The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (19 page)

George opened his door and was about to climb out when Seton said, “Miss Fordham will see herself out.”

My head spinning with sleepiness and bewilderment, I somehow managed to open the door and scoot out of the Mercedes.
 
I was closing the door when the car sped away.
 
I watched it disappear down the street.
 
Lifting my chin, I fought away tears of rejection and confusion as I shuffled to the front door.

I won’t cry, I thought.
 
I wouldn’t cry over him.
 
Not now.
 
Not ever.

I won’t cry I won’t cry I won’t cry I won’t cry I won’t cry I won’t…

Chapter Six

The woman staring back at me looked pretty damn good.
 
She was, in fact, beautiful.
 

She wore a tailored 1940s style red satin dress with short frilly sleeves that were slightly off the shoulder.
 
It had a square neckline and a tight skirt that reached her knees.
 
The dress had been an impulse buy, a big splurge she’d regretted later on, so much so that she hadn’t even worn it until now.
 
Her hair fell in loose, Ingrid Bergman-like curls down her shoulders, a look she had achieved thanks to her curling iron.
 
Her face was made up with nothing more than a touch of mascara and red lip gloss, giving her a natural yet vampy look.
 
Around her neck a thin gold choker with a small heart-shaped charm twinkled prettily.
 
(The choker had been a birthday present from her mother.)
  
A slender black belt was wrapped around her narrow waist.
 
She wore sexy underwear underneath her dress—black lace bra and matching thong.
 
She’d donned silky-smooth see-through stockings with no garter belt, for the belt lines would’ve been visible through the tight skirt.
 
Four-inch black leather mules completed the look.
 

The woman in the mirror was both elegant and sexy.
 
She was sophistication and confidence personified.
 
She was in control of her life.
 
No one would be able to see past her glossy exterior.

           
Yup, I thought as I posed in front of the mirror, you may not care for me, Mr. Seton, but even you will like this woman!

           
I didn’t bother to pretend I hadn’t dressed this way for Seton.
 
He was my obsession—there was no getting around that fact.
 
I hadn’t eaten well for the past several days and hadn’t slept much since Thursday night.
 
I couldn’t sleep after Seton dropped me off at home last night.
 
Tiredness was seeping its way into my system, but I ignored it.
 
I would enjoy myself tonight.
 
I wouldn’t look for Seton at the party.
 
If he wanted to talk to me, he would have to make the first move.
 
If he ignored me, then so be it.
 
A man’s attention, or lack thereof, had never fazed me.
 
I could be just as aloof as he.
 

A car honked its horn just outside my house.
 
My ride had arrived.
 
After one final mirror inspection, I grabbed my keys, lip gloss and BlackBerry and tossed them inside my Fendi evening bag as I scooted out of the house and climbed into the taxi.

The main entrance at Chez Josef was full of our guests—the crème de la crème of the literary world this side of New England—as they gathered around and greeted each other.
 

Alfred, looking distinguished in a tailored black tuxedo, was smoking a cigarette and chatting with one of our clients when his eyes did a double-take in my direction.
 
A look of surprise passed over his face.
 
He treated me to one of his big toothy grins as he extinguished his cigarette and waved me over.
 
I smiled, feeling sexy and self-assured as I swayed my hips toward the main door.

“Wow,” he exclaimed, admiration dazzling in his hazel eyes.
  
“You look like a brunette Lauren Bacall.”

I raised an eyebrow.
 
“And here I thought I looked like Ingrid Bergman.”

He chuckled softly and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
 
“You know I’ve always had a thing for Bacall.
 
For a moment there I thought you dressed like that just to please this poor, decrepit man.”

I laughed.
 
“You are hardly decrepit, Alfred, and you’re definitely not poor.”

“Yeah, well, you look beautiful, kiddo.”

I flashed him a grateful smile and brushed a kiss across his leathery cheek.
 
“So, where’s the missus?”

He grimaced.
 
“At home.
 
She said that if she so much as heard the words ‘book launch’ again, she would scream.”

I snorted.
 
“I don’t blame her.
 
These little book thingies get tiring after a while.”

Alfred sighed as he offered me his arm and ushered me into the building.
 
“Yeah.
 
Imagine doing it for more than thirty years.”

The banquet hall at Chez Josef looked like most other banquet halls I’d ever been to: all bright lights and sparkling chandeliers and white table cloths.
 
Most of the guests were already there, all of them looking dazzling in their best evening finery.
 
But I wasn’t conscious of any of it as Alfred walked me to the star table.
 
Anticipation coiled in the pit of my stomach.
 
I scanned the room and saw some familiar faces.
 
Jeremy, Magda and her husband Tom were there, all three perched in one corner, chattering away with one of our authors.
 
Staff members and clients alike were scattered across the reception hall.

Where’s Seton?
 

I sighed when I realized I was doing the very thing I swore I wouldn’t do.

“You think he’ll show up tonight?” Alfred whispered in my ear as he pulled out a chair for me.
 
No use in asking who “he” was.

“No idea,” I responded as I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter and downed half of it in one gulp.
 

He sat on the chair next to me and grunted.
 
“God, I hope he shows up!
 
You know what that would do for us, just having him here?”
 
He shook his head.
 
“Man, Minou’s career will have a major boost with the kind of publicity she’ll get when
he
shows up.”

I raised my eyebrows.
 
“Minou doesn’t need a boost.
 
The woman’s a genius.”

“She’s a brilliant writer, but not popular enough…yet.”

Samantha Minou was a favorite in the underground literature world and one of Bookends AtoZ’s most accomplished authors.
 
Everyone looked forward to her book releases, which happened once every two or three years.
 
We were never disappointed with her work.
 
Her books were surreal, hilarious, dark and sexy, and the sales were always favorable.
 
Her third novel, a brilliant satire about mental health specialists called
Psychotics Anonymous
, went into its second printing just three weeks after its release—a rarity at Bookends AtoZ.
 
We were celebrating the hardcover release of her fourth novel—a humorous yet complex love story titled
The Mist
—dozens of which lay on top of a large square table right at the center of the banquet hall.
 
Book critics of all walks were attending the party and Alfred saw that as a golden opportunity to spread the rumors that Seton may be joining us soon.
 
He was counting on this event to pressure Seton into starting business negotiations with us.
 
He didn’t have to tell me that was what he had in mind.
 
I could read it in his eager little eyes.
 
I stared at Alfred, wondering if he’d always been that greedy or turned that way the moment Seton came knocking on our door.

Samantha Minou had arrived and was air-kissing all of the guests.
 
Her husband—a tall, elegant-looking man with gray hair, broad shoulders and dark eyes named Claude—hovered patiently beside her.
 
Samantha looked lovely in a simple lavender gown that reached her ankles.
 
She was very tall—about six feet—and her blue-black hair spilled glossily down her back.
 
She spoke with a thick French accent despite having lived in this country for over a decade.
 
Alfred got up to greet her and Claude.
 
They air kissed me and the others before