The Nightingale Trilogy: An Alpha Billionaire Romantic Suspense

by Cynthia Dane

  The other side of her brain? The one that couldn’t think clearly because it was lost in a haze of imagining what a man like that could do to her in the bedroom?

  It didn’t want to write anything at all. It wanted to cry in relief.

  Chapter 4

  The Patron’s Gift

  For some inexplicable reason, Monica did not have any of Henry’s contact information. Since he never paid for any services, none of his phone numbers, addresses, or even e-mails were on file. No way I’m calling Mr. Witherspoon to ask. Monica would die from horror.

  There were a few things they needed to get straight. First of all, Monica was not one of the available girls. She didn’t work like they did. Her job was to keep the Château running smoothly and making sure they all drowned in dollars. What had ever given him the idea that she could receive a gift like that?

  He did understand that she wasn’t available, right?

  Monica thought back to their tour multiple times, wondering where she had dropped some hint that Henry Warren was free to bid for her prolonged services. He didn’t seem interested in any of the other girls. Why would he come all the way out there to turn around and head home? And then to buy something that cost thousands of dollars and send it to her, asking if she would like to… to…

  Every time Monica’s thoughts reached this part, her eyes glazed over and she imagined herself naked, or maybe in her lingerie, shackled to bed with that silver, diamond encrusted collar wrapped around her throat. Blindfold optional. She tried to cut the thoughts off before Henry Warren entered in his summery suits… no, dark blue… no, gray… his large, masculine hand spanking her on the ass before he whispered what he wanted to do to her. Fuck me.

  Monica didn’t have a lot of crushes, but she was still human. When she fell for someone, she fell hard, usually for the most random reasons she never understood. Her first time with Jackson only happened because she liked the way he charmed her. Her other ex Ethan Cole had a brooding bad boy thing going for him that she liked – especially since he was a total puppy inside. Wish I ended up with Ethan over Jackson. It was a ménage arrangement back then, until Ethan decided he didn’t want to share anymore. Stupid Monica ended up moving in with Jackson full time… and then ended up where she did. With a gun in my hand and nothing to live for.

  So why Henry? He was handsome, and charismatic, but so were a lot of the other millionaires and billionaires who came to the Château. They all talked to her. Some even expressed romantic interest in her. Monica was able to rebuff them all. Why did she care about what they had to offer when she could give it to herself? Then here came Henry, grazing his fingers against her skin, kissing the top of her hand with those soft lips, and giving her a sub’s collar in a black box.

  He wants to dominate me…

  Monica canceled her one appointment that afternoon, told the girls she wasn’t feeling well, and sat alone in her office. The sunshine slowly descended behind the garden. By the time it kissed the horizon, she still didn’t know what to do. She wanted to call Henry and ask him the meaning of this. Except that was silly. She didn’t have his number!

  I shouldn’t be talking to him anyway. No, she should definitely be obsessing over him and his motives instead. That was a good use of her time, especially when all she did was sit at her desk and watch the day slowly go by.

  She made an appearance downstairs for dinner. Then she took a bath, hoping the hot water would soak away the absurdity of it. Yet it was dangerous sitting in that tub by herself. naked. She imagined the collar around her neck, the chain dangling over the side of the claw foot tub as Henry’s long fingers walked down her bare chest and pinched her nipple. “Get clean,” he would say like a true Dom. “I want to get you dirty all over again.”

  Monica went to bed completely beside herself. I haven’t felt this way in so long. Not even since before Jackson went off the deep end and started hurting her. Rarely did Monica feel such a sexual attraction to men she barely knew. There was so much trust involved in being a sub! These young girls who worked for her had the fortitude to forego knowing a man for more than ten minutes. Besides, it was a job for them. For Monica, it was her lifestyle.

  She wanted a man to take control, both in the bedroom and out. She wanted agency, but she also wanted to be taken care of and never have to worry about things again. She wanted a man to overpower her in the bedroom and make her tear apart at every seam.

  The problem was that most men who fit that bill turned out to be assholes.

  Next time I talk to him, I’ll tell him it’s off the table. Until then, Monica was plagued with the images swarming her head. Henry Warren. Mr. Warren. Grabbing her from behind and pushing his lips against her skin, tasting the sweat her anxious heart pumped from her body; behind her over the bed and pulling away her clothes; teasing her with his cock until she was forced to beg for it; pulling her hair and trapping her against the bed while he fucked her, hard.

  Her eyes opened to the realization that her hand was in her underwear, and that sexual sting she felt wasn’t only in her imagination.

  Monica didn’t touch herself often. Not unless her Dom told her to for both of their pleasure. And in the end with him, it was always about Jackson’s pleasure instead of mine. His corrupted pleasure that only got off if she was miserable.

  Her hand came out and she turned over in bed. I’m weak. I’m sad. I don’t deserve any of that shit. She knew she didn’t deserve it, and yet Monica decided to always blame herself. Because then it felt like she had an ounce of power over her own life.

