Keepsake (31 page)

“Hey,” he said. “I can see that something’s wrong.”

“Look, you’re one of my closest friends in the scene.” She gave a brittle laugh. “And people in the scene are just about my
only friends these days.”

“They’re good people,” Justin said.

“I know. Why do all the vanilla people think we’re
so
goddamn weird?”

“Not to mention sick, sadistic, and dangerous,” he said dryly.

“It enrages me sometimes. I’ve always thought it was a lot healthier to acknowledge one’s dark places and to find harmless
ways to play with these sides of ourselves than it is to hide, repress, and deny all that stuff.”

“That’s for sure.”

“People are hurting each other daily in all sorts of underhanded ways—and denying it. Yet they see a dominant carefully and
lovingly disciplining a submissive and they say it’s perverted.”

Justin said nothing. She knew he’d heard it before—everybody in the scene shared similar opinions. She wasn’t saying anything
new… just putting off what she’d really come here to say. And to ask.

“Justin, we’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve seen you play. I know your partners trust you. I know you’ve earned and
deserve the faith they have in you.”

He looked at her, obviously curious about where this was leading.

Spit it out, for chrissake.
“I want to submit to someone. No. I need to submit. Not as any kind of permanent thing. Just once. You’re the only person
I can think of whom I trust enough to dom me.”

“You honor me,” he said quietly.

“Will you do it?”

He took her hands in his. She thought he looked a little bemused, yet, at the same time, pleased. “If you’re sure it’s what
you really want.”

“It’s—it’s necessary.” She glanced around the dungeon, noting the bondage frame, the shackles. Funny how different it looked
knowing that she would be yielding—instead of taking—control. She could see where it could be a scary place, after all.

Rina,
she thought.

“Isobelle?”

“I’m all right.” She managed a smile. “I’d like to do it now, today, if that’s all right with you.”

“Look, let’s take it slowly, okay? Let’s just sit here for a while and relax.” He leaned back and put one arm around her shoulders.
“I’m trying to get used to the idea that one of the dearest and most beautiful dominas I know is asking me to top her,” he
said wryly. “Would you like to tell me why?”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

He looked at her with those brown eyes and considered. “Am I correct in assuming that there’s some kind of emotional conflict
going on?”

Isobelle laughed shortly. “You could say that, yes.”

He nodded. “In that case, we’ll plan for an emotional safeword as well as a physical one. If things get too heavy for you,
use it and I’ll stop instantly.”

“Of course. But—” she hesitated “—I don’t want a novice submissive’s scene. I want it severe. As intense as you can give,
without causing harm.”

“So what you’re asking for is a punishment. There’s something you’re feeling guilty about, and you’d like me to give you a
means of expiation.”

She laughed nervously. “You’re very wise, old friend, but let’s not psychoanalyze this too much.”

“Fair enough. Tell me one more thing, though. You couldn’t just switch with Charlie?”

“No. I don’t trust him to know what he’s doing as a dominant. Besides,” she paused, “I’m not sure how much longer I’m going
to be seeing Charlie.”

His eyes grew speculative. “It’s not working?”

She clenched her fists. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged.

He caught her hand in his. “Now, huh?”

“If you have the time and the energy.”

“Now is fine. I should tell you, though—it might change things between us.”

“Meaning what?”

Justin’s dark eyes twinkled at her. “Meaning if Charlie’s on the way out, and there’s any chance that you can play the submissive
role, I’m not sure I want to agree to ‘just once.’”

He was telling her that he could be more than just her friend. She shook her head slowly, touched. But he didn’t know her,
not really. He didn’t know what he was asking. “I can’t think about that now,” she said.

“No problem.” He switched to a more businesslike tone. “I have to ask you a few practical questions.”

