The Nightingale Trilogy: An Alpha Billionaire Romantic Suspense

by Cynthia Dane

  “His works are fascinating, but perhaps for all the wrong reasons.” That was all Henry said on the matter, and Monica did not press him further.

  Over the course of dinner she learned a few more things about him. Henry’s parents were alive, but they lived in their favorite vacation home in Montana, where his father had a ranch and his mother made jewelry for a “living,” not that she needed to. He currently lived in their main house with his younger sister, who was in grad school getting her MBA. They almost sounded like a normal upper middle class family until Monica remembered that Henry Warren was probably one of the richest men in the country. He could do anything with his life… so why was he spending it with her?

  “I also like to paint here and there,” he said at the beginning of their final course. “Nothing in particular. Just whatever moves me.” Henry pointed to the sunset, now sinking fast behind the trees. “Like that. I would like to paint that if I had the chance. The way the light passes through the branches of those evergreens and illuminates the labyrinth is simply breathtaking.” He glanced at her. “Looks nice on you as well.”

  Flattery would get him nowhere. Monica knew what he was up to. “Thank you.” She would take the compliment anyway.

  “So what do you do for fun?” Henry was on his second glass of wine. Monica was still on her first, but she could see the bottom of her glass. “I have a hard time believing you do this for fun all the time.” He motioned to the Château.

  “Believe what you will or won’t. My work is my life now.”

  “No movies? No books?”

  “I read occasionally, but I’ve found recently that most of the stories I used to enjoy now only frustrate me.” They reminded her of her old relationship. Monica devoured books – dark and comedic – about alpha males and their unwitting women. She particularly enjoyed the recent trend of billionaires and mafia bosses and, and, and… Nope. Too much like real life. Few women could say that!

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you can enjoy them again soon.”

  Henry’s voice wasn’t empty, nor was it full of sarcasm. When they made eye contact, Monica saw nothing but warmth in his eyes. It’s a ruse. A game. That’s what she had to tell herself in order to survive. No man actually cared that she enjoyed “A Billionaire Love Story” ever again. Because they’re not real. She thought she had that kind of love once. Perhaps she was too jaded by the heartbreak.

  “If I may ask…” Henry’s fingered the stem of his glass, leaning back in his chair with one leg over the other and his eyes downcast. “What happened between you and Jackson Lyle? You were a famous couple in our circles, even if only by legend.”

  What a strange thing to say. “Bad things.”

  The awkward silence she created was not lost on the man dining with her. Henry continued to stare at the table before finally looking up and gazing at Monica’s figure in her chair. The maid came, taking away their empty plates and replacing them with a dessert of key lime pie. Perfect for a warm evening.

  Yet Henry continued to gaze at her, those unwavering blues caressing Monica’s body as if they truly touched. If she closed her own and also leaned back in her chair, she could pretend that Henry stood right next to her, truly caressing her arm, her cheek, and even her hair as he wrapped each dark strand around his fingers and promised to make her feel better.

  I’m tragic. What was even more tragic was how pointless it all felt. Henry Warren couldn’t cure her of her heartbreak. She was a stupid girl to even pretend that it was possible, even in her fantasies. It was those fantasies that made me hang on to him for so long. When in love, the heart fucked shit up. “He hurt me. In ways you could never imagine.”

  It was too easy unloading her secrets onto him. Henry was a courteous listener, at least, not once interrupting Monica as she attempted to put into words the horrors she went through.

  “Everything started innocent enough. Isn’t that how it always goes? One day I was a girl in a lounge looking for a little trouble. I found it. His name was Jackson, and he bought me a drink and told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s young girls like me back then who fall for that shit.”

  “Long story short, he became my Dom. I was happy to serve him. We were deep into the lifestyle, you see. It’s how I wanted it, and he grew accustomed to it. He would come home, I would take off his clothes for him, make sure there was a bath ready, order his favorite foods, and then do whatever he told me to do. Sometimes it was sexual, and sometimes he told me to leave him alone, so I did. I suppose this sounds boring, the way I’m telling it. To those in the lifestyle, it is boring. We were just another sub/Dom domestic pair.”

  “As the years went by, we went deeper. Maybe it happened naturally. Maybe it was all his machinations. Whatever happened, the next thing I knew he was picking out what I wore and who else I slept with. You see, sometimes he would bring home another girl and tell me to do things with her. I did them. I wasn’t disgusted. It was fun, really. But they weren’t things I would have asked for or pursued on my own.”

  “I called him Master. I didn’t leave the house unless he accompanied me. When we were home, I stayed in our room until he invited me elsewhere. I couldn’t even go outside for a walk without his permission. To me, that was normal. I trusted him.”

  “It may have happened on one day. It could have worked its way up to it. All I know is that one night he had me chained up like always. And then he slapped me.”

