“It’s always good to see you, Ali. I’ll call you in a week and let you know how Robert does in the evaluation. Now... how about if we step outside and have some iced tea? Served without the embellishments?” They laughed and left the room together.
* * * *
Robert had followed the little man, sniffling and sobbing, away from the scene of his disgrace. At some distance from the room, they turned a corner, and his escort stopped and let him go. Robert immediately gave a long whimpering moan and slid against the wall.
I embarrassed Her, he thought as he mourned. And myself. I’m such a bad slave, I can’t do anything right! I’ll never get sold, I’ll never find a mistress, I’ll never get it! Tears continued to flow, and the sounds he made as he sobbed were alternately harsh and deep and high-pitched and whining.
Finally, he realized that Chris wasn’t reacting. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.
Chris was holding out a clean, white handkerchief. Robert reached out and took it, his hand shaking, and hurriedly dried his eyes. Shadow and mascara stained the linen.
“Th-thank you,” he sniffed, dabbing at the wet spots on his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a trouble... oh! Look at what I did!” He stared at the soiled square in shame and then crumpled it in his hand and dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault!” The bend of his body ill-suited his tall frame, the position was comical to the point of being ludicrous.
The majordomo calmly extended a hand. “At this time, this behavior is inappropriate, Mr. Grafton,” he said. “Please get up and accompany me. If you are accepted for training here, we will discuss your behavior and faults. Now, you are a guest.”
His voice was soft and edged with a city accent. Robert looked up in confusion and then allowed himself to be raised. “Um. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...” He sniffed one last time and offered the handkerchief back. “I’m really making a big mess, aren’t I?” His voice remained in the stylized “maid” aspect.
“I couldn’t say, Mr. Grafton. Now please come with me. You will be informed how the meeting went when the ladies are through.” He gently took the handkerchief back and folded it before putting it into his pocket.
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry. You’re very kind. Much better then I deserve. Are... are you a master here?”
Chris, who had started to turn away, twisted back to look up into Robert’s eyes. He smiled, his eyes dark behind the glasses.
“Not today.”
* * * *
“How did I end up with two French maids, that’s all I want to know,” Alexandra complained.
“Just lucky, m’dear.” Grendel put Robert’s file back on the table. They were in the garden, the late afternoon sun warming and pleasant. Just past the ornamental hedges and along a stretch of lawn, the brown rails of the paddock could be seen. They were far from the public roads, and the sounds of birds and an occasional snort or cry from the stable made a soothing background for their consultations. From inside the house, they could also hear the cook preparing a meal for their three applicants.
“At least you have Claudia to work with. That’s certainly a consolation for you. It’s not often we see such perfection.”
“Ah, not true.”
Grendel looked up for a moment and then winked. “You’re right, you’re right. But still, she’s the star of this group. My second interview never even showed up. I told Chris to contact the next on the list. Have you noticed how quality continues to plummet? We never had so many no-shows before.”
Alexandra nodded absently.
“And this Brian!” Grendel sighed dramatically. “Barely acceptable. If Claudia bores you so much, maybe you’d like to trade?”
“Ah, no. That kind leaves me cold. Let me see him when you put the fear of God into him.”
They both looked up when Chris politely cleared his throat. He was standing between the open glass doors. “Excuse me, Ma’am. Sir. Ms. Sharon Brosa is here.”
Grendel raised one eyebrow. “What time is it?”
“Four forty-five, Sir.”
“Great start,” Alexandra commented wryly.
“I’ll see her in my office. Tell her I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He turned back to Alexandra before Chris left. “See what I mean? No more quality. An hour and a half late, and she didn’t even call. Didn’t even ask Chris to deliver her sincere apologies and beg our forgiveness.”
“And she’s all yours,” Alexandra said with a malicious grin.
* * * *
Sharon followed the guy who answered the door, smoothing her skirt over her hips. He was real short. Bad enough it cost so much for the car service and they got lost anyway, bad enough her skirt was wrinkled and her hair was starting to uncurl from the heat. But the least she expected was that the door would be opened by some tall, muscled, naked slave or something like that.
Nope, only some quiet guy who looked at her like she was from New Jersey or something. And he wasn’t a butler or anything, because he wasn’t dressed up like one. And she knew he wasn’t the master here because she had descriptions of the two people who ran the place.
He didn’t even offer to take her bag.
He had taken her to a small room where she waited with nothing but a large, fresh flower arrangement and a hard bench for company. She sat down and tapped her feet impatiently.
All this way and they keep me waiting. You’d think they’d send people out looking for me by now. I hope they realize it wasn’t my fault. Maybe they’re trying to psych me out? Maybe this is some kind of power thing already?
The guy from the door came back, his sudden appearance startling her.
“Jeeze!” she exclaimed. “Give some warning, will you?”
“My apologies,” the guy said smoothly. “Mr. Elliot will see you in his office in the north wing. You may leave your piece of luggage here. Please follow me.”
More surprises. She had expected rich furnishings and a castle, like in the story books. Instead, the house was clearly modern and decorated with a light, contemporary style. Large windows allowed the afternoon sunlight to penetrate the corridors. When they passed a dining room with open doors, she saw someone laying the table. Disappointingly, she was also fully and plainly dressed.
