The others chatter happily. Their voices rise and fall on the breeze from the sea. I shiver.
Ahead of us a gleaming private jet crouches in the sunlight like a great white insect. Before it, a small group is waiting to meet us. Four are uniformed crew members with small enameled bows pinned to their lapels. There’s a slim, neatly suited blonde with a notebook and a stony expression—I’m guessing a PA—and a chunky individual who has to be a bodyguard.
Next to him stands a sulky woman in tight black leather. She’s got black hair and a slash of crimson lipstick for a mouth. A diamond-studded buckle at her waist spells
Nera
.
A Dominatrix.
Ben gasps and I see Mel’s eyes narrow. Nera’s a marked woman.
And standing in the center is Cade Fitzlean.
For an instant, the world stands still.
I did my research—not that he left much to find. Rich men cover their tracks. I found traces of a patchy past and some colorful connections. I even found photos.
They’re nothing like the real thing.
Good-looking doesn’t come close. This can’t be a CEO. He looks too young, too mean—a sulky angel pushed into an Armani advert, all sculpted mouth and high cheekbones. And his eyes—dark, intense, burning into me like I’m wax.
And looking like he wishes I were somewhere else.
Me too.
In truth, we’re all out of our comfort zone here. Ben misses his support team, his assistants and his rookies. Here he’s on his own. Mel likes a constant stream of data and coffee. Jake likes an art director, lighting director, technicians and his camera firmly mounted on a tracking dolly. Here he’s reduced to his beloved antique handheld.
And I’ve got Cade Fitzlean—but not for long. According to our notes, he’s flying back to the States after lunch. And it’s not really him that scares me. It’s what he represents.
All at once I’m back on the rain-drenched sidewalk outside that scary private club a year ago, that terrible night when the bearers carried the woman on the stretcher right past me and the blanket slipped, revealing the bondage harness and the cruel spiked cuffs.
Later, the CEO issued a statement taking full responsibility, regretting the incident and attempting to reassure the public. The statement was signed Cade Fitzlean
.
But we’ve never met.
Until now.
I clench my teeth. Now I’m different.
Back then I was a rookie runner on my first day, thrust in front of the cameras for the very first time. Now I’m a seasoned presenter, and I’ve got a job to do.
As we draw near, the blonde is murmuring at his shoulder, “And this is Tunis Vale, the presenter who will be—”
“I know.” He steps forward and takes my hand. “Miss Vale. We meet at last.”
He seems friendly. His hand’s warm. I blink and remind myself that this man hates me.
I murmur something vague in greeting, but Ben’s already crowding my elbow. I try to take my hand away but Fitzlean holds it fast.
His sudden glint of humor startles me into a smile. For a long moment we’re alone, sharing some mysterious private joke, his touch sending urgent signals up my arm. At last he releases my hand and I step aside for Ben to push in.
“Mr. Fitzlean? Thank you so much for this opportunity to see you and your company at work.”
To my relief, Ben gushes on for some time and I get a chance to recover while the others crowd round to meet him.
Fitzlean’s easy, casual. He takes the trouble to say a few words to everybody but I sense tension in the air.
When he greets Mel, his eyes narrow slightly. Jake openly avoids his handshake, gesturing to his camera in excuse.
The PA touches Jake’s arm. “Please stop filming, Mr. Simmons. I did warn your producer. We have to check all film in case of anything…commercially sensitive.”
Jake glares down at her and lowers his camera with a scowl. “
Sensitive
? What? Here?”
It’s an awkward moment. The PA recovers first and coolly ushers us into the great house, Fitzlean at her side.
I follow, lightheaded with relief. The worst is over. Meeting him was my biggest fear. It brings back that awful night in all its stomach-churning horror. Now I’m ready for anything.
Why did I react so violently that night? It could have been a lot of things. It was my first long, bewildering day out on location with the team and my first live encounter with the scary world of BDSM. I’d been as jumpy as a cat all day. I’d had hardly anything to eat. I’d been too busy.
The day I joined the team, they were putting together a report on the launch of a chain of
outré
private clubs under the Love Beat logo. Mel’s heel caught on a paving stone and she sprained her ankle just before we went live.
