Authors: Lisabet Sarai
“I’m no expert—I don’t have anything so fine myself—but I’d estimate that each of the dozens of handkerchiefs like this that you possess cost at least ten dollars.”
“Ah—really I don’t know—perhaps. Something in that vicinity.”
“That’s about two weeks of salary for one of these women who work here in your factory.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The cause of the strike, Mr MacIntyre. You asked about the cause of the strike. These poor women—your employees, sir, to whom you have a certain responsibility—generally make five dollars a week. They’d have to work for two weeks—twelve days, twelve hours per day—to afford one of your handkerchiefs. Do you think this is just?”
“Well, they should be grateful they have jobs.” MacIntyre leaned closer, his manner and his voice menacing. “And if you don’t stop your meddling, they won’t. I’ll fire every single one of them in a minute. There are plenty of people who’d be happy for steady work, for a reputable company that’s not about to go bust and put them out on the street.”
“Won’t you consider raising their salaries, Mr MacIntyre?” Olivia countered, inserting a bit of sweetness into her own voice. She laid her hand on his upper arm and felt his muscles shift under her fingers. “An additional dollar a week would make a big difference to them.”
“I’m running a business here, Miss Alcott, not a charity.” He pulled away from her grasp and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then stepped past her to speak to the assembled workers.
“Go back to your machines, ladies. Don’t listen to this—this rabble-rouser. She’s only here to make trouble. You know that MacIntyre Textiles has always taken good care of you…”
“Oh, really, Monsieur?” Lisette Beauchamps pushed her way through the clot of ragged women to confront him. “Did you care when my daughter got the brown lung? Poor
petite
wheezing and coughing so hard that she couldn’t walk, let alone work? And no money for a doctor or medicine? Or when Maria Clermont’s hand got tangled in the spinning machine? After they cut it off at the wrist, the fever took her. Left her four children all alone,
les pauvres
. Now they work here too, in this hellhole that killed their mother.”
“
Oui!
”
“
C’est vrai!”
The women besieged Andrew MacIntyre, crowding around him, blurting out their sad stories in broken English. For a moment, Olivia almost felt sorry for him.
“Silence!” His voice drowned out their pleas and complaints. The babble died away. He raised his fist as though to batter the closest of the supplicants. Then he let it fall to his side. “The next person who makes a sound will be arrested and thrown in jail.” Despite his rough words, though, he appeared uncertain.
She had a premonition of triumph.
“Miss Alcott, I’d like to speak with you in private.” Grasping her by the arm, he led her towards his motor car. He opened the door on the passenger side and practically pushed her inside.
Her heart leapt in her chest. Had she won? Or should she be worried? He levered his body into the driver’s seat, then turned to her with a peculiar expression she couldn’t read at all, but that somehow made her tingle all over.
“What’s in this for you?” he asked finally. “You’re obviously an intelligent and cultured woman. Why get involved with this rabble?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do, sir. These people need help.”
“You truly believe that?”
“I do.”
“And you thought you could make me believe, too?”
“I’d hoped I could, yes. That’s why I asked to speak to you personally. You’re young, educated, a different generation from the greedy swine who raped America for their own gain.”
“Like my father, you mean?”
She blushed in spite of herself. Normally she was more diplomatic.
“Well, then, Olivia—” The way he emphasised her first name made her shiver. “I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Three
The instant he set eyes on Olivia Alcott, he saw her on her knees. The image came to him unbidden, unlike the fantasies he so often summoned to amuse himself. His twisted desires could not have been further from his mind. He’d been preoccupied with the strike and all the other manifold concerns of his industrial empire. Still, there was something about her erect posture, her trim curves, the set of her lush mouth, that called to his dominant nature and turned his thoughts from business to forbidden pleasure.
She was a modern woman—that much was immediately clear—self-confident and assertive. Although adequately polite, her forthright manner lacked any hint of the deference to which he was accustomed. She spoke to him as an equal. Yet his instincts told him that under her steely exterior lay something soft and yielding, a spirit hungry for surrender to the sort of power he loved to exercise.
