TYCOON_His Money. His Harley. His Control.

by Maggie Carpenter

  "No, I guess I don't."

  "How many hours a day do you write?"

  "I write all the time, but I need to."

  "So you don't get out much?"

  "Not generally, and I should, but there's always a chapter in my head. There's a class I go to once a week that keeps me sane, otherwise I'd probably never leave this place."

  "A class?"

  "It's a kind of fitness class, but we do all sorts of things. It's basically having fun in tights."

  "Fun in tights. That sounds like a book title."

  "You're right. I'll remember that."

  "Why did you decide to become an author rather than a journalist?"

  "When my parents died I couldn't face going to college. That's when I started my first book. I suppose it was an escape. It helped me get through that awful time, and I just never stopped. Then it evolved and I started incorporating all the juicy stuff. That's when my novels started selling."

  She finished with a heavy yawn, and though he wanted to admit he knew she was M.T. Austen, and he'd read The Biker Who Spanked Me, he decided to wait until morning. It was late, she was tired, and closing his eyes he realized he was too.

  "Goodnight, Mary, Mary, and I promise I'll be here in the morning."

  "Thank you, Mason. Goodnight. Happy dreams."

  It was a minute later he felt Pete jump on the bed, and as the little dog found a spot and settled in, Mason felt a wave of serenity. At that moment, everything was right in his world.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Across town, sitting on his new leather couch deep in thought, George was sipping a glass of scotch. No way was he going to go through the hassle of being arrested, and no way in hell was he going to jail. There was a great deal to plan, but he was getting there. Slipping out of town wouldn't be easy, and he was cursing himself for dropping so much money into his condo and furniture. It was money he'd never see again, but over time he could always make more. He was good at that. There were always people wanting his unique expertise.

  It was the weekend. That gave him time to get organized and buy a new car from a street dealer. It would take weeks for the paperwork to go through, and by that time he'd be in another state. But he had one major problem. He needed money, and he needed it quick. The answer was obvious. Mason.

  He knew Mason's house was a no go. Not only was it surrounded by a high fence and even higher gates, Mason had installed the latest in hi-tech security, and it didn't help there was a housekeeper who came and went. On top of that, it was in Lakeview Estates. The community had patrols, and the well-heeled neighbors watched out for each other.

  "The safe in his office," George muttered. "He keeps cash in that damn safe, but how the hell can I get to it? Even if I could find the combination and open it when he's out of the office, that fucking Tom is always around. If I could get Tom out of the building somehow…wait! I'm such an idiot. Of course! All I have to do is wait until it's just Mason and me working late on Monday."

  On Mondays, Mason invariably worked into the evening, and George would have to stay.

  "He's a tough guy," George grunted, downing another swallow of scotch. "How can I persuade him to do what I say? Of course," he murmured, as the plan began to form in his head. "I know exactly how to do this."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mary was woken by the glorious feel of Mason's hands gently kneading her breasts. As he slid inside her, he kissed her neck, whispering promises of the many decadent things he had in store. Moving one hand against her pussy, he rode her forward into a powerful climax, and sinking into the post-orgasmic bliss she drifted back to sleep. But that wasn't enough for her Dominant biker God. When she stirred a second time, he was lapping at her clit, refusing to stop until she was at the edge. When she gripped the sheets and held her breath, he moved up her body, plunged into her depths, and pummeled her pussy until they were both lost in euphoric seizures.

  "You know I can't possibly keep this up," she panted. "I won't be able to write. I'll be too exhausted."

  "And here I thought I was giving you inspiration."

  "You are, you absolutely are."

  "Do you write fantasies, or only describe what you've actually experienced."

  "Both."

  "Pick one of your novels and I'll make everything a reality."

  "You're not serious!"

  "You're right! What am I saying? I take that back. I'll go through them one-by-one and bring every scene to life."

  "Oh! My! God!"

  "Was that a good, oh my God, or a bad, oh my God?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Speaking of your books," he said hesitantly, wondering if it was a good time to tell her he'd read The Biker Who Spanked Me, "there's something I need to—"

  "Can we not talk about them? Pretty please? Maybe later, but right now I just want to lie here quietly for a few minutes."

  "I know what you mean," he said with a contented sigh. "I'm glad it's Sunday. You've totally worn me out. I wouldn't be able to go to work even if I wanted to, which I would, because I thoroughly enjoy my work."

  "Which is?"

  "I told you, I make deals. When you give me the details about your novels, I'll give you the details about my business, but—this isn't right. I have to tell you something."

  "Is it heavy?"

  "Kind of."

  "Please can it wait? I'm feeling so yummy right now. Tell me over breakfast."

  "Okay. Over breakfast. Does this house have a backyard?"

  "A small one, why?"

  "Pete. I need to let him out or take him for a walk."

  "He can go out. My yard is a bit awkward to get to, but it's completely fenced. There's a door off that short hallway to the left that will take you into the garage, then there's another door that opens into the yard."

  "Sounds like this place was remodeled by someone who didn't know what they were doing."

  "I agree but it's never bothered me. I kind of like that it's so private back there. No-one can reach it except through the house. Sometimes it's inconvenient, but it's worth it."

