Valdez, you are a real shithead. And stupid to boot.
Finally he apologised to the businessmen he had come all this distance to meet with, checked out of the hotel and called his pilot on the way to the airport to get the plane ready. There was nothing for it—he’d have to see her. Make her understand, somehow. And take a leap of faith he wasn’t sure he was capable of.
But he couldn’t find her. He tried the penthouse first on the hopeful off-chance she might, by some stretch of the imagination, still be there, but all of her things were gone. He guessed she’d cleared them out that morning as soon as he’d left. He dismissed the limo and drove himself to the condo he’d put in her name, but the security guard in the lobby said she hadn’t ever showed up there. He wondered if he’d be reduced to calling every hotel in the city, when it hit him where she was.
Dumbass. Of course.
The little house was ablaze with lights when he pulled into the driveway behind her car. There were no curtains at the windows—he’d had special wide windows put in so she could get as much natural light as possible and he didn’t imagine she thought to worry about the dark. On the porch he drew in a deep breath, doing his best to pull himself together. His condition was very unDomlike. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been in complete control.
But this was different. Oh, yes. Very different.
He knocked on the door and waited, but nothing happened. When he knocked again with the same results, he peered in the wide window and saw her at her big worktable, chiselling away at a block of limestone. He curled his hand into a fist and pounded on the solid wood.
“Kaci? Kaci, let me in.” He pounded again. “Can you hear me?”
The door opened and there she was—in jeans and tank top, barefoot, blonde hair pulled into an untidy ponytail.
“I think the entire neighbourhood can hear you. What do you want?”
Not the Dom. Not orders or commands.
“I’d like to come in. Please, Kaci.”
She stared at him for so long he was afraid she was going to slam the door in his face. Instead she stepped back and gestured for him to come inside.
“I see you finally got my name right.” Her voice was edged with heavy sarcasm.
“Yes. Kaci.” He repeated it again. “Kaci. A lovely name.” He took off his suit jacket and threw it onto a stool. Shoved his fingers through his hair. Where to begin?
“I can’t imagine what we have to say to each other, so why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
“I wanted her to marry me and she walked out.” Oh, god, had he just said that?
“What?” She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
Another deep breath. Then he paced. It was the only way he could say what he’d come to say.
“It happened years ago. She was my first real sub. We met at a munch, both of us inexperienced, and went to a club where some very good people trained us.” Breathe, Valdez. “I asked her to move in with me. In less than a month I knew I was hopelessly in love with her. On our first-year anniversary I bought a ring. I was going to ask her to marry me. But when I got home she was waiting with all her suitcases packed.”
Kaci looked as if she wasn’t sure what to say. She simply stood there, folded her arms across her chest and waited.
“She’d been going to some munches without me, met someone there and was moving on.” He paused, waiting for the crushing pain that always came when he remembered, but somehow this time it was absent. “It was over. Just like that.”
“So you decided that you’d be the one in control after this,” she guessed. “You’d set the limits. You’d decide when it was over and send your sub off with a place to live and get on with your life. And never using her name was a way for you to keep things impersonal.” She paused. “Even though together you were doing the most incredibly personal things.”
He nodded, miserable. “I don’t know what to say to you except that this time it didn’t work.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
Just tell her. Get the words out. It can’t be any worse than what you’re feeling now.
“Because I fell in love with you.”
He waited for her to say something but all he got was silence. He turned to face her. She was still standing in the same place, arms across her chest.
“Can you say something, Kaci?”
“Like what? You toss me away like yesterday’s news then come in here and tell me you love me and expect…what? That I’ll fall into your arms?”
He stood in front of her, brushing away the limestone dust on her nose and forehead with his thumb. “I’ll do anything to make this right. Just tell me what you want. What you need. I’ve been a fool and an idiot and an asshole. But I love you and I want you to come home.”
Her face was such a mixture of emotions. Anger sparked from eyes that were, however, filled with tears.
“First of all, I don’t think I could stand to see a Dom grovel, so don’t offer to get down on your knees. Secondly, you have to give me a minute here. Last night you told me to leave and today you want me back. I can’t process that fast.”
“Okay. Yes. You’re right.” He dropped his hands.
To give himself something to do he began wandering around her studio. There were so many pieces covered with the cheap sheets she used. Idly he lifted one and stopped, frozen in place. He was looking at the bust and the face staring back at him was his own.
“Wait,” she cried, rushing over and grabbing at his arm.
“No.”
He pushed her away and went from piece to piece, uncovering each as he went. Some were of women, created for her new show, but the majority of them were of him. Each sculpture held a different expression. Sadness. Anger. Pleasure. Joy. The many faces of Diego Valdez. But when he came to the largest piece and ripped away the covering it nearly brought him to his knees.
