Ice Queen (2 page)

Joey W. Hill

his face that made her feel at loose ends. “Always, when I see you, you’re wearing it tied back in that severe tail.”

She knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t fill in that sentence with “…when I see you at The Zone”, the place where they knew one another best. Or rather, the façade they both knew best. They both knew the strict rules of confidentiality for all members of The Zone, maintained in the outside world.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I’m early. I wanted to see your place, how you run it. I can’t get that impression after closing. Why does my being here early bother you?” If it had been anyone else, the automatic answer “It doesn’t” would have bounced out of her mouth. But she was sensible enough not to bluff with a man who only had one equal at The Zone for interpreting body language and tone, and that was herself. It raised her hackles though, for him to exercise his power as a Dom at this moment, calling her out and making it clear, albeit in a mild and courteous way, that he wouldn’t accept an evasive answer.

People lied all the time in the real world with a bouquet of pleasantries to deceive no one, only to make evasiveness palatable, acceptable. In The Zone, Doms didn’t allow subs to do that. It was all about getting to the pure naked core of every thought, no dissembling on any level.

“That’s not really something I care to discuss. It’s my problem, not yours.” That was as honest an answer as it had been a question. And it was all of the answer he was getting. “You’re welcome to be here. If you need anything, let Chloe or Genevieve know. I’ve got some things to finish in the back but I’ll be out when they lock up in about thirty minutes.”

He nodded, those amber eyes never shifting from her face but making slight movements, revealing that he was watching her lips as she spoke, the sweep of her lashes, even the sparse movements of her hands. “I’ll be here. Go finish your day. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

Like she needed his permission.

Her lips tightening to suppress a retort, she turned precisely on her heel and headed back the way she had come, intensely aware of the curious looks from Mrs.

Allen’s table. Her regulars would be wondering about that corkscrew curl move but she kept on her cool smile and moved briskly enough that no one engaged her. Her track took her into the reflection path of the large Victorian mirror mounted to the left of the kitchen entrance, so she could see him.

He was watching her. Quite deliberately, making her acutely aware of the swing of her hips beneath the fitted skirt, the glimpse of the back of her knees and curve of calves that would be displayed as she walked in her heels. His regard made her aware of the fact she’d chosen seamed stockings, and this pair had a tiny embroidered rose in black thread just above the delicate anklebone. Even the soft brush of that curl along her temple was intensified by the memory of his touch there.

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Ice Queen

His gaze met hers in the mirror right before she entered the kitchen. One corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile, and from the expression in his eyes, she wouldn’t have put it past him to mortify her with a wolf whistle. She escaped through the door, but her own lips were twitching with a near smile, reminding her that she liked Tyler Winterman. She was just deathly afraid of the effect he had on her.

Taking the two steps up into her side office, she closed her door. Chloe and Gen were used to her doing that at the end of the day so she could focus on receipts. It gave her an excuse now to collect her thoughts. And watch Tyler.

The large Victorian mirror was a façade for a two-way mirror, the window side mounted on the wall of her raised office so she could keep an eye on the floor. It helped her anticipate when Chloe and Gen could use a hand, or she needed to come out to greet a frequent or new customer, underscoring the sophisticated charm and service her tearoom was known to lavish on its clientele.

In this instance, it gave her the opportunity to study him further. He had left the bistro chair, and was now perusing her display wall. It offered pieces from the full tea sets that clients could request for the serving of their chosen beverage, everything from English porcelain to Japanese and Chinese clay. With one hand, he touched the tuocha, a compressed tea shaped like a bird’s nest, then he moved on to examine the copper shine of the Russian samovar with its ornate dragon tap.

She had originals under glass that ranged from one hundred and fifty to one thousand years old, the latter being the YiXing set from the Ming Dynasty. Her very first tea set was also under glass, a child’s set of colorful ceramic cups and matching small teapot. It sat within the ankle span of a doll whose best days were long over, underscored by her brittle hair, faded satin gown and scarred face.

