Emma Holly (11 page)

Dark wood beams stretched across the ceiling, easily twelve feet above her head. In spite of its simplicity, the room conveyed a sense of luxury beyond any place she'd lived. A bathroom led off to the left, which she decided to explore once she was alone.

"I restarted that for you," B.G. said, pointing to the plasma screen that hung above her bed. The squiggles that moved inside it made her think of an Etch A Sketch made of light. "There's a camera behind it, of course, but the picture, or what's going to be a picture, is a computer model of a complex system playing out in a chaotic way."

"Well, hey," Charity said, "how silly of me not to guess!"

B.G. neither laughed nor took offense. Instead, he stepped to her left and put his hand on her shoulder.

A zing moved through her at the touch, followed by a wash of warmth.

Whoa
, she thought, unsettled by the effect.
Two guys with more than their share of chemistry
.

"Weather is an example of a complex chaotic system," he explained. "It obeys the laws of classic physics, but there are too many variables interacting with one another to do more than guess what the future holds. Worse, the science is only accurate in the short term. The smallest change can cascade unpredictably. That's why you get the old adage about a butterfly beating its wings in Brazil and causing a typhoon in Hong Kong.

"Some people," he added, "claim that chaos is a metaphor for life. Although unpredictable, life obeys certain rules: genetics, psychology, things like that. Presumably, each event is part of a grander scheme, as is the case with chaos. However, it's difficult to see life's pattern until it's complete. Humans are
in
the forest rather than above the trees."

"So if that blip of light were me, that jump to the right it just made might be my decision to come here rather than stay home?"

"It might," B.G. said and smiled angelically. "Dare I conclude that you're accepting our invitation? You understand, I trust, that the same rules that apply to the others apply to you. You are forbidden to achieve release unless I say."

"I understand. I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

Abruptly more devil than angel, B.G. rubbed his hands palm to palm. "In that case, I should share the rest of the rules. First, when your presence is not required, you are free to wander the house at will. Any area that is barred to you will be locked, with the exception of the other residents' rooms. Out of politeness, I ask you not to enter them."

"Will do," Charity agreed. "Can I ask, am I Mosswood's only guest?"

"We have additional
residents
," he said. "People like Maurice who perform useful jobs. You, however, are the only guest per se. Consequently, all our focus will be on you. Everyone is dedicated to seeing that you, above all, have an extraordinary experience."

"Because you like studying desire."

B.G. gave her his courtly nod. "Speaking of our residents: Should you happen to meet a pretty blonde in the hall, and should she inquire about the nature of your desires, be sure you don't answer her. Sylvia is a marvelous masseuse, but not well suited for playing games. I try not to let her participate unless she's under my or Eric's supervision."

"Okay," Charity said, mystified. "I won't tell any pretty blondes what I want."

"Thank you," B.G. said, "and now, if I might make a request of you?"

She used a shrug to cover an inexplicable shiver.

He stepped around to face her, one hand on her shoulder while the other came to rest gently on her hip.

For a second, she thought they were going to dance. Though the hand that touched her hip was little more than a weight on her leather corset, the double contact made her feel as if a strong sexual current were coursing across her body.

Seeming oblivious to the effect, B.G. bent to look into her eyes. "May I kiss you, Charity?"

She had to shake her brain before it would work. "You're asking permission?"

"I believe in choice."

"When it suits you, you mean."

His lips curved faintly. "Even when it doesn't. The sweetest gifts are given freely."

"You're the strangest physicist I ever met."

"I'm the only physicist you've met, but that doesn't answer my question."

"Well, I'm supposed to say
no
, aren't I? I'm supposed to play hard to get."

"Only if playing hard to get is a personal kink. We want to rouse
you
, Charity, to intensify your longing to its highest pitch."

The hand that had warmed her shoulder rose to stroke her cheek, the caress as light as if she were made of glass. His eyes held a keenness she didn't understand, a hunger she suspected had nothing to do with her. She was willing to bet he had a personal kink, or a hidden agenda. That was the watch spring that wound him up.

As if he had all the time in the world, he swept the tip of his index finger across the upper lashes of her left eye. The tickle made her shiver again.

"A kiss," he said, "is merely an aperitif. It whets the appetite rather than sates it."

"And if I don't want a kiss?"

"Then you should refuse. What you shouldn't do is lie. That puts me out of patience. If you are too eager to please, you cannot be pleased yourself. Of course"—he treated her to another brilliant smile—"I do not foresee that being frank will be a trial for you."

"No," she agreed with a sheepish grin of her own. "I'm pretty much honest to a fault."

"What do you wish then? A sampling of what's to come or a few more hours to prepare yourself?"

She thought—but mostly that a person could get addicted to making him smile.

"What the hell," she said. "Lay one on me."

"I must lift you," he said, "or this won't be comfortable."

She thought he meant lift her in his arms. Instead, he carried her to the console desk and sat her on top.

Despite its height, she was still a little short for him. He braced his hands on the polished ebony beside her hips.

With his nearness, his heat became a subtle, fascinating force. She couldn't swear to it, but he seemed warmer than he'd been before.

"Relax," he said like a hypnotist. "You have nothing to prove to me."

His words made her neck unkink. She let him kiss her, his lips brushing softly back and forth. They were smooth lips, sensitive and resilient. She was getting used to the feel of them when his arm came around her back. His palm slid slowly up her corseted back.

"Relax," he crooned again, adding a lick to the whisper of his lips.

Her own lips seemed to part by themselves. The kiss came closer, his fingers kneading her tingling scalp.

He pushed his tongue far enough to tickle her upper palate. He tasted good, like a clean spring berry.

