Going Deep (22 page)

“That’s her.
That’s the reporter who broke the story.” Someone stuck a microphone in her
face. “Carradine Taylor, have you had any contact with the Mustangs organization
or Jason Holder since your story hit the newsstands?”

Contact?
Yeah, you could say that.

But she couldn’t
tell them that a few short hours ago she’d sat naked on her knees, listening
while Jason told her how some person he didn’t know was out to destroy him. And
then he’d held her in his arms while she bawled her eyes out.
I love you
.
If he ever found out she was the one who wrote the article, he’d hate her, and
she couldn’t blame him. She hated herself plenty right now.

“No.”
Liar.

She tried to
shove her way through the crowd of reporters, videographers, cameramen, and
sound techs. They presented a solid, impenetrable wall, so she changed tactics.
Spying a gap between them and the building, she made a dash for it only to be
stopped by another solid wall. This one wore a uniform.

“Carradine
Taylor?” the man in uniform asked.

“Yes.”

He shoved a
large envelope at her. She instinctively reached for it.

“You’ve been
served, ma’am.”

She looked down
at the papers in her hand. That didn’t take long, she thought. Of course. George
had to have given the Mustangs a heads up about the article. That’s how he had
known about it the day before it went to print, and explained how the lawyers
had time to sue her. Her heart sank. There was no way to keep Jason from
putting her face and name together, especially after this. She tucked the envelope
into her purse, along with the relics of her career, and shoved past the
reporters.

* * *

Fuck
.

Jason stared at
the screen. It couldn’t be. He shook his head to clear the buzzing in his ears.
Had he missed something? No. No, they were still talking about him and that
damned article in the Globe. But…Carradine Taylor was a woman. And not just any
woman. She was
his
woman.

Or she had been
until he’d let her go.

He hit the pause
button, freezing her face on the screen. It was her. No doubt about it. Carrie.
His angel. Thoughts and possibilities formed like fireflies in his brain,
flashing on and off so fast he couldn’t grasp a single one. He braced his
elbows on his knees and clutched his skull to keep it from exploding. One
thought flared brighter and longer than all the rest—had she known who he was
all along? Had it all been an act, a chance to get material she could use
against him?

Good Lord. Was
she going to tell the world about his sexual preferences, too? And he’d thought
his life couldn’t get any more fucked up.

By God—he was
her
master
!

He was on his
feet before he realized he no longer possessed her or the title, and perhaps he
never had.

He dialed her
number then remembered he’d cut off that line of communication. He’d cut
all
lines of communication with her. He squeezed his fist and the edges of the
phone bit into his flesh. There had to be a way.

Todd.
He
knew her. Switching phones, he located Todd’s number and placed the call.

“Hey, Jason. How
ya doin’, man?” Todd asked.

“I’ve been
better. Look, Todd, I need Carrie’s home phone number. I really need to see
her, and I can’t explain, but I don’t have any other way to get in touch with
her.”

“Hey, I heard
about the article. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know she was reporter until Brooke
recognized her name in the byline.”

“It’s not your
fault. I knew I was taking a chance.”

“You think
talking to her is a good idea?”

Jason was fresh
out of good ideas, but he needed to know how deep her betrayal went. “Probably
not, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Okay. Give me a
minute. I’ll get it and call you right back.”

“Thanks. I owe
you.”

Precious minutes
ticked by. Jason scrounged around for something to write with. He found a pen
and a stained takeout menu in the drawer of the end table next to his favorite
chair. At last, Todd called back. He scribbled Carradine Taylor’s home number down.
His very own, fucking guardian angel straight from Hell.

He was due at
the stadium in a few hours—not enough time to handle Carrie properly. He
punched in a familiar number.

 “Doyle,” he
said when the team manager answered. “Take me out of the lineup tonight.”

“You know I can’t
do that. The media would read all kinds of shit into you not being on the
field. You have to be behind the plate tonight and in the batting order. And,
by God, if you don’t come up with a couple of decent hits, I’ll personally kick
your ass. Is that clear, son?”

