Hers to Tame

by Rhenna Morgan

  “Oh, no,” Frieda grumbled. “Do we need another round already?”

  “Shhh.” Cassie leaned in and thumbed up the volume. Beneath her nemesis the caption read, The Darker Side of New Orleans.

  “Not so long ago, the success of a certain erotic romance series brought significant light and no small measure of interest to the practice of BDSM. Movies followed. The genre flourished with other stories quickly gobbled up by eager readers, and research indicates that adult toy sales surged as individuals explored practices they’d read about or seen in the movies.

  “But what about the lifestyle itself? Is it accessible to the average person? And if so, what are the venues and the people like?

  “Tonight, I’ll share with you a conversation I had with an individual who became a part of the BDSM lifestyle long before it became a mainstream curiosity.”

  The video cut to a movie clip of an elaborate dungeon, the camera panning to depict red leather benches, walls covered with crops and paddles, all accentuated in sensual lighting. Lizbet’s voice was edited in underneath.

  “The movies and books all paint dungeons as very glamorous locations. But do they really exist?

  “Absolutely.” The image on screen cut to a silhouette of a woman’s face, though her voice had obviously been altered. Even with the attempts to disguise the woman’s identity, it was obvious she had full lips, and her cute little upturned nose added a uniqueness to her image.

  “Most dungeons don’t look like what you read in books. Some in bigger cities do, but most are more functional spaces. Clean and tidy with well enforced rules, to be sure, but not the opulent settings you see in movies.”

  “And how do you fit in with this lifestyle?”

  “I’m a Dominant. A Pro Domme to be exact.”

  “But you’re a woman.”

  “I am. But a Dominant role isn’t relegated to only men any more than submissive roles are relegated to females.”

  “And a Pro Domme—what does that mean?”

  The mystery woman hesitated, but when she spoke anyone watching could have heard the smug pleasure in her voice. “It means those seeking submission pay me to Dominate them. Sometimes in the form of a tribute, but most often for money.”

  “Do you have sex with them?”

  “Sometimes. If it’s something that’s negotiated.”

  The question must have caught Lizbet off guard, because there was a slight hitch before her next question came. But it was a damned good one. “But isn’t that technically prostitution?”

  “Yes, which is why I’m very, very careful with those I interact with. But it’s still a need, and one I very much enjoy filling. So, I do it. Often.”

  “Do you make a living at it?”

  Even without the benefit of seeing the woman’s face, a certain tension crept into the interview. “I didn’t have to for a very long time. Now...it helps.”

  The camera feed cut to Lizbet, back live on the streets of New Orleans. “My source went on to share that the BDSM and other less traditional lifestyles are far more prevalent within New Orleans and the United States than many people realize. While she refused to share the actual location of any dungeons within our own city, she did confirm they exist. So, while the stories penned by authors paint far more elaborate pictures, it appears there is fact beneath the fiction.

  “Over the next few weeks we’ll explore more myths and legends purported to take place in our beloved city’s shadows. Until then, I’m Lizbet Montlake, reporting live from New Orleans’s Seventh Ward.”

  Cassie punched the mute button and tossed the remote on the coffee table. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “What?” Frieda said. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s a fluff piece. On a Wednesday night! There’s no news there. Everyone knows that stuff goes on. Maybe...maybe... I’d buy it on a ten o’clock newscast, but the five o’clock spot?”

  “Yes, but it’s interesting. And, as she said, it’s much more mainstream these days.”

  “It’s sensationalism, not news. And whose side are you on anyway?”

  “Yours. That’s why I brought alcohol.” Frieda stood, grabbed Cassie’s now empty margarita glass and marched to the kitchen. “And apparently, we’re gonna need a refill, STAT.”

  “What I need is a story. And for Lizbet to get a job offer outside of New Orleans.”

  “Well, we both know the latter is a long shot. It took you a year to land the job here. I’d imagine it’s even harder finding something in a bigger city.”

  “It is.”

  “Okay, so how do you find a story?”

  “I’ve never had to find one before. They always find me. Usually when I’m goofing off, or working on something else.”

  With Cassie’s glass refilled clear to the top, Frieda rounded the dinette. “Then start goofing off. Spend some time on your photography. Sleep late. Do something to your apartment.”

  “I went on a shoot yesterday.” Cassie took the glass from Frieda and took a long drink. “Not going to be doing that for a while. Too hard without a car.”

  “Did you print your stuff from yesterday yet?”

  Nodding, Cassie shifted, grabbed the stack off her makeshift end table made from an empty cardboard box then handed them over. “Not a bad collection this time around, but no story ideas.”

  She sipped her drink and halfheartedly watched her aunt move from one picture to the next. Rather than take the time to really appreciate her work, she rushed through the stack. “What are you looking for?”

  “More pics of the hot guy.”

  Cassie grunted and sipped another gulp through her straw. “I didn’t get any of him.”

  “Well, that’s too damned bad. He’s a looker.”

  Boy, that was the truth. She’d caught herself losing the thread of her conversation with Kir way too many times Sunday night simply from absorbing how good he looked. And when he’d touched her? Yeah, thinking wasn’t an easy task anytime he got close enough for contact.

