Dangerously Bound (20 page)

“Sounds good. Think I’ll join you. I’ll meet you in the main room in a minute.”

“Sure.”

Mick turned to let himself through the glass-paned double doors that led to the largest
play area on the main floor of the house. The lights were even dimmer in there, red,
purple and amber lamps casting color and shadow in the room, which was a real dungeon
room with padded spanking benches, the big St. Andrew’s crosses that looked like giant
X
s made of wood, some of them freestanding in the center of the room and double-sided.
There were enormous bondage frames made of heavy wood in the Craftsman style, even
with the faux exposed rafters
mimicking those under the eaves of a Craftsman building’s roofline. There were other
pieces of equipment: chains hanging from the ceiling with thick iron spreader bars
or heavy leather cuffs attached, special thronelike chairs made for interrogation
scenes, cages lined with fur rugs. In between the equipment were comfortable seating
areas for those who wanted to watch and for aftercare use. A number of people were
already playing, and the room was filled with naked bodies and an air of wanting that
reminded him too sharply of what he’d needed to get away from.

But she’s not here.

No, it was just him, a club that was familiar enough for him to feel at home, a good
friend, and the girls he would play tonight to work some of this tension out of his
body, and hopefully his damn head.

Finn found him, drink in hand, and they chose a long sofa to sit on.

Finn raised his glass. “Cheers, mate.”

“Cheers.” Mick raised his glass in salute, then tipped it back and swallowed. “Damn
good Scotch,” he remarked.

“As always. Do you need another?”

“Not yet.”

His friend studied him for a moment. Even in the dusky colored light he could see
Finn’s piercing blue gaze searching his face.

“So,” Finn started.

“So,” Mick finished—or so he thought.

“So, you going to tell me about it?”

“Tell you about what?”

“Don’t try to bullshit me, mate. I’m the mind-fuck expert, remember? My psychology
degree has trained me to run circles around people’s minds.”

“Don’t even fucking consider crawling inside my head, old friend. You might not like
what you see in there.”

“Do you really think anything could shock me? And that’s starting to sound like whining,
if you don’t mind me saying so.” Finn raised a hand when Mick started to protest.
“Yes, I’m sure you do mind. Whatever. I say what I think. As you well know.”

“Don’t think I didn’t come here knowing that.”

“In which case you must have wanted to hear what I have to say.”

“Since it’s fucking inevitable,” Mick said, not even trying to keep the wry sarcasm
out of his voice.

“Damn right.” Finn leaned back and slung an arm across the back of the couch. “Shall
we dance around this a little more, or are you ready to spill?”

Mick blew out a breath, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, avoiding
Finn’s knowing gaze. “I hate this transparent communication shit sometimes, you know?”
he muttered.

“Then you shouldn’t have become a Dominant. Not in this circle, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Out with it. There’s no other way, mate.”

“Fuck.” He ran a hand back through his hair. “There’s this woman,” he began.

Finn’s grin was blissful. “Isn’t there always?”

“Yeah. But not like Allie. She’s the one who’s been haunting me since high school.
The one I can’t forget. She’s back in town after being gone . . . well, a long time.
Years. And she’s into it, the kink. Hard core. We’re playing. And it’s totally fucking
with my head.”

“Because you want her or because you don’t? And you don’t have to answer me. You’re
the one who has to know.”

Mick shook his head. “I don’t have that answer. I mean, of course I want her. Christ,
I’ve never wanted a woman as much. But ask me if I can give her what she wants? What
she needs?
That I can’t figure out. To be honest—hell, with myself, even—I just don’t know that
I’m up to it. What do I know about relationships? The last real one I had was with
her in high school.”

“Yeah, fucking pathetic. But from what you’ve told me, that was the real thing. Love,
right?”

“Yeah, it was,” he said, an edge of fierceness in his voice.

Love. Christ, he had loved her so damn much. It made his chest ache even now. He’d
carried it with him all these years. Carried
her
with him, unable to ever let her go.

He sipped his drink, his fingers flexing hard on the glass. “I thought some time and
distance would clarify things, but it hasn’t done a damn thing. I’ll have to deal
with it—with her—when I get home. I came here tonight to forget for a while.”

After several silent moments Mick turned around to look at Finn. His expression was
thoughtful.

“It’s your thing, you know, Mick. Your decision to make. I’m thinking maybe you’re
too much in your own head.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Finn grinned. “I know a good way to get out of it.”

“That was my thought, too.”

“Ready to meet Princess, then?”

“Princess?”

His nickname for Allie since high school. Fuck.

He knew the subbie girls often chose cute nicknames, but why did this one have to
be Princess?

“She’s a real beauty. Goes down nice and easy. Loves the ropes.”

Shake it off. It’s not her.

“Where is she?”

