Passion (31 page)

He wondered if Teryl had noticed that he’d taken an immediate dislike to her friend. D.J. was sly and manipulative. She was
suspicious of him. She believed he was having an affair with her best friend, and yet she hadn’t toned down the seductive
signals even in front of Teryl. She thought he’d caused those bruises around Teryl’s wrists while seeking a
sick sort of pleasure, and she had found pleasure of her own in the idea.

Teryl had missed that brief exchange at the table. She had been nervously rubbing her hands together, and she hadn’t seen
her friend’s gaze settle on them, hadn’t seen the recognition in D.J.’s eyes. She hadn’t seen the damnably smug, taunting
little smile D.J. had given him, one twisted soul acknowledging another. Even now, remembering the smile and the sordid way
it had made him feel, John’s face grew hot, and the muscles in his jaw tightened.

He had long ago learned that there were no sexual limits between two consenting adults—nothing too kinky, nothing too shameful.
If D.J. got off on having sex while she was tied up, helpless, and completely dependent on her partner, fine. It wasn’t a
desire
he
would want to indulge often, but he had to admit there was a certain appeal to it. The vulnerability. The openness. The sense
of power. The
trust
. Damned if he hadn’t gotten an erection quickly enough the first night he’d tied Teryl to the bed… and the second… and the
third—although he preferred to think the erections were due more to physical proximity and too many months without regular
sex than the kinkiness.

But Teryl didn’t get off on being restrained; it scared the shit out of her. She hadn’t given her consent for what he’d done,
and, his own lust aside, it hadn’t been sexual in nature. It had been damned shameful.

And D.J. had found it amusing.

After she’d driven out of sight, he rose from the chair and went inside, as much to escape unwanted thoughts of D.J. as to
find Teryl. Had she heeded his warning when he’d bent over her at the table? Had she satisfied her friend’s curiosity without
further rousing her suspicions? Had she said anything at all to give him away?

The kitchen was empty, as were the living and dining rooms. As he neared the top of the stairs, his steps slowed; he reached
the top and simply stopped. Yesterday afternoon, when he had delivered the suitcases upstairs, he had left Teryl’s in the
hall before carrying his own down and around the corner to the guest room. He had gotten only a glimpse of
her room, a fleeting image of soft shapes and softer colors. Each time he had come by since then, the door had been closed,
clearly marking it off-limits.

This morning, though, Teryl had left the door open and she was standing at the dressing table against the opposite wall. He
stopped in the doorway, unwilling to enter without an invitation but able to see everything from there.

The clutter that was absent in the other rooms was present here. Every available space was filled. Perfume bottles lined the
length of the dresser. Belts and scarves spilled out of the wicker baskets where they were stored. Haphazard stacks of CDs
flanked the small stereo and miniature speakers on one nightstand. Pantyhose in various shades of tan, cream, and black were
draped across the back of a slatted wood chair, while discarded clothing obscured the seat. Purses hung in twos and threes
from every knob, and shoes, ranging from hiking boots with ridged soles to comfortably worn loafers to delicately strapped
heels, were scattered around the room.

Shoving his hands into his back pockets, he resisted the urge to bring a little order to the room. Straightening up and putting
things away were second nature to him. His tendency toward tidiness was the only natural talent his parents had ever observed
in him. Tom had been brilliant, Janie had been gifted, and John had been a neat child—such a son to be proud of, he thought
mockingly. Still, even now he routinely put things where they belonged. He didn’t make messes. He liked things orderly.

Even cluttered, though, Teryl’s room was appealing. The walls were painted pale salmon, and the rugs on the terracotta floor
were a medium shade of the same color. The curtains of the front windows and the French doors were pale and sheer, and the
bedcoverings were a pastel print with an occasional slash of vibrant color. The furniture—bed, dresser, night tables, dressing
table and chairs—was old but of good quality, and the bed looked damned comfortable… and just the right size to keep Teryl
close.

She was sorting through a jewelry case at the lace-covered table. She had already put a couple of bracelets, big, wide bangles,
on her right wrist. Now she was adding an assortment
of smaller bracelets to the watch she wore on her left wrist.

She was trying to cover her bruises.

