.
“What? Who?”
“You’re a million miles away! Thinking about your railroads or oil wells, no doubt. I’m talking about Charlotte, of course. You need to introduce her to everyone important, make sure that Louise and Henrietta and that delightful Mary Beth take good care of her at the ball.”
“Oh, yes, of course. You know you can count on me, Mother.” Andrew stubbed out his cigarette, folded his newspaper and brushed the crumbs off his lap. “But speaking of Mary Beth, I promised her I’d join their croquet game. If I don’t follow through, she’ll be up here complaining again.”
His mother beamed. “Wonderful! I know you’re working hard, trying to learn the ins and outs of your father’s affairs, but you need a bit of relaxation every now and again.”
“I’m not sure I’d call the exercise of waiting on the whims of a half-dozen avaricious females ‘relaxation’…” His mother’s pursed lips and knotted brows made him grin. “Only teasing, Mother! I’ll be charm incarnate, don’t worry.”
He bestowed an affectionate peck on her cheek and she disappeared inside to continue contemplating her guest list. While he waited for the hat he’d ordered a servant to fetch for him, he scanned the lawn and its fair population once more. If he were forced to choose, which girl would he select? He could picture any of them stripped bare and roped to the gateposts of the ridiculous Chinese tea house his mother had constructed at the far edge of the lawn, overlooking the sea—but beside him in his bed, night after night? Across the table from him in the vast dining room, one morning after another for the rest of his life? He shook his head to banish the unpalatable notion. He’d die of boredom.
The maid arrived with his boater. Settling it on his head, he sauntered down the marble stairs that swept from the terrace to the grassy slope beyond. More impetuous than her sisters, Mary Beth raced up to meet him halfway.
“You must join my team!” Her breath came in short pants and her cheeks were bright pink. “Louise and Thelma are giving us a terrible beating, but I know you can help.”
I’d like to give you a beating. Andrew couldn’t suppress the thought as he smiled down at her. “I’ll do what I can, Miss Linton.”
She practically squirmed with delight. He saw that she wanted to grab his hand, but didn’t quite dare. He strode away towards the flatter section where the staff had installed the wickets, leaving Mary Beth to scamper behind.
Rainbow-coloured balls lay scattered in the grass like Easter eggs.
“Andy! How lovely! We were hoping you’d play.” His sister Leticia handed him a wooden mallet. “Why don’t you take over from me? It’s the green ball, over there. If you can get it through and hit Selena’s—the blue one—we might catch up with them.”
He strolled over to the indicated ball, hefting the striped mallet once or twice to get a sense of its balance. The women’s eyes followed him—he could feel the eager weight of their gazes, almost worshipful. Would they kneel at his feet if he commanded it?
Once again, he pushed the evil notion to the back of his mind and focused on his shot. The giggling assembly fell silent. The sea sighed as it bathed the cliffs girding Wavecrest. A gull screamed, wheeling in the Wedgwood-blue sky overhead.
He took careful aim and whacked the ball with the mallet. A solid sensation told him the stroke was true. The sphere sailed through one arched hoop, then another, finally colliding with Selena’s ball. The ladies burst into cheers.
“Oh, Selena, you’re in trouble now,” crowed Mary Beth. He cast his gaze on the russet-haired Miss Larimer, who blushed as red as the rubies dangling from her earlobes.
“I’m afraid I must send you into the rough.” Andrew made his voice low and intimate enough to suggest the possibility of a double meaning, just to see her blush deepen. As he crouched to position his ball so that it was touching hers, he allowed his hip to brush her gown. She flinched away as if burnt. What a prim little thing! Her mother was one of those temperance fanatics. He’d heard that Mr Larimer had to visit his club if he wanted to enjoy even a sip of port. An only child, Selena would inherit wealth almost on a par with his own, but honestly, she was so strait-laced he had a hard time working her into one of his fantasies.
He placed his boot upon his own ball and swung the mallet once more, smacking the ball with a force that reverberated up his leg. Selena’s ball shot off to the left, finally rolling to a stop at least twenty feet away. He favoured the ball’s owner with a conspiratorial smile. “Sorry, Miss Larimer, but one must follow the rules of the game.”
“I—um—of course. I understand, sir…” The girl stared down at her clasped hands, looking as though she would have liked to melt into the ground. Where was her spine?
“Mr MacIntyre! Excuse me!”
Andrew shielded his eyes from the sun and peered back at the mansion.
Gannet, his personal secretary, hastened towards them. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s an urgent matter that needs your attention.”
“Oh? What’s wrong?” To be honest, Andrew didn’t mind the interruption. The pleasure he got from toying with women like these was shallow and short-lived.
“A strike, sir. At the cotton mill in Pawtucket.”
Strike. A word that kindled a kind of terror in the heart of every industrialist. His father’s empire—now his—was built on the backs of the working class. The miners who dug the coal, the men who sweated in the foundries, the immigrant girls who toiled at the looms and gins, the coolies who hacked through the mountains to con
struct the Transcontinental Railway—these were the people ultimately responsible for his wealth and success, and that of his peers. Andrew had never forgotten the conversation he’d had with his father the year he’d matriculated at Yale.
“I provide the capital,” Alasdair MacIntyre had told him on the train from New York to New Haven. “It’s my knowledge, my foresight, my discipline and my willingness to take the necessary risks that have led to our success. But we’d be nothing, my boy—nothing—without the workers. The key to our continued prosperity is to keep them from realising that truth.”
Andrew had lived by his father’s words. “Gannet, why come to me with this? Let the local police handle it as usual.” He didn’t try to hide his annoyance. “Arrest the ringleaders. Make an example of them. Scare the others back to work.” This wasn’t his role, to deal with problems at a single factory. He had hundreds of factories around the country to worry about.
“The police refuse to get involved. They’re not going to throw their wives, mothers and sisters in jail. Besides, the strike leader demanded that you personally come to negotiate.”
“Really?” A flicker of interest leavened his concern. “Some ignorant Canuck mill worker wants to talk to me?”
“I heard that it’s someone from outside, some activist from Massachusetts.”
“Some damned troublemaker is more like it! Send Henchley, Sherman and Cox to round him up and bring him here. I’ll show him negotiation!”
“It’s a woman, sir. A very attractive woman, in fact.” Gannet’s lips twitched as he struggled to suppress a smile. He knew Andrew better than anyone. He was even aware of Andrew’s unorthodox sexual appetites. It was Gannet who had accompanied him on his adventures at Yale, and paid for them afterwards. If Andrew was not mistaken, his secretary experienced a similar pleasure in restraining and disciplining nubile females.
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