It was unfinished but close to completion, the body of a man, nude, lying on a plinth with one leg bent at the knee, one arm hanging at his side. His head was thrown back over the edge, and his face held such an expression of pain Diego could hardly stand to look at it. He knew at once that this was the visual expression of how he’d felt inside every moment since he had told her to leave him. Devastated. Empty. That she had never seen him this way with her eyes but imagined him this way with her artist’s vision made him realise that what he loved in her was her generosity. Of mind. And heart.
He turned to her, stupefied. “You did all this from memory?”
She nodded wordlessly.
“Why? How? What…” He couldn’t find the words he wanted.
“You think you keep your feelings so well hidden,” she said slowly. “But since the first night we met I knew you were a man living with pain and trying to ignore it. I guess I just hoped I’d be the one to free you from it.”
“You could. You are.” He grabbed her hands and gripped them with desperation. “You are everything to me, Kaci. I’m sorry it took me so long to realise how idiotically I was behaving. And that I hurt you in the process.” He looked around at all the pieces she’d created. “And you love me. Admit it. You couldn’t have done all this, put so much emotion into these sculptures if you didn’t.” He studied her face. “You love me. I know you do. And I love you. More than life. Please, please, please come home with me and give us another chance.”
She was silent for so long Diego was sure he’d lost. That she would tell him to leave. The play of emotions on her face was too complex for him to decipher. He wondered if it was really true that you could die of a broken heart?
Then she did an astonishing thing. She dropped to her knees, in the dust and debris, and bowed her head.
“Take me home, Sir. Please.”
Diego had to swallow three times before he could get any words out. “Yes, girl. It’s time to leave now.” He reached his hand down and guided her to her feet. “Let’s go home, Kaci.”
About the Author
&
nbsp; I always wanted adventure and change in my life, and I certainly got it. I grew up in Maine, a beautiful place to live, then lived in the Midwest and Florida. Now I make my home in the Hill Country of Texas, truly God's chosen place on earth. My husband, David, was a sixth generation Texan, tracing his roots here back to the time when Texas was a Republic, so retiring here was a dream we finally fulfilled.
I've had a lot of firsts in my life – first female sports report on The Michigan Daily at the University of Michigan; first woman to own a rock and roll agency in Detroit, the home of Motown; first woman president of the Pasco (Florida) Economic Development Council.
I graduated from the University of Michigan with a double major in English and History, and a minor in economics, and went on to have at least four careers. When my children were small, I satisfied my need for writing by working for weekly newspapers. I had a wild and wacky time managing rock and roll bands. I joined the insanity of retail with a string of shoe stores. I worked in fundraising, public affairs and community relations. But writing fiction was always my dream. I had a lot of stops and starts, but it wasn't until we retired that I could devote myself to it full time.
My wonderful husband, David, encouraged me and supported me in my dream and you’ll find a little of him in all my heroes. Our children are all grown and on their own, and are my biggest fans.
When I’m not writing I’m an avid reader—anything and everything—and watching football, especially my beloved Michigan Wolverines. David and I golf and target shoot, and of course enjoy life in the gorgeous Texas Hill Country, where most of my stories are based.
I am a member of Romance Writers of America, and San Antonio Romance Authors, Diamond State Romance Authors, and Passionate Ink chapter of RWA.
Email: [email protected]
Desiree loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also by Desiree Holt
Crude Oil
Beg Me
Afternoon Delight
Down and Dirty
Cat’s Eyes: Pretty Kitty
The Sentinels: The Edge of Morning
The Sentinels: Night Moves
The Sentinels: Dark Stranger
The Sentinels: Animal Instinct
The Sentinels: Mated
The Sentinels: Silent Hunters
Wet Dreams and Fantasies: Game On
Wet Dreams and Fantasies: Swingtime
Brit Party: Four Play
Heatwave: Summer Spice
Night of the Senses: Carnal Caresses
Threefold: Party of Three
Feral: Black Cat Fever
Christmas Goes Camo: Melting the Ice
HIS LANDLADY
Jan Irving
Dedication
To Sedonia Guillone, for caring that I meditate daily.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Google: Google Inc.
BlackBerry: Research in Motion
Chapter One
Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks within, awakens ~ Carl Jung
Diana Moore hesitated outside the kickboxing studio, her attention caught by a poster of the sleek body of a young male kickboxer, his leg straight up in a martial arts kick.
Although every muscle was warrior defined, it was the expression on his face that fixed her attention. He was gazing into the distance, a half smile touching his lips, a look of transcendent pleasure that didn’t make her think of the martial arts…
“Perv,” she muttered to herself. She had better things to do than stand here lusting over a beautiful man who was probably too airbrushed to be true. She adjusted her grip on her attaché case and almost walked into another young man, this one short and covered with black-and-red tattoos.
“You here for class?” he demanded. “Come back in an hour.” His street accent made the word ‘hour’ a match for ‘sour’.
