Branded Sanctuary
Branded Sanctuary
Book 7 in the Nature of Desire series.
Chloe has always been a creature of joy and laughter. Since a brutal attack nearly a year ago, the trauma she experienced has gotten worse. She has started hiding from her life, even putting up walls between herself and those she cares about most. During a panic attack one night, she impulsively calls a number that she‟s had for many months.
Chloe met Brendan at her boss‟s wedding. With confidence and seduction, he easily steps into the role of helping her manage her fear. By the end of the long call, they‟ve indulged in some serious flirtation and mind-blowing phone sex—and she‟s feeling things she‟s buried for too long.
The problem is that Brendan is the perfect male submissive—and Chloe isn‟t wired for the D/s lifestyle. While their attraction is undeniable, Chloe doesn‟t know if she can be everything Brendan needs. As a submissive, Brendan would never ask her to be something she‟s not—even if it will break both of their hearts to turn away from how they feel about each other.
Reader Advisory: Contains very light female/female sensuality and a brief ménage
encounter.
An Ellora‟s Cave Romantica Publication
Branded Sanctuary
ISBN 9781419926587
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Branded Sanctuary Copyright © 2010 Joey W. Hill
Edited by Briana St. James
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication February 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora‟s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora‟s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author‟s imagination and used fictitiously.
BRANDED SANCTUARY
Joey W. Hill
Trademark Acknowledgments
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
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Cool Whip: Kraft General Foods, Inc.
Disneyland: Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Dom Perignon: Schieffelin & Co
Dove Promises: Mars, Incorporated
Fisher Price: Mattel, Inc.
Jeep: DaimlerChrysler Corporation
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Tinkerbell: Disney Enterprises, Inc
Twilight Zone: CBS Broadcasting Inc
Viagra: Pfizer Inc.
X-Men: Marvel Characters, Inc.
Y or YMCA: National Council of Young Men‟s Christian Associations of the United States of America non-profit corporation
With a wrenching scream, Chloe bolted out of her second bad dream of the night.
She stopped, swaying in the middle of the room, fists clenched in defense, body cringing in anticipation of pain. Blinking, she stared around her and slowly remembered that she‟d left candles burning on the dresser so she wouldn‟t wake into the clutches of darkness. The small floating votives, shaped like lotuses, were still burning in their rose glass bowl, which told her she‟d had the nightmare soon after her head hit the pillow.
Settling on the edge of the bed, her legs shaking, she scraped her hands through her hair and rocked herself for self-comfort. She needed to go to the bathroom, but the narrow doorway was a tunnel of darkness, and the mirror in there reflected the shadows from the flickering candle flame. Goddess, her heart wouldn‟t stop its racing, sending alarming sharp pains through her chest.
Twenty-four was a little young for a heart attack, considering she was in pretty good shape and had no history of heart disease. A panic attack was far more likely, since she was plagued by nightmares of a man trying to beat her to death while enjoying the hell out of it. Kicking her body, punching her face, overwhelming her and teaching her what being helpless really meant.
A lesson she‟d give anything to forget.
Up until it had happened, she‟d been a firm believer that all things happened for a reason. To teach lessons, increase wisdom, allow a karma exchange for all parties involved. But when something truly horrible happened, all that wonderful spiritualism sounded like New Age bullshit peddled by celebrities. She vacillated between anger, fear and something in between that kept her from doing anything to change it. That was the worst thing of all.
“Help me. Help me, please.” She didn‟t even realize she was saying it until the whisper grated on her ears. For the first time she wished she lived in town, not in the rural area outside Tampa, in a rundown rented two-bedroom farmhouse nestled in a tangle of trees, shrubs and flowering vines. At this second, she‟d give up her tiny garden and natural sanctuary for the comforting sounds of apartment neighbors watching late-night television or walking down the hallway from a nightshift job.
She was so tired. Marguerite, her boss, would see the shadows. It was one of the reasons Chloe called her “M” for short, because she was like the savvy head of MI-6.
Once dawn came—and please, let it come soon—maybe she should pull a flighty Chloe routine, call in and say she was staying home to hug trees all day to balance her chakras. Marguerite was way too smart for that as well. Chloe didn‟t ditch work. She loved being at Tea Leaves as much as she loved being at her own home. Or used to.
That was the crux of it, wasn‟t it? She was afraid of everything, enjoying nothing.
But she was being stupid. She could get through this.
Thump. Thump.
She scrambled over the bed with a startled cry, knocking over the side table, the lamp and the cell phone on it. When she landed in the debris, the night table jabbed into her hip as she rolled over it. Snatching up the lamp in nerveless fingers, she scooted back into the corner, her intestines coiled in painful knots.