  “He never laid a hand like that on me before. Not a violent one. It stung so much, and the glee in his voice as he laughed at my reaction made me feel sick to my stomach. After so many years together, though, I forgave him. It was a one time thing. Then he did it another night. Then another. Then he hit me so hard I had a bruise and no excuse for it.”

  “One night he nearly broke my arm. He grabbed it so hard and turned me around to throw me on the bed so quickly I could feel a pop. I wish that was the worst thing that happened that night. When he was done with me, I felt like I could barely walk. That’s all I’ll say about that.”

  “The final straw – because I was so weak – came when he literally kidnapped another woman and intended to make her his sex slave. I woke up that day. I stole his keys and his gun and got both that woman and me out of there. I never looked back.”

  She let her words dissipate in the sunset, each one harder to dissolve than the last. By the time she realized her key lime pie remained untouched, Henry Warren grabbed her hand, making her fork clatter on the table.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you.” His grip on her tightened. Monica stiffened, not out of fear, but out of the sense that this man was too good for his own benefit. “It wasn’t right. That man doesn’t know how to appreciate what he has.”

  Yes, that was the problem Monica wanted to roll her eyes, but she was frozen in her seat, reliving those awful memories. Closing her eyes was dangerous. If she did that, her brain would place a scene on the back of her eyelids. Maybe the night Jackson slapped her and called her a whore because she always agreed to whatever he wanted. Didn’t he understand that I wanted that too? Serving him, making him happy…

  “No, what he didn’t get was what a submissive is. We’re not toys, Mr. Warren. We’re not vessels of pleasure to be used however a Dom wants. Our joy and pleasure comes from bringing our Dom happiness. Of course we have our preferences and the lines we draw, but at the end of the day, we’ll try anything once if it brings him or her joy of any kind. That’s how we become so vulnerable. We bare our souls from the first meeting. If we’re put in the wrong hands… men like him knew that. I fear for any woman he cons next. He’s handsome and wealthy. There will be someone.”

  “There are none that I know of.”

  “That you know of. He keeps that shit private.” For good reason. He was the type of man to understand what wasn’t socially acceptable. But he did them anyway. “Forgive me. You didn’t need to know any of that.”

  “Correct
ion. I didn’t want to know any of that.” When Monica turned her head toward him, bemusement clouding her countenance, he explained, “I don’t get any glee or pleasure in hearing what that callous man did to you. Yet I needed to know it. I needed to know what you’ve been through, so I understand where you come from.”

  “Where I came from is obvious to anyone who Googles my name.” Monica pulled her hand out of his. “Where I’m going, on the other hand, remains a mystery to most.”

  “Even to yourself?”

  “Perhaps. I take things one week at a time.”

  “Perhaps you will be a little old lady running your Château a good forty years from now.”

  “And I will be happy to do so.”

  She knew what that look meant. The one telling her, “Are you going to hide in your mansion of everyone else having pleasure but you for the rest of your life?” She would if it meant she was never hurt again. Monica could sustain herself on the ambiance of her insular world and never again be touched by another person. She could die happy that way.

  “I won’t pretend to understand,” Henry said. “Obviously I have never been in your position before. All I know is that the world would be a much lonelier place if you never ventured into it again.”

  Monica blushed. “The world doesn’t know who I am.”

  “I do.”

  See, this is what’s dangerous about this man. Henry had the influence to sway Monica back into the world of powerful relationships. Powerful within, and powerful on the outside. There was the power they exuded on each other behind closed doors, and then the power they presented when they stood before others as a unified front. If I go out into the world, then I do nothing but wander around it, looking pathetic. Dominant men were the accepted norm in the business world. They came, they saw, and they conquered the piss out of everything.

  Submissive women, on the other hand, looked lost. People often approached Monica when she sat in cafes by herself, asking if she was all right, if she needed help, etc. And that was when she was in a relationship! When people found out she ran her own business, they were floored. People didn’t respect submissives as smart, intelligent people who had a lot of will to get things done. Just because Monica wanted to live a life of submissive love and pleasure didn’t mean she couldn’t do things on her own.

  “You continue to flatter me. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Warren, you don’t know me from the mole on your back you’ve never seen before. Like I keep telling you, I’m a sub, not a naïve girl who believes everything a handsome man tells her.”

  “So you think I’m handsome?”

  That knowing smile could sink ships. Like the one capsizing in Monica’s stomach right now. “I think you know you’re handsome. Men who are handsome always know that they are.”

  “Meanwhile, beautiful women need constant affirmation.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “No. And can you blame me for trying to get to know you better?”

  “Mr. Warren, may I remind you that you sent me a silver and diamond sub collar? That’s not getting to know me better. That’s…”

  “A friendly BDSM way of saying hello there gorgeous, I know.”