Di gulped and stopped herself from taking a step back. The stranger had an aggressive energy that she could feel like a force field.
“No,” she said. “I’m strictly a yoga person.”
The man stared at her, unblinking, and Di felt as if she’d told a proud Doberman owner that she was the golden retriever type.
“We don’t do yoga here,” he said, crossing his arms.
“No, I know that…” She was flustered and it was stupid. But the studio so wasn’t her thing. “I’m the landlady of this strip mall. I’m here with some paperwork for the owner.”
“Huh.” He didn’t look impressed.
“Nath, behave!” a mellow voice interrupted.
There was a thread of laughter in it that stroked down Di’s spine.
“Hello, landlady. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
A tanned hand was held out and when she automatically took it, callouses brushed her palm. The grip was strong, confident, and didn’t crush her fingers; this was a man with no need to prove anything.
“Uh…”
He was also the man from the poster. Except he was stripped down to black shorts and his dark hair was sweaty against his forehead. He regarded her with almond-shaped, amber-brown eyes, hinting at a slight Asian heritage while his unshaven jaw and shaggy brown hair were sexy mongrel.
“I’m Diana Moore,” she said.
“My landlady is a Roman goddess, Diana the Huntress,” he said.
Although those dark eyes didn’t move down to her full breasts, Diana felt as if they had. Her nipples peaked through her thin, blue silk tunic.
“Sloan Kent—owner and operator of Soul Kickin’.”
“Soul Kickin’,” she repeated, seeing with relief that the other man, Nath, had disappeared into the studio. He’d been a bit intense for her to handle before she’d had her morning espresso. “So you decided on a name.”
A smile tilted his perfect lips. If he’d caught her attention in two dimensions, it was nothing to the real man. The real young man, she reminded herself. He looked to be in his early twenties, and she definitely was not at thirty-five.
“Yeah, I know I kept you waiting. But waiting can be good.” He raised his brows as an expression that was part teasing and part earnest lit his eyes. “You gotta live in the present moment. Grab every second.”
“Ah…right.” Now she wasn’t imagining he was looking at her. She ducked her head, knowing with her curves she didn’t look as good as he did in shorts. More earth goddess than sports queen. “I brought the paperwork over.”
Sloan nodded. “Come on in,” he invited, opening the glass door of his studio for her.
She walked into what had previously been just bare brick walls, scarred from an incarnation as a sports retailer. The floors were halfway through a polish job, stripped down to sawdust and bleached maple so the scent of wood was strong and tangy.
“Nath has been doing the floors,” Sloan said, as if he’d noticed her interest.
“They were a mess,” she admitted.
In fact, she hadn’t been able to lease the space for months. She was glad she had finally managed it, despite her mild discomfort with the type of business that had taken the storefront.
When her father had given her the strip mall, she’d known he’d expected her to fail, but Diana had put a lot of extra time into it, determined to make it the basis for a stable income for herself and Jeff.
“Nath’s gone for lunch,” Sloan said, picking up a towel and wiping his face.
Diana studied the metal rails hanging across the ceiling and the heavy black bags suspended from them.
“I can’t imagine hitting something for fun,” she said.
“It’s liberating,” Sloan said. “It can give you confidence that spills into the rest of your life.”
She grazed a hand down one bag. “I’m not comfortable with aggression.”
Sloan’s expression was s
erene. He shrugged, and she got the feeling that while he didn’t agree with her, he was comfortable enough with himself that he didn’t need to argue about it.
His confidence was beginning to get to her. He was so young…he shouldn’t be so self-assured. She cleared her throat and opened her attaché case, sitting it on a bit of finished flooring since the room was bare of anything else.
Suddenly a pillow was thrust at her face and she froze before looking into intimidating dark eyes under straight, heavy brows. She took the lotus-shaped pillow, familiar to her from her yoga practice.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’ll need help sitting down in those sky-scraper shoes,” Sloan said, cocking his head as his gaze ran down Diana’s long legs.
He shocked her by kneeling at her feet and placing one warm, calloused hand around her left ankle, running a finger under the rim of her ankle bracelet.
His touch bypassed politeness and zapped straight to her sex, making Diana gasp.
“Hey, I just want to take your shoes off,” Sloan said, stroking the slope of her foot.
“Oh, yeah, but I can—”
“Allow me.”
Flustered, Diana watched Sloan as he slowly unbuckled each of the three black straps on her sandal. When he gently pulled her foot free, he massaged the sole, and Diana gave a heartfelt groan, but damn, that felt good.
“Probably these shoes aren’t the best thing for your feet but they look very hot on you,” Sloan said.
He put down the liberated foot and reached for the other and, dazed, Diana allowed it, her hands on his bare shoulders for balance now, making direct contact with hot, sweaty skin.
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