Emma Holly (13 page)

reveal a bank of closed-circuit screens, each liquid crystal display showing a different area of the house.

This being B.G.'s idea of surveillance, the pictures were very clear.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the couch. "We'll see if we can discover where our guest has gone."

Charity
didn't get far in her explorations, mostly because everything she found tempted her to stop and look around.

A string of libraries opened off the hall from her room, each organized around a theme. The mystery room she'd already seen, but the astronomy library was cool, too. When she hit a button by the door, the room turned into a planetarium, complete with constellations spinning on the walls. The romance room—for female guests, she supposed—was a cross between a tea shop and a wedding cake, so crazy over-the-top with ruffles it made her grin. Though she didn't know B.G. well, she could imagine him chuckling to himself while he planned it. She had a feeling he was sillier when he was alone.

Stage sets though they seemed, the rooms showed signs of use. The cushions were squashed, the spines of the novels cracked, but the absence of the people who'd left the wear created the impression of a ghost town. A few times, she thought she glimpsed someone out of the corner of her eye, then turned to find the spot empty. She fought the niggle of fear this caused. No way was Grantham's estate a haunted house. It simply had a sense of presence.

Her first live human showed up in the kitchen, one Señora Alvarez, a motherly Spanish-speaking cook who wouldn't let her leave until she ate a yummy bean-filled snack.

Thus fortified, she wandered down another hall, this one painted in blue and white Greek designs. It led to a sapphire lap pool that stretched across an elegant conservatory. Smooth white marble paved the floor, while potted palms whispered secrets to the fan-stirred air. The most eye-catching ornament, however, was the slim, naked blonde who was swimming the crawl in perfect form—maybe the very blonde B.G. had warned her about. Curious to meet someone who hopefully spoke English, Charity waited until the woman climbed out, sheeting water off her nymphlike form.

She must have been accustomed to being naked. Rather than bother with a towel, she sleeked the drips from her short fair hair with the palms of her hands. Her cool green eyes studied Charity without expression, but Charity had been the new kid on too many blocks to act cowed. Knowing the value of a confident appearance, Charity smiled.

"You're the new guest," the swimmer said with a faint accent. Charity wondered if anyone but another woman would have heard the challenge in her tone.

"That's right. I'm Charity Wills."

At last, the woman reached for a towel, though all she did with it was pat the golden skin between her amazingly perky breasts. "I'm Sylvia, the masseuse."

"Sweet job. Getting to rub your hands all over the hot guys."

Sylvia's mouth pursed and smiled at the same time. "I'm just as partial to hot girls."

"Oh," said Charity, abruptly feeling naive. "Of course you are. Handy being flexible in a place like this."

"Yes, it is, though I was hired as much for these"—Sylvia waggled slender fingers—"as for my eclectic tastes." She lifted one pale brow as if Charity might not know what
eclectic
meant. "You have a Lovely blush," she added, causing it to deepen. "So many people just turn red."

"I'm a bit out of my league here," Charity confessed.

Sylvia seemed to like that. It brought a flicker of approval into her eyes. Charity thought she might be the sort of female who was nicer when she felt superior. Sylvia's next question was kindly. "Never been with a woman?"

"No-o," Charity answered slowly, not sure she wanted to go where this was heading.

"Perhaps you don't think it's worth trying." Sylvia's tone had grown chilly. Perhaps unconsciously, her posture was now combative: hands on waist, feet planted wide. The muscles of her shapely thighs were just taut enough to see. Apparently, this Nordic snowfairy liked to work out. Then and there, despite the fact that Sylvia hadn't issued the smallest threat, Charity decided not to
get
on her bad side.

"Um," she said. "I'm afraid being with a woman has never been one of my fantasies."

"Then what has?" Sylvia almost purred.

The sudden shift in her manner reminded Charity this was exactly the question she wasn't supposed to answer. "Oh, this and that," she said, waving her hand vaguely. "The usual."

"Bondage?" Sylvia suggested. "Corporal punishment?"

If it had been dark, Sylvia's cool green eyes would have glowed. She seemed positively hungry to know Charity's kinks.

"Those are the
usual
?" Charity asked, trying to make it a joke. "I must be more out of my league than I thought."