Probably she didn’t realise it herself, but Olivia Alcott was a natural submissive, born to be mastered.
This sudden insight distracted him. He could scarcely look at her without imagining her graceful limbs wound with rope, her neat bosom bared to his pinching fingers, her lively brown eyes hidden by the blindfold that would give him licence to use her however he chose. His cock swelled to an uncomfortable bulk inside his trousers. He was grateful that the motoring duster he wore concealed the evidence of his excitement.
When he shook her hand, he sensed her shock of unconscious recognition. Her breath quickened and the colour rose in her smooth cheeks. Her voice grew softer as she entreated him to increase the millworkers’ wages, laying out the arguments, pleading with his better nature. He wanted to make her beg for something quite different.
An inspiration seized him then, a stroke of brilliance that would enable him to solve multiple problems at once.
“Olivia, I have a proposition for you.” She did not resist when he led her to the automobile and installed her inside. As he breathed her lilac perfume mingled with her clean sweat, his erection grew more insistent. “There’s to be a ball this weekend at Wavecrest, my house in Newport. My mother has invited what she considers to be the cream of society, including every eligible—that is, single and wealthy—female she can think of. She’s determined to marry me off to one of these creatures, regardless of my wishes.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Her frown of perplexity delighted him. He could practically see the wheels turning in her agile mind as she tried to understand his motives.
“I need an escort, a woman to keep at my side all weekend so I can fend off the advances of all these would-be Mrs MacInytres. Come back to Newport with me. Spend the weekend. If you do, I’ll seriously consider the question of raising the workers’ salaries.”
Olivia laughed, a bright, clear sound that sent a stab of want to his groin. “Me, a poor professor’s daughter, at a society ball? I’d be as out of place as a Hottentot in the White House! I don’t have the airs and graces of a Vanpatten girl. And what would I wear?” She indicated her dusty brown frock. “I doubt very much this would be appropriate.”
“No one need know who you are—we’ll invent some mysterious identity for you. You can be the illegitimate American child of a Hungarian prince, how’s that? As for clothing, I will supply everything you’ll need.” He gave her luscious body a frank once-over that brought the blush back to her face, to his immense satisfaction. “I suspect your measurements are quite comparable to my sister Ann’s. You could wear one of her dresses. But no, that won’t do—you must be the most resplendent creature at the ball. We’ll stop at Ann’s dressmaker on the way and have you fitted for a new gown. With adequate monetary incentives, I’m sure the dress can be ready by tomorrow evening. We’ll pick up a whole kit for you, tennis and boating outfits, morning attire, underclothes. With jewels to match each ensemble, of course…”
“Mr MacIntyre, doesn’t the impropriety of what you’re suggesting bother you in the least?”
Her critical tone brought him up short. What
would
people say about a single young woman, unchaperoned, in Andrew’s constant company? He’d hoped she was less conventional than the women of his regular circle, but, given the importance of reputation, he couldn’t blame her for her concern.
“You’re essentially trying to buy my sympathies, aren’t you?” she continued. “You suppose that if you lavish enough money upon me, I’ll drop my support for the strike and encourage the workers to return to their looms, correct?”
“Not at all…”
“Well, it won’t work. I intend to spend every minute we are together reminding you of the plight of these poor women. I shall work upon your conscience, sir, until you have no choice but to do the right thing.”
“What? Then—you agree? You’ll come to Newport?”
“How could I pass up the opportunity to do so much good?” A smile played at the corners of her compressed lips and Andrew understood that she was teasing him. Yes, she was serious about her cause, but she wanted to join him for other reasons. Hope flared in his chest while desire hardened his loins.
“Thank you, Olivia.” He clamped his hand down upon her smaller one. Her breath hitched with excitement she could not hide. He focused all the force of his will upon her, compelling her to meet his gaze. “There’s one more thing to which you must assent.”
“Yes? What’s that?” She was brave, this woman. The girls on the lawn this morning would have wilted under that stare, but she held her own.
“You must agree to follow my orders in every particular and without question. Otherwise, your charade may be unmasked and we’ll both suffer.”