  That settled it. She wasn’t actually attracted to Henry Warren. She was attracted to the idea of escaping her past and getting into more trouble. Telling him to politely go away it was.

  If she could.

  “Mr. Henry Warren is here to see you.”

  Monica’s head turned from the statements she read on her desk. “Send him in,” she said, turning the top letter over and emblazoning it with her signature. “Tell him that I’ve been expecting him.”

  The maid nodded and escorted herself out of Monica’s office. It wasn’t even a full two days later after she received the box from him. The patron’s gift. The ode to her sweet nectar. Monica had rewrapped the gift and put it in one of her drawers. No use for it now.

  A knock came on her door, and she waited two seconds before glancing up and catching sight of the man from her deplorable fantasies. Good God. Dressed in a dark navy blue suit with a silk black tie and sapphire cufflinks, Henry stood straight and proper in her doorway, dark blond hair neatly combed and his leather shoes recently shined. He gave her no knowing looks, instead choosing to bequeath a neither friendly nor business-like demeanor that Monica couldn’t read. She was too busy wondering how quickly she could shove everything off her desk so he could take her right there anyway.

  Get a hold of yourself. Monica stood up from her chair. “Have a seat.”

  Henry’s graceful legs brought him closer, and now Monica smelled that musky aftershave emanating from his body. She imagined him, on top of her in bed, that scent overpowering her as he thrust between her legs. Henry. That would be his scent. Whenever she was out and smelled it on someone else, she would think of him and all the wonderful ways he…

  “I see you saw the news this morning,” he interrupted her thoughts with a point to the newspaper on her desk. “Terrible what happened to those people on that plane.”

  Monica shook out her inappropriate thoughts and glared at the color picture of plane wreckage. “Yes. Terrible.” Just that morning she was reading it to feel better about her life. Now here came Henry to take away her Schadenfreude. “Can I help you?”

  He took his seat in the chair across from her. Even sitting down he was still a good two heads taller than her. I have a weakness for tall men. Jackson had been on the shorter side. Monica could barely remember what it felt like to curl up next to a man over a foot taller than her.

  “You know why I am here.�
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  Monica folded her hands on her desk, kept her back straight… but could not keep her lips from thinning. “I’m guessing it’s about this.” She opened the drawer next to her and pulled out the black box. It landed with a thud on the desk between them.

  “I’m glad you received it. Did you take a look inside?”

  “Of course I did. I must say that the contents were fairly shocking.”

  “Shocking? To you? I thought nothing could possibly shock you.”

  “I was shocked by the idea that you would think I was available for patronage.”

  Finally, a reaction. Henry relaxed in his chair and smiled. Nothing sinister. Nothing… toxic. Not the kind of smile Jackson would have given her before he said something nefarious. No, the words coming out of Henry’s mouth were anything but. “I was under no assumption that you were available in that way. You have mistaken me.”

  Monica opened the box and pulled out the collar. She found the inscription and shoved it in Henry’s direction. “And what do you call this?”

  “My intentions.”

  “You either think I’m up for patronage or not.”

  “Let me put it this way. I know that you don’t work like the other young ladies here do. I know that. I’m also not interested in any of them. I’ve only been interested in you since the moment I first saw you.”

  Monica almost lost her posture. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t completely explain my attraction to you yet. When I first laid eyes on you that night, I thought, ‘What a beautiful, refined woman. I want to get to know her better.’ And when I did, my heart only quickened more. Maybe I’m a fool, Monica, but I’m a fool for you.”

  This was ridiculous. The man was talking like he came from a pre-War record track. Spare me. Nevertheless, Monica liked that kind of talk. She liked it when men sounded sophisticated and flattered her in such ways. If Henry could write poetry, that would just be… “You don’t know me at all. And you send me this? What is this supposed to mean?” The collar shook in her hand.

  Whether he was perturbed by her growing frustration or not, he didn’t let on. “You said to impress you by sending you something that you would like. Well? Don’t you like it?”

  “What would make you think that I like something like this?”

  “Because…” Henry stood up, pulling his jacket closed and weaving a single button through its hole. He leaned across the desk, hands splayed in support above the now empty box. His lips were not too far from Monica’s, which parted in surprise as she came so close to kissing this relative stranger, but dared not make a fool of herself. “I know a ready submissive woman when I meet one, Monica.”

  Breath tore from her throat, her chest, and into the empty air between them. How dare he… How dare he what? Want her? Recognize her? Know her? Her skin was sweaty, making the collar slip between her fingers. Her nail grazed against a diamond, a lump going down her throat. Those eyes… Piercing into hers. Seeing her soul. Picking apart her brain and feasting on the morsels she offered. The only thing keeping her from sitting up and kissing Henry Warren was the blaring alarm going off in the back of her head. Idiot.