“Yes, sir.
Crystal clear.” He sighed. “It was a stupid idea anyway. Sorry I asked.” He’d
have to wait until after the game to confront his demon angel, but confront her
he would.

* * *

She couldn’t
believe she was at the Dungeon again. Ever since she received the curt message
on her answering machine she’d come up with a million reasons not to follow his
orders.

He obviously
knew who she was since he’d called her home phone. He knew she was responsible
for everything. If he was using steroids, she might be putting herself in a
dangerous situation. Combining roid rage with a naturally dominant nature could
only spell disaster. But in her heart, she knew her concerns weren’t valid. The
man she knew wasn’t using steroids; she’d stake what remained of her reputation
on that.

She paced the
Dungeon room. Each piece of equipment held special memories. Over the last
months, they’d tried them all. Determined not to cry, she wiped telltale
moisture from her cheeks with the back of her hand. It was inconceivable that
their relationship was over, but it was true. She would never feel the things
Master made her feel again. There wasn’t anyone else for her, and there never
would be. She’d freely given her body to Jason, and he’d taken her heart. Stolen
it right out of her chest.

She could only
imagine why he’d asked,
no
told, her to come here tonight. His odd
schedule, the late nights and early mornings he’d brought her here, made sense
now—as did the long absences when he’d patiently seen to her needs via the
phone. Master had a way with phone sex—she’d give him that. Other than the
physical contact, it hadn’t been much different than what they did when they
were together. Either way, he hadn’t allowed her to see him.

That didn’t mean
she hadn’t
seen
him. A person didn’t need sight in order to see. She
knew his body, knew the touch of his hand—sometimes soft, sometimes
administering pain or punishment, or both, but always with care.

She knew Jason
Holder and she knew the kind of man he was. He was fair and compassionate.
Confident and capable. Trustworthy. He was a man of honor. And he loved her.
Once.

What remained of
her heart crashed headlong into her ribcage then staggered back to land at her
feet, battered and bruised—mortally wounded. Yet somehow, her body continued to
function without it. Proof miracles did happen.

He’d given no
clue about the reason for this meeting. All she knew was, she had another
chance. It was too late to keep their outside lives out of the relationship,
and in truth, it was probably too late for the relationship. If it died, it was
because of her, and she would accept responsibility. She’d accept any form of
punishment he deemed appropriate.

Carrie checked
the clock. He’d be here soon. She knelt, fully clothed, facing the window. She
adjusted the blindfold, a completely symbolic gesture now, and displayed her
offering across her open palms. If there was a future for them, she’d know it
soon.

* * *

Jason parked in
the lot across the street from the Dungeon and, opening the trunk, removed the
bag he kept there. He should be home sleeping, or at least attempting to sleep,
but this couldn’t wait. He needed to know how deep the betrayal went. Not that
he expected her to confess, but there were ways to get a sub to talk—if she
really was a sub. Perhaps she had acting talents to go along with her
journalistic skills.

 He tightened
his grip on the bag, its solid weight grounding him. She was here. The sight of
her on her knees, waiting for him was a kick to the gut, and he’d racked up
more than his share of those the last two days. He took a moment to compose
himself. Let her wait. Let her wonder if he would take the flogger from her
hands and use it on her. He had every right to. She belonged to him.

He thought he’d
known her. He knew her body—every inch of it. He knew the sound of her voice
when passion ruled her. He knew the exact shade of red her ass turned following
a spanking. He’d buried his cock in her body countless times—given her pleasure
and accepted it in return. Was it just yesterday he’d given her the words he
knew she longed to hear?

 But that was
before. Before—when he would have moved Heaven and Earth to keep from dragging
an angel into the pits of hell with him. This was now. He knew his angel hadn’t
been sent from Heaven to save him. Time to find out just how deep into Hell she
planned to drag him.

“Hello,
Carrington,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Master.”

He closed the
curtains. Stopping in front of her, he dropped the bag to the floor beside him.
“For God’s sake, get off the floor,” he said. “You aren’t my sub anymore.”

