Sighing, I slung the black glossy bag over my shoulder and loped back to work, sexual awareness washing over me like a tidal wave. What was it about David J. Seton that had affected me so? I hardly knew him, and yet I wanted him. Which was strange, because I’d never felt an attraction that strong for anyone before. In fact, the less I liked a man, the better. That way, when it was over, we’d simply shake hands and bid each other adieu. No feelings involved. What could be better than that?
Chapter Two
“I’m not doing it!”
Alfred looked up from his computer screen and turned startled eyes to me. “Not doing what?”
“That thing with Seton.”
“What thing?”
I stripped off my jacket, plopped down on the seat across his desk and shot him a quelling look. I had wanted to catch my boss by surprise and force him to admit that he knew about Seton’s dirty proposal, but it was obvious that I’d have to be more thorough. “I’m not courting Seton.”
Alfred lit a cigarette and studied me for a minute, a puzzled expression passing over his weatherworn features. “The decision’s been made, Marjorie. You’re doing this.”
“Give the job to Jeremy.”
Alfred shook his head. “It’s you I need, not Jeremy. Besides, he doesn’t want the job.”
My eyebrows shot up at that. Jeremy didn’t want the job? Why the hell not? Was he so afraid of failing that he wouldn’t risk courting a big-name author? That sure as hell didn’t sound like Jeremy. Jeremy loved taking risks, loved challenges. He’d also been working here for almost a decade. He would have been perfect for the job.
“Fine, then give it to somebody else,” I countered.
“It’s you I need, Marjorie. Trust me.”
Oh yeah? And why’s that? I wanted to ask, but Alfred would simply avert my question by giving me one of his long-winded speeches about having faith in all of his employees’ abilities or whatever, and I was so not in the mood to hear it. He was holding back, that much was obvious, and I shuddered to think that he and Seton were in this together. This situation required further scrutiny, and I had every intention of getting answers.
I shifted restlessly in my seat, frustration surging through me. I blew out a breath, lifting the hair from my forehead. “I’m not working with Seton, Alfred. Give the job to someone else.”
Alfred frowned. “Why, did something happen during the lunch meeting?”
I opened my mouth to answer but immediately closed it. Hmm. Did Alfred know about Seton’s sexual proposition? Deep down, I knew the answer was no.
Alfred Williams was a kind, warm, easygoing boss. A native Texan, his Southern drawl was still strong after spending more than thirty years in New England, and with his tall, lanky frame and thinning gray hair, he looked more like somebody’s retired grandfather than a respectable publisher. He believed that everyone at Bookends AtoZ was one big happy family. He also believed in treating his underlings as equals. But that didn’t mean he didn’t expect us to do our job—oh, no! He, like all bosses, was very strict in that regard. “All of my employees are my family, and if one of them lets me down, he is out of the family.” He told us that once during a meeting. We took his words very seriously. We wouldn’t want to be “out of the family,” after all.
“I know you Marge,” he said gently. “Confidence doesn’t become you. You’re afraid of screwing up, aren’t you? Don’t you have any faith in your skills?”
Professional skills had nothing to do with this, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “It’s not that—”
“Then what is it?”
I heaved out a sigh. In hindsight, I knew better than to argue with Alfred. He was always right and the rest of us were wrong. Protestations were superfluous, so I held up my hands in surrender.
His smile touched his hazel eyes as he reached out and gave my shoulder a reassuring little squeeze. “I knew you’d see it my way, kiddo. You’re going to be fine,” he said, flashing me one of his toothy grins.
Heaving out a sigh, I rose and sauntered over to the window that overlooked the town square on Main Street, where all of the shops, art galleries and trendy cafés were situated.
Northampton was beautiful, and that morning was no exception. Suit and tie types rushed to work while the bohemians stood idly at their favorite corners, playing their instruments of choice for money. Coffee shops and independent bookstores boomed with early-morning costumers. What a wonderful view. All of the major cities in the world couldn’t compare to this chic, artsy town.
