by Wicked Ties
He grabbed the nearest cordless phone and dialed 911. Morgan just shook her head.
While Brandon was right, she doubted the Houston police were going to be any more motivated to do something than the cops in L.A. Whoever this was hadn’t stolen anything, vandalized anything. He hadn’t hurt anyone—yet. Morgan could feel his anger building in the frequency of his contact, the fact that he’d followed her to Texas. And the police wouldn’t care what her gut told her.
Brandon hung up the phone. “They’ll be here soon.”
Morgan just shrugged . . . and tried to calm the panic bubbling inside her.
With nothing to do but wait, she started to shove the pictures back in the envelope. When she encountered an obstruction, she realized something else lay inside. She stuck her hand between the layers of paper, perplexed. Usually the disturbed bastard only sent pictures—disconcerting, disturbingly private pictures, but nothing more.
Not today.
Out of the benign brownish envelope, she yanked a scrap of paper with a scrawl of ugly black writing.
You belong to me. Only to me.
Morgan swallowed a huge lump of fear. Now he was communicating with her. To her. Conveying his possessiveness, his fury that she might have another man in her life. This lunatic didn’t know that Brandon was her half brother. He’d bought the cover story Brandon had concocted, as much to explain her presence at his house to others, as to warn off her overzealous psycho.
While the thought of being alone scared Morgan, part of her was glad Brandon had to leave tomorrow. If something happened to him, it wouldn’t be because her stalker had decided to get the “competition” out of the way. In the three weeks Brandon would be gone, she’d figure something out, find somewhere else to go, so that when he returned, she didn’t endanger the only one of Senator Ross’s sons to give a rip about her.
Maybe, like Reggie suggested before she left L.A., she needed a bodyguard . . .
“You really have no idea who this creep is?” Brandon growled, staring over her shoulder at the note.
“None.” She shook her head. “I wish I did. I have no disgruntled coworkers that I’m aware of. My ex-fiancé left me, not the other way around.”
“Someone who’s watched your show? A fan who doesn’t know where to draw the line?”
Morgan shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve received odd fan mail before, but nothing this threatening or privacy-invading.”
“I’m going to find someone to get to the bottom of this, kiddo. I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he vowed.
At times like this, Morgan wondered how she and Brandon were descended from the same loins as Senator Ross’s other sons. They were nothing like the man and his other greedy, power-hungry offspring.
“Damn it,” he cursed suddenly into the silence. “I wish like hell I didn’t have to go tomorrow. The car is picking me up at o-five hundred, and the timing couldn’t be worse. Shit! Uncle Sam can be a demanding mistress.”
Morgan didn’t know exactly what Brandon did; he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. From things he’d said in the three years since he’d found the skeleton in their father’s closet and tracked her down, she’d guessed he was in Intelligence. She had no idea who for.
“If you hate the job so much, and you want to run for office as badly as I know you do, why don’t you just do it?”
For the first time she could remember, Brandon wouldn’t meet her gaze. He turned away, fists clenching.
He unclenched them with obvious effort, then said, “I can’t.”
THE following day, Morgan dropped down into a wrought-iron chair at a little sidewalk café in a quaint cluster of unique shops. The February afternoon hung thick, lazy, and surprisingly sultry all around. Fighting off exhaustion after a nearly sleepless night, she glanced at her watch. Three o’clock. She’d made good time on her drive from Houston. Master J should be here very soon.
Her stomach tightened at the thought.
That wasn’t the only reason, though. She also felt eyes on her, watching, assessing, probing. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She looked around, scanned the crowd. Nothing.
Morgan took a deep breath, trying to quell her uneasiness. It wasn’t hard to imagine that if a psycho would follow her from Los Angeles to Houston, he’d go the extra mile to trail her to Lafayette. She was probably safe sitting here in the middle of a sunny public square, but if he recognized her, he’d see her with Master J and make assumptions that would make him even angrier than the appearance that she was marrying Brandon. Then when night fell, and she was alone in Brandon’s house . . .
No, she couldn’t think that now. She would have to keep this all business, so that if her stalker identified her and watched this meeting, he wouldn’t assume there was anything sexual between her and Master J.
She adjusted the scarf and hat to make sure they completely covered her hair and pushed the sunglasses up on her face. Maybe she was being paranoid. No one should be able to recognize her like this. Maybe after this interview, she would slip away to that cozy European-looking bed and breakfast she’d seen on her way into town and catch up on sleep so she could figure out how to shake this stalker.
A waiter came by with a wide smile, white teeth stark against his ebony skin. Morgan did her best to smile back as she ordered iced tea.
Once he’d gone, she tugged the boxy, lightweight coat she’d dragged out of Brandon’s closet down over her hips and flipped up the collar. The waiter arrived with her tea. She checked her watch again. Five after three. She’d give Master J another few minutes. Sitting here in the open, vulnerable to the sick man who’d been following her . . . suddenly it struck her as very unwise.
“You must be Morgan.”
The deep whisper came from behind her, delivered right in her ear. His warm breath cascaded down the side of her neck, and she gave an involuntary shiver.