“Yeah, I know the drill. Okay, I’m healthy, I have no heart problems, no asthma, no back or other skeletal problems, no HIV
or other STDs, no phobias that I know of. My safeword is simply ‘safeword,’ which is easiest to remember and unmistakable.
Nylon rope is fine, so are leather cuffs. I know you won’t use metal handcuffs or anything else that could cause nerve damage
in the wrists. Any kind of whips, canes, and paddles are okay. Oh, and that reminds me—”

“Whoa.” He put one hand over her mouth. “Easy. I can see it’s not going to be easy for you to give up control.”

He released her, and she smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I do trust you.”

“Keep repeating that and you’ll begin to believe it deep down, where it counts.”

She drew a deep breath. “Justin, I don’t want you to think that I—”

“Shh. Intellectual trust is different from physical trust. The second I
will
have to earn.”

She liked him very much, she thought. Too bad she hadn’t chosen a man like Justin in the first place.

“When I was a kid, I had fantasies of submission,” she admitted. “I still have them, sometimes. But I’ve always been afraid
of it. Afraid to give up that control.” She laughed shortly. “The men I’ve trusted have almost always betrayed me.”

“Well, you’ll find no betrayal here.” He rose and walked to a wooden chest on the far side of the room. He rummaged inside
it then lifted something out. When he returned Isobelle could see that it was a slave collar made of soft black leather. “This
will help with the transition into power exchange,” he said, showing her the locking mechanism and the small padlock that
would fit through the rings. “It should fit you.” He held it out. “Put it on.”

Isobelle could feel her heartbeat quicken. She’d put collars on many male submissives, but she’d never worn one herself. “Help
me,” she said as she struggled to secure the end flaps of the collar.

He shook his head. “I want you to do it yourself. Donning that collar means you’re surrendering your power, your control.
It symbolizes your submission. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Beneath her apprehension she was beginning to feel aroused. Maybe it would be okay, after all. Justin was very
experienced. He knew exactly what to do, what to say.

She got the collar fastened and, with trembling fingers, she slipped the padlock through the metal loops and clicked it closed.
There was a tiny brass key in the bottom of the lock. She removed it and put it solemnly into the palm of his outstretched
hand.

From the chest Justin removed a pair of leather wrist cuffs and a matching pair of ankle cuffs. She saw him checking the cuffs,
and she knew he would gauge each item he used for its safety and be meticulously careful in every way. Within reach was a
medical pack that was undoubtedly well-stocked with first-aid supplies.

He also extracted several paddles, cats, a riding crop, and a cane from the wooden chest. He saw her looking at them and raised
an eyebrow. “One would think you’d never seen toys like these before.”

“Let’s just say I’ve never seen them in precisely the way I’m seeing them now!”

Grinning, Justin took her hand and pulled her to her feet. He led her over to the standing bondage frame that dominated the
center of the room. It was constructed of sturdy two-by-fours that appeared to have been sunk into the concrete floor about
six feet apart. There was a crossbar overhead, higher than a tall man could reach. Metal rings were set into the wood at several
intervals on the uprights and the crossbar. Thick nylon rope hung from several of the rings.

He took her face between his palms and gently kissed her lips. It felt nice, she thought.
Very
nice.

Then he stepped away from her and picked up the cuffs. “Wrists first.”

She suddenly felt vulnerable, helpless, and although she trusted him, scared.

But she was glad she felt these things… that she
could
feel them… that she was not—as she had feared—dead inside.

Rina,
she thought again, as Justin came toward her.

Her lover was with her again.

He’d been there every night this week.

But he left early in the morning. Invariably.

He was going to do it here, Morrow decided. In her apartment. Not during the night, of course, for obvious reasons. His instructions
were very clear on that.

He would wait until he was sure she was alone. Tomorrow morning would work just fine.

Gerald Morrow’s hunt for his new prey had brought him to the laundry room in the basement of her co-op apartment building.
Getting past security had been ludicrously easy, especially on a Friday night. He’d simply waited outside across the street
until he saw a large bunch of yuppie joggers headed inside, then quickly joined them. He’d dressed in nylon athletic shorts,
a T-shirt, and running shoes, so he melded right in. The security guard had barely given him a glance as he piled into the
elevator with his “friends.”