Her hands clutched the desk edge, knuckles white as she watched him study that symbol of her past which she had arranged with quaint charm. It gave patrons the picture of a little blonde girl getting the set, the doll when it was brand new. Cherishing it, deciding to grow up and have her entire life be like a tea party. Civilized, every detail thought out. Well designed, beautiful. Peaceful.

The room was laid out such that none of the tables were too close to that display wall, so that a person could move comfortably past its offerings without hovering over seated patrons. In this case it gave the ladies in the room the opportunity to study him easily under the guise of interest in the displays that most of them had seen many times before. She had three age groups in the room; Mrs. Allen’s set, who were well into grandmother realm and perhaps holding out successfully for great-grandchildren; a pair of women in their forties, now empty nesters; and a table of six chic professional women who preferred this spot on Thursday afternoons rather than a golf course, nightclub or bar hangout. And every one of them was watching Tyler. Not blatantly, but with quick flicks of their eyelashes, secret smiles among themselves, a feminine chuckle. It set her teeth on edge. Why had he invaded her world before she had the inner gates to it closed? She felt as if he were contaminating it in some way, disrupting 11

Joey W. Hill

the atmosphere like the arrival of a Chippendales stripper in a library to deliver a birthday gram to the quiet steward of all those dignified books.

But he didn’t have the effeminate prettiness of a Chippendale. Chloe was right.

Tyler commanded attention because he was like a tiger. Mesmerizing and possessing something that suggested it was wise not to turn your back on him, any more than it would be a wise move to run.

He turned at last, made his way down the wall until he reached her mirror. Being a tall man, it was easy for him to rest an elbow on the mantel.

Other male Dominants did not affect her this way. Perhaps it was the Domme in her that admired the strength to his bearing, his profile. The predatory readiness that pulsed from him was equally balanced with the assurance he would be the first to hold out a chair for a woman, help an elderly woman down the stairs at the bank or ask a girl crying in the mall what was the matter. How could he make it better? The moment any woman met his gaze she’d know he
could
make it better. In short, he was a walking fantasy, and there was nothing more dangerous to Marguerite’s world than that.

The motion of his body suggested that he had put a hand in the pocket of his slacks, a comfortable, masculine pose. His attention appeared to now rest on a photo of colorfully dressed tea pickers in India, which was grouped with lovely landscapes of the green hills of the tea gardens in Malaysia. Beyond that were some of her favorite Japanese tea theme scrolls and watercolors drawn by tea masters.

The desk pressed against her thighs as she leaned forward. The surface was too wide for her to touch the window. Inching her skirt up, she slid onto the wood top, folding her legs beneath her as she reached out.

It didn’t matter why she felt like doing this. She didn’t want to think about why she was tracing his shoulder on the glass, imagining how it would feel, the fabric of his shirt, the solid man beneath. Flattening her palm against the cool surface, she visualized touching his hair, the line of his throat, feeling the heat of life pulsing there as she passed her knuckles over it, just a gentle caress.

He turned toward her, studying the mirror rather than himself in it, and she saw his shrewd assessment, his quick realization that it was likely a two-way. Outlining his mouth, she watched as the sensual lips curved into a faint smile. He winked and placed one finger on the glass. Entranced, she moved hers to it, pressing finger pad to finger pad. She supposed he thought she was frowning at him or ignoring him, and that was fine. But as they stood there for a moment or two and his finger stayed in place with her print against it, she began to get that uncomfortable feeling she often had, that Tyler saw more than he should when he looked her way. Moving off the desk, she took her seat and returned to her paperwork, trying not to look up again.

She held out for about three minutes.

He was still at the mantel. He’d taken out a palm organizer and was keying something into it. Checking his messages, she supposed. Tyler was a significant name in the erotic film industry, using his talent to help producers and directors put high-12

Ice Queen

quality erotic content for women on the screen. He’d even co-written a couple award-winning scripts himself, and served as advisor on countless others. Although she’d heard that he’d cut back some the last couple years, she imagined he had a full schedule just maintaining his going concerns.
Evolution of a Domme
, his latest investment, had swept the erotic film awards. It had even garnered a Golden Globe nomination, for the first time breaking a barrier shattered previously only by darker, more destructive erotic films with larger name actors.