  “You would have to be a submissive woman to run a place like this. I can hear these walls echoing with your need to be touched tenderly and with the determination that only a man like me can provide.”

  Another swallow. “You are sure of yourself.”

  “Don’t insult me, Monica. Are you telling me that I know who you are, but you don’t know me? We’re two halves balancing each other out. We’re Yin and Yang. And you have so much Yin. You really should find an outlet for it before you’re consumed by your own energies. You know what? Same could be said for me. We need harmony.”

  “Don’t insult me… you don’t know me…?” He didn’t mean from a previous encounter. He meant that knowing notion that they were two halves of the same whole. Yes. Of course Monica had noticed it. Hadn’t she been fantasizing about Henry tying her up, spanking her, and pinching her body until she cried? Because he’s one of them. A Dom. Henry never said he wasn’t. Oh, God. This was not making her position any easier to bear. I want you, Henry Warren. I want you to make me feel like I used to. All the pent up stress and frustration was like a ticking time bomb in her gut. Monica could ignore it as long as no one else was around. From the moment Henry entered her life, she wanted him to use and dominate her until she was harmonious again.

  She wondered if he was feeling it too. A mighty desire to take out his power on a ready submissive woman. Let it be me…

  The collar grew hot in her hand. If she put it on, she could have him. Right here. Right now, in her office. Or the bedroom next door. Monica clutched her chest and averted her eyes so those blues no longer destroyed her. It also kept her from kissing the damn man.

  Henry lifted his hand, knuckles hovering next to her cheek. “If there’s someone else…”

  “No.” She spat it too quickly, before her emotions could be purged. “There is no one.” Monica had to tell herself that until she finally believed it.

  “So then…” Henry did not dare touch her. Monica wanted him to, for two reasons: first, she wanted the man to put his hands all over her. Second, if he touched her without permission, then she would know that he would end up being no better than a man like Jackson. No boundaries. No love for her.

  But he didn’t touch her. The fact tortured her.

  Don’t tempt me. Tempt her into something stupid. Monica was too close to her previous relationship to even think of starting up a new one, let alone one hinged on domination and submission. It was what she wanted in her heart, but damnit, she wasn’t ready!

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, almost breathless. “Please.”

  He hesitated, but Henry backed away. For the first time Monica saw disappointment in those eyes. What, did he think she would fold beneath his pressure and give him whatever she wanted? She had her reasons. He didn’t need to know them. “My apologies. I read the situation all wrong.”

  :”Yes, you did.” No, you didn’t. Henry was perceptive. Too perceptive. He had read Monica like the open book she apparently was the first moment they met. A man like that could be dangerous. “I’m sorry, somewhere along the way you got the impression that I can be bought like one of my girls.” She slammed the lid back on the box and pushed it toward him. I don’t mean it like that. Her girls weren’t “bought.” They were professionals selling a service, yes, but they weren’t commodities. Yet did men ever see it that way? Maybe men like Henry Warren needed to know exactly where they all stood. She wasn’t to be bought. Or sold. Or controlled in that fashion. Monica was her own woman in this world she created. She had to learn how to live on her own and take care of herself. No man would really do that for her.

  “I’m sorry to have offended you.” Henry replaced his disappointment with the same poker face Monica used. She knew it well. “Please, forgive me. And don’t hold this against any of my friends or colleagues. They have no idea I’m here doing this.”

  “Wouldn’t have assumed so.” Even when these men were together, they worked independently. “And apology accepted. I don’t think you’re a bad man or anything. I just think we got our wires crossed. I am not available.”

  “No, of course not.” He cleared his throat and continued to smooth out his jacket. Every time he did this, he created more wrinkles. “If I may say…”

  “Go on.”

  “This only makes me more interested in you.”

  Monica showed him out after that. Men. She latched the door to her quarters and turned to face her small, private hallway where she likewise kept her secrets, fears, and heartbreak locked away. Men! Apparently Henry Warren thought she was playing hard to get.

  Maybe she was.

  Chapter 5

  Clipped Wings

  “How much is it worth?” Monica tapped her fingers, her favorite appraiser sitting on the other side of her desk and studying the diamon
ds in the collar. “I need to know if I should sell it or give it to one of my girls.”

  The appraiser, aptly named Mr. Jules, looked up with his ocular device still in his eye. He was an old and frail man for only being sixty-five, but he was one of the only qualified men in the city Monica could convince to make house calls. She summoned him every time they received a gift of patronage to confirm what she suspected.

  I have no idea what to expect with this. As much as she wished she could be rid of the collar in only a few minutes, she was still a businesswoman and had to keep her coffers in mind. If the collar were worth a nice sum, she could get a better payday. However, if Henry Warren had underestimated her worth, well… she would make sure he returned one night to see another girl wearing that collar. That’s what I think of that. Any of her girls would be delighted to have it. Such a thing meant nothing other than more status to their clients. It would be an excellent way to embarrass Mr. Warren.