"I know you are not disgusted," Sylvia said, her certainty unsettling.

Charity wouldn't have guessed she'd be that easy to read.

"No," she said. "But your questions
are
kind of personal."

Sylvia tossed her head disdainfully, her drying locks beginning to float like down. "Everyone is here for something, some dark, secret dream they wish to fulfill."

In spite of Charity's discomfort with this conversation, Sylvia's words, and the passion they were uttered with, sent a flash of heat to her sex. She could see why B.G. had felt the need to warn her. Sylvia was insidious.

"What's
your
secret dream?" she asked, her tone almost as intimate as Sylvia's. She hadn't meant the question to come out that way, but the quick surprise in Sylvia's eyes was a charge.

"I'm submissive," Sylvia said. "I live to please others."

"Baloney," Charity scoffed, as certain as Sylvia had been about her. "There's got to be something you want for yourself, whether or not it pleases anyone else."

Her grin took Sylvia aback. The masseuse looked furtively to either side, maybe searching for watchers.

"It's really nothing," she hemmed.

"You can tell me," Charity said. "Heck, I bet you could tell anybody here. It's not like they haven't seen it all."

Sylvia leaned so close Charity could smell the chlorine on her skin. "What I'd really like," she said in a near whisper, "is a good, brisk spanking. Nothing against Mr. Grantham. He's a wonderful employer. But he doesn't have the stomach to turn a woman's bottom red."

"Um," said Charity and rubbed her nose. "That's a dilemma."

Sylvia straightened and laughed. "I've embarrassed you. I am sorry."

"No, no. I'm the one who asked."

Sylvia's expression turned sly. "You look strong," she said. "Perhaps you'd like to give it a try."

"Me?" Suddenly Charity had trouble catching her breath.

"Why not? The bigwigs are probably watching as it is. You know how men are. Why not give the tormentors a taste of their own medicine?"

The idea did hold a certain appeal. Did watching qualify as "supervision"? Could B.G.'s voice boom out of a speaker to stop it all? She'd always thought if you encouraged someone to confide in you, you shouldn't make them feel bad about what they'd revealed. Refusing Sylvia now seemed too close to breaking her own rule. "Is it allowed?" she asked uncertainly.

"Absolutely," Sylvia declared, "as long as neither of us climaxes."

"Well," said Charity, "if all you want is a spanking, I guess I could manage that."

"Excellent," Sylvia responded, promptly laying facedown on the marble tile. Her skin looked even more golden against its white. She put her head on her folded arms. "I don't like giving instructions, so please proceed as you wish. And do not worry about hurting me. I'm much tougher than I look. You should also be aware that if you wet your hands first, it makes a better noise."

"You know," said Charity, "for a person who doesn't like to give instructions, you do it pretty easily."

"You asked what I wanted," Sylvia said. "If I don't tell you, when will I have another chance to
get
it?"

Since Charity couldn't argue with that, she knelt to dunk her hand in the heated pool, then returned to Sylvia's side. Her well-toned bottom was slightly raised, whether deliberately or just in anticipation, she couldn't say. Charity had to admit the position made a pretty curve of her spine.

You can do this
, she told herself.
You've wanted to whack your female bosses often enough
.

"Cup your hand when you spank me," Sylvia said into her arms. "I like that better than the flat."

"Are you sure you don't want to instruct me? 'Cause I can wait."

"I am done," Sylvia said, her dignity injured by Charity's teasing. "You may proceed."

Charity had to bite her lip against a laugh for the first few strikes, but, true to her word, Sylvia kept any more advice to herself. In no time she was squirming against the floor and giving out little mewls that Charity found surprisingly arousing. Sylvia's eyes were so tightly closed, Charity thought she must have gone off into another world. For some reason, this made her task easier—not that it was actually hard.

To be honest, it was fun to exercise this much power with such a simple act.

It was, in its way, as fascinating as watching Maurice struggle in his punishment chair.

"Tell me," Charity said, treating her victim to a particularly forceful smack. "How does Eric… Mr. Berne rate on the spanking meter?"

"He is better," Sylvia gasped, "but he, too, lacks the will to make a spanking sting."

"Hah!" said Charity, readying her arm for another swing. "Lucky for you, Wills is my last name."

