Rich Tapestry (6 page)

“Right. I’ll come with you.”

Now I do have her attention. Freya is just staring at me, open-mouthed. Then, “You? You’ll come to the club with me? But why? You always said you’d hate it.”

Yeah, well…that hasn’t changed.
“Moral support, though you don’t seem to need that exactly. But more to the point, someone has to see you safely home.”

“I’ll be fine. Really.”

“Maybe you will. Christ, I hope so. But I’m coming anyway. It’ll make
me
feel better.”

She hugs me, and I manage to hug her back. It’s that or strangle her. And so the matter is settled to Freya’s satisfaction, if not to mine.

* * * *

For more than a month now I’ve been trying to convince Freya of the reckless folly of this course she’s set on. Twice a week we’ve been attending this club of hers, in the hope—if that’s quite the right word—of meeting Nicholas Hardisty. We have not encountered him yet, but on each occasion, I’m not sure which of us has been the most tense. Needless to say, my protests at this folly have not diminished, though I might as well have been talking to the wall for all the good it does.

Freya nudges me with her elbow before signing the words. “That’s him.”

She uses her head to direct my attention to the two men at the bar. Not that I’d have missed them in any case. I may not share her submissive tendencies, but I
am
female and I’m not blind. The men are both gorgeous, in a dark and frankly terrifying way.

“Who? Which one?” Not that it matters. They’re both as bad—or as good. They are talking quietly and seem quite unaware of the pair of us hovering by the door. I take this opportunity to do a quick appraisal. They both look tall, over six feet I’d say. One of the men has his back to us, but I can see he has dark brown hair that just reaches the collar of his cream-colored shirt. His jeans are black. The cream shirt is covering a well-defined set of biceps as he reaches for his drink, and his profile is strong, angular, as he turns slightly in our direction. His dark companion says something that clearly amuses him, because he smiles. And I get it. I do at last get why Freya is so fascinated by him. That smile is quite, quite devastating. He places his drink back on the bar and leans in again, now turning fully from us once more. I can’t help hoping, for Freya’s sake, that he’s the famous Nicholas Hardisty, as his companion looks even more sinister.

I nudge her with my elbow. “Which one is he?”

“The one with his back to us. I’m not sure who the other one is, but he looks nice too.”

Nice?
Not the word I would have used. Mr Hardisty’s friend has darker hair. It looks almost black in the subdued lighting of the bar, and his clothing is definitely unrelieved black. I’ve noticed that most of the men we’ve encountered on our twice weekly visits here waiting for Freya’s Mr Hardisty to deign to show up, seem to dress in black. It’s a sort of Dom uniform. On some of them it looks contrived, too obvious. On this particular Dom, it looks understated and sort of right.

The one dressed all in black looks the slimmer of the two, though there’s not much in it. He also seems to smile a lot, and his mouth is what I could only really describe as sensual. I can’t help feeling he looks vaguely familiar, though I’m not sure why. He is facing in our direction, though his attention is on his friend, so I am able to study him more carefully. Difficult to see the color of his eyes, but I’d expect them to be dark to go with the rest of his coloring. His hair is expertly styled, longer than average with a distinct waviness. His shirt shimmers slightly in the light. It might be silk. I have a sudden and unaccountable urge to run my fingers over it, to sample the sleek smooth texture.

Now, that would be foolhardy.

Where did that ridiculous notion come from? The last thing I’d want to be doing in a BDSM club is running my fingers across a Dom’s silk shirt. Christ, I’d probably be dangled naked from the ceiling… I gather my wits enough to turn to Freya, intent on making one last-ditch attempt to scotch this madness now.

My attempts to dissuade her fall on deaf ears. Freya seems to have completely lost any sense of self-preservation. What she might consider courage, I can only describe as bravado bordering on the utterly reckless. She is placing all her faith in Mr Hardisty’s powers of self-control, a confidence I can detect not a shred of evidence to support.

I try one last time to convince her to leave with me now, but she’s having none of it. She even has the gall to suggest I might like to spend a bit of time with Mr Hardisty’s dark friend. When Hell freezes over!