“Don’t you have slaves to do the work around here?” she asked as they reached the stairway.
“Sometimes.” Chris turned down a wide hallway, opened a door and indicated that she enter the room. She walked into an office showing a lot of use. File cabinets lined one wall. A table was piled with papers and folders and stacks of correspondence. There was a computer in one corner, and at least two phones that she could see. A large oak desk dominated the room, with a sturdy leather chair behind it. Two more chairs were angled in front of the desk, and she walked over to one. Sunlight poured in the large windows behind the desk. There was a view of a driveway and a grove of trees beyond.
“Mr. Elliot will be here in ten minutes, Ms. Brosa. Please do not seat yourself or disturb anything in the room.”
She stopped herself as she was sitting down. “I can’t sit?”
“No.”
“For ten minutes?” But Chris was already leaving, and closing the door behind him. She walked over to the door and reached for the handle, her indignation growing. But she stopped herself.
It’s a trick, she realized. If I chew the little guy out, I won’t be acting submissive. She grinned. Ten minutes? He’ll come in five. He’ll be expecting to surprise me, like I’d be sitting down and he’d come in all of a sudden. Not this babe, buster.
She put her purse down on the floor next to one of the chairs. I’ll just wait here like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Five minutes isn’t that long. She checked her watch.
As the seconds ticked past, she glanced around the room. It was obviously a working office. It wasn’t dirty, but it could probably use some organizing. Where were the house slaves, anyway? This wasn’t anything like the books. In the boo
ks, everyone was drop-dead gorgeous, and the slaves walked around naked, or wearing bikinis and stuff like that. They lived in pristine palaces or in Victorian mansions with luxurious play-room dungeons in the basements, where masters and mistresses lolled around being waited on. They didn’t hang out in boring offices surrounded by paperwork.
She checked her watch impatiently, and then wandered over to the table and looked at the items spread over it. Maybe there were slave files here. Maybe some pictures? No such luck. Bills. Lists. A diagram of something, she wasn’t sure what. A Rolodex was open to some guy’s name and number somewhere in Maine.
Boring.
The bookcase was also dull. No mysterious books on the training of slaves. In fact, there weren’t even any of the classic books that she read. Instead, it was all computer books. And some sailing books, a big dictionary, a bunch of business books. She looked at her watch again. It was already five minutes, thank God, but the guy wasn’t there.
Huh. Double psych-out, she thought. Like he figured I’d figure him to be here in five, but he really meant ten. Damn, this stuff could get confusing. She picked up a small glass dog, looked at it and put it back. Was he really going to make her wait a whole ten minutes?
Over to the desk to see if there was anything interesting there. Ah-hah! Right on top, a file folder with her name neatly typed on the label. She glanced at the door, and then at her watch. Two minutes to go, just enough time to take a peek. She picked it up and opened it to find only one sheet of paper inside. It had her name at the top, and absolutely nothing written on it anywhere else.
Damn! She carefully put it back. Where was the letter she sent? Where were the pictures? How long was this guy going to make her wait?
Pacing filled out the rest of the ten minutes before she considered the effect all that walking would have on her hair. She touched it up neatly and had the brush back in her purse before she realized that ten minutes were up. Now he was late! And her legs were starting to hurt. It was almost a two-hour ride in the car, and she was tired and stiff.
Minutes dragged by.
Is he going to make me wait an hour? That horrified thought came to her about the tenth time she checked her watch. Standing up? She walked to the door and reached for the door handle. Enough was enough. But as soon as her hand touched it, it turned by itself. Sharon shrieked and leapt back from it.
“Jesus! You scared me!” she cried. Expecting to see the little guy again, she found that she had to look up. The man standing in the doorway was taller and broader, his shoulders at the height of her nose. He was casually dressed, in jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair was black and longish, his beard a close-cropped mass of black salted with silver.
Oh shit. He fit the description she had been given. She composed her features at once and knelt gracefully, the skirt swirling around her legs in an elegant way. She had practiced this move hundreds of times, and knew that it was beautiful. She bowed her head slowly. Don’t speak until spoken to, she reminded herself.
Grendel looked down and then walked past her. “I’m glad to see that you aren’t injured, Ms. Brosa.” He sat down behind the desk, the leather chair creaking.
Sharon raised her head a little. He had just walked by, without noticing what she did! She turned her head, but the angle was wrong, she couldn’t see him. Now what? What should she do?
“Why don’t you take a seat?” The suggestion was slowly and firmly made, in a way that suggested that she was a child. Biting her lip, she rose with the same grace she used in kneeling and then took one of the chairs facing the desk.
Grendel opened a drawer and brought out the real file on her and laid it out on the desk. When no apology seemed forthcoming, he began to lay out the pages, putting the photographs to one side. Now that she was here, he realized that they didn’t do her justice.
Oh, they were well done, a class act. The photographer had known what he was working with and had done very little to distract from her natural beauty. But in the flesh, she was absolutely stunning. From the gentle waves of her deep auburn hair to the curves of her toned body and her lovely legs, she was quite a prize. Her eyes, under thick lashes, were hazel.
