Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (86 page)

Aliara watched the eager girl
move toward the wardrobe. “Already, Erik? I’m not even gone yet before you hand
my chains to my replacement.”

“It’s just for size, my love,”
Erik said. “We’ll see if it suits her.”

He took Aliara’s hand as though
she were a princess. Elise and the boy backed away as he led her to the center
of the set in small, careful steps.

Syria snapped shots as they moved
across the drop, not sure what else to do. Some power shift was occurring, but
she didn’t quite get it. She supposed that maybe the submissive had done her
time as the toy, and she could move up to the more exalted position of slave.
When Erik turned Aliara in a slow circle, his hand holding hers above her head,
Syria could see her back was smooth and unscarred.

The pair danced together in a
graceful movement, agonizingly slow due to the heels. Erik turned Aliara back
into him, balancing her on his arm as she leaned with an arched back to look up
at him, not unlike a ballerina might do with her cavalier. The shots were
gorgeous and arresting, the near-naked wraith in the arms of the handsome
businessman, the sort of scene that you could imagine in a painting or on the
cover of a book.

Erik was more affected by this
girl, his jaw tight as he gazed down on her. His hand moved to her waist, where
it tightened against the corset. “You will be missed,” he said, and lowered his
lips to her exposed throat just above the silver ring. Aliara’s eyes closed and
a tear squeezed out from her eye. Syria framed the shot tightly, Erik’s profile
against the girl, her uplifted face, and the sadness of their goodbye.

Malin came up behind her, and
Erik straightened from his position, the moment lost. Syria turned, and stifled
a gasp at the transformation. The luxurious hair was now in a thick braid, her
makeup deepened at her eyes and cheeks and lips to something dangerous,
powerful, and dark.

Her neck was encased in a leather
collar with four metal links. Three broad straps came down from it, one on
either side of her breasts, the other down the middle. They attached to a belt
that fit low on her hips. Below the belt hung several metal rings. Brown boots
came up over her knee. Otherwise, she was exposed.

Elise walked up and attached a
silver chain to either side of her neck. Malin grasped a chain in each hand and
whirled them so that they wrapped around her wrists and up her arm in an
incredible show of dexterity.

“You’ve been practicing,” Erik
said. He let go of Aliara. “Let’s get the two of you together one last time.”
He make sure Aliara was well balanced on her shoes and stepped away.

Malin covered the distance to the
fragile girl with a menacing stride. At first Aliara stood straight and firm,
but as Malin let the chain slide over her hand to the floor, the smaller girl
began to shrink back.

Syria snapped shots, unsure what
was happening, or what she’d gotten involved in. Malin looked like she was
about to devour Aliara whole. Was it an act? Or was this some sort of ritual as
a slave passed her position to another?

Erik stood next to her now,
poised and calm. Syria’s heart was thundering like a freight train, but she
didn’t dare ask him about anything. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Malin lifted her arm in the air,
her breast stretched high. Syria found the fear working to heighten the sexual
tension in her own body. She tried to concentrate on the job, but something
about the power struggle was moving her.

Malin wrapped the chain around
the girl, jerking her toward her. Aliara couldn’t hold her position in the
difficult shoes and began to crumple. Malin caught her, bending to lift her legs.
Together, they moved to the floor, the chains falling loose.

Aliara raised her hand to her
forehead in a swoon, and that was the first hint Syria got that this was
scripted. Malin tightened the chains again, forcing Aliara to arch her back.
With slow measured movements, Malin began to loosen the ties to the corset.

Next to her, Erik did not move or
change expression, but Syria began to feel the heat coming off him. So this is
what he liked, to watch these power struggles play out. Syria knelt to get away
from him, snapping images of the two, Malin tossing the corset away. She leaned
forward, capturing a small pale nipple in her mouth, and that’s when Syria
realized this was going to go well beyond a photo shoot.

She could call it off, say it
wasn’t the sort of thing she did. But the room was transfixed, Elise, the
wardrobe boy, Erik. Syria looked back at the two girls. Malin had pushed beyond
the wispy thong and was pressing fingers into Aliara.

