The Dangerous Hero (11 page)

Had something happened to make her develop a shell to hide under? If so, what? Had the guy hurt her somehow?

There had been a curious incident this morning, early, when the morning sunlight had flooded into the bedroom where they lay, sleepily contemplating one another at the dawn of a new day. Viola had stretched and turned on her side toward him, flipping her long red hair back over her left shoulder. As she did so, he saw that there was a scar running above her collar bone, near her throat. It was about three inches long, a gash that must have required stitches. He hadn't noticed the scar during the night, but the room had been dark. "That looks nasty," he’d said, "how did you get it?"

She stiffened. To his surprise, her entire body went rigid under his hands. "What do you mean?"

Was she embarrassed by the scar? Maybe he shouldn't have called attention to it. Too late now. Gently, he reached out a finger towards her and stroked the spot. "Your scar. I’m sure you didn't have it nine years ago."

Her lids came down, hiding the expression in her eyes. "No," she agreed. "I acquired that more recently. It was—" there was the faintest pause "—an accident." She nodded. "I had an accident."

"What sort of accident? That looks as if something came dangerously close to cutting the artery in your throat."

Her eyes flicked to his, and for a moment he thought he saw panic there. Then she twisted her head, pulling away from him. Since she obviously didn't want him to finger the scar, he withdrew his hand. As he did, she tossed her head again so that some of her hair once again fell over her neck, partially hiding the mark. "I got cut with some glass. You’re right—I was lucky that no major blood vessels were involved."

"But how—"

"Car accident," she interrupted. "Flying glass from, you know, the shattered windshield."

That didn't compute. Windshields had been made with laminated shatter-proof glass for years. They didn’t break, spewing sharp glass chunks; they crumbled.

Viola’s eyes, usually so direct, avoided his, and her fingers on her right hand tightened on the sheet and began twisting the fabric nervously. These were classic signs that someone was lying.

Stephen was puzzled. He was good at reading lies. When he'd invented Bart, Queen Elizabeth's Inquisitor, he'd done some research on how real interrogators identify lies by body language and linguistic analysis. A well-trained, sensitive inquisitor could separate the lies from the truth if he was watchful and persistent enough. Bart was extremely good at it, but Bart, of course, was fictional.

He tried to think of a good reason why she might be lying. What else besides an accident could cause a scar like that? Maybe she'd had some sort of surgery that she didn't want to tell him about? Had she been ill? Maybe it was cosmetic? Maybe she'd had a birthmark or tattoo removed? She had commented on the tattoo he had on his ass—the one he'd gotten to support Kate after her husband's fatal accident—but he'd had that nine years ago and she'd remembered it. He didn't remember any ink on her, except for the fake tattoos that had washed off.

Trouble was, it didn't look like a surgical scar. It was too jagged.

Had someone attacked her?

His mind darkened at the thought of that. "You weren't badly hurt, I hope?"

She was still tense—he could see it in the way she held her body. But she met his gaze now as she said, "I spent a few days in the hospital. Dad took really good care of me—he was great."

That sounded sincere and direct. His impression that she was evading him faded. He must have been imagining things.

Let it go.
She would tell him when it felt right to her. He bent his head and kissed the mark thoroughly. "You could be covered with scars, and I’d still find you beautiful," he’d murmured, and her tension had melted away.

There had been other moments last night, too, when he thought he'd sensed her withdrawing from him. They had both been grappling a bit with the unexpectedly intense feelings produced by their reunion, and on top of that, he'd dropped the "I'm kinky" bomb on her. If she needed some distance to get her bearings, that seemed to him to be normal and sensible. He wasn’t sure exactly how he felt, either, about their intense, unexpected intimacy.

"I hate to say it," he said now, "but I’m going to have to hit the road soon. I need to get some work done this evening on my book."

Her expressive face showed her disappointment, but she smiled and said, "That’s okay. I’ve got some work to finish up before classes tomorrow, too."

"Besides, Rusty will be missing me."