I swept my gaze back to Alfred, who now had his feet propped up on his desk. “Why did David Seton move here?” I wondered out loud. “Why this town?”
He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, kid. I have no idea why he moved here, but I reckon he had a good reason to do so. And to be honest, I have no idea why he wants to write for us. I haven’t slept well since he approached us, asking myself that very question.”
“I’m guessing he wants an advance. A big one.”
He shook his head. “You guess wrong. He doesn’t want an advance.”
“Which is fortunate, seeing as we can’t really afford him.”
His smile crinkled his eyes. “Touché.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming he does want something in advance. Is he willing to settle for our standard five thousand?”
Alfred made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “He doesn’t want money. All he wants is complete creative control of his work, doesn’t want to be badgered with deadlines and whatnot. He also wants the right to withhold his work in progress until he’s ready to show it to us. Not a bad deal from a top ten author, I reckon.”
I snorted again. “Indeed not. I’m surprised his agent agrees with those ‘demands.’ ”
He laughed derisively as he extinguished his cigarette, grunting when he sat up. “Of course she doesn’t agree. She called me the other day, a Karen something or other—can’t remember—and told me she wouldn’t let him sign up for anything less than one mill. It’s a good thing I had a word with him before I spoke to the money-hungry hag. I reckon she’ll give us a hard time, but Seton could ditch her if he wanted to. He doesn’t need an agent to help sell his work at this point in his career.”
I nodded absently as tension left my body. Alfred had no idea what was going on. My boss wasn’t expecting me to sleep with our prospective big author. Seton hadn’t lied. Relieved, I went over to Alfred and brushed a kiss across his leathery cheek.
He turned surprised eyes to me. “What’s that for?”
I smiled and shrugged. “For believing in me? Thanks for being a good boss.”
He had the grace to blush. “Any time, kiddo.”
With a grin, I grabbed my jacket and bag, waved him goodbye and headed out the door.
Jeremy accosted me the second I entered my office, jumping up and down in front of me and asking the same questions over and over again. He told me he wouldn’t leave me alone until I answered him. He had to know what it was like to speak with a “creative genius” like David J. Seton. Typical Jeremy, a busybody through and through. He had to know every detail about my life. I answered his questions with as much patience as I could muster.
“And he’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” he enthused, tugging on his tie as he perched on the side of my desk. “Go on. Don’t just stand there. Tell me everything, hon, and I do mean everything.”
I often told Jeremy everything, but I couldn’t tell him about Seton’s unconventional proposition. Instead, as I moved about the office, I gushed over Seton’s physical beauty and how brilliant he was, which was what Jeremy seemed to want to hear anyway.
“Is there a possibility that he might be gay?” Jeremy asked.
“To you, there’s always the possibility that any man might be gay.”
He laughed. “Yeah, but seriously, do you think he might be?”
Sighing, I bounced back to my desk and kicked off my shoes. “I really don’t think he’s gay, Jer. B
ut he won’t fall in love with me, if that’s what worries you.”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t he fall in love with you?”
I rolled my eyes at him as I logged onto my computer. “You think a guy like that would fall in love with me? I mean, look at me!”
Jeremy’s frown deepened. “What do you mean, ‘look at me’? I see nothing wrong with you.”
I sighed. Did I have to spell everything out to him? “I’m too plain.”
“Plain? You’re not plain,” so said the tall and dark hunkster who had every female at the office shaking her head in disbelief, murmuring, “What a waste.”
“Well, I’m too plain for the likes of him,” I countered.
His brown eyes gave me a quick once-over. “Well, you could use some polishing up. You wore that blouse and skirt because you had to meet Seton today, but you usually wear the drabbest clothes I’ve ever seen. You’re twenty-nine years old, but you might as well be sixty with the way you carry yourself. But you know you’re gorgeous, hon. With that hourglass figure and those pretty amber eyes, any guy would fall madly in love with you. Too bad you’ve never let a man be with you long enough to get to know the real you.”