  "Privacy. We need to take what we can get these days."

  "Exactly. I'll shower while you're gone. I have a feeling if we did that together we'd go another round. I'm not sure I'd survive."

  "With your divine body I wouldn't be able to resist."

  "I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

  "Yep, but with you I mean it."

  "Beast," she giggled, punching his arm.

  "Open a door, sweetheart, and you can bet I'll walk through it!"

  During their marathon morning love-making, Pete had jumped to the floor, and as Mason climbed from the bed, the terrier began barking and spinning around in circles.

  "I love it when he does that," Mary laughed. "He gets so excited."

  "Come on champ," Mason said, pulling on his jeans. "Let's go out."

  Charging ahead of him, Pete bolted from the room, and knowing exactly where to go, he stopped by the door at the end of a short passage. Just as Mary described, it led into the garage, and seeing the second door he moved past her car and opened it. Pete ran past him, but Mason was flabbergasted. The small backyard was a Zen garden. Smiling beatifically, a large chubby Buddha sat center stage near a small pond. Behind him concrete steps led to a decorative oriental bridge that didn't cross anything, yet looked as if it belonged there. Mason had paid plenty for his landscaping, but it was standard fare. Pete was sniffing around one of several flowerbeds, and Mason wondered what blossoms the spring would produce.

  "Come on, Pete, come back inside."

  The terrier sprinted across the wet grass and into the garage.

  "Look at your feet. I need a rag or a towel to wipe them off."

  There was a bedraggled brown hand-towel on top of the nearby washing machine, and as he picked it up, he saw evidence of previous use for the same reason.

  "I think this is just for you," he said with a grin as Pete lifted his front paw. "There. That's bette
r."

  Leaving the garage, while Pete trotted into the kitchen, Mason returned to her bedroom. She had finished with the bathroom and was already dressed.

  "Your garden is fantastic. I'll bet you designed it."

  "I did."

  "I knew it. You're so talented," he said, stepping up to her and taking her in his arms. "Gorgeous, smart, funny, and like I said, so talented. Do you think you could create something like that in a much bigger space?"

  "Sure. I'd love to."

  "I'd pay you."

  "That would be weird."

  "No, it would be the right thing to do. Your time and talent have value."

  "I'll take it out in trade," she said with a wink. "You can use my toothbrush if you want. I'm going to make us some breakfast. Bacon and eggs?"

  "That sounds great."

  "Are you going to let me go?"

  "I'm thinking about it, but I'm not particularly inclined to do that. I'm seriously considering throwing you on the bed and—"

  "Ravaging me again?"

  "Yeah, but it's just wishful thinking," he chuckled. "I'll see you in the kitchen."

  "I might have a surprise for you."

  "Besides the bacon and eggs?"

  "Uh-huh, but I said might. I'm still thinking about it."

  As she slipped from his arms, he walked into the small bathroom and stepped into the shower. Turning on the faucets, he discovered the water pressure was low, and used to his oversized stall, he banged his elbow on the tiled wall as he turned around. As much as he liked her quaint home, he was looking forward to taking her to his house above the lake.

  Turning off the water and opening the stall door, he saw the clean towel she'd left for him. As he rubbed himself dry, he decided to ask her over for the afternoon. She could check out his backyard, and hopefully she'd agree to stick around for dinner. Pulling on his jeans, he moved back into the bedroom, finished dressing, and with the tempting aroma of frying bacon tickling his nostrils, he headed to the kitchen.

  "I'm not surprised to find you here," he said to Pete as he walked in, finding the dog staring hopefully up at Mary at the stove. "You think she's going to give you some of my breakfast?"

  "I believe that's his plan," she replied, placing the bacon strips on a paper towel. "There's something on the table for you. Not the one in the living room, the small one over there. I'm still not sure about it, but…"

  Glancing across at the table, he spied The Biker Who Spanked Me, and as he walked slowly forward, he cringed. He'd tried to tell her he knew who she was, and he'd read one of her books, but he should have tried harder.

  "Your silence is scary," she said softly, moving up behind him. "Should I not have—"

  "Mary, remember I said there was something I needed to tell you, and you asked me to wait?"

  "Yes. What about it?"

  "I've read this book, and it's terrific. Really terrific."

  "What? When? Wait, did you know I wrote it?"

  "I wasn't sure at the time, but I figured it out."

  "Whoa! Stop! Let me get this straight. We spent all day and night together, and you never thought to tell me you knew my pen name and read one of my books? This isn't good," she muttered, a dark frown creasing her brow. "How did you find out I'm M.T. Austen?"

  "That's what I'm trying to tell you. When you told me you're a novelist, I thought it was great, but I couldn't find any books under your name. Then I spotted an M.T. Austen, and I thought—I hoped—it might be you.The Biker Who Spanked Me grabbed me. I mean, how could it not? A little while later it became obvious."

  "And you didn't mention this because…?"

  "The first time I tried to say something, you didn't want to talk about your books. The second time, this morning, you asked me to wait until breakfast. Mary, why are you looking at me like that? I didn't mean to hide anything from you."

  "But you did, and you…you…"

  "I what?"