She watched, curious, as he lifted the organizer. He placed it flat against the glass, his body shifting so to the others in the room it only looked as if he was casually relaxing at the mantel.

What are you wearing back there?

It startled a snort out of her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, though there was a reasonable amount of soundproofing. As if he knew her reaction, he grinned, a slow, sexy smile. Pocketing the organizer, he strolled away, wandering back past the display wall.

Tucking the memory of that smile to her breast like she was clutching her doll, she used it to ease her concerns about this meeting. It would work out. Of course it would.

And it was nowhere near the worst thing she had faced in her life.

13

Joey W. Hill

As thirty minutes ticked away, the anxiety returned. A nagging feeling of apprehension that made her wonder again how she’d reached the logical and seemingly well-thought-out decision that she could have this discussion with Tyler Winterman in any capacity that was safe. She shouldn’t have entertained it at all, except she had no choice. There were things in her life she knew she needed in order to keep other things under control. Fate recently had determined that Tyler was the key to one of them. Not so much him as his cooperation at the very least.

She bid Chloe and Gen good night, locked the rear service entrance and then stepped back out into the tearoom. Chloe had locked the front door and dimmed the lights to evening security mode, just enough light that the passing patrol car could see into her downtown shop. It surprised her that her hostess had done that with Tyler still in the room. Then she saw, with a mental note to slap Chloe in the morning, a small trio of candles burning in the center of his table. It set an atmosphere she did not wish to cultivate.

Marguerite picked up a douser on the side table and gestured courteously to him to stay seated as she approached. Laying it over each candle, she felt him watching her movements. It put the room in even dimmer light but she knew every inch of her own place, though it seemed different with his presence.

“I’d like to have our talk in the private tearoom, if you don’t mind. That way, no one’s confused about whether we’re closed for the day or not, and we won’t be interrupted.”

“Should I bring my cup?”

“No. Just leave it there. Chloe is still new to judging customer tastes. That’s one of our stronger black teas. I think I have something more to your liking.” She laid the douser on the tablecloth, keeping her eyes on it. “It’s a small matter, but earlier I didn’t give you permission to touch me. I’d prefer you not to do so.” He was a Dom with a very cool temperament. She knew he’d understand and not create a row, though she questioned the wisdom of making an issue of it, based on what she was intending to ask him.

“Not comfortable being around men who aren’t on their knees?” Tyler had no problem with woman Dominants, so she assumed the question to be based on curiosity. It didn’t make his exceptional intuition any less irritating.

“Not used to it, certainly.”

He rose, and she’d misjudged how close she was standing to him. She made herself wait a second before she stepped back, wanting it clear she was doing it to give him 14

Ice Queen

room to follow her around the table, not because being confronted by his height and broad shoulders at less than a foot distance washed her with a disturbing heat.

She turned on her heel, ostensibly to lead him to the private room but also to avoid prolonging the face-to-face proximity with nothing between them. When she reached the brocade curtain that separated the private tea area from the main floor, he was close enough behind her that his long arm drew the fabric back for her. His fingertips grazed the small of her back, the contact just light enough not to be a blatant disregard of her request. What was it Lao Tse said? Energy was in the space between things. The light touch made her decide that such energy could become compressed into a flash of heat upon impact, shuddering up one’s spine.

Tyler noted the shiver that rippled through her. He knew Marguerite did not welcome touch. Even her submissives were allowed very little liberty in that area. She touched them; they did not touch her. On infrequent occasions she allowed a slave to service her orally, and the undulations of her body while he did so were as sensual and controlled as a swan on a lake. She appeared to draw pleasure from it but Tyler sensed that the pleasure for her was in the choreography, the emotional reaction of her sub when she granted him the pleasure of her most intimate taste. He knew there were those who thought she climaxed during those sessions. He had his doubts about that.

But he didn’t read rejection in her shiver now, simply surprise at being touched at all, and uncertainty in how to react consciously. Her body did it for her, instinct filling in the void, and that reaction made his own body respond.

She stepped away, reluctantly drawing his attention away from the slim and statuesque line of her back and shoulders to his new surroundings.