I peered at him, brows furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jeremy gave me a rueful smile and leaned over to brush a brotherly kiss across my forehead. “Sweetie, you know exactly what I mean.”
At home, I took a nice, long bath and then curled up on the couch with a copy of Married, Seton’s third and most successful novel to date. The book is about a woman who only sleeps with married men. She tells the men that she’s only attracted to their unavailability—their marital status gives them no right to demand love, fidelity or loyalty from her. In the grand tradition of wanting the unobtainable, the men fall in love with her and long for all of the things that she denies them. They even threaten to leave their wives. Some of them actually abandon their families just so they could somehow win the heart of this shallow, cold-hearted woman who uses them and plays mind games with them.
The ending is one of the most disturbing ones I’ve ever read. Seton has a unique way of starting his novels one way and then taking them in unexpected directions. Married is one of the cleverest psychological-slash-erotic thrillers ever written. Seton received various literary awards for that novel, turning him into a big name in the grand tradition of John Grisham and Stephen King, only cleverer and far more gifted than the aforementioned authors. At the young age of thirty-five, Seton had become a household name in the literary world. Getting my hands on his next novel would be like winning the multi-million dollar lottery. He had to sign with Bookends. There was no question about it.
I looked at the back cover photo of Married and David J. Seton gazed back at me. He looked exactly the same as he did at the café, only not as formally dressed. He had the same dark hair and dreamy eyes. He also wore the same amused expression on his handsome face and the knowing, ironic smile I was beginning to loathe. I couldn’t deny that he was the most interesting man I had ever met. And I was intrigued by his proposal, very intrigued indeed. I hadn’t allowed myself the pleasure of admitting to myself that his proposal was the very thing I had dreamed about. His dominant nature was something I had wanted in a man, a fantasy I’d tried to fulfill with Mitch, my current lover. “Tried to fulfill” being the operative phrase.
Another favorite fantasy of mine involved fucking in front of a large crowd. I had always suspected that there was an exhibitionistic streak in me, one that lay dormant in the depths of my innermost desires, waiting eagerly for a delicious awakening to occur. But I was content with just fantasizing about it. Fantasies were sometimes better than the real thing anyway. They tended to be less disappointing.
If only Seton would fulfill at least one of those fantasies…
Speaking of which, I wondered what he had in mind for tonight’s private meeting.
Then I remembered the black shopping bag. I couldn’t believe I still hadn’t seen what was inside! Quick as a cat, I dashed over to my bedroom, grabbed the bag from where I’d left it and tossed some of its contents on top of my bed.
There was a dress—too short to be described as micro—made of black leather. It was a size six, my size. How had he known that was my size?
The sleeveless dress had a large silver zipper in the front. The zipper began at the slightly plunging V-neckline and ended almost at the waist. There were tiny zippers everywhere. I held it in front of me, confused. Why on earth would he want me to wear something so tacky?
Frowning, I scanned the other items from the bag. There was jewelry. A black velvet box revealed a twinkling ankle bracelet with a matching toe ring. They were beautiful, made of white gold strewn with tiny diamond studs. There was also a long silver chain thing with what appeared to be large metal clasps at the corners. I had no idea what it was. The bag also contained a tube of blood-red lipstick and a pair of the most incredible high-heel shoes I had ever seen. Strappy sandals made of genuine leather. The heels were at least seven inches tall. They looked like the sort of shoes prostitutes and porn stars wore.
Awestruck, I peered inside the bag to see if there was something else inside and found a folded piece of paper. A note from Seton.
Miss Fordham,
Wear everything you see in this bag. If it’s not in the bag, then I don’t want you to wear it. I hope you will follow these simple instructions. I look forward to seeing you tonite.
Regards,
D.J.S.