Ben turned to me with a grin. “Ok, Tunis, here’s your chance. Smile to camera, listen to what I tell you and, for fuck’s sake, keep talking.”
I stared at him, horrified. “What?
Me
?”
He thrust the mic into my hands and stepped aside for someone to tidy my hair while a technician fixed something behind my ear.
Through it Ben’s panicky instruction hissed in my head. “Sure.
Now.
We’re on air in two.
Go-go-go
.”
And I started talking. I trained with the ballet and I guess some instinctive sense of performance suddenly kicked in. From somewhere words came. I pretended I was talking to a friend. I explained what little I knew about the launch. To wind up I winked, playful. “So is bondage the new chic? Fetish the new normal? All bets are on, folks. We could be looking at a whole new—”
I broke off aghast as the stretcher appeared and the meaning of the flashing blue lights and the police cars sank in.
This was real.
“There’s a Dom behind you. Ask him something.” Once more Ben’s nasal drawl hissed in my ear but all I could do was stare at the unconscious girl on the stretcher.
What had they done to her?
I had to keep talking. Obediently I spun round to find myself looking up into the glittering eyes of a dark, sinister figure, his face covered in a hood. He was naked to the waist, his powerful muscles gleaming in the flashing lights. His chest hair glittered with beads of rain.
I froze and everything slid sideways. As the wet pavement rose up to meet me, I felt strong hands catch me round the waist and heard a rich, deep voice close to my ear. “She’s ill. Should she even be here?”
Then I threw up and everything went black.
I found out later he was a celebrity professional Dom known only as the Panther. And from that moment on, his hooded, muscled figure and his deep, stirring voice prowl my dreams, constantly replaying my fantasies of what he did to that girl to make her pass out and
what it must have felt like
.
And to my eternal shame, the dreams are deeply, gut-wrenchingly
hot
…
My one big chance and I blew it.
But then things happened fast.
Days later I was already looking for another job when out of the blue I became a runaway hit. Somehow my reaction clicked with the public and went viral.
It sparked a backlash. The launch of the Love Beat Corporation’s private clubs was canceled and plans for the movie release put on hold. The Panther vanished. Even Fitzlean left the country.
Jake’s unforgiving camera caught it all. It turned Love Beat
,
the Panther and everything they stand for into monsters.
But against all the odds, it made me a star.
And that’s why he hates me.
As the others make their way into the vast luxury of Beat Hall, I trail behind. I’m sharing with Mel on the second floor. Our sumptuous room is all thick carpet and marble en suite, and it sends her into raptures.
As she hurls herself back onto the four-poster and sprawls across the crimson damask she grins up at me. “I could get used to this. Do you mind sharing, Tunis?”
I roll my eyes as I unpack and stow the few things I’ve brought onto jangling hangers. “I’m fine. I doubt we’ll see much of each other anyway. There’s too much to do.”
Documentaries are hard work, especially on location. With security so tight here it’s just us—no support team to advise, keep notes, fetch, carry or edit. The edit will be done back in London after we’ve finished filming so no chance of retakes. We’ll need plenty of film to cut down to an acceptable length, and there are all the interviews to fit in.
Celebrities and their agents are picky about camera angles and lighting and with a topic like this we’ll be treading on eggshells.
This is no holiday, more a marathon.
Mel senses my unease. “Hey, lighten up. It’s a party. Think Halloween with whips. And look at these goodies.” She’s sorting through the gift basket and tips it out on the bed. “Not just shower gel… We’ve got condoms, blindfolds, three sorts of lube—and
nipple clamps
! Check out the kinky costumes. And look—invitations to receptions, a ball, the spa, salon treatments, swimming pools—
Oh.”
I look up. “What’s the matter?”
She’s staring at two black cards, heavily embossed in silver. Each one has a whip-crossed heart etched at the top, the Love Beat
logo.
She looks up with shining eyes. “We even get free S&M taster training. We fill them in, choose Dom or sub, and hand them in at reception. Ben and I are both training with Nera first thing tomorrow. Hey, you’re listed too. You’re with… Wow, look at this.”
Her eyes widen with a glint of mischief. “You’re booked in with the Panther, no less.” She turns her pale eyes full on me. “And you know his specialty? I heard it’s—”
“The bullwhip,” I break in quickly. “I heard that too.”