She started, turned, stunned anyone had been able to sneak up on her, as jumpy as she was. But he’d been utterly silent.
And he was breathtakingly gorgeous.
Thick, dark hair teased his broad forehead. An angular jaw and cleft chin dusted with a five o’clock shadow shouted his masculinity with all the subtlety of a sonic boom. His wide mouth curled up with an expression that looked half smile, half challenge. But, oh, his eyes. They captured her. Accented by a sweep of black brows, those knowing eyes of his watched her, as if he could see deep inside her. As if he knew all her secrets.
Allowing her gaze to wander south didn’t help tame her pulse, either. Master J stood about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a body of well-honed muscle evident under a tight black T-shirt that made her think of a mountain with its solid, quiet permanence. No one could move a mountain. No one was going to move this man either, unless he wanted to be moved.
Just staring at him jolted her with attraction and a healthy dose of lust.
Thank goodness their time alone would be limited to this one meeting in public. Otherwise, Morgan didn’t think she could be responsible for her behavior.
She swallowed, trying to find her voice. “Yes, I’m Morgan.”
When she stuck out her hand, he didn’t just shake it. Too simple. Tangling his gaze with hers, he bent and brought her hand to his mouth, placing a kiss on her fingers.
Oh, dear God . . . Fire raced up her arm, turning her heartbeat into a staccato chug. He lingered, a hot breath caressing the back of her hand, his fingertips teasing the sensitive center of her palm. Tingles burst across her skin, up her arm.
His effect on her didn’t end there. Instead, the impact of his presence, his touch, dove deep inside her, where an ache began to pulse gently between her legs. As if her clit needed to announce the fact that her libido wanted to get naked with this man.
Business, business! The demand chased itself in her head.
With a discreet tug, Morgan pulled her hand free. Master J smiled as he sat beside her—rather than across—and scooted his chair a few inches closer. She tri
ed to ignore her awareness of his thigh brushing hers, the tingling under her skin.
“Thank you for meeting me here, Mr . . . what would you like me to call you, since I don’t know your name?”
That grin seemed to taunt her with her own uncertainty and his wicked knowledge of their forthcoming sexual discussion. “For now, just call me sir.”
“Okay. Yes, sir.”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, Morgan realized how sexual they sounded. How sexual he’d intended they sound. Not just deferential, though they were that, too. But around Master J, she just couldn’t seem to muster enough air to power her voice beyond a husky murmur.
What would it be like to call him sir in private?
Despite the dark sunglasses shielding her, his dark eyes seemed to dance with the knowledge of her every thought, every sinful feeling, as he held her gaze, as if he could read the desire all over her face.
Morgan used the untouched tea in front of her as an excuse to look away and scoured her brain for a safe, neutral topic.
Hard to do that when she’d invited him here to talk about sex.
“So, according to the bio I received about you, you’re in the personal security business. A bodyguard?”
“Exactly.” He shrugged those deliciously massive shoulders. “I guard a lot of politicians and their families, diplomats, an occasional athlete.”
“You meet a lot of interesting people, I’m sure. Do you work with celebrities?” she asked.
A hint of humor curved his wide mouth to something nearing a smile. “Too flaky. Politicians are liars, but at least you know what to expect. You Hollywood types are either paranoid, self-absorbed, or as psycho as the people stalking you. No thanks.”
Morgan couldn’t decide if she was annoyed or amused. “I’m none of the above.”
“Give it time.” He winked.
Incorrigible described him perfectly. A hint of arrogance laced with a healthy dose of sex appeal and teasing humor. The mixture went down real smooth, thanks to his flirtation skills and a hint of Southern charm. No doubt, he was lethal to a woman’s common sense. Morgan swallowed.
The waiter came by, and Master J ordered a cup of thick Louisiana chicory coffee. She shuddered when the waiter brought it to their table moments later.
“Tell me more about your show.” His words should have been an invitation, but Morgan heard the subtle command in them. Not harsh, not driving. But his voice held a note of steel—one that made her stomach tighten . . . and her womb clench.
“Turn Me On combines interviews and facts to explore various facets of sexual life for both established couples and the newly dating, from the vanilla to the way out there. Last season, I did a show one week about sex etiquette on a first date, another about ‘friends with benefits,’ then followed it up with couples who had tattoo fantasies. This will be my second season, and I was thrilled to be renewed. Since the network provides cable programming geared toward women and couples, I think it’s a perfect fit.”
“Hmm. Tell me about this season’s shows.”
Again, another subtle command. “Well, we’re still at the ideas stage, but we’re definitely pursuing shows about boudoir photography, couples massage, erotic finger painting and—”
“And Dominance and submission.”
Morgan swallowed. She’d been caught up in her enthusiasm for the show and almost forgotten they were going to discuss that topic. The topic that fueled her shameful late-night fantasies.
“Yes.”
He quirked a dark brow at her expectantly, somehow managing to look sharp, displeased, and nonthreatening all at once.
Puzzled, Morgan stared. What did he want?
“Yes, sir,” she ventured.
His smile dazzled, rewarded. “Very nice.”
“I thought such forms of address were reserved for one’s . . .”