Feeling sick with guilt, he must have made some noise, because abruptly she looked at him. Her expression was somber and shadowed
with shame. She gave up trying to fasten the last chain and, dangling it by its clasp, she moved a few steps toward him. “Would
you… ?”

He met her halfway and took the bracelet. Though his fingers felt stiff and awkward, he managed to fasten it around her wrist
with no more contact than his fingertips brushing lightly against her skin. Finished, he slid his hands once more into the
confining safety of his hip pockets. “What did she say?”

She didn’t deny that D.J. had had some opinion to voice, didn’t feign ignorance for an instant. “She thinks we’re into rough
sex and bondage.”

“You didn’t have to let her believe it.”

“And what was I supposed to tell her instead? What would you rather have her think, John? That you’ve tapped into some kinky
part of me that no one ever dreamed existed? Or that you kidnapped me? That you held me prisoner and took me from New Orleans
against my will and only tied me up so that I couldn’t escape from you?” She waited, but when he offered no response, she
turned back to the dressing table, bending low to see her reflection in the makeup mirror while she stroked on a dusky rose
lipstick.

“It’s kind of disheartening,” she continued when she straightened from the mirror and began transferring items from the small
purse she had carried in New Orleans to a bigger straw bag. “D.J.’s been my best friend for more than twenty years. She knows
me better than anyone else, and yet she finds it so easy to believe that I would do that, that I would enjoy being treated
badly by a man, that I would find it erotic. I can’t even imagine what kind of person would get turned on by being tied up
and hurt or by doing it to someone else.”

John leaned back against the door frame, his hands cushioning
his weight against the rounded wood, and evenly replied, “Of course you can.”

She added a few more things from the table to her bag—tissues, a brown leather wallet, and a coin purse—then faced him squarely.
“Did
you
enjoy it? Did you get turned on by it? Is that why you… ?”

His smile faintly derisive, he answered her unfinished question. “No, I didn’t enjoy it. That’s not why I got a hard-on when
I tied you up. I’m just so damned horny that being close to you is enough to make me hard.”

“Then why didn’t you… ? When I offered… ?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t right. You didn’t want
me
. You wanted to trade your favors for mine. And it wasn’t fair. I could have accepted. I could have made love to you, but
I still would have had to tie you to the bed. I still would have had to put you through that.” After a long moment’s silence,
he returned to her earlier statement. “Everyone has fantasies, Teryl.”

“But that? What’s to like about that?”

Taking another tight breath, he moved away from the door and walked toward her. When he circled around her, she turned, too,
always facing him, never turning her back on him. “What would it take for you to let me undress you and tie you to that bed?”

She glanced at the bed, at the carved wooden headboard, at the turned and twisted spindles that would offer no chance of escape;
then warily, her eyes big, her face pale, she looked back at him. “Nothing in the world could persuade me to do that,” she
whispered.

“You’re wrong.” His voice wasn’t much more substantial. “Trust would. If you trusted me, if you believed in me with all your
heart and all your soul, if you knew beyond a doubt that I would rather die than let anything hurt you… you would let me do
it. You wouldn’t be afraid. You would let me do whatever I wanted because you would know that you were safe. You would trust
me to keep you safe.”

He took a step back, put some distance between them, and forced some semblance of normalcy into his voice. “Knowing that I’d
earned that kind of trust would give me a tremendous
sense of power, and power, Teryl, is one of the biggest turn-ons there is. So… would I enjoy a little experimentation with
bondage? Yes. Would I find it erotic that you had enough faith in me to make yourself vulnerable to me? Absolutely. Would
I get aroused playing safe games—
safe
, Teryl—of helplessness and domination with you? You bet. But I would never let it go far enough to cause you pain. I would
never try to persuade you to do something you didn’t want to do. I would never hurt you. I know you don’t believe that right
now, but it’s true.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then turned away, sliding her purse strap into place over her shoulder and moving to the door
before stopping and looking back. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “I
do
believe that. It’s the only reason you’re here right now.” After letting that sink in, she turned again and started out the
door. “We’d better go now. We’ve got work to do.”