  For a second, Cassie considered keeping her mouth shut and shifting topics. But this was Aunt Frieda. The one person in the world who’d never once judged or tried to control her. “I did see him, though. He wants me to help him research something. I’m hoping I might get a lead there.”

  “A lead from what he’s researching?”

  Oh, she was 150% certain the cause for his research would be a zinger of a lead.

  That said, it might also mean her ending up being the focus of a missing person story if she ran with it. Assuming she ever found out what was driving Kir. “Not exactly. More likely from someone he knows, or something he hears. He’s got a lot of connections and plays things pretty close to the vest.”

  “So, when are you going to see him again?”

  “Don’t know.” Truth was, she’d expected to hear from him Monday or Tuesday, but her phone and text messages had been complete radio silence. “For all I know, he’s gotten what he needed.”

  A knock sounded at the front door, the strength behind it significant enough to rattle the wood. Not that rattling the wood was a difficult thing to do, considering the door had probably been the cheapest option available ten years ago.

  Frieda frowned and got to her feet before Cassie could even fully comprehend anyone coming to her place on a weeknight. “You expecting someone?”

  “There are literally two people in the world who know where I live, and one of them is already here.”

  Duh, Cassie. Two people.

  Cassie shot upright and tried to get to the door before her aunt, but it was too late.

  Frieda was already beaming up at Kir. “Well, hello there, handsome.”

  Every time she’d seen him before he’d been in a perfectly tailored suit—not counting the two times he’d been deliciously naked in his bed. Tonight, though,
he was in casual charcoal-gray slacks and a lighter gray Oxford with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and her aunt was openly appreciating every single detail.

  Cassie pried the door a little wider and cut her aunt off before she could engage any further. “Kir. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I see that.” His gaze took a long, leisurely pass down her torso to her very bare legs. When he lifted his head, there was an undeniable heat behind his blue eyes that made her feel like she was standing in front of him completely naked.

  He shifted his attention to Frieda and held out his hand. “I’m Kir Vasilek, and you are?”

  “This is my aunt Frieda,” Cassie blurted.

  Frieda volleyed a heavy amount of consideration between Cassie and Kir, way too many dots appearing to connect inside that head of hers. A second later, a sly smile curved her lips and she accepted Kir’s outstretched hand. “Frieda Shalaway. Cassie and I were just decompressing from a big day with comfort food and margaritas. Care to join us?”

  “Comfort food?” Kir took one step inside, surreptitiously scanning the interior of Cassie’s tiny living room and the contents covering the coffee table.

  “Nothing fancy,” Frieda said as she waved him deeper into the room. “Some homemade guacamole, chips and queso. Can I get you a margarita?”

  Ugh. Definitely not a good idea. With the scheming gleam in Frieda’s eyes, she’d not only caught Kir’s response to Cassie’s casual attire, but probably had fifty or so matchmaking ideas lined up in her head. “Actually, I think we’re almost out of margaritas—”

  “Oh my goodness!” Frieda threw up her hands and hurried to the kitchen. “I completely forgot I was supposed to swing by my neighbor’s house and let her dog out before it got dark.”

  “Wait—what?” Cassie said.

  “My neighbor. She’s out of town for the week, and I have to let her dog out twice a day. I completely forgot.”

  Forgot my ass. More like wanted to increase her niece’s probability of hanky-panky.

  Frieda anchored her purse over one shoulder and hustled toward the door fast enough Kir had no choice but to step out of her way. “Kir, there’s plenty of margaritas left for another round. You stay and keep Cassie company. She needs it after the day she’s had.”

  Kir’s attention swiveled to Cassie, his expression darkening. “Something happened?”

  “Car troubles.” Frieda paused over the threshold and jingled her car keys. “You just never know when they’re going to turn persnickety on you, right?” She aimed a sly wink at Cassie and wiggled her fingers in farewell. “You two have a good night.”

  Cassie stared out the now empty doorway.

  Two quick chirps sounded from the street and parking lights flashed in the darkness.

  Kir faced her. While he kept his expression somewhat sincere, there was still mirth and a decent amount of curiosity dancing behind his eyes. “It seems I’ve broken up your evening.”

  Sighing, Cassie closed the door. “Kind of depends on whose view you’re looking at it from. I’m pretty sure Aunt Frieda is already planning an early stakeout to see if she can catch you leaving in the wee hours of the morning, looking thoroughly rumpled and pleased with yourself.”

  “Is that an option?”

  A playful, yet husky question that made every square inch of her skin bristle in anticipation. With the hungry way his gaze lingered on her bared legs and the tequila loosening her good sense, she was halfway tempted to say yes just to see what happened. “I highly doubt you dropped by for a booty call.”

  “No, it’s not the reason for my visit. But I must confess, seeing the casual side to you does inspire me to make more unannounced appearances.” He sat on the couch and rested one ankle on his knee. “The view is exceptional.”

  Good grief.

  He’d been here barely more than two minutes and he not only looked utterly at home on her second or thirdhand couch, but had her body fired up and her brain frazzled.

  She cleared her throat and motioned toward the kitchen. “Do you want a margarita?”

