The Darker Side of Pleasure (27 page)

W
HEN HE WALKED INTO THE RESTAURANT BAR
for their appointment on Friday afternoon, the first thought Maggie had was that the phrase “tall, dark, and handsome” had been invented just for him. He approached the table with cool, leonine grace. When he was close enough, she could see his eyes were hazel, a luminous combination of gold and silver. Amazing eyes. Mesmerizing. Power emanated from this man in almost palpable waves. Her stomach twisted into an odd little knot as she stood to greet him.

“Mr. Knight?”

“Ms. London, nice to meet you. But you must call me Damien.”

He took her hand in his, his grasp warm, firm. Heat flared in her palm at the contact. Yes, definitely a handsome man, with his tall build, his head of dark, luxurious hair, and those eyes. He could hypnotize a woman with those eyes. The hustle and noise of the lunchtime crowd faded into the background, along with the dark paneling, the red linen tablecloths, the scent of garlic bread.

He came to her side of the table and held her chair while she sat down, flustering her. So few men in New York knew anything of these old-world manners. To find it in a man here in San Francisco was just as surprising. Perhaps in Europe…yes, he was very European. Something about him. The way he dressed, in casual elegance, the way he moved and spoke. A bit too formal for a man of his age, which she guessed to be late thirties, forty at most.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr.—I’m sorry. Damien.”

“Shall we order? A drink for you? Yes.”

He motioned to a waiter. The man came almost at a run. Utterly confident, this Damien Knight, and commanding in a way people probably responded to almost without realizing it, as the waiter had.

“I’ll have a Glenlivet on the rocks. What do you drink, Ms. London?”

“Maggie, please.” Good lord, had she just heard a hint of flirtation in her voice? This would never do. She never flirted with her research subjects, and this was work. But a drink would not be overstepping the boundaries of professionalism. “A glass of white wine. Nothing too sweet.”

His gaze held hers. “Yes, nothing too sweet for you, I imagine.”

What was the intimation in his tone? “Excuse me?”

“You don’t seem the kind of woman who enjoys too much sweet…anything.”

What was he implying? And why was his strangely insightful remark making her blush? It was true, she wasn’t crazy about sugar, chocolate. She didn’t care for those sweet, girlish things so many women loved. No kittens and bows for her. She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman most people would call “sweet.” Competent, in charge, perhaps a little bossy, even. But never sweet.

She didn’t know what to think of this man.

His fine, long-fingered hands on your skin…

She really had to stop that!

She cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming to do this interview with me.”

“You’re the one who came here from New York. I came only a few blocks. You’re still expecting this to be a series of interviews?”

“Yes. I thought this subject might require more than one meeting.”

“You’re right. It will. There are many different aspects to the BDSM lifestyle. It’s not something one can learn about in a single conversation. Tell me again the name of the magazine you write for?”

“Citi.”

He lounged back in his chair, the picture of cool confidence. “A women’s magazine, is that right?”

“I suppose. Although it’s more sophisticated, more thoughtful, than the usual fashion magazine. We approach tougher subjects, are more liberal than most other women’s magazines, more forward-thinking. Hence my sex column. Our demographic is working women, metropolitan women. Women who are unafraid of the world.”

“As you are?”

Was that a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth?

It was a strong mouth, the mouth of a man who knew exactly who he was. His stance, his walk, everything about him conveyed the same message.

Their drinks arrived and she took a grateful sip, wishing she’d ordered something stronger.

He held his drink in his hand as he did everything, with grace and a casual strength, his fingers sensually caressing the glass. “So, Ms. London, tell me, what is Maggie short for? You don’t look like a Margaret.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

She was silent for a moment. His gaze on her was more than scrutinizing somehow. She moved her fingertips around the rim of her wineglass, shifted in her chair. “Magdalena.”

“Your mother was Italian?”

“French. I was born in Italy.”

“Your parents traveled?”

“My mother did. I thought I was conducting this interview.”

His silvery-gold gaze rested on her face, held there. He watched her, silent. This man obviously justified himself to no one. She reached into her briefcase and pulled a notepad out, a pen. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes?”

“London doesn’t sound either French or Italian.”

She sighed. How was she ever going to get control of the conversation with a man like him? “It’s not. London is my father’s name. He’s American.”

“And you were born in Italy why?”

“You really aren’t going to stop until I’ve answered all of your questions, are you?”

He took a swallow of his drink. The sound of the ice moving in his glass seemed abnormally loud to her, the faint clink as he set the glass down on the table.

He shrugged, broad shoulders moving beneath the finely made black cashmere sweater. “I’m curious about you.”

“Why?”

“Because a woman who makes a living writing about sex is fascinating by nature. You were about to tell me what your mother was doing in Italy when you were born.”

She shook her head. “My mother is an artist. She went to Italy to paint, to Tuscany. And to have me. She said she wanted me to be born into beauty.”

“And so you were.”

By the look he gave her she was fairly certain he didn’t mean the Italian countryside. Her face was hot. She took a sip of her wine.

“What about your father?”

“I never knew him. Can we get back to the interview, please?”

Where had that “please” come from? He really did inspire a sense of yielding in people; she’d seen it with the waiter. But Damien Knight would soon figure out that she was as strong as he was.