The room had a pleasing simplicity. One large original watercolor of a blue heron graced the wall behind the round table. The table was draped in a gray damask which dropped the proper twelve inches on all sides, revealing teak legs shaped like the elongated heads of Chinese dragons. A rock fountain grouped with several bamboo plants and a palm in the corner gave the impression of a tropical forest. And behind Marguerite was a picture window overlooking a tiny courtyard with a statuary garden.

The room spoke of confidences, seclusion and sanctuary. She’d obviously desired all three for this meeting, intriguing him. The table settings emphasized a ritual of civility. Personal control.

“What type of flavor do
you
think I prefer?” She cocked her head. “The subtle, the delicately made. You’re the type of person who wants the mystery inside the flower bud.”

“I can still appreciate the different nuances of the stronger flavors.” He studied the orchid in the center of the table. “With the very delicate, you sculpt something down to such a whisper of form, there’s nothing else it can be. It’s in strength you find surprises, variation.”

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Joey W. Hill

Marguerite realized he was too good at discerning her own interests, the philosophies in which she’d immersed her life. And he was far too intelligent for her peace of mind.

She changed the direction briskly. “Well, all that said, this is a second flush Darjeeling. It might remind you of a muscatel wine.”

“It might be worth the cost, then. I could buy a box of a hundred tea bags at the grocery store for the price you charge for a cup of it.” She winced. “Barbarian. Darjeeling is the high end of teas. It’s produced in India, in the foothills of the Himalayans.”

“Have you been there?”

She nodded. “You can see Mount Everest in the distance on a clear day. There’s a misty climate there. For tea, the perfect composition of soil, air and rainfall. The first flush, the first harvest, of this particular tea is very expensive. They usually serve it at an invitation-only tasting with a great deal of fanfare.” Certain that the information was similar to what she gave her clientele when they asked such questions, he wondered that any of them could get past the distraction of the woman to focus on the words. She was different from any Domme he knew, and now that he was seeing her in her world which was anything but mundane, she intrigued him even more.

Her shop was in a downtown neighborhood where people hung out in the quieter side streets. Cars navigated around them, the people acting as if the vehicles were in their front yards, which seemed almost true. It was a poor area of mostly black faces but there was a sense of community. He’d done enough background research on her to know that Marguerite’s shop in the elegant old house had been well received and her location did not seem to dismay her upscale client base. She’d bought the block of six lots, chosen one of the hundred-year-old structures as her teahouse and torn down the other run-down edifices, one of which had been used as a crack house. When he’d driven up to the teahouse, he’d noted that on two of the lots she’d created a park with swing sets, a sandbox, comfortable benches, gazing pool and a privacy hedge. On the opposite side of the business was a lush garden with walking paths that looked as if it was maintained by one of the local landscaping companies. He’d surmised that the tall privacy fence directly behind the house gave her a backyard of her own, which included this private courtyard he saw now.

From what he’d seen when he came in, the play park and the path garden were apparently open to the neighborhood children and their parents, anyone seeking a moment of peace and beauty. But two adamant rules were printed on colorful, tasteful signs at the multiple entrances to them. No alcohol or drugs were allowed on her property.

His gaze shifted to the Japanese scroll to the left of the doorway. “What does that say?”

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Ice Queen

She went to the side table where there was a stovetop and a kettle steaming and checked the temperature reading. “‘God is in the silence. God is in the empty space.’

Please sit down.” She glanced at him. “Southern male etiquette has been acknowledged and is appreciated. But it’s easier to prepare the tea for you if you’re sitting, since this is a smaller area and you’re not a slight man. Either chair is fine.” It had been set for two people with woven bamboo placemats, napkins neatly arranged and fanned in pewter rings, silver spoons and saucers with a red and gold oriental design. Rather than facing over the expanse of the table, the two cup settings were next to one another, a more intimate arrangement that surprised him. A small round cake was in the middle of the table, a sharp-bladed short knife waiting for precise cuts of the dessert.

“You prepared for me.” He realized it with a pang of chagrin. “I apologize for coming so early. You’re right. It was rude.”