“Submissive? Frequently, but you contacted me for a quick lesson or two. I thought it best to start with a hint of the dynamic and see how you do with it.” He leaned forward, an elbow braced on the table. His gaze poured directly into her, molten and unrelenting. “Do you understand what it means to submit to a man? Completely surrender?”
Morgan tried to suck in a breath, stunned to find it ragged beyond her control. His eyes flared hot with approval.
“Th-this isn’t about me,” she argued breathlessly. “I just need to relate the concept to the—”
“How can you relate without a taste of it, cher? A little nibble ain’t gonna hurt you.” The smile he flashed her could only be termed pure sin. “You might even like it.”
That’s exactly what Morgan was afraid of.
She did her best to send him an expression that was all business. “It doesn’t matter if I like it. After all, I managed to finish taping the show about couples’ tattoo fantasies successfully without ever getting a tattoo myself. It’s all about understanding why it’s important to them.”
“Paying someone to imprint a design on your skin while your significant other watches is a lot less personal than being blindfolded, naked, and bound for your master’s pleasure.”
With a gulp, Morgan realized he was right. Worse, that nibble he offered was starting to sound like a feast to her neglected sex drive.
No. This time around, Adam was offering the apple of temptation to Eve, and she was smart enough to know better. If she seemed interested, it was because he filled her head with suggestion. He was hard to ignore. She wasn’t depraved, wasn’t the kind of woman to get off on letting a bully chain her down and tell her what to do. The idea was just novel. She had a purely intellectual curiosity in the concept. Okay, mostly intellectual. That didn’t mean she should indulge.
Even if Master J looked like the kind of man who could have invented the concept of pleasure.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
Myself.
She looked away from his intent gaze. “It’s just not my thing.”
That displeased brow snapped up again. His glare filled with impatient demand.
“Sir,” she added, almost against her will.
His expression softened. “In the few minutes I’ve been sitting here, your skin has flushed, the heartbeat pulsing at your neck has accelerated, and your nipples have hardened. I know the scent of arousal. I can smell yours. I’m going to ask you again; what are you afraid of ?”
Shock punched her gut. Oh, my . . . She’d been as easy to read as a book. Easier, even. Morgan closed her eyes, drew in a breath. Then another. Her mind raced.
“Don’t think too hard,” he cautioned. “Lying invokes punishment.”
“Punishment? You have no right!” she returned in a heated whisper.
He stared for a long moment. “I told you yesterday online that a relationship of this sort requires a great deal of trust. I trusted that you were who you said you were. In order to earn a little of your trust, I allowed your production assistant access to some very personal information about me. That’s right. No need to look surprised. I knew the minute he started calling around about me. If I hadn’t advised my clubs in advance that they could give your guy information, no one would have even said good morning to Reggie, much less confirmed the details of my sex life.”
He shifted in his seat, brushing his thigh against hers again, and then lifted her chin with his finger. Morgan melted—a combination of shock and arousal, topped with the delicious thrill of Master J’s overwhelming sex appeal.
“Trust,” he murmured. “I placed some in you. If we’re going to work together, you need to have a bit in me. I’m not going to ravish you or force you or any other melodramatic scenario running through your head. If I’m going to help you understand the psychology of Dominance and submission, you have to have enough trust to be honest with me. And with yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Now, for the last time, why are you afraid of the idea of submitting?”
A loaded ques
tion, one she didn’t know how to answer. Rejection. Being ridiculed again. Shame. Fear of pain and degradation. A stronger fear that she’d love being mastered by someone like him and be unable to deal with the shame and guilt.
She couldn’t admit that—not any of it. She might as well hand him her soul on a silver platter.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please . . .”
Master J’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed. For some crazy reason, she hated letting him down. She owed him nothing, damn it. Nothing at all. He was an interview subject, and he’d be compensated for his time and information. Period.
Fighting the dueling impulses of resisting until hell froze over and giving in, it took Morgan a few moments to realize that their waiter had returned to refill Master J’s coffee. Then the young guy looked at her with a confounded sort of smile.
“Some dude paid me twenty bucks to give this to you.”
He handed her a regular mailing envelope—with very familiar handwriting.
The waiter departed.
Her heart started pounding. The speed of light had nothing on her as she opened the envelope to find a handful of red rose petals with soft centers and dead edges. They spilled through her fingers, and she gasped, feeling all blood drain from her face.
“No . . .” She looked around the sunny square with panic. “No!”
“Morgan?” Master J questioned, voice laced with concern.
She looked at him with wild eyes. “He’s here. Here. Followed me. Oh, my . . . I have to go.” She sucked in a scared breath and clenched trembling fists. “Hide. Now!”
Master J grabbed her by the shoulders. “Who is here and where are you going?”
Shrugging free of his touch, she looked around frantically for any face that might be dangerous or familiar. Most other chairs in the square sat empty, as did a few nearby windows and balconies. Shadowed store-fronts held any number of people, but they all looked like natives. The little coffeehouse’s other patrons either took little notice of her or cared even less. Like every other time her stalker had approached, he’d been as silent as smoke, as invisible as air. Panic ate at her gut.