The Robertson Literary Agency was located in a turn-of-the-century Victorian on a quiet, tree-lined block filled with similar
old homes turned into offices. Six years ago most of the places had been abandoned, run-down, and only one tax bill away from
the wrecking ball; then urban renewal had come to the street. The last of the residents had been bought out, and the houses
had been restored, refurbished, and reincarnated. They were beautiful now, neatly maintained, each with a pocket of yard out
front and a parking lot around back, but instead of families, they now housed professionals.

Teryl directed John into the narrow paved drive that ran along the side of the agency and around back to the parking lot.
It was small, consisting of only a half dozen spaces, but Rebecca’s staff was small, as was her list of clients. With the
income she derived from Simon Tremont, she had neither a need nor a desire for a large stable of writers.

Digging deep in her purse, Teryl retrieved her keys as he shut off the engine; then she opened the door and slid to the ground.
It was a hot, sunny day. On an ordinary summer Sunday, she would be getting ready about now to meet D.J.
for lunch. They would most likely go to their favorite restaurant and sit outside on the patio underneath the shade of a brightly
striped umbrella, and they would drink iced tea and eat chilled fruit salads while they talked. D.J. would be her usual outrageous
self, and Teryl would spend much of the time listening, laughing, and not even trying to hide her shock at some of the things
her friend had to say.

She thought she had hidden that shock pretty well this morning when D.J. had immediately recognized her bruises and their
source, when she had so matter-so-factly rattled off her rules for safe, deviant sex, when she had remarked with such understanding,
“You’re hardly the first woman to discover that she gets off on something different.” Teryl had never dreamed that her foster
sister, her best friend with whom she’d shared her life and her most intimate secrets, was interested in kinky sex. Of course,
she didn’t know that for a fact—and didn’t
want
to know—but it seemed likely. D.J. had shown no surprise over Teryl’s bruises. She’d said nothing that indicated less than
total acceptance of what she believed to be the cause. She had certainly seemed well-informed and conversant on the subject.

Did that explain all the men—so damn many of them—in D.J.’s life? Was she looking for men who would do those sorts of things
to her? But if John was right, they couldn’t be that hard to come by. Everyone had fantasies—and, heaven knew, most men fantasized
about D.J. How easy it would be for her to seduce them into playing whatever games her heart desired.

Did those fantasies also explain the long sleeves D.J. had been wearing on such a hot sunny day? And the bruises Teryl had
noticed in the past but disregarded on a woman who was far too graceful to be bumping into things as often as she claimed?

The keys slid from Teryl’s fingers as she tried to fit one into the dead bolt on the back door. Muttering a curse, she bent
to pick them up as John, several steps lower, offered them to her. Instead of trying once again to undo the lock, though,
for a moment she simply looked at him. “Do you
think D.J. likes… ?” Then she shook her head. “Never mind.” She
really
didn’t want to know.

But that brief glimpse of John’s face before she turned away was enough to answer her unfinished question.
Yes
. He thought D.J. liked things kinky.

Damn. How long would it take her to forget
that?

Inside, the house was quiet and cool. Dim light filtered into the long hallway, spotlighting a few motes of dust that had
somehow avoided detection by Rebecca. Her boss was fastidious, both in her appearance and in her surroundings. She didn’t
tolerate disorderliness or uncleanliness.

She didn’t tolerate sneakiness, either, and that was exactly how Teryl felt as she closed the door behind John, then asked,
“Would you like a tour?” She didn’t really feel like showing him around, but at the moment she was game for anything that
would delay the moment when she would walk into the file room, remove Simon’s files, and use them to test John’s knowledge
of their client.

He gave her a look that felt sharp even in the shadowy hallway, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

She led him down the hall to the ornate frosted glass front doors, then gestured to the broad foyer with a wave. “This is
Lena’s territory. She’s our receptionist. The parlor here is our waiting room, for the rare occasions when someone actually
comes to visit. The upstairs is mostly empty, although we do use a few rooms up there for storage.” Rebecca’s original intent
when she’d purchased the house had been to live on the second and third floors, but her husband had nixed that idea. Her work
infringed on their personal lives enough as it was; he’d known that if she lived above the office, he would never get her
to himself. Since they had divorced only a year or two later, Teryl assumed he’d never succeeded at that even living across
town from the agency.