Put on her mettle to best the men, she let loose a flurry of quick, sharp blows, taking care not to let either side of Sylvia's bottom get too red. No matter how tough Sylvia claimed she was, Charity had no desire to harm her.

"Oh, oh, oh!" Sylvia cried, but because it seemed like a happy noise, Charity kept up her efforts. In truth, if Sylvia hadn't been appreciative, she might have flagged. This spanking thing took a lot out of a person's arm.

"Oh, Arne," Sylvia groaned, presumably transported to another time. "Do it. Do it as hard as you can.

You know I need it. You know I am too wicked to be left unmarked!"

It seemed rude to mention her name wasn't Arne. Sucking up a lung-filling breath, Charity gathered herself for a few last end-of-the-fireworks blows.

As the first one hit, Sylvia groaned and said something that sounded like the Nordic version of
oh, God,
yes
!

"Yes," she moaned, recovering enough to speak English. "More, more… oh, God, quick stop!"

Charity stopped at once, but Sylvia was quivering on the floor, grinding her hips against the marble as if she meant to push her body through. It took a minute until the shaking stopped, after which her breath panted out in ragged huffs. Her bottom was blazing pink—a good deal pinker than Charity had meant to make it. As if the discomfort this must entail was nothing, Sylvia sighed euphorically and sat up.

"You brought me to climax," she said, her green eyes wide.

Charity blushed, despite this having been obvious. "I'm sorry, Sylvia. I know I wasn't supposed to do that."

"Oh, no." Sylvia clasped her hands fervently, squeezing them hard enough to hurt. "You are marvelous.

That hasn't happened since… well, since a boy I knew when I was a teen."

Before Charity's mind could spiral through semi-scary thoughts of a teenage Sylvia, the other woman grabbed her face and planted a big wet one right on her mouth. As kisses went, it wasn't bad, maybe a bit
too
hard but not bad. Charity's lips were tingling by the time Sylvia let go.

Only then did she remember she'd promised not to kiss anyone but Eric or B.G.—not that Sylvia had given her a choice.

"Um," Charity said, knocked way off her normal balance. "You're welcome, I guess."

Sylvia tossed her head on a laugh, a gesture that made her look like someone who could have once been eighteen. Charity couldn't help smiling back. Obviously giddy, Sylvia scrambled to her feet and skipped toward the door, her teacup breasts jiggling fetchingly. She paused at the entrance like Tinkerbell lighting on a flower. "I'll see you at dinner, Charity Wills. And thank you. That was worth any punishment."

Charity was glad she thought so. For her part, she wasn't yet convinced she wished to pay.

Maurice
collected Charity for dinner. As usual, she would have been late without the help, having lost track of time while painting her toenails pink. Someone—Eric, she assumed—had laid out an outfit on her bed. Chosen from what she'd brought with her, it included her favorite super-low-riding jeans and a baby-blue cropped hoodie.

The underwear was new: real silk stuff that probably cost a mint. Thankfully, it held her up and fit her to a T. Even if it hadn't, she wouldn't have considered not wearing it, not that evening anyway. She'd pushed her luck enough by playing with Sylvia. If she behaved herself for a while, maybe she'd escape punishment. She certainly didn't want to be kicked out. Weird or not, her experiences thus far had been fun. She could stand wearing what someone else picked out for once.

"Lord Almighty," Maurice said, his attention snagging on her navel ring. "You look like jail bait in that outfit."

"Fake jail bait," Charity assured him, giving her chest a wiggle behind the snug velour. She'd slid the hoodie's zipper down enough to show the edges of the ice-pink bra. "Hopefully your boss will enjoy a change from leather and bondage wear."

"Trust me," Maurice said, his hand to his heart. "B.G. Grantham would like you in a sack. He may be Mr. Science, but he's a man."

Gratified by this response, Charity followed him through a series of underground halls, each built of monolithic stones. Because the lights were equipped with motion detectors, darkness preceded as well as followed them. Charity found the effect slightly creepy but interesting, reminding her—as if she needed reminding—that she was having an adventure beyond the norm. At the end of the last passage, an elegant mahogany door with its own spotlight opened onto a combination library/sitting room.

The smell of charbroiled steak made her mouth water.