The Panther…
here
? My stomach shrivels.
I snatch the card out of Mel’s hand, rip it in two and hurl it into the wastepaper basket. “And that’s where he can put it. Lunch?”
* * * *
Lunch is more a glittering reception, all champagne and canapés. Stars and publicity people mingle with producers and moneymen—glamor and business, hard at work.
Cade Fitzlean is at the far end of the room, surrounded. As we walk in, he glances across and our eyes meet. Instantly he detaches himself from the group he’s with and walks over.
I swallow.
“Tunis. Hello again. I suppose you’d like an interview.”
I stare at him in panic.
No, no, ask Mel.
“Um, yes, thank you. If you can fit it in.”
A glint of amusement flickers across his face. “If I can
fit it in
?”
Whoa.
A faint lift of his eyebrow warns me not to go there but hints it might be fun if I do. Now I flounder. “I mean—you have a tight schedule, Mr. Fitzlean. Your PA—”
The chilly blonde appears at his side but his eyes stay locked on mine. “Sonja, can I make time for an interview?”
She eyes me frostily. “Mr. Fitzlean flies out at three. There’s no time—”
“Fine. We’ll do it now.” His gaze continues to hold mine. We might be alone in the room.
“I… Thank you. Yes. Now.” My mind goes blank. Rescue comes as the team eagerly pushes forward.
Unexpectedly Fitzlean smiles around at them. “Interview, guys? Fire away.”
Instantly they gather round while Jake’s camera whirrs in the background. I try to compose myself while Ben snaps out questions from somewhere behind me.
I soon recover. “How did you come to write
Love Beat?”
The jaunty single he wrote as a teenager was an instant hit and founded his fortune. It still earns him royalties.
Fitzlean grins. “Jotted it down after a chemistry exam. Took about ten minutes. Then a family friend offered to produce it. Took him three months. Worth every second.”
“And the exam?” I smile at a sudden and rather appealing image of a sulky, beautiful teenager.
His eyebrow arches in surprise.
Am I the first person to ask him about chemistry?
“I got an A.”
“Are you dating anyone at present?” Ben takes a big risk. We were warned off his private life.
Fitzlean’s expression chills. “Not at the moment.”
“So—what gives you pleasure, Mr. Fitzlean?” I ask quietly.
Where did that come from?
He turns his gaze full on me and once more the earth spins away. “Watching business deals come together. Watching women come apart.”
The others pitch in with a few final questions while I fall silent. He’s good. I’ve done enough interviews to appreciate real skill when I see it.
After a moment he glances at his watch, murmurs something to his PA and strolls casually out of the room.
Sonja lingers, fixing me with her chilly blue stare. “Mr. Fitzlean would like to see you in his office for a few moments, Miss Vale.”
Me? Why?
The others stare after me as I follow her out of the room.
Chapter Two
Cade Fitzlean’s office gives few clues to his character. I’m in a lofty, elegant room, with tall windows, sparse but ornate pieces of furniture, priceless paintings and a striking central display of modern photos.
It’s more imposing than I expected but somehow less personal.
He’s standing over by the window and looks stunning. A shaft of sunlight slants across his face, etching shadows under his cheekbones and down one side of his jaw. He sweeps me with a practiced glance.
“Tunis. Thank you for giving me a few moments. I know your time’s precious.”
Mine
precious
? He’s serious? He’s got an empire to run.
As if his looks weren’t enough, even his courtesy is alluring—and so is something else. Now that we’re alone, I sense an air of power. It fills the room and surrounds him like a force field.
It’s very disturbing.
“Please, take a seat.”
I perch on one of a pair of low sofas near the window. He sits opposite, crossing his legs with one ankle over his knee, clearly at ease.
I draw my legs together at an angle in a dancer’s natural pose. I aim for grace but feel prim. “Is there a problem, Mr. Fitzlean?”
“That depends. Is everything to your liking? Your room—and so on?”
Is that all?
Relief floods through me. Foolishly I start to gush. “I have to agree with Ben. This is a terrific opportunity for us. And the rooms are spectacular. We can’t thank you enough…”