  “Nyet. Tequila isn’t to my taste. However, I would like to hear more about what happened to your car.” He nodded toward the open space on the couch next to him. “Please. Sit.”

  Said the spider to the fly.

  With her couch being more of a longish loveseat than a full-size sofa and his considerable size, the two and a half feet left for her to settle into would make for cozy confines. Not exactly the best arrangement when her traitorous hormones were whispering of coups on her common sense. Then again, it wasn’t like she had a wealth of seating options beyond pulling up a dinette chair.

  She opted for the sofa, but grabbed her margarita off the table as she rounded it and stayed perched on the edge. “Something about a timing chain. All I know is the mechanic shook his head and grimaced when he came out with the diagnosis.”

  “How are you getting to work?”

  “One of the guys dropped me off this afternoon. I figured I’d take a bus tomorrow, or walk to the streetcar and ride it in from there.”

  “That’s a long stretch from here to the station.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind. If I had research to do on a story it’d suck, but if my editor sends us out for assigned gigs, my crew and I can take the station rigs.” She took another sip of her drink, set it back on the table and twisted so her back was to the sofa arm and her leg was bent in front of her. “Speaking of stories, how’d the names I gave you turn out?”

  He shook his head. “Neither of them are a concern. Townsend has been out of town for some time and, from all accounts, Reynolds’s hype is all talk and no carry through.” His gaze dropped to the hem of her T-shirt for all of a second, then he seemed to catch his distraction and refocused on her face. “Have you had any other ideas?”

  Oh, she had lots of ideas. Just not the kind that had anything to do with angry people that might want to cause anyone trouble. “No. But it’s hard to guess when I don’t know what you’re trying to guard against. Has there been a threat of some kind? Something stolen?”

  All trace of sensual distraction disappeared in an instant, and his eyes got laser sharp. “It would be best if I keep that information to myself.”

  “Why?” The question was out before she could soften it, the prickling instinct that always came with the promise of something worth digging into sparking in an instant. “Would you be implicated in something? Or are you afraid there’s something there worth reporting and don’t want it to be common knowledge?”

  “I’m not worried about being implicated in anything. I’m merely taking steps to protect my family.”

  “Protect them financially, or protect them physically?”

  “Why do they have to be mutually exclusive?”

  “Well, if you think there’s a need to protect them physically, the police should be involved.”

  “I prefer to do my own work.”

  “But you’re not doing your own work. You’ve asked me to help, and if someone gets hurt, then I’ve contributed to their injury.”

  His instant smile was warm and appreciative. “You’re very clever. And observant.”

  “I’m also smart. And while you’ve never actually admitted what it is you and your family do for a living, not reporting to the authorities if there’s potential danger certainly indicates operating outside the law.”

  Kir cocked his head. While he didn’t seem angry, her words had fired an edge in him she’d never seen before. “You used the word family quite mockingly. Do you have any comprehension of what you’re referring to?”

  Okay. Maybe he was angry.

  She paused long enough to take a solid breath and weighed her response with a cautious and reasonable tone. “I think the information my colleagues gave me months ago was probably closer to the truth than you’d like me to believe. Th
at you’re deeply entrenched with a crime family. If my tone was mocking or aggressive, I apologize. That wasn’t my intent. But I’m more than just a reporter. I’m a law-abiding, single female, and I’d be foolish if I didn’t call out my concerns or think twice about how deep my involvement goes with you.”

  He studied her for long seconds, his summer sky gaze steady and considering. As though he were taking his time replaying the words she’d shared and analyzing every detail. Finally, he broke his stare and casually perused her apartment, his voice as calm and matter of fact as if they were discussing the weather. “When I think of those I seek to protect, crime is the last word I’d choose to describe them. Protective, yes. Driven and loyal, absolutely.” His gaze landed back on her and his words, while still gently delivered, strengthened. “What we are not is the stereotype portrayed in American movies.”

  Oh, she’d definitely struck a sour chord. One that touched him deeply. A fact that, for some reason, eased much of her immediate fears. “I don’t doubt that you appreciate the people you work with and are close to. I don’t doubt or question your desire to protect them. But think of it from where I’m sitting. If you had a daughter and she was right here—in this moment—would you want her to take your word for it?”

  Something in his expression shifted. Eased to the point it seemed she’d caught him off guard. “No. I wouldn’t. I’d expect her to exercise the caution you’re demonstrating, but to see and explore what is the truth for herself. Which is why I’m going to show you the core of my life.”

  All of a sudden, her living room felt more like a portal to an alternate realm she’d inadvertently stumbled into. “Show me? How?”

  “Dinner. With my family.”

  “We’re talking about the people in the picture you showed me, right? Not a Sunday afternoon thing with your mom and dad and maybe some siblings?”

  “My father is dead, and I haven’t seen my mother since I was nine. Though I do consider Sergei and Roman to be my brothers in every way that counts.”

  Whoa. Talk about a trip into unknown territory. The reporter in her was practically salivating, but the single gal from Houston was thinking she was twenty kinds of crazy for even considering accepting the invite. “And these people are just going to agree to sit down with a television reporter and have a grand old time?”