The girl’s reaction was either
Oscar-worthy, or unscripted, because Aliara arched up, crying out, her legs
shuddering. Malin bent down, her tongue flicking between the girl’s folds, and
Aliara’s hands clenched, her body vibrating.

Syria could feel it now, each cry
of the girl going straight through her own body. She was wet and hot, the
camera heavy in her hands. She swallowed and glanced up at Erik to see if she
should continue shooting.

But he was watching her, not the
girls, his eyes penetrating. He wanted to see what Syria thought, how she
responded. Again, Syria realized, this was not for him, but for her. She set
the camera on the floor.

Aliara began a keening cry, an
orgasmic release. Syria closed her eyes, trying to maintain control. She would
not let Erik see what affected her. She would maintain her distance and her
professionalism. Collect her money. Finish the job. Never see these people
again.

After a few minutes, Erik said,
“Thank you girls, that was lovely.”

He helped Malin stand, and
scooped up Aliara to set her on the sofa and remove the difficult shoes. “This
is a good memory,” he said to her.

The team moved swiftly to restore
the girls to their normal clothes and pack up the wardrobe. Elise presented
Syria with another envelope, and as the party walked down the hall, Syria felt
both relief that it was over, and confusion about why Erik had chosen her for
this goodbye.

Syria looked over the images
later that day, particularly transfixed on the Aliara’s single tear as Erik
pressed his face into her neck. Did this girl love him? Syria didn’t get it.
Aliara had given up her life to this man, who obviously treated her well. But
how could she just do anything he said? What if she wanted to say “no” to
something?

She pushed away from her desk and
glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Tyson had some big job that night, a
Christmas-themed bachelorette party. Twenty girls and three strippers, he had
said. It should be winding down, although it was an hour earlier in Seattle.

The floorboards squeaked as she
headed to the kitchen. Between December 1 and 20, she allowed herself the vice
of energy drinks. The extra caffeine made her body zing and staying up was no
problem at all as long as she didn’t do it so often that she built up a
tolerance.

She’d just popped open the silver
can when “Santa Baby” started playing in the other room. Syria dashed down the
hall, stubbing her toe on a side table. She turned in circles, yelling, “Fuck
fuck fuck!” while yellow liquid flowed over her fingers, leaving drops along
the floor.

She snatched up the phone and
realized it was actually a video chat request. She hit “Accept” but instead of
Tyson’s face, she saw a ceiling, then the blur of movement.

At the same moment, a text
message came through from Mia. “If Tyson calls, don’t answer!!!”

Syria couldn’t even write her
back, trying to puzzle out the scene. “Tyson?” she asked.

A woman’s face filled the screen,
her blond hair puffing out from what had probably once been a glamorous updo.
Her mascara left black shadows below her eyes, and her vivid lipstick was a smear.

Syria’s stomach knotted. “Who are
you?”

“Are you Tyson’s girlfriend? He
has SO MANY girls in his contact list!” She flipped the phone around to the
room, but her high-pitch voice still carried. “Take a look at him now!”

Syria squinted at the scene. She
could see a fuzzy Santa hat, and boots, and an indistinct body, a blur of skin.
She should kill the call. Obviously this girl was going down the list, and had
hit Mia before getting to Syria, prompting the frantic text.

The phone walked closer to the
scene, one corner of the image obscured by a blurry pink finger. The autofocus
shifted, trying to lock in, then there he was, Tyson, naked and kneeling by a
sofa. Syria tried to make out some strange projections coming from around his
back, then realized something.

They were knees.

The phone jerked to the side
— the girl holding it was probably too drunk to be managing electronics
— and the owner of the knees came into view. The situation wasn’t clear,
but it looked a whole lot like part of Tyson, a naked part, based on his
pumping ass, was going up the girl’s skirt.

Was he having sex with her?

Syria began gulping gasps of air.
He was just a stripper. He wasn’t a prostitute.

Or he hadn’t been. Maybe the
money was good.

Just like the money for her
shoot.

Syria hit “end” to kill the
connection. She wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Things were never what they
seemed. But why had the drunk girl felt compelled to tattle?