“When you failed to appear, Alexandra and I thought that there might have been an accident,” Grendel prompted.
Sharon smiled in thanks. “Oh, I’m OK. The driver was totally lost, though. I’m really sorry you had to wait.”
She doesn’t get it, Grendel realized. He sighed and referred to the papers before him. “I see you’ve never had any formal training,” he began. And stopped when she frowned. “Yes?”
“Yes, I did,” she said, leaning over the desk. “With Jerry! And Frank. I know I put that in there. Do you need another copy?”
“No. Your experiences with your lovers don’t count, Ms. Brosa. When we refer to formal training, we are talking about a more intense and structured form of living. What you did with those two men was more of a negotiated fantasy relationship between partners who were on an equal footing.” Grendel tapped the sheets of paper. “These kinds of experiences are fun, but they aren’t what the Marketplace is about. And if you had approached us in the proper way, I wouldn’t have to explain that to you.”
“Well, I couldn’t get anyone to train me the way you need,” Sharon protested, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. “I asked everyone I knew, and they never even heard of you! You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to just get your names!” She sat back, trying to regain her composure. Be humble, she said to herself. Be like a slave. “All my life, I’ve wanted this, master. All my life. But I keep running into guys who, like, do it on the weekends, you know? I want to live it. Like in the books.” She nodded toward the papers. “Like I said in the letter.”
“So you stole information about this house from the office of a friend of ours,” Grendel noted.
Sharon visibly trembled. Did he really know that? Or was he bluffing? This wasn’t going the way she planned. What was going to happen now? Was all this for nothing?
He leaned back in the chair and watched her. She would fetch a high price if she were gagged, he thought. But the minute someone got her home, her flaws would become as apparent as her physical appeal. He remained impassive as she bowed her head (very prettily) and said, softly, “Yes, master.”
“I’m not your master, Ms. Brosa. And frankly, your behavior isn’t impressing me. I train people to act like that. It’s nothing new to me. If you wanted to impress, you might have tried it with genuine contrition for your inexcusable tardiness, and swift admission of your felonious behavior.” He suppressed the incredible desire to grin at his own pomposity, but it had the desired effect. She withered a little and then became angry.
“What do you want me to do, Mr. Elliot?” she shot back. “You want me to say I’m sorry? It wasn’t my fault, but OK, I’m sorry. You want me to say that I took the stuff about you and this place from what’s her name’s house? OK, I did. But that was the only way I was gonna get in. All the people who know about you keep you a secret. Like you’re the president, or something.”
“There’s a reason for that. When someone comes to us untrained and unprepared, it wastes time. For us and them.” Grendel pointed at the papers and photos. “This is a good attempt at faking our file format. And I have to admit that you would make a nice decoration in someone’s hallway. But you have no idea what you might be getting into.”
“I know exactly what I want to get into, Mr. Elliot.” She picked up her pocketbook and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. She smoothed it out and placed it on his desk. “OK, so I need some real training, maybe. But I can be the best thing that ever happened to you. Everyone who ever knew me says I was the best pleasure slave they ever saw. Take a look at that and tell me I don’t know what I’m doing!”
Grendel picked the paper up and read it through. It was an excerpt from a contract, written in proper Marketplace jargon. He read it through once and then scanned it again. Then, he placed it carefully on the
stack of papers in front of him.
“Who wrote this?”
Sharon looked down. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Well, at least you didn’t try to claim that you did. This interview is over. Chris will call you a cab.”
“What?” Sharon’s voice scaled up in genuine surprise and anger. “You can’t... I mean, why?”
He closed the folder with the contract inside of it. “Because how could I ever expect you to be trainable if you are incapable of telling a simple truth to the people you might be training under? Ms. Brosa, this isn’t a game. But never mind. I’m sure you’ll be happy with someone outside the Marketplace. You might even find a situation like the one outlined in this contract. But for now, investigating who exactly wrote this document has to take priority.”
Sharon panicked. “No, wait! Wait. I didn’t know it was so important to you. It’s just, I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about him, OK? But I won’t let it screw up my chances to get in here. Could you promise that you won’t tell him I told you?”
Grendel hit the intercom. “Chris, please call a cab and come and get Ms. Brosa.”
“It was Joe, Joe Manelli, OK? From Forest Hills! I got his number!”
Wimp, Grendel thought, suppressing a smile.
“Aren’t you going to tell him to cancel the cab?” Sharon demanded.
“I never said that I would, Ms. Brosa.” He leaned back, still impassive.
“But you have to! I mean, please, please, master, I mean, Mr. Elliott, this is the most important thing I ever did in my entire life! I told you about Joe, didn’t I? And read those papers, they’re true, every word! I’d give up everything for a chance, OK?”
“That’s what the contract says,” Grendel reminded her. “Do you understand what it means?”
“Yeah! I get sold to a place and a guy like it says in the contract, and I’m a pleasure slave. For at least two years, but preferably five.”
Marketplace Page 3