I decided to don the garments. I was going to meet him in less than two hours anyway—might as well get a head start. The dress was difficult to put on. The leather clung to my skin and I thought that I would never slip it past my hips. When I zipped it closed I thought I wouldn’t be able to breathe. The friggin’ thing fit me like second skin. My ribs constricted and my waist hurt, and I sent a silent prayer, hoping I wouldn’t have to wear this thing all night long.
The shoes were next. The highest heels I had ever worn were three inches tall, and I didn’t think I’d be able to walk in these. Uneasiness surged through me as I slipped them on. I took a few tentative steps, clutching the bed’s footboard to avoid a sudden fall. But the more I walked in them, the more I became used to the towering height. The heels applied pressure to my ankles, but the soft leather shoes were surprisingly comfortable and they fitted me perfectly. Again, how had Seton known my size?
I clasped on the ankle bracelet and slid the toe ring on my left foot. I had no idea what to do with the long chain thing with the clasps at the corners, so I tossed it inside my handbag. I would ask Seton about it later.
To complete the effect, I applied the red-blood lipstick and blotted it with a piece of paper so that it wouldn’t smudge all over my front teeth. Seton hadn’t mentioned my hair in the note, so I decided to leave my chestnut-brown tresses hang down my back. I had no idea what to do about underwear. His note said that if it was not in the bag, then he didn’t want me to wear it. I supposed that included undergarments, so I wore none. I didn’t think I would be able to wear them with such a tight dress anyway. Visible panty lines and all that.
I went to the full-length mirror and studied the results. Ick! I looked like one of those big-haired sluts in a rock music video from the eighties. Was this what David J. Seton was into? Could an interesting, enigmatic, intelligent, sensual and sophisticated man enjoy the company of cheap-looking women? I posed in front of the mirror and sighed. My figure was fine, I supposed—nice breasts, shapely legs, narrow waist. At merely five feet, I hardly ever looked good in anything, and I had no clue if I could pull off this look.
My scrutiny was interrupted by the doorbell. Nervous, I wobbled to the door and peered through the peep hole. It was Mitch.
Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!
What the hell was he doing here tonight of all nights? I had waited weeks for that bastard to show up and he chose the worst possible moment to do it. That was so like him!
“Mitch,”
I said through the door, “I can’t see you tonight. Could you come over another time?”
“Why, you cheating on me or something?”
I rolled my eyes at the closed door. He was one to talk! Mitch and I had an arrangement. His girlfriend was bisexual, which meant she slept with other women—women who weren’t into men, so no X-rated threesomes for Mitch—and in turn meant that he was entitled to see other women as well. I was one of those other women. Mitch was gorgeous, the quintessential playboy, the town’s blue-eyed heartbreaker. Northampton had a shortage of available straight men, and Mitch took full advantage of that. He even chronicled his sexual exploits in a local newspaper. I once wondered why he’d bothered to see me at all when he had so many options.
“You’re a great fuck,” had been his poetic response.
“No, Mitch, it’s just not…convenient,” I insisted. “I have an important meeting tonight and I’m getting ready. Come see me another time.”
He was silent for a moment, then, “You up for a quickie? I’ll be in and out in five—”
“No!” Damn it! How come men never know when they’re not wanted? Are they really that self-absorbed? Do they all think they’re God’s gift to women or something? Well, Mitch certainly thought he was. He wouldn’t see me for weeks, but when he finally deigned to pay me a visit he’d stay for hours, sometimes days, and I often had to sigh and glance at the clock repeatedly before he got the hint. I hoped I could ditch him as quickly as possible this time. “I really have no time for this, Mitch,” I hissed. “Go see someone else tonight.”
I heard him let out a defeated sigh. “Look, I was hoping we could talk after we fucked. Mel dumped me and I’m pretty bummed out about it.”
Oh. So his girlfriend finally ditched him, huh? I wondered why he sounded so devastated with the news. Didn’t he have literally, like, dozens of women on his beck and call?
The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel Page 2