  "Searched me out. What the fuck?"

  "Why are you getting so upset? If you had known my last name, you would have googled me."

  "Uh, I don't know, maybe."

  "Of course you would have. This is no different."

  "It is, it's very different. Only a couple of very close friends know I'm M.T. Austen. I can't stand the thought that you read it and I was in the dark. Fuck!"

  "Do you hear what you're saying? We talked about dominance and submission—at length, if you recall. We've already made it over that speed bump."

  "Then why am I feeling so weirded out?"

  "I don't know, but I've been dying to tell you what a wonderful writer you are. I got totally drawn into the plot and the characters. There's no reason for you to be embarrassed."

  "I feel the way I feel," she exclaimed, the pitch and volume of her voice rising. "You should have told me, or you should have waited for me to tell you before searching me out on Amazon. I'm totally freaking out right now."

  "I can see that, and forgive me for saying so, but I think you're overreacting. I can understand you might be a bit upset, but you know I tried to tell you. Twice!"

  "But how do I know that? How do I know that for sure?"

  "I'm not in the habit of making things up," he said tersely. "I didn't have to tell you at all, but that's who I am."

  "No! You go behind a person's back, that's who you are."

  "You're making way too much of this," he continued, doing his best to stay calm. "I came across your book, and when I read it I thought it was great, but—"

  "But nothing," she shouted, cutting him off. "Just stop. You're only repeating yourself and it's not helping."

  "I'm truly sorry I've upset you. It was not my intention."

  "People upset people all the time and it's never their intention. I shot you. I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention."

  "Let me ask you something. If you hadn't put this book here, and we were having breakfast right now and I was telling you that I'd read it and how great it was, would you be reacting like this?"

  She paused, then dropping her eyes she turned and walked away.

  "Mary, would you answer the question, please?"

  "I don't know what the answer is. I'm totally discombobulated. Upside down. Confused. I need to think."

  "What can I do to make this better?"

  "I don't know. I don't know anything. I don't even know why this is freaking me out so much."

  "Do you want to talk about that?"

  "No, I…"

  "What?" he asked softly, taking a step towards her.

  "There are only two other people in my life who know what I write. My sister doesn't even know, and you're the first man I wanted to share it with. This was a big fucking deal, Mason, a really big fucking deal, and now it's just weird."

  As Mason dropped his eyes to the floor and ran his fingers through his hair, he happened to notice Pete. He was lying down with his head between his paws and his ears were back. He wasn't used to loud emotional scenes, and Mason realized he wasn't either. Any arguments he had were business related, and rarely did they get heated.

  "Okay, I'm going to leave. You think about things. When you're ready to talk again, you can call me, and I mean any time. Two-o'clock in the morning if you need to, but before I go," he said soberly, pausing to take a breath, "last night was one of the best nights I've had in a long time, maybe ever, and I hope it was for you too. I really like you, and I care about you. I care about what happens to you. I'm sorry if my curiosity messed things up. Maybe you can think of a way I can make it right. I hope so. I truly do."

  She'd been staring down at the bacon strips, and as she turned her head to face him, he could see she was fighting back the tears.

  "Mary, is there anything else you want to say before I leave?"

  As he stared at her crinkled face, and looked into her sad, confused eyes, he prayed she'd run over to him, cry in his shoulder, and they'd kiss and make up.

  But she didn't.

  Pecking her on the forehead, he scooped
up Pete, walked through the house and out to his car. Never had he felt so disappointed, but he'd make it right. He had to.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The door slammed shut, and a moment later Mary heard Mason's car roar down the street. Still standing at the stove, with heavy tears spilling down her cheeks, she berated herself for being overly sensitive, then cursed him for not telling her sooner.

  "Was he right? Have I totally screwed everything up? I can't stand this!"

  Leaving the half-cooked breakfast, she strode into her bedroom, flopped on her bed, and sobbed into a pillow. It smelled like him, and rolling on her back she stared at the ceiling. She needed to talk to someone. She needed a voice of reason.

  "Addie," she muttered. "I can talk to Addie."

  Addie Wilde was a fellow author and Facebook friend. Though they'd never met, over the years they'd developed a camaraderie. Fetching her laptop, she settled back on her bed, powered it up, entered Facebook, and opening up her private messages, she reached out to her friend.

  Addie? Are you around?

  Hey, Mary. What's up?

  I met this really neat guy, he stayed over and it was fantastic, but this morning he told me he'd read one of my books.

  Cool!

  You think that's cool?

  Sure. Don't you?

  Not exactly. In fact I got really upset. He didn't tell me until this morning.

  I don't understand. What's the problem?

  It freaked me out.

  Why?

  Because we'd made a deal. I was going to tell him about my books, then he was going to tell me about his work.

  But he figured it out on his own and he told you. I still don't see the problem.

  I had already told him I wrote naughty novels, and we talked about the dom/sub thing, but I didn't tell him my author name. He searched me out and bought one of my books. Don't you think that's creepy?

  No! Not at all. If I met someone I really liked and he said he was an author, I'd move heaven and earth to find one of his books and read it.

  You would?

  Wouldn't you? Didn't you cruise the internet and check this guy out?