  He said it so flippantly that Monica snorted into the back of her hand before giving herself over to overflowing laughter. Her voice echoed in the gardens below, bouncing off the topiaries and rousing a flock of birds into the air. “And what do you know of BDSM, Mr. Warren? I mean, truly…”

  Henry wasn’t laughing. “A lot more than you probably figure I do.”

  Monica stopped guffawing and rested her hands on her stomach. Her pie was still untouched. “Do you practice?”

  “No, I don’t practice.” Henry grabbed the half-empty wine bottle and refilled his glass, then Monica’s, a set look of determination flickering in the growing lantern light. “That’s definitely not the word I would use.”

  “And what word would you use?”

  This time he did not take her hand. Monica didn’t even know what he was doing beneath the table until she felt him touch her knee, his delectably warm palm and fingers curling around her bare skin. Shots of desire, both welcomed and menacing, plotted a wavering course up her skin and straight to her groin. Or maybe those were his fingers, treading dangerously close to her thighs and a warmth she kept to herself.

  She didn’t push him away. Nor did she tell him to stop or change his ways. Deep down Monica wanted him to touch her intimately, to know what her body felt like beneath his touch. God knew it felt good on her end.

  “Rather experienced.”

  Monica concentrated her breathing, a practice she hadn’t had to use since the days she was driven to the edge of orgasm but forbidden from indulging in it until her Dom said it was okay. Deep breathing meant she could stave off her pleasure… it also meant she could keep a level head. “So you tell me now. And here I thought you were bumbling along.”

  “No you didn’t. You never thought that. I told you, Monica, you know who I am. Do I really have to tell you who and what I am?”

  She shook her head, eyes darting between his stern visage and the hand tightening on her thigh. Just a little farther and I won’t be able to resist him anymore. The closer she let this man get to her intimately, the harder it became to deny him. “I know who you are. What surprises me is that you knew me so quickly. How many subs have you had?”

  Henry withdrew his hand and straightened his jacket, probably in lieu of having a tie to adjust. “Trick question. I’ve dallied with submissives, but I’ve never found the one for me.”

  “So you’re shopping around, and somehow think I can fulfill your needs.”

  “I don’t assume anything. All I know is that I am intrigued by you and want to get to know you better.”

  “Until now, I wasn’t sure what you meant by ‘get to know me.’ Now I think I do.”

  “As long as we’re on the same page.”

  “We’re not. As I told you, I’m not really ready for something like that again yet. And you still made the mistake of assuming I was up for patronage. Like a whore.”

  “Then what are those girls? Are they whores?”

  “Excuse you. What they want and what I want are completely different. They aren’t lifestyle submissives like I am. This is a job to them. I’m careful to not hire lifestyle women. They get too attached to their clients and cause a mess for me and them.”

  “That is wise.” Henry removed his hand, clenching it on top of the table. Still, neither of them ate their dessert. “You really do have a good head for business. It must help that you have a lot of experience in this line of living.”

  “If only you knew, Mr. Warren.” That was not an invitation. It is. It truly is. Monica pushed her plate of pie away. “Come. I want to show you something.” She stood up, pushed in her chair, and turned resolutely toward the door.

  He attempted to follow, but the look on his face expressed that he had no idea what her intentions were. “You already gave me such a great tour last time.”

  Monica touched the handle and looked over her shoulder. “Not of my room, I didn’t.”

  That certainly got his attention. Henry moved to hold the door open for her, and the moment Monica stepped back into the Château she told the maid to give the pie to anyone who wanted it, and that she and Henry were not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.

  What Henry thought of these instructions she could only imagine. On one hand she was inviting him into her private quarters, beyond her office, but on another it was not a sexual invitation, as much as she wished it could be. But there was something that she wanted Henry to see, and he could only see it in her chambers.

  They weren’t too far from the balcony. Just a few steps, and they were there, Monica unlocking the door that led to her private world.

  Whatever Henry initially thought of her room, he did not let on. It wasn’t anything special. A large canopy bed, some antique dark wood furniture, an
d erotic art that she collected over the past few months.

  “Everything you see in this room,” she said, pouring herself a glass of brandy and then offering another to Henry, “was procured in a short amount of time. When I left Jackson, I had only the clothes I wore on my back. I don’t know what he did with my old things. Maybe he threw them away. Maybe he created a shrine in which he venerates my image and vows to steal me back from my new life. I don’t care, but every time I look at these things, I’m reminded that I once had everything and then had nothing.”

  “It’s still impressive.”

  “I suppose. Most women couldn’t leave with nothing and build something like this up in such a short amount of time, true. I’m not most women. There are many different things about me that don’t hold true for other women I’ve met. ‘Normal’ women.”