“You’re not supposed to be here, Boo.”
The soft voice whispered over Becka Swinfield’s shoulder. Tension
zipped along every nerve, stilling the hand that held her drink half way to her
lips. The need to lift her gaze to the broad mirror mounted behind the bar was
difficult to deny, but she’d worked long and hard to keep her attraction to
this man hidden behind a mask of disdain. As long as he didn’t see her eyes
before she got a handle on her emotions, her secrets were safe. She knew
exactly what he expected of her and, as much as she disliked suppressing the
wants and desires thoughts of his mastery stirred, Becka played her role
superbly.
Back stiff and shoulders straight, she drew a slow breath. She
didn’t doubt Richard Bennett would do everything in his power to make her
leave. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been warned. That meant she had to do
everything in her power to fight the
compulsion to give into his persuasion. When she turned to look up at the man
behind her, adrenalin flooded her system. Every muscle twitched in preparation
for flight and her heart thudded against her ribs.
The cold gray glare wasn’t foreign to her; she’d simply
never been the recipient of it before. The normally open and friendly
expression was absent, replaced with a harsher aspect and lean, angular lines. The
neatly styled brown curls she’d dreamt of running her fingers through for the
last ten years were gone, brutally shorn into a buzz-cut and dyed a golden
blond. Even his eyebrows were shades lighter than she remembered. A long, slow
look allowed her to catalogue the black leather pants, biker boots, and snug
red tee-shirt he wore. She’d known he was in good shape, but somehow, in the
six months he’d been away from San Diablo, any softness had disappeared. His
shoulders seemed to have grown broader, his chest and abdomen more sculpted,
and his arms, crossed menacingly over that massive chest, were thickly layered
with muscle.
In the past, she’d never doubted his abilities as a Dominant,
only studiously avoided giving in to the urge to kneel in submission before
him. Becka couldn’t be sure of herself now. The quiver building deep in her
belly warned her that the option to decide wasn’t going to be available to her
much longer. Despite her unease, she ignored the aura of power emanating from
his body and tilted her chin up. She forced her hand to lift the drink to her
lips then sipped the fruity cocktail, all the while holding Richard’s furious
gaze and squeezing her thighs tightly closed to temper the ache building
between them. When she was sure her voice wouldn’t crack or her knees quake
more than they were, she answered, “I’m on vacation.”
Heat crackled in his eyes as he took in the low-heeled
pumps, staid white blouse, and knee-length tweed skirt she wore. The warmth
never reached his voice as he ordered icily, “Leave.”
After another restorative sip on her drink Becka shook her
head. “No.”
She didn’t need his appraisal to realize she was far too
overdressed for the Dulce Oro, but she hadn’t expected to run into Richard
here. Now. Not at one in the afternoon. She’d never known him to enter the
Diablo Blanco Club before six or seven in the evening — after he finished work.
When
she’d concocted her plan, an afternoon visit to the exclusive Mexican BDSM club
hadn’t factored in. At least not before she’d found a shop and did a little adjusting
to her wardrobe. Impulse had driven her to slip in and check the place out. To
meet the man she’d been told to contact in order to gain admittance to the club
and access to a certain AWOL executive. The impulse was rapidly morphing into
regret the longer she kept from looking at Richard and took in the clothing, or
decided lack of clothing, worn by many of the people around her. It was too
soon for her to reveal her secret. The more time she spent around the environs
of the Dulce Oro the harder it would be to keep Richard from finding out how
comfortable she truly was with Dominant/submissive lifestyles.
The fingers of her free hand crept up toward the necklace
around her throat, but she stopped. Instead she nervously plucked at the top
button of her blouse and swiveled her barstool back around to face the mirror. He was still there at her back, more visible now in the antique glass than when
she’d looked directly at him. And much, much larger.
Richard didn’t move away. He crowded closer, his arms
uncrossing, his hands settling onto the polished teak of the bar on either side
of her, trapping her back against his chest. “You don’t want to play this game
with me, little girl.” His breath stirred the hair that had slipped loose from
her chignon and warmed the side of her neck. It took everything she had to
remain still, to not flinch.
His gaze held hers in the mirror as he moved his mouth
closer to her left ear. “You won’t like the consequences.”
Becka saw a flash of white teeth then felt a hard nip at her
earlobe. A gasp slipped free, her body trembled, fire pooled in parts of her
that had no business getting turned on by his threats, but she held her ground.
“I’m not little. And I’m not a girl, Richard.”
In the reflection, she watched his attention drop to her
breasts then with slow deliberation rise back to her face. Before he could
respond, another man intruded, his large, brown hand falling companionably on
Richard’s shoulder as he grinned at them in the mirror. Becka knew she should
be relieved at the distraction, but she wasn’t. It soothed the silly, romantic
part of her that Richard looked annoyed at the intrusion.
Cat green eyes glittered with amusement in a handsome face
of obvious Hispanic descent. The Brooks Brothers suit Dante Salvador Cruz wore looked
as if it had been tailored to fit his lean frame while the black shirt matched
the thin pin stripe of the charcoal suit. “Ahh, there you are, Ricardo. I have
been looking for you.” The heavy Spanish accent held a hint of refinement Becka
hadn’t heard in the voices of the locals when she’d arrived earlier that afternoon.
Richard shrugged the man’s hand off. “I’m occupied, Cruz.”
The jovial expression disappeared as the other man’s gaze
held Richard’s in the mirror. Both men appeared equal in height — nearly four inches over six
feet, and though Richard’s muscular build seemed to dwarf the other man,
Dante didn’t hesitate to warn Richard away. “Not with this one, mi amigo.”
The temperature in the room dropped at least twenty degrees
as Richard stiffened against her and slowly turned his head to face the
newcomer. “No collar means she’s free for the taking. Isn’t that your rule?”
Dante grinned, but the amusement never entered his eyes. “Special
circumstances means special rules.” He reached around Richard’s arm and took
Becka’s hand. “Come, mija, I am sorry
I had to leave you for so long, but —”
Richard’s
arm barred her escape for a moment before he dropped it and stepped back. She
slid off the barstool and allowed the other man to lead her away. They hadn’t
gone more than two steps when Richard’s voice stilled them.
Soft, but lethal, his
words didn’t reach beyond the three of them. “Dante, friend or not, you fuck
her and you’re a dead man. Comprendé?”