She didn’t move.
“Please, Sir. Might I explain?”

“Get off the
goddamned floor then I’ll listen. And take that damned blindfold off. I think
we’re past that now, don’t you?”

She stood,
pulling the blindfold off as she came to her feet. Her eyes met his for the
first time ever. Clear and without guile, her gaze twisted his gut and weakened
his resolve to see his plan through. But, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t be
the first chump to fall for a woman’s sweet lies hidden behind innocent eyes.
He’d stick with the plan. If she had nothing to hide, he’d know it before the
night was over.

“I brought this
for you, Sir. If you’ll let me explain, I’ll gladly accept any punishment you feel
is appropriate.”

 He ignored the
flogger she held out to him, backing away. Images of how her lovely skin would
look after a good flogging flashed in his mind. Call him sadistic, but he loved
to see his marks on her, and heaven help him, his angel really was a demon in
bed afterwards. His groin tightened at the unwanted thought. God, how could he
still want her? That he did only fueled his anger. He leaned against the wall
and crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her, dragging her
into his arms, and paddling the shit out of her ass for doing this to him—to
them.

He shouldn’t
have told her to remove the blindfold. Her eyes…dear God, the way she looked at
him…. How many times had he imagined her looking at him that way, pleading,
receptive, expectant? That she finally was angered him, too. So many lost
opportunities.

“I’m listening,”
he said.

She squared her
shoulders and conviction flashed across her face. “There’s no excuse, Sir. I
wrote the article, and I stand by what it says—except the lies about you. In
fact, I asked to write it.”

 “Why?” he
asked. “Why that subject?”

“Steroids are
dangerous. They kill people and professional athletes who use them make it seem
like it’s okay. It’s not okay.”

“At least we
agree on something. But you still haven’t told me why you wanted this story
enough to ask for it.”

Moisture
glimmered in her eyes. She brushed it away with trembling fingers. He stopped
himself before he reached for her. He was here for answers, not to comfort her.

“My cousin Danny
committed suicide. He’d been using steroids, and when his parents found out, he
quit. None of them knew you couldn’t just quit taking them, that there were
physical and psychological changes that occur when you do. He was only
seventeen.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. She turned her face away. The leather
strands of the flogger swayed when she swiped at her cheeks.

Jason held
himself in check. Okay, so she had a legitimate, and a personal, connection to
the story, but that didn’t excuse the unprofessional journalism that had landed
him in his present predicament.

“That’s the Danny
you mentioned in the article?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Well, shit.
He took a deep breath, studying her posture—submissive but hinting at the inner
strength that had intrigued him from the start. He couldn’t let her emotional
connection to the story cloud his judgment. He needed answers, and he was going
to get them.

“Why drag me
into it? Why drag an innocent person into this mess?”

Once again, she
squared her shoulders and faced him with the resolve of the last batter in the
deciding game of the World Series with two outs and the winning run on third
base. He had to admire her guts. Not many people would stand up for their
convictions the way she was.

“The article
wasn’t supposed to be printed—not like that anyway. I sent it as a first draft.
I knew it was wrong almost as soon as I sent it. I told my editor not to bother
editing it, that I would send a corrected copy. I did send one. It only took a
few minutes to remove the defamatory comments and accusations that creep made
about you, and I sent the new article right away. I didn’t know George had rejected
the new one until I got back to town. I begged him not to publish it, but he
wouldn’t change his mind.”

“Did you know
who you were writing those things about? Did you know it was me?”

“No, Sir. You
have to believe me,” she pleaded. “I didn’t know my master was Jason Holder
until yesterday. I figured it out when you told me what was going on in your
life. I wanted to tell you then, but you ended our relationship, and I thought
maybe, just maybe, you would never know. I knew it would hurt you to find out I
was the one who wrote the article. Disappointing you is the worst kind of pain.”
She cast her gaze to the floor and her last words trailed off on a whisper. “I
can take anything but that.”