Then why was her breath tight in her chest? Her neck still on fire, her hands shaky?

“Certainly.” He was all acquiescing grace suddenly.

This was better, back to business. In business mode she should be able to ignore the strange effect this man was having on her.

She wrote his name at the top of her pad of paper, cleared her throat. “Can you give me a simple definition of the term ‘BDSM,’ for my readers?”

“BDSM stands for bondage and discipline, domination and submission, sadomasochism. But it can be any or all of those things.”

Why did hearing him say these words make her go hot all over?

Focus!

“And, um…what is it you do when you’re not…practicing the BDSM lifestyle? What do you do for a living, if I may ask?”

“I’m an independent consultant. I handle acquisitions and mergers for large corporations.”

“Then I imagine you went to college?”

“I have a degree in business, and one in law. Is this information important to your article?”

“I’m trying to draw a profile. Do you enjoy your work?”

“Yes. It’s exciting. Almost as exciting as talking with a beautiful woman.”

He caught her eye, his gaze glittering. She looked back down at her pad of paper, cleared her throat once more. “So, how long have you been involved in BDSM?”

“Since I was fifteen years old.”

“Fifteen? That can’t be true.”

“Oh, I didn’t know enough to be serious about it. But even then I spanked my first real girlfriend, pinched her thighs. I was doing these things months before we had sex.”

Her cheeks were heating again. To do these things as a teenager! She was no prude, but it was hard to think about him ever being a teenaged boy, never mind putting some young girl over his knee and…good lord, he’d never said that. Where was she getting this stuff?

“So, when did you understand what you were doing, what it was you wanted, exactly?”

“It takes most of us a number of years to know exactly what we want. That applies to any area of our lives, don’t you agree, Magdalena?”

“Maggie,” she corrected automatically, then felt foolish. Why did it mater what this man called her?

“Of course. Maggie.”

There was that twinkle in his eyes again. Was he making fun of her?

“You were saying?” she prompted.

“I was saying that it takes a while for each of us to know ourselves. Sometimes we’re well into adulthood before we know our own hearts, our own desires. But I figured mine out early. By the time I was eighteen I knew. I understood that I found a deep pleasure in bringing pain along with pleasure to the women I was with. That I loved the sense of power I felt when dominating them. That it was natural for me. Looking back I can see that it’s always been there. I’d been able to get my way with teachers, other children. The way I see it, turning to a life of dominance was simply living the truth of who I was. Who I am.”

She realized when he stopped talking and grew quiet that she was leaning toward him, the edge of the table pressing into her ribs. She sat back in her chair, made a few quick notes.

“Do you always use a steno pad to take notes when you’re interviewing someone?”

“What? Yes. I know, it’s old-fashioned. But I feel more in touch with the words this way than I would using those electronic gadgets everyone is so fond of.” Her cheeks went hot again at that admission. She didn’t even know why. Maybe because it was personal? But he was dragging as many personal things from her as she was from him.

“There’s a certain kind of charm in being old-fashioned about some things. Not everything, of course.” He smiled at her. Strong white teeth, almost too perfect. “Your job is certainly not old-fashioned, and yet, I find you utterly charming.”

Her whole body went hot, a liquid flush that began in her face, moved down over her belly, spread to her arms, her legs. She didn’t know what to say.

He sat and watched her. His face was perfectly serious; he wasn’t mocking her. After a moment he said, “Shall we continue with the interview, Magdalena?”

God, she really had to get ahold of herself.

“Um…I had some questions…” She scrambled through her briefcase for the list she’d made before she left New York. After five minutes with him she had a whole new list of things she wanted to know. Like how he looked through her the way he did, as though he could see what was going on in her head. X-ray eyes.

“Why don’t I just talk to you?” he suggested. “You can find your questions later.”

“Yes, sure. Okay.”

She held her pencil over her pad of paper, feeling foolish, totally off balance. She had never before met anyone who could do this to her. She didn’t like it.

He took a calm sip of his drink. “If we’re going to do this interview, if my words are going to be in print, I want you to understand a few things. We are not simply a bunch of perverts. There’s more to this life than that. It’s not just sex. It’s nothing so simple. Yet at the same time, it’s a very basic need we fill by doing the things we do.

“I believe this is a world of overstimulation. We are bombarded on every side; traffic noise, neon lights. It’s a neon world we live in. I believe it takes more and more simply to make us feel anything at all. We are sensual extremists. But I believe we are indulging a need a lot of other people have, but don’t admit to. I think much of the rest of humanity is bored.”

“And you’re never bored?”

“Never.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. It’s an exaggeration.”

He shrugged, drank again from his glass. The ice cubes had melted into tiny pebbles. “You can’t possibly understand without having experienced what we experience.”

“I’m here for you to tell me. To make me understand.”

“I can try. I will try. Because I’d like for people to know what we’re about, we sensual extremists.”

“So you have an agenda in talking to me?”

He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the linen-draped table. His eyes were on her again, those intense, elemental eyes, and she couldn’t look away. “Yes. But I have to admit to you that since meeting you, my agenda has taken a different turn.”

Her pen clattered to the table. She didn’t pick it up. “What do you mean?”

“I no longer want to tell you what this is all about. I want to show you.”

CHAPTER TWO