"Who’s Rusty?"

"My golden retriever. I arranged for a neighbor to look in on him this weekend, to feed him and take him for walks, but he gets lonely if I’m gone for too long."

"You have a golden? I love goldens!"

"He’s a mutt, actually, but he obviously has a lot of golden retriever genes. No doubt he’ll slobber all over you when he meets you. You’re coming down to my place next weekend, right?"

"I’d love to. I think I’m intrepid enough to brave your threats about dungeons and torturers," she added with a smirk.

"Fear not, Rusty will protect you from the big bad dom."

"Where on the Cape do you live?" she asked.

"Brewster. Do you know it?"

"Sure. That’s not far from where my dad lives."

He nodded. He and Percy Quentin didn't agree on much, but they both liked living on the Cape. "The north side, where I live, is quieter and less touristy."

"Is it near the beach?"

"It’s on a hill overlooking the beach, and yes, my property runs down to the shore. Great location—there used to be a summer camp for kids on the property a few decades ago. The house is new, though—I had it built to my own specifications."

"Whoa, lucky you."

"It’s all due to Bartholomew Giles," he said, grinning. "If you like the place, you’ll have him to thank."

Chapter 10

It was a sunny
,
glorious afternoon as Viola drove over the bridge to Cape Cod the following Friday. At the end of the Cape Cod Canal she could see the hazy blue of the ocean sighing gently under a bank of puffy clouds. It was warm for April, and she had her window rolled down. She was dressed casually, in blue jeans and a green cotton shirt. Her hair, swinging loose over her shoulders, blew haphazardly in the wind.

The drive to the Cape was pleasant. Again, she thought how strange it was that Stephen had been living just a few miles from her father’s place for the past year. She had been down here multiple times since her she'd started teaching at Whittacre. Stephen had been so close, but she had never known he was here.

Of course, if she had known, it wouldn’t have made much difference. She had believed, after all, that he’d abandoned her nine years ago and never wanted to see her again.

It still bothered her a little, the way that had happened. She had wanted to confront her father, and hear his side of the story, but Percy was out west, fishing with some of his good friends.

She had spent some time during the week
researching BDSM. In addition to informational websites and discussion forums, she found blogs of people relating their daily experiences with their partners. Some of the things people were into felt familiar, others were things she had never considered but found intriguing, and a few were so bizarre that she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do them.

It didn’t take long to go into a state of information overload. Stephen had not been specific about what his desires were, and she was reluctant to examine her own too closely. Exciting or not, it made her uneasy.

Towards the end of the week, it had occurred to her that she could probably get some information from her outrageous cousin Diana, who had long referred to herself as a sexual adventuress. If anyone knew about the kinky stuff, she was sure it would be Diana Adams. Her cousin was disarmingly frank and open, too—there was nothing she wasn’t willing to talk about, and she never passed judgment.

"Oh my god, Vio, you’re dating someone in the scene? Dom or sub?"

"Well, I’m the one who’s going to get tied up and spanked."

"He knows what he’s doing, right? If you’re going to dabble in this, you need to make sure the guy knows how to play safely."

"It sounds as if he has plenty of experience. He emphasized the safe, sane and consensual thing."

"That’s good. How did you meet him? Was it through a trustworthy kinky community?"

"No. I knew him when I was a teenager. We recently encountered each other, and our nine year old lust-fest started right up again. I didn’t know he was kinky until he confessed it to me."

"Wow. Long-lost lovers?" Her cousin sounded wistful. "That’s so romantic. I wonder what ever happened to my high school honey. He was the love of my life."

"C’mon, Diana, how many times have I heard you say that about some guy you just met?"

"Yeah, I know, but it was really true about Francis. He spoiled me for everyone else. Sometimes I fantasize about hooking up with him again and everything being the same as it was."

"Well, everything’s not the same as it was. When I knew Stephen nine years ago, he hadn’t yet morphed into Sir Stephen from
The Story of O
."