He’d then had the leisure to check various floors to get the layout of the place, the fire doors, and all the exits. The laundry
room had provided him with a change of clothing—jeans and a shirt taken from separate dryers.

He had also gotten the key to her apartment, which was an unexpected bonus. He had planned to lock-pick his way in—a particular
specialty of his. But in the course of checking the security desk in the lobby from the stairwell, he’d seen the guard leave
his post about an hour ago, probably to go to the can. The guard had taken the precaution of locking the lobby door and posting
a note to inform any resident who wanted to get in that he’d be back in five minutes. Morrow had quickly ducked in, pulled
open a few drawers, and found a supply of extra keys to most of the apartments. He’d located April Harrington’s and slipped
it into the pocket of his new jeans.

The guard oughta be fired.

The necessity to make it look like a convincing accident was what had made Morrow decide on her building. The trouble with
real accidents was that other people were frequently involved. In car accidents, for instance, either someone else besides
the Target was in the car, or you took the risk of injuring someone in another car (or a pedestrian, of course). Also, car
accidents were unpredictable. All too frequently the Target didn’t die. Especially with all these new cars equipped with air
bags—modern technology was putting a crimp in the car accident business for professional assassins.

In certain parts of the country you could force the Target off the road and over a cliff, which virtually assured the desired
outcome, but that didn’t work in New York City.

What the city did have in abundance were high buildings. Still, tossing somebody out of one without making it
obvious that they’d been pushed wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to accomplish.

Household accidents were Morrow’s particular favorite. They were common and believable. And since they happened indoors, when
the Target was alone, they were less risky and unlikely to go wrong.

They also allowed for personal contact. And for this case especially, personal contact was an intriguing possibility. The
Target was a lovely woman. The more he stalked her, the more attached to her he had grown.

April Harrington was going to die in a household accident. In her kitchen perhaps. Or her bathroom. People were oh-so-vulnerable
when they bathed.

Her bathroom. Yes. She would leave the world as naked as she had entered it.

As he gave a quick check to his equipment—gun, surgical gloves, nylon rope, and a few other items, Gerald Morrow savored the
thought.

“What are you doing?”

The voice was like the crack of a whip, and Kate leapt away from her grandfather’s bookshelves.

He snapped on the overhead lights, illuminating her in her nightgown, her feet bare, holding a volume that she’d just removed
from a high shelf in the library. It was one of Rina’s books, and she’d been checking it, and others, in hopes of finding
a computer diskette tucked between the pages.

Kate was spending the night at her grandfather’s. Her plan to search his penthouse apartment for the diskette last weekend
hadn’t worked out; he’d been indisposed and unable to see her. But tonight she’d come for dinner and together she and Granddad
had played Scrabble (she’d
beaten him, as usual), and then she’d yawned and said she was
so
tired and could she please sleep here instead of going home?

“I thought you were an intruder,” her grandfather snapped. “I was just about to summon the police.”

“I’m really sorry,” she said, closing the book. “I was trying to be extra quiet. I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

“Why are you in here? What are you looking for? Don’t you have better manners than to go poking around in people’s personal
things?”

He sounded really angry. Looked it, too. He got angry sometimes, she knew. But she didn’t think he’d ever been angry at her
before.

“I was just—” She hesitated, yelling inwardly at herself for not planning for this eventuality. “I couldn’t sleep. I needed
something to read.”

“I thought you were extremely tired, which was why you asked to stay here in the first place.”

“I was. I fell asleep and all, but then I, like, had a bad dream and woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. It was a really
nasty dream. A nightmare. I was scared and I kept tossing and turning and finally I got up and came downstairs.” Kate could
hear herself speaking too fast and she wondered if he was buying it. Granddad was usually so—so nice. He always smiled, gave
her hugs, listened to her, encouraged her. But now—

He came across the room toward her, and Kate tried her best to look innocent. Maybe she should just tell him what she was
really looking for? But April had ordered her not to tell anybody. For that matter, April had ordered her not to look, but
to leave that to the proper authorities.