“In every particular? Even if you should command some indecency?” Her hand still lay beneath his. The pulse fluttered in her wrist like a captive bird.
“In every particular, as I said, and without question.” Full of anxiety, he searched her lovely face. Would she change her mind? “I promise I won’t allow any harm to come to you, Miss Alcott.”
She allowed the smile he’d seen her fighting to bloom. He released the breath he had not realised he’d been holding.
“I agree, Mr MacIntyre—Sir. Shall we be on our way?”
Chapter Four
Olivia perched on the satin coverlet of the carved canopy bed, surveying the impossibly opulent bedroom where she had been installed. The chamber had to be at least thirty feet square, with a gilt-encrusted ceiling that soared ten feet above her head. Tall windows framed in emerald velvet looked out upon a verdant lawn that stretched to the ocean. Distant sails danced upon slate-blue waves and the breeze wafting through the open casements carried a hint of salt. The late afternoon sun sparkled among the crystal tears of the chandelier, casting shards of rainbow upon the polished oak floor. Nearer the bed, a plush Chinese carpet soothed the residual blisters on her bare feet.
She wore one of the delicate silk camisoles Andrew had selected for her as they’d passed through the town. Nothing else. The other garments he’d chosen hung in the rosewood wardrobe, all but the ball gown, which would be delivered, the dressmaker had promised, by Saturday noon.
Cocktails would be served at seven, Andrew had told her, and dinner at eight. In the meantime, he’d instructed her to await him here, in her current state of undress.
She’d never even considered disobeying.
Fingers entwined upon her lap, she breathed deeply in a struggle to calm her racing heart. Her nipples knotted against the silk, aching for stimulation. Her sex was as moist as the humid summer afternoon, her juices perhaps staining the pale green satin beneath her bare bottom. No matter. Andrew MacIntyre could afford to replace it.
Her entire body hummed with anticipation. He would be here soon, or so he’d promised, and the waiting would be over. She’d wanted this for so very long—long before she’d encountered the masterful young billionaire. They had not spoken openly of what was to come. She hoped she had not misunderstood his intentions. If she had, she’d die of embarrassment—or disappointment.
With her back to the door, she watched the snowy clouds drift and reform into fantastic shapes. Breathe. Relax. Open. She remembered perfectly, despite the years.
The hinges were soundless, but she sensed his presence as soon as he entered, the new aura of power that shimmered in the room. The lock clicked, shielding them from interruption and preventing any possibility of escape. She swallowed hard. The moment of truth had arrived.
He stood before her, silent, and she bowed her head automatically, her eyes on her clasped hands. Still, she knew he was gazing upon her near-nakedness. She felt the weight of his attention like a physical caress.
“Olivia.” With one word, spoken low and sure, he claimed her. Heat rushed to her pussy and the bed cover grew damper.
“Yes, sir?” It felt easy, natural—as though she’d never stopped.
“On your knees, girl.” She slipped to the rug, boneless and loose already, his to command. Did he find her compliance strange? No matter. She had been right about his desires and that was all that mattered.
“We’ll start slowly, this first time. Don’t be afraid.”
Afraid? The only thing that scared her was the intensity of her own dark desires.
“Crawl to me.”
Eyes on the floor, she made her awkward way towards his mesmerising voice, her heart slamming against her ribs and her sex clenching with want. The smooth wood hurt her knees as she left the carpeted area behind. She ignored—no, welcomed—the pain. The brief chemise left her ass uncovered. Delicious shame washed over her as she realised he could clearly see how wet his orders had made her.
“Stop there and kneel up.” He dragged her sole garment over her head and tossed it away, then circled her body, murmuring further instructions close to her ear. “Cross your hands behind you, at the small of your back. That’s right.” The cord he wrapped around her wrists was cool and smooth, possibly even silk. Perhaps he’d switch to rough hemp when he knew her better. He wound the loops halfway up her forearms, in neat rounds that bit ever so slightly into her skin. “Ah yes! Lovely! Tell me, are the bonds too tight?”