She inclined her head but he sensed no censure to the gesture. The Ice Queen was what they called her at The Zone. But as he took a seat to watch her, ice was not what came to mind. She could not be described. Like the most perfect piece of art, a person had to stand in the same room, breathe in what she was, be this close to touching her.

In the club, she wore the clothes of a Mistress. Not always what one would expect but garments that clearly underscored her ability to command obedience from any sub whose path she chose to cross. But here in the real world, she wore beautifully tailored dark slacks and a blue silk blouse. No jewelry, not even her ears pierced. No rings.

The feature that struck most men first about Marguerite was her hair. So pale as to be almost the color of moonlight, and eyes that were such a light blue that he was reminded of the shifting images one could almost glimpse in a spring’s clear waters.

Pale skin. Tall and elegant, never the slightest slouch to suggest she had any self-consciousness about her height.

She affected him in a way he had great difficulty in describing, a way that he knew would cause his few close friends within the BDSM community to doubt his sanity.

When he looked at her, he knew he was meant to understand the secret to her soul in a way he suspected no man ever had.

When he decided to come to this meeting, he’d made a conscious decision to start down that path, and not stop until he reached the nexus of her.

“Your place reminds me of the Victorian solarium, run by the acknowledged society queen. A place for ladies to talk politics, religion, home. But not really a male sanctum.”

She glanced toward him. “Do you know in Morocco it’s the man’s job to pour the tea in households, and he holds the pot high above the cup as he pours, to create a frothy top to the tea? I think it’s welcoming to either gender. Men just don’t tend to take advantage of the environment. But Chloe agrees with you. She thinks we need to do something to attract more eligible males.”

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“Well, I suppose you could have ladies drinking tea naked. That table of elderly matriarchs had promise. I’ll bet they were wearing some pretty sexy lingerie beneath their fancy dresses.”

Her lips tightened in an almost smile but then she drew it back into herself. He nodded toward a box on a shelf to the left of the stovetop where it could not be adversely impacted by the steam. “What’s in that?” She took it down, the gracious hostess, bringing it to the table so he could see it better. The box looked to be carved out of ivory.

“This is orchid tea,” she explained, lifting the lid of the tea caddy and showing the foil-lined interior. He bent forward and examined the dark rolled leaves interspersed with the pale twists of the orchid blossoms. She raised a silver scoop shaped like a scalloped shell. “Centuries ago, when tea buyers were testing different teas, the supplier would leave a scalloped shell on the top of the container as a scoop so the buyer could smell and handle the tea.” She scooped some of the infusion up in a simple movement, and extended it to him. “I’ll serve you the Darjeeling tonight but see what you think of this.”

Her hands had the long-fingered grace of meadow grasses stroking the flank of a passing deer. Tyler reached out, took the spoon from her so he could gently encircle her wrist and turn her palm upward. Tapping the spoon’s contents into her hand, he lifted her palm closer to his nose, his lips mere inches from the pulse he felt racing beneath his grip, making him want to tighten it. He didn’t. He inhaled, smelled a woman who wore no perfumes but the fragrances of her café. The tea’s fragrance was soft, tantalizing and soothing at once, the energy of life married to its tranquility, balancing the drinker in a like fashion, he suspected.

“Much better,” he agreed. “I find that much more to my liking.” He let her go slowly, his touch whispering across her skin.

She remained motionless, staring at him, the hand in the air where he left it, cupped around the spilled tea.

One thing Marguerite knew about Tyler. He did not idly flirt. If he reached out, touched or caressed a woman, whether it be with his fingers, his voice, or the powerful regard of his gaze, it was because he had his sights firmly set on acquisition. It was possible he was merely enjoying the sexual chemistry that a man and a woman could have in their current setting, an acknowledgement that their common tie was in fact their sexual pursuits but this felt far more…personal.

She turned away at last, feeling his regard as she measured out the proper amount of tea and dropped it into the first teapot, a simple white bone china piece she used for steeping before pouring the mixture into the final tea container. With a quick glance at the kettle temperature again, she lifted it to pour the heated spring water on top of the tea leaves in the pot.

“Isn’t it supposed to be boiling?”

“Not for a green tea. Just below boiling is more suitable.” 18