She touches my hand, her last attempt to reassure me. She draws a deep breath then walks slowly across the room to stop just a yard or so from the men. I can only watch from the doorway as Freya hesitates, clearly wondering how to attract Mr Hardisty’s attention, as he has his back to her. The dark and deadly one helps her out. He notices her, and his mouth moves, as he says something I can’t catch. Then his companion turns, and he looks Freya up and down appraisingly. She bows slightly and steps back from him respectfully. I have to admire her quiet dignity. I hope he does too.

Mr Dark and Deadly says something else then he glances in my direction. Our eyes meet briefly before I drop my gaze. I shuffle on the spot, acutely uncomfortable. Where the fuck have I seen that man before? A few seconds later I look over to the bar again. Nicholas Hardisty is still regarding Freya critically and in my view, at least she’s taking his scrutiny rather well. Somewhat on the small side, Freya is nevertheless pretty and curvy, and I would have thought she’d appeal nicely to a man of his obvious tastes—not like my more angular build. I’m the tall, skinny type, though I do have nice hair. Well, fairly nice. It’s blonde and straight enough not to require too much faffing about in a morning. For this evening’s little excursion, I’ve tied it back in a severe pony tail. That seemed sort of appropriate, though I can’t exactly say why.

Nicholas Hardisty has said something to Freya. Her reply is a simple nod. I assume introductions have been made. He catches the eye of the young man behind the bar and calls him over. They confer briefly before he turns once more to Freya and beckons her to him. She obeys immediately, and as she stands in front of him, I’m struck again by how vulnerable she looks—like a kitten sent out to fight a tiger. Moments later she nods to him, but his attention is already back on his companion.

Freya retraces her steps toward me, stopping only to hug me again.

She straightens and steps back. Her hands free, she has one last go at dismissing me, “Really, you can go. There’s no need for you to be hanging around here all evening.”

Before I can answer, she’s through the door and gone.

I’m left staring at the space where moments earlier Freya stood
.

What to do now? How long will she be? How long does it take to spank someone, as a rule?

I glance around me. There are plenty of spare seats, empty tables. I could just find a space in a corner out of the way and wait. I’m sure Freya will think to come back here looking for me, though we didn’t actually arrange anything. Or I could wait in the car… I dismiss that notion immediately—the key card is in Freya’s bag, safely locked up in the cloakroom along with both our phones. I don’t even have any cash on me, so I can’t get a drink from the bar. I wonder if they insist on cash—there might be some sort of tab system.

Feeling totally out of place, I head for a corner from where I can watch the door. I’ll try to spot Freya if she passes on her way out. I know she’s not going to leave without me. Personally, despite her apparent confidence, I doubt she’ll be in any shape to. I take a seat, arrange my long, jeans-clad legs in front of me, and commence a careful and detailed study of the mottled pattern on the carpet.

I see Nicholas Hardisty leaving the bar about five minutes after Freya. At least she won’t be kept waiting long. The other Dom orders another drink and settles down to read a newspaper, spreading the pages across the bar in front of him. I notice that he’s drinking mineral water, not that I’m paying attention. Not really.

A few other people come and go, though the place is fairly quiet for the first half hour or so I’m there. Then it starts to fill up, and I begin to appreciate how seriously overdressed I am. Most of the men are sedately attired, some in casual clothes and some in smarter outfits—business suits, sharp jackets, crisp shirts. Jeans are common, invariably black. The women, on the other hand, seem to wear very little at all, and what they do have on is either shiny, skimpy, or both. Black and red seem to be the colors of choice. My white vest and olive green skinny jeans stick out like a sore thumb, although my spiky-heeled pillar box red shoes do at least look the part. Despite the fuck-me heels, I’m conscious I’m attracting a few puzzled glances. I shrink farther back into my corner, carefully avoiding anyone’s eyes. I glance at my watch—Christ, Freya’s only been gone forty-five minutes. It seems like hours. Still, the spanking must be in full swing by now, so to speak. Can’t be much longer.

Another ten minutes creep past, and another five.

“Your membership card, please?”

I turn, startled. A middle-aged man in a smart business suit is leaning over me. He is smiling politely, but I don’t get the impression this is a friendly inquiry.

“Sorry, what was that?” I peer up at him, puzzled.