Suddenly the energy drink seemed
like a really bad idea. Syria stuck the can on her desk and headed to her
bedroom, wiping her sticky hand on her jeans. But the silk fabric hanging on
the bed posts made her think of Tyson, pulling it down to tie her up. The
window was where he photographed her in her underwear, an intimacy both
frightening and seductive with someone she barely knew. She closed her eyes,
trying not to see him everywhere. She could not, would not overreact. But
things were so hard already. He wasn’t coming for Christmas. He was so far
away. And now, this. Even if he wasn’t actually having sex…

Syria had no grounds for fault
with him. She had been on stage, having sex with Mia in front of roomful
of strangers. Tyson had been nothing but encouraging, and when Syria had felt
remorse at what happened, he was perfect, understanding and careful. She had to
treat him the same.

She eased off her jeans and slid
into the covers. When “Santa Baby” played from the other room an hour later,
she was still awake, but she didn’t go answer the call.

Syria punched the buttons to
retrieve her voice mails on the studio line late the next morning, practically
noon. She’d slept fitfully, Tyson’s red velvet hat morphing into the Santa doll
her father had given her.

She had the money to go to India
now, but no idea how or where to look for him. She absently deleted two calls
by photo retouchers looking for work, jotted the number for someone looking for
a last-minute photo shoot for Christmas — not that she’d take the job
— she was backing off for a bit. Then she laid her pen down as Erik’s
satin voice came through the line.

“Syria, I’m in no hurry for the
images, but I would like to speak with you privately, if you have a moment. I
have a business proposition for you, and I think we would find it mutually
beneficial.”

She wrote down the number he gave
her and noted that it was different from the one he’d left before, which
connected to an office and a secretary.

The wheels of her chair squeaked
as she rolled backward and away from the desk. What sort of business
proposition could he possibly have for her? Maybe he had more women to
photograph, enough to keep her busy for a while. Heck, just a few more jobs
like this last one and she’d cover what she made in a year. Maybe he wanted his
own private photographer.

Syria paced the room, crossing
the set where she’d photographed the women yesterday and sitting on the Queen
Anne chair. For the first time in a long while, she wondered where she was
going and what she wanted out of her life. Five years ago, she’d been down and
out, flunking out of two medical programs. Luck struck in meeting Anthony, a
boudoir photographer who became her first lover and helped her discover her
talent for sexy imagery. He’d even helped her set up this studio before leaving
for Italy.

Since then, she’d been spinning
her wheels. She did all right, making enough money for most of the things she
wanted, and dating here and there. But Tyson had changed her again, and now she
hungered for more from her life, excitement, new people, unexpected
experiences.

She punched in Erik’s number,
trying to keep her stomach calm as it rang through.

He answered it himself. “Syria,
you got my message.” His voice was liquid and low.

“I did. What did you want to
speak about?”

“It’s not something that can be
discussed on the phone. Perhaps we could have dinner tonight?”

That sounded like a date. She
thought briefly of Tyson, but then corrected herself. This was business. “We
can’t just meet here?”

“If you agree to my plan, we
might feel like celebrating.”

“Well, all right.” Maybe he was
going to hire her full-time.

“I will send a car for you at
eight. Does that work?”

“All right. Fancy? Casual?”

“It will be a night out.”

“Got it.” Syria’s stomach
fluttered again.

“I will see you tonight, then,”
Erik said.

“Yes,” Syria said. “Tonight.

She dashed to her closet. Erik’s
girls had dressed awfully well even in the middle of the day, and he’d been in
a three-piece suit. A night out sounded even more formal.

She shifted through her meager
choices. It looked like shopping might be in order.

*

The sleek Mercedes arrived
promptly at eight. The driver knocked on her door, and Syria, who had been
watching from a window, counted to five before opening.

The older gentleman bowed,
tucking his hat under his arm. “I’m here to take you to Mr. Andrada.”

Syria turned to the side table.
“Let me grab my coat.” She picked up the faux sable wrap and a small black
purse, all purchases from that day. The driver took the fur piece and helped
her in it, covering her bare arms in the glimmering charcoal sheath dress.
She’d selected it because it was knee-length and simple, so she could almost
pass for an ordinary night out, but the shimmer gave it enough glamour to not
be out of place if they ended up some place where everyone was decked in actual
gowns.