Finn made a gesture, and Mick followed the direction of his hand to see a petite woman
with luscious curves and long hair dyed hot pink. She was dressed in nothing but a
pale pink thong
and pink knee-high boots. As she drew closer he could see that her nipples were pierced.
She smiled shyly as she approached.

“Princess, this is Mick, our visitor from New Orleans. Be nice to him.”

“Of course, Finn,” she said, her voice soft, feminine.

His cock should have been hardening at the sight of her. She had a gorgeous, hot little
body, her breasts large and firm, and a beautiful face to match. A prime girl—he was
certain her time was vied for at the club.

“Hi, Princess.”

He couldn’t stand to call her that. Could not. Fucking. Stand it.

“Hello, Sir. Or . . . should I call you something else?”

Allie called him Mick.

“‘Sir’ is fine.”

“I would be very happy to play with you, Sir,” she said, looking up at him through
long lashes. Her eyes were blue. Not that rich golden brown, like Allie’s.

Stop thinking about her.

That was the whole point in being here. So why was he finding it so damn difficult
to do the things he always did with the greatest pleasure?

Finn rose to his feet. “You two seem to be doing just fine. Unless you’d prefer I
stay for negotiations, Princess?”

“No, Finn, Sir. I’m fine, thank you.” She smiled, dropped a small curtsy. She was
absolutely charming.

Except he was still left entirely untouched by her.

Mick stood, grabbed Finn’s arm, said quietly, “I don’t know about this, Finn.”

“Is she not to your liking? I have Tina waiting for me, but I’d be happy to trade
out. She’s an amazing player. Sassy. You’d like her. Of course, Princess is top-notch,
too. But if there’s no connection . . .”

Mick shook his head. “It’s not that. She’s as gorgeous as you said and I can tell
she’s well trained. But I’m not . . . fuck all, I don’t know what my problem is.”

Finn looked thoughtful, then he gestured to Princess. “Sweetheart, go and wait for
me with Tina, that’s a good girl.”

Princess blushed, curtsied to Mick and left. But not before he saw the disappointed
pout on her pretty face.

“Oh, that girl back in New Orleans has your head twisted the fuck up, mate, doesn’t
she?”

“Yeah. She does. Sorry, Finn. I thought this would be the best thing for me, coming
here to play. To work some of this . . . whatever it is out of my system.”

“You know, I’ve seen a few guys in your position, and it seems the only thing that’ll
really work is to work
her
.”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Mick said, his hands fisting at his sides. His head was spinning.
“I can’t believe I can’t do this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Finn said. “Just do what you need to. Go home and fuck her
right through the walls. Play her until she screams. Go to the gym and pummel someone’s
head in. Go to one of your fights. Work it out, mate. You can handle it.”

Mick clapped Finn on the back. “Thanks for understanding.”

“No worries. I won’t let her go to waste,” Finn said with a wide grin.

“I’m sure you won’t.”

“Good to see you. Try a longer visit next time. Or I’ll come and see you soon, anyway,
to talk about working with you. And Mick, let me know how it goes, will you?”

“Yeah, I will.”

He passed back through the club, his brain in a tangle—images of Allie, of the woman
called Princess, and a slow, simmering anger. It was himself he was pissed at, though.

Maybe Finn had the right idea, he thought as he got back
into the rental car and started the engine. Maybe he needed to go home and go to the
fight club.

Punching someone in the face—in a consensual environment, of course—would feel fucking
great, he had to admit. Didn’t matter if they hit him back. Hell, that was part of
it all, anyway—the chance of being hit. Even the pain, Dom or not.

He needed to find the next flight out of Atlanta. Had to get back to his city.

And fuck it, he had to see Allie.

A
LLIE BROUGHT UP
her PowerPoint presentation on her laptop, and the first image popped up on the projection
screen she’d set up on one of the tables at
Dolcetti
.

She breathed in the familiar dry warmth of her family’s bakery and glanced around.
The tall jars of biscotti still lined the top of the counters, as they always had.
The glass case was filled with fresh walnut shortbread cookies and macaroons, the
luscious panettone with the almond and hazelnut icing that was her great-grandmother’s
recipe, the colorful torta di frutta. She inhaled the scent of fruit and sugar. The
scent of memories.

How many times had Mick strolled in to visit her when she worked in the bakery after
school, all swagger even in their high school days? He’d stolen kisses when her mother
and her aunts weren’t looking . . .

Her aunts Felisa and Renata, her mother’s younger sisters—
identical twins Allie had had a hard time telling apart as a child—were already seated
with their cups of coffee. She was just waiting for her mother to finish some work
she was doing in the back.

It was Friday evening and the bakery was closed. She knew they were all tired after
working all day, but the only day the bakery shut their doors was Sunday, when her
mother and aunts spent much of the day in church. And she was ready—she didn’t want
to wait any longer.