“Please may I see your membership card, miss?” He repeats his request, his hand outstretched to take possession of said card.

“Sorry, I’m not a member. I’m a guest. I came with my friend…”

“I see. Your guest pass then, please?”

Guest pass?
If Freya had any such thing, she certainly never gave it to me.

“I’m sorry, my friend must have that. She’s…” I stop, realizing I have absolutely no idea where in the building Freya is.

“All guests have to be signed in and a guest pass issued. And you must be accompanied by a member. This is a private club, you understand…?”

I nod. I do fully appreciate the nature of this establishment. “Yes, of course. I don’t intend to use any of the…” I’m not sure how to describe the many and various delights this place seems to offer but finally settle on the most innocuous word I can come up with. “Facilities. I’ll just wait here, if I may, until my friend comes back.”

The security man seems unimpressed by this suggestion. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to leave. Members only or guests with properly authorized passes.” He gestures me to precede him to the door. “Now, if you’d please…”

“But…” I have visions of being ejected forcibly from the building, made to sit outside for the next couple of hours or so, not even able to get into Freya’s car. The last I saw, it was raining outside—not my idea of a fun evening. Not that I’m exactly having a barrel of laughs right now, but at least it’s warm and dry in here. I decide to make one last attempt, surely he’ll see reason.

“Could I just wait here? I’m not bothering anyone and I won’t go anywhere else in the building.”

“Sorry, miss. Members only. Now please…” It’s obvious he’s not about to relent.

I start to get up.

“That won’t be necessary, Gerald. This lady is my guest.”

The voice interceding for me is rich, deep and reminds me of a particularly delightful twenty-five-year-old brandy that Connor once brought back when he was home on leave—decadent, expensive, potentially very bad for me. And quite unforgettable. I abandon any further attempt to fool myself. I recognize Daniel Riche, I remember him. His hair may be longer, he may not be sporting his stethoscope this evening, but there’s no mistaking that voice. I turn in the direction of this seductive tone, though I know instinctively what, who, I’m going to see. Sure enough, Mr Dark and Deadly is lowering himself into the empty chair opposite me. He smiles, his expression warm, friendly. Seductive. And above all, dangerous. He places two drinks on the table, shoving one across in my direction.

“Compliments of the house, Miss…?” He lifts one enquiring eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to introduce myself.

Flustered, I forget to tell him to please leave me alone. Even now, there’s a chance he may not recognize me.

“Jones. Summer Jones.”
That’s blown it.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Jones. Again.” He turns to the still hovering security guard. “We’ll be fine, Gerald. I’ll take care of Miss Jones from here.”

I’ll bet. Over my dead body! On reflection, I daresay that could be arranged…

“Very good, sir.” Gerald starts to back away, casting one last, suspicious look in my direction, not convinced I’m entirely harmless.

Alone at last—if you can be alone in a three-quarters full bar—my unnerving companion directs the full glare of his attention to me. He holds out his hand. It would be rude to refuse the gesture, so I take it and shake briefly. He smiles at me again.

“You may remember me. I’m Daniel Riche. Dan. We met previously.”

There’s absolutely no point now in pretending otherwise. I give in gracefully. “I, yes. You helped me. You were very kind. Did Bryan get better?” I’ve often wondered what happened to the poor badger. I suppose I could have phoned the zoo to ask, but I could never muster up the courage to contact Daniel Riche again. Now, it seems, the matter is out of my hands.

“He did. Bryan made a full recovery. I set him loose about a week later.” He settles back in his chair to regard me for a few moments. Then, “You’re a friend of Miss Stone’s, I understand?”

“Do you know Freya?” I have a sudden awful vision of Daniel Riche brandishing a ruler and instructing Freya to hold out her hands.

“Not personally. I know
of
her. You were just telling Gerald that you’re waiting for her, yes?”

I nod, fierce as I resist the urge to reach out and straighten the beer mats on the table. “Yes, I, she’s… I mean…” My voice trails off. I have no idea how to explain my presence here. In fairness, I’m having trouble explaining it to myself right now.

My companion’s lip quirks in a wry smile. “She might be a while yet. I doubt if Nick will be in any hurry to send her back to you.”