The outfit had taken a small
chunk of that five thousand dollar check from yesterday, but splurging a little
had felt nice, just like buying the backdrop. She still had plenty for
traveling to India, and enough to go to Seattle, if seeing Tyson was still an
option. He’d texted her twice that day, random things about the weather and
some funny link he’d found. She didn’t know if he wasn’t aware of the video
chat from the party, or if he was trying to gloss over it.

She’d talk to him later.

The driver held the door to the
car. She peered in, but the back seat was empty.

“Mr. Andrada will be waiting for
you at La Fontaine,” he said.

Syria grinned up at him as she
took the seat. “Do you always read people’s minds?”

He smiled back, toothy and
genuine beneath the crinkle of hazel eyes. “I’ll never give away my trade
secrets.”

Syria tried to relax as they sped
across town. She’d been to La Fontaine once before, not as a patron, but to
photograph a bride in an elaborate lace nightgown in the exact spot where she
would be getting married a month later. She wanted the image as a wedding gift
for her groom, a lovely idea that Syria had suggested to other brides ever
since.

La Fontaine was both a five-star
restaurant and a venue for signature events. Syria did not photograph weddings,
but the photographers who got on the elite list of preferred vendors generally
were set, as those jobs could easily command twenty grand a piece.

Syria watched the gray winter
streets roll by. She’d never planned to become that sort of photographer,
although if she had the opportunity, it would make sense. Maybe whatever Erik
would offer could fast track her on that path.

The Mercedes pulled up beneath
the silver canopy of the restaurant entrance. Syria leaned forward. “Thank
you.”

“My pleasure.”

A valet opened her door, but
still, the driver came around the car and gave her a flourished bow.

Syria laughed. “Do you always bow
like that?”

“Only for pretty girls.”

“Will you be taking me home?”

He set his hat back on his head.
“That will be up to Mr. Andrada.”

Syria held out her hand. “It was
nice to meet you, Mr — I didn’t get your name.”

He grasped her fingers gently.
“Bill. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

The valet led Syria to the door
and opened it for her. A rush of warm air made the loose tendrils on her
forehead dance. Her hair was twisted up and pinned with an oversized comb. With
every step she feared it would tumble down. She was just one head bump away
from a comic explosion of curls.

A perfectly groomed concierge
stood behind a podium. “Ms. McMillan, I presume?” At her nod, he said, “Mr.
Andrada is expecting you.”

Syria had no idea how he kept up
with everyone, but perhaps at a place like this, the regulars took up most of
the tables, so the newcomers were easy to sort. He helped her out of her wrap
and passed it to a girl in a black dress.

Syria stared wide-eyed as he led
her through the expansive dining room, white linens stretched across the round
tables. Curved booths lined the walls. She’d only gotten a cursory glimpse of
the dining area last time as she was led through French doors to the ballroom
where weddings were held. This time, she tried to take in more of the soft blue
walls trimmed with gilt, the crystal chandeliers hanging at intervals from the
elaborate pressed-tin ceiling.

They crossed all the way through
the tables and to a back wall where gold curtains hung every few feet. The
concierge pulled one aside, revealing a private alcove with a table, two
chairs, and Erik, smiling over a glass of red wine. He stood to take her hand
and help her to her seat.

“Syria. So lovely you could make
it.” Erik pulled the chair out for her. “Every time I see you, it is such a
pleasure.”

Syria settled on the seat. The
table was elegantly set with glassware, wine, and a tray of cheeses. “It looks
amazing.”

“We’re just getting started.”
Erik sat across from her. “How are you with pheasant?”

“Sounds delicious.”

He nodded at the concierge. “Let
Bertram know.” The man stepped away and pulled the gold curtain closed.

“I’ve never been in a restaurant
with private dining like this,” Syria said.

“It’s one of the few in town.”

“You said you were visiting,”
Syria said, deciding not to mention when, since that had been at the
exhibition, and she’d just caused a scene that disrupted the solemnity of the
event.

“I am. You might be aware that
the Philippines is undergoing some strife.”

“You wanted to escape the
turmoil?”

“It seemed best for the moment.”

Syria wondered how involved he
might be, if he were part of the politics there, but she didn’t know enough
about it to ask the right questions. “So you will return eventually?”