Where was her mother?

“Are you going to show us a movie?” one of her aunts asked.

“No,
Zia
Felisa. It’s more like a slide show.”

Her aunt folded her arms. “Hmm.”

When Mick had texted that he was back in town and wanted to see her, she’d put him
off, telling him she was presenting her business expansion plan tonight. He’d wished
her luck and told her not to be nervous. Which was, of course, totally impossible.
This had been her dream for years. It was why she’d learned to be a pastry chef. And
it was the one bridge she’d been unable to cross in her life. Well, other than Mick.
But they were working on it.

At least, she thought they were. But he was so damn confusing. In one minute and out
the next. She never knew where his head would be on any given day. His behavior the
night before he’d left town had only muddied the waters that was their relationship
even more. If one could even call it a relationship.

Frankly, she didn’t know what the hell they were doing, and she was about out of patience
with it. She’d agreed to table any heavy conversation until Mick got back from his
trip. Well, he was certainly going to get an earful tonight. Right after she gave
her family the earful they’d had coming since she’d first gone to culinary school.

“Mama,” she called, out of patience. “Please come and sit down.”

“I was just cleaning up,” her mother said, drying her hands on her apron as she came
out from behind the counter and threw her arms around her. She sank into her mother’s
warm embrace—her mother who smelled of sugar after all her years running the bakery.
Allie inhaled, smiled.

Her mother pulled back, still holding her shoulders. “You’re too thin, Allesandra,”
she said.

Her mother was still a beautiful woman, her hair still the same dark brown as Allie’s,
with only a few strands of silver.

“I know, Mama. You told me the same thing when you saw me last week. And I’m sure
you’ll feed me up tonight, like you always do. Three months back in New Orleans and
I’ll be plump as a Halloween pumpkin.”

“A few curves on a woman are not a bad thing,” her mother said, squeezing her hand.

“Don’t be silly,”
Zia
Renata put in. “We’re fourth-generation bakers—sugar runs in our blood.”

“That’s right,” her mother agreed. “I can still fit into my wedding dress. Don’t I
look just as I did the day I married my Bertrand?”

Allie stiffened. She hated that she did it automatically every time her father was
mentioned. But it hurt to see how much her mother still loved him. All these years
and it still hurt that he was gone. She’d been a daddy’s girl, and wasn’t ashamed
to admit it. She hadn’t been anyone’s girl since he’d died.

Except for Mick, for that lovely time when they were teenagers, when everything had
felt so perfect. She’d been utterly convinced they were indestructible. The naiveté
of youth, maybe.

Her mother pulled one of the iced panettone from the jar on the counter and handed
it to Allie with a smile.

“You always know how to get to me, Mama.” She took a bite, let the familiar flavors
melt on her tongue. Forced her thoughts away from Mick.

“I hope so. Now, tell us what this is all about, Allesandra.”

“Have a seat and I will.”

She waited for her mother to get settled, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself,
then hit the space bar on her keyboard to start the presentation. She saw the screen
light up with the graphics she’d made featuring the front of Dolcetti.

“As you can see, this image of Dolcetti includes the storefront next door, because
what I’m addressing here today is the expansion of the bakery. And I know, Mama, I’ve
talked to you about it before, but please just hear me out. I’ve done a lot of market
research, and I have new information for you on the viability of this plan. These
are copies of my business plan, one for each of you,” she said, handing them the packets
she’d prepared.

Her mother’s features were shutting down, but she remained quiet.

“I’ve already looked into it and the boutique next door ends their lease on August
first. They haven’t been doing well, and the manager has admitted to me that she doesn’t
think they’ll be able to continue. Not that I’m celebrating the demise of a small
business, but the timing would be perfect for expansion. The business is booming,
we’re in a great location, so things can only get better. Frankly, right now the only
thing holding Dolcetti back from making more money is the limited size—and the limit
in menu and services because we simply don’t have enough space.”

She took a breath and continued without looking too carefully at any of them—she didn’t
want to see the closed expressions she assumed she’d find there. “This next slide
shows a possible floor plan. As you can see from this color-coded chart,
taking over the space next door means an increase in usable space by forty-five percent,
which would mean more ovens and prep space, a new walk-in refrigerator, more seating
in front and another office especially for meeting with catering clients.”

“Honey, we don’t have the time or the staff to do more catering,”
Zia
Felisa protested.

Allie smiled. “Which is exactly why you need me. I’ve been doing just that—running
pastry catering for some of the best restaurants in San Francisco for years. I
know
how to do this. I know how to make this aspect of a business successful. And because
of my background in European pastry, I can re-create our entire menu to appeal to
a more modern clientele.”

“We like our old clientele. We have loyal customers who have come to us for years,”
her mother said. “Allesandra, I know you mean well, but this just sounds like a big
headache to me. And there’s no way this could be done without shutting down for a
while. What happens to our customers then?”