No, no, no.
When the thump came again, her scattered mind struggled to place it. Gradually, over the momentous pounding of her heart, she realized it was the maple she hadn‟t cut back. It held one of her bird feeders. The wind was up and the feeder, as well as the branch holding it, were striking the backyard shed. A noise she‟d heard a hundred times.
She couldn‟t take it anymore. Her chest constricted as if it was being crushed, her breath strangling in her throat. This
was
a panic attack. Full blown, and while one part of her mind rationalized it, the rest of her was freaking out. As she let the lamp fall to her side and pushed the side table off her legs, her hand brushed a slip of paper that had fluttered to the floor when she knocked over the table. Glancing down, she saw the folded note that she‟d slid under the lamp base almost a year ago.
No, she couldn‟t. She really couldn‟t. She didn‟t even know him, for heaven‟s sake.
They‟d met at Marguerite‟s wedding. Yeah, they‟d hit it off, and she‟d meant to call him. She‟d kept the dang note by her bed, after all. Of course, she and Gen had really had their hands full, running Tea Leaves while Marguerite had been on her honeymoon. But when that had passed and he‟d tried to reach her a couple times, through Marguerite, she‟d given this and that bogus excuse not to get in touch. Every time she thought about calling, she felt hesitant. For the first time in her life.
At one time, she‟d been tremendously confident, buoyant with energy. She‟d reach out to anyone, sure that she‟d find something worthwhile in the contact. A gorgeous guy who‟d seemed interested in her? Hell, she would have been on the phone to him the next day, practically before he had his morning coffee.
Her mental argument against calling now didn‟t seem to matter. Her errant fingers had already flipped open her phone and were dialing. On the fourth ring, her good sense caught up. Oh Goddess. She was calling him at three in the morning.
He answered before she could jerk the phone from her ear and snap it closed.
“Hello?”
She cleared her throat. He‟d been asleep. Obviously. She should just hang up.
“Brendan?”
“Yeah?” Then a pause. “Chloe? Is this Chloe?”
“You recognize my voice?”
“Of course,” he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to wake out of a dead sleep and recognize the voice of someone he‟d only met once before. “I was hoping you‟d call. In fact”—a throaty chuckle, sensuous and warm—”I think I was dreaming about you.”
“I—I‟m sorry about the time. I didn‟t realize it was so late.” God, didn‟t that sound lame? Calling at ten o‟clock at night—that was a mistake. Calling at the freaking dawn-of-the-dead hour, she had to be a vampire not to know what time it was. Or a mental case. She‟d really liked this guy, and he was going to consider her completely nuts. But oh, his voice sounded good, all sleepy and sexy.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I‟m fine. I‟m just—” A sob caught in her throat. “I can‟t…I can‟t breathe, Brendan. I had a nightmare, and I‟m so sorry, I couldn‟t call Marguerite or Gen, I didn‟t want them to worry.” Her words tumbled over one another, making her incoherent even to herself. Maybe that was good. “Your number‟s been on my side table, and I just found it and…”
What did that say about her desperation, keeping his number by her bed? Of course, she didn‟t typically play coy with guys. So why was she worried about it now?
It wasn‟t like he was ever going to want to hear from Marguerite‟s crazy employee again. “I‟m sorry for waking you. I needed to hear another voice, and I‟ve done that, so—”
“Chloe.”
She stopped at the one word statement. A gentle poke into the flashing spokes of the running wheel of her mouth. “Y-yeah?”
“Okay. What would you like to talk about?”
She blinked at the dark opening to the bathroom that seemed to be watching her.
“Can you…can you just talk?”
“Sure. I‟ll be happy to do that.” Just like that, he started talking. “You know, I was still hoping you‟d call, even though I‟d decided you weren‟t as interested in me as I was in you.”
She stood up, made it two steps toward the bathroom. As she drew in some deep, calming breaths, she remembered the way he‟d looked at the wedding. Beautiful in his tuxedo, his dark hair brushed back but too silky and fine to prevent several tempting strands from tumbling over his forehead. A childhood friend of Marguerite‟s, he‟d walked Chloe‟s boss down the aisle to Tyler, then had taken a seat in the front pew next to Komal and Mr. Reynolds, more of Marguerite‟s eclectic assortment of chosen family.
The front row of chairs had been close enough to the altar that the tips of Brendan‟s polished shoes had nearly been under the hem of Chloe‟s dress as she stood up to do her part as bridesmaid.
She‟d noticed he had a lean swimmer‟s body. Marguerite said he swam every day and that he taught drama at the community college. She remembered the shades of gray, green and gold of his hazel eyes. She visualized them now as she took another step. She
really
needed to go to the bathroom.