“Perhaps.”

“Did your — did Aliara come
with you from there?”

“Yes. She has been with me for
five years.”

“Is she going to go back?”

“No, I have secured a visa for
her here.” A waiter appeared, left two small cups of soup, then silently
vanished through the curtain.

“And the other one — Malin.
Is she from the Philippines too?” Syria laid a napkin across her lap and
studied the silverware, reminding herself
outside, in
for the order to
use them. Still, she waited for Erik to pick up a fat round spoon before
selecting hers.

“No, I met her shortly after I
arrived. She was at the exhibition as well, although you may not have
recognized her.”

Syria thought through the women
who had been bound. A Japanese girl. A saucy blonde. And her friend Mia. “I
don’t remember her.”

“She was the one in black.”

“Oh, yes. Her face was covered.”

“That’s right.”

Syria bet she hadn’t liked that,
judging from her eagerness to get on the set with Aliara. But a submissive probably
had no right to complain.

They sipped the delicate soup,
creamy and full of flavors that seemed to separate and deepen as Syria savored
it. She could live like this.

The moment she set her spoon on
the saucer, the waiter arrived to spirit the dishes away. “They’re certainly
attentive,” Syria said.

“Until I tell them not to be,”
Erik said.

Syria’s heart hammered painfully.
What had he meant by that? That they could do things and not be seen or caught?

He reached over to squeeze her
wrist. “I did not mean to startle you. I just meant that our conversation would
not be overheard.” He sat back. “I think I mentioned I have a position open.”

Syria drew her eyebrows together
in confusion. “You didn’t mention a spot for a photographer, only your slave.”

“Yes, as my slave. It is the
highest position in my organization, including my business associates.”

“I assume you are not married.”

“I don’t have interest in a wife
at the moment. When I want children, I’ll reconsider. But for the moment, I
have the need of dedicated company, a woman I can count on to do exactly what I
ask of her with elegance, competency, and pleasure.”

“So, like a wife, but without her
own opinion.”

Erik smiled. “Ariana had many
opinions. She shared them with me often, and sometimes, loudly.”

Syria couldn’t imagine the tiny
girl shouting.

He leaned forward again, his
strong hands folded on the table. “I prefer this arrangement because I often
need an ally at business dinners, someone who can rise to any occasion that
presents itself, to possibly corroborate a story, agree about a point, or
provide a prearranged counterpoint to help in a discussion.”

“So a kinder, gentler second
opinion.”

He smiled, his teeth dazzling,
his dark eyes alight. “You are very bright, Syria.”

“Tell that to my teachers in
junior college.”

Erik took her hand again, running
a practiced thumb across her palm. The tingle from his touch zipped through her
body, settling in all the right places. Syria stuffed it down. He was an expert
at seduction, but she was determined to keep this all business. She withdrew
her hand.

“But what about in private?” she
asked. “Is Aliara still a wife then?”

“Yes, we are lovers. That is an
important element of the arrangement.”

“And you can make her have sex
with other people, like you did with Malin.”

“I don’t share her often, but it
was in her contract that I could pair her with other men or women.”

This was so crazy to Syria. “But
you have a submissive too.”

“Yes, Malin stays on as long as I
want her. She has an open contract, and either of us can terminate at any
time.”

“But there are even more, right?”

He hesitated. “Yes. I have a lot
of positions in my household.”

“And you have sex with them all?”

He laughed. “Not all.”

Syria fiddled with the corner of
the napkin. “I couldn’t picture you getting it on with Bill the driver.”

“Oh, Syria, you are even more
delightful than I thought. Your humor would be a great asset to some of the
stodgier dealings that complicate my life.”

Shock bolted through her as she
understood what he meant now. “You are asking me to be your slave?”

“I wanted to explore the option.”

“But you’ve only met me twice.”

“And both times I was completely
entranced by you.” He reached for her hand again, persistent.

She turned loose of the napkin
and let him hold her fingers in his cool grip. “What about Malin? She seems to
expect to take Aliara’s place.”

“She isn’t right. You saw her.
She’d too bold, too strong-willed. Plus, our play has gotten too rough, and she
is marked.”

“The scars on her back?”