“I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve talked with Allister—Jamie’s brother—about
doing the build-out. He’s assured me there are ways to do it so we’re not closed for
more than two to three weeks at the most.”

“Three weeks?”
Zia
Renata crossed her arms over her chest. “We can’t be closed for three weeks. We were
open two days after Katrina.”

“I agree,” her mother said. “And you know how contractors are—they always go over
budget and over on time. My darling, I know you mean well, but why can’t you just
come to work with us here, as things are? We could do a little more catering with
you here.”

Her heart sank. They weren’t going to listen to her. “More king cakes and a few weddings
and birthdays? Mama . . .”

“I know, you think it’s boring, but this is what we’ve always done, Allesandra. We’re
all perfectly happy with it. We don’t feel any need to make changes. Other than you
baking with us. We would welcome you any time.”

“It’s true,”
Zia
Renata agreed.

Felisa nodded her agreement.

“But we’re not changing the business,” her mother stated with an air of finality.
“Let’s not discuss it anymore. Why don’t you come home with us for dinner? I’m making
my famous ziti.”

“I . . . I can’t, Mama. I have to be somewhere.”

And even if she didn’t have plans, she’d need some time to swallow her disappointment.
Why had she been so convinced her professional presentation would make any difference?
Her family still saw her as a child.

Just like Mick.

Her mother stood up and drew her in, kissed her cheek. “We love you, darling girl.
Don’t be upset with us. This simply isn’t for us.”

“Okay, Mama.”

Her aunts kissed her cheeks as she closed her laptop and took down the screen. Her
mother waited for her to gather everything, and they walked out together. Her mother
locked the door behind them.

“We’ll see you soon, yes?” her mother asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

She kissed her one more time before making her way around the corner to where her
car was parked. Allie watched her mother walk away, feeling utterly rejected, utterly
invalidated.

Not exactly how she wanted to feel seeing Mick tonight, and needing to confront him.
She’d go home, drop her things off at the house and go for a long walk to clear her
head, then a quick
bath before going to his place. Mick Reid, for once, was just going to have to wait.

*   *   *

I
T WAS ALMOST
nine before she made it to Mick’s place. She’d taken a long walk around her neighborhood,
which had done her good, then she’d dallied getting herself put together.

She’d missed him so much it made her chest ache with every breath. Missed him so much
she’d spent long spans of time simply looking at the darkening bite marks he’d left
all over her skin in the mirror, tracing the shape of his teeth. Missed him so much
that she hung on to even this memory of their bodies together, the intimacy they’d
shared. And yet, she’d lingered rather than running right over to his place. At this
point she didn’t know that she wanted to have this necessary conversation about him
pulling away any more than he did. She simply wanted to see him. To make the empty
ache go away. She didn’t want to talk.

It had to be done, or they weren’t ever going anywhere. Not together, anyway.

Still, when she rang the bell and heard his footsteps on the stairs, her pulse fluttered
with anticipation. When he opened the door, dressed in worn jeans, like her, and a
tight white wife-beater, his bare feet making him look sensually naked somehow, her
body started to melt into a pool of heat and need right away. The turmoil in her head
began to fade.

She kind of hated that his sheer, masculine beauty could make her forget everything
else so easily, but it had always been like that with Mick.

“Hey, baby,” he said, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead, then her mouth.
“Come on in.”

He waited for her to start up the stairs before him, and when she got to the top she
set her purse down on the living room
floor before settling onto the big leather couch. Mick came to sit beside her.

“You okay?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Rough day.”

“You said in your text you needed some time before you came over tonight. Is everything
all right?”

“Yes, I guess so. I mean, my life hasn’t actually been changed for it. Which I sort
of expected.” She turned to face him. “Does your family still treat you like you’re
a kid, Mick?”

“No. They treat me like I’m the bad news teenager. I was, so I guess I can’t blame
them. Maybe I still am. They hate my fighting.”

“Well, that totally makes sense,” she muttered. “I’m on the same page with them.”

“Thanks for that.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have come tonight. I’m in a lousy
mood.”

“It’s okay, baby. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

She pulled a throw pillow into her lap, running her fingertips over the fabric. “Oh,
I was dumb enough to think if I presented my business plan to Mama and the aunts in
a professional manner they’d take me seriously. But of course they just shot me down.
The same way they did when I tried to talk to them fresh out of culinary school. But
Jesus, I have years of practical experience now—you’d think that would make a difference.”

“It should. You’ve had some of the best training in the world—all over Europe. From
what Marie Dawn and Neal and Jamie have told me over the years, you’ve worked at some
of the top restaurants in San Francisco, that you’re a highly sought-after pastry
chef there. Did you tell your family all of it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always kept them up to date about where I’m working.”