"Whoa, Viola, I’m amazed that you’ve even heard of
The Story of O
."

"I’m a literature professor, remember?"

Diana laughed. She had a booming full-throated laugh, and it was impossible not to laugh with her. "So this guy, your personal Sir Stephen, does he have his own dungeon?"

"I hope not," Viola had said, thinking of Bartholomew Giles.

"If he doesn’t, you’ll probably have to go to clubs to try all the various equipment."

"Clubs?"

"BDSM clubs, yeah. A lot of cities have them. There are also private clubs, but you’ll need an invitation for those. Does this guy know people in the local scene?"

"Probably, but I am not interested in going to any clubs. Bedroom only for me, thank you very much."

"It kinda depends on the bedroom, girl. I suppose it could work if he’s installed a few hooks in the ceiling or on the walls, and maybe a spanking bench or a St Andrew’s Cross. He could keep all his whips and paddles and floggers in a cupboard, along with the gags and collars and harnesses, not to mention the butt plugs, nipple clamps, hot wax and the needles—"

"Okay, stop. Do you go to these kinky clubs?"

"I’ve been a few times. Not recently. The guy I’ve been seeing is vanilla. I had a sexy male slave for a few months once, but I got bored with the domme thing. I might like to try subbing, but I’ve never met anybody I trusted enough to top me." More soberly, her cousin added, "You should tell him what happened to you with that creep you married. I know it had nothing to do with sex, but it was traumatic and violent."

"I’d really rather not. I hate to talk about it, or even think about it."

"If he’s a safe, trustworthy dominant, he’ll want to know if there are any bombshells waiting to explode out of your past. Kink can be emotionally intense. Sometimes it triggers things. You should tell him. I’m serious."

"I’ll consider it. We haven’t done anything too twisted, so it’s not an issue right now. He promised we'd take it slowly."

"I know you want to put what happened behind you, but sometimes the only way to do that is to confront it, head on."

Viola had changed the subject, as she always did when memories of her marriage intruded. But she knew Diana was right, and not just because of the probability that sex with Stephen would get a little rough. Intimacy meant being honest, and she had already lied to him once when he’d asked her about the scar. She hadn't wanted her nightmare thoughts about Derek’s brutality to mar the joy with Stephen. So instead of explaining how her marriage had ended, she had invented a fictitious car accident.

The trouble was, she suspected he’d known she was making it up. She had never been a good liar. If he asked about it again, she'd have to tell him the truth.

She didn't allow herself to focus too much on these dark thoughts—it wasn't in her nature to stay gloomy for long. Her interaction during the week with Stephen had been upbeat and lighthearted. They had spoken on the phone a couple of times and exchanged texts and email, and he excelled at making her laugh. She was sure they were going to have fun together this weekend.

Viola wasn’t as familiar with this side of the Cape, and missed one turn before she found the quiet sloping road that led down toward the sea. She finally came to an old wooden sign that bore the name Silkwood. She turned into a sandy driveway that was covered with broken clam shells for traction.

The driveway curved around and came upon the house with a suddenness that startled her. It was on a hill overlooking the sea. It was modern—built since he had begun making money on his books, she guessed. A gray clapboard saltbox, it had huge plate-glass windows and solar panels in the sharply angled roof. A low deck encircled the entire house. Beyond the building stretched sand dunes and the wide blue arc of Cape Cod Bay.

There was a smaller structure at the end of the driveway. She presumed it was a garage. She wondered if he had more than one car, since his was parked outside that building. As she maneuvered her plebeian Honda beside his spiffy sports car, Stephen appeared on the deck. He smiled and waved. He was clad in cutoff blue jeans, a gray sweat shirt, and a pair of battered running shoes.

He vaulted over the railing of the deck and landed easily below in the sand. When she climbed out of her car he was there at her side, holding open the door. She noticed a wealth of tiny details at once: the warmth in his green eyes, the dark sprinkles of hair on his forearms where his sleeves were rolled up, the strong, sculpted muscles in his powerful legs.