When her tongue followed his back, he sucked it, gently, but with a delicious, alternating pressure that

made her insides steam. It was as if he knew the secret rhythm her nerves answered to. She couldn't care how wet she grew. This kiss was worth getting hot and bothered for.

Just as she decided she had to have more, he broke it off.

"You're very sweet," he said, his voice too soft to tell if he was hoarse. "Next time I'll kiss you deeper.

Next time I'll invite you to kiss me in your own style."

She couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare into the unwavering intensity of his dark-brown eyes.

What went through his head, this former boy genius? What did it mean to him that he could reduce a woman to melted caramel with a single kiss—and a PG-rated kiss at that!

"I would like to tempt you a little more," he said, still within kissing range. "Why don't you pull off that charming dress and follow me down the hall? I'm going
to
see to Maurice."

"Is that an order?"

He shook his head.

"Then I'd like to."

The way his lips quirked at her answer made her think she'd revealed more than she should.

The
mystery room was B.G.'s favorite: a reproduction of the fictional Sherlock Holmes's study. Period novels lent gravitas to the paperbacks on the shelves, a deerstalker cap hung from the coatrack, and an old wooden index file held cards on real and imaginary crimes. The librarian who'd compiled them had been a firecracker. She was married now, but whenever B.G. came here, he recalled her stay with him.

He didn't miss her precisely, but he remembered. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't manage to miss more people who were gone.

But he couldn't contemplate that now. Charity had followed him in.

"This is so cool!" she exclaimed as Maurice hopped up from the windowseat where he'd been reading yet another Dashiell Hammett. Maurice loved vintage detective yarns. B.G. suspected Maurice began to pretend he was a private eye the moment he came here. Charity seemed not to have quite the chauffeur's escapist bent, but B.G. was curious to see them interact. Would any handsome man attract her? Or did she have preferences? It was to get these and other answers that he'd put them in proximity.

Now the pair stared at each other, Charity in her fetching leather corset, Maurice in his street clothes.

The chauffeur looked ten years younger out of uniform.

Then again, both seemed ages younger than B.G.—an effect due more to mind-set than chronology.

Like the blip on Charity's screen, she and Maurice lived in the blinding, beautiful thick of life. B.G. envied them a bit, although he wouldn't have traded places.

"You look different," Charity said, nodding at Maurice's blue jeans and white T-shirt.

"You look great," Maurice answered back.

His grin was more than male appreciation.
Why, he's fond of her already
, B.G. thought. It seemed a good sign that she was likeable. Sadly, psychological profiles could only predict so much. One did have to test the subject in person.

"Chair," B.G. said gently, reminding Maurice why they were here. "It's time to pay for your indulgence."

Maurice knew which chair he meant, a thronelike Victorian with deep-red upholstery. He looked toward it, then at Charity.

"I'm helping," she said cheerfully.

Maurice grunted at that and sat. Her ability to unsettle him seemed promising as well. A woman who made men nervous was a woman hard to forget.

"If you'd be kind enough to do the honors," B.G. said to her, "those leather straps need buckling."

Charity secured Maurice's wrists, then his ankles. She didn't tease or playact, simply fastened him in.

B.G. couldn't tell if she was embarrassed to exercise her gift for seduction in front of him, or if she wished to lighten Maurice's penance.
If
the latter was her wish, she failed. As always, the procedure excited his chauffeur. His face grew flushed and his blue jeans tight. Through it all, Charity's manner remained friendly and casual.

Not a bondage fancier then. At least, not a fancier of binding others.

"Is that it?" she asked, turning to him.

"The last set fastens around the crotch."

This elicited a slight increase in pupil size.

"Okey-doke," she said as if it hadn't happened. She crouched down to find the straps behind the seat, momentarily distracting him with a spectacular view of her ass.

"Third hole," he stipulated once he recovered. "Maurice prefers this one tight."

She hesitated when Maurice's big, blunt hands clenched on the chair. From where B.G. stood, he bore all the signs of full arousal. She must have doubted she could fit the straps around his cock. "I don't want to hurt you," she said worriedly.

B.G. found he liked her for addressing their prisoner, unnecessary though it was. Maurice, on the other hand, wasn't concerned with the finer points of safe sex-play.

"Do it," he urged her hoarsely. "It's what I need."

To B.G.'s pleasure, she looked to him for confirmation.

"He won't be hurt. Maurice doesn't trust his control. He won't be able to enjoy his punishment unless he knows he can't gratify himself."

At this, a full-fledged blush rose in her cheeks. Pretending to ignore the reaction, he filed it away for future study. While Charity finished buckling the last constraint—accompanied by the pleasant music of the chauffeur's groans—B.G. pulled a wafer-thin cell phone from his breast pocket.

"Michael," he said into the phone, "please play tape thirteen in the mystery room."

Nothing if not efficient, Mosswood's head of sexual surveillance took only seconds to have the screen rising from the floor in front of Maurice. The tape would run for an hour, a compilation of the chauffeur's favorite scenes, most of which involved various costumes. By the time it finished, he'd be as frustrated as before he'd indulged himself with their newest guest.

Maurice struggled in his bonds as it began to play, as though the explicit pictures posed a literal danger.

Charity stared at him goggle-eyed.

"Let's leave him to his entertainment," B.G. said to her. "His reactions will be less inhibited if he's alone."

"
Less
inhibited?" she said with a little gasp, then shook herself. "You're sure he'll be okay?"

"A member of my staff will come for him the minute he hits the call button on the chair." He curled his hand around her elbow. "Come. I'm sure you'd like to
get
out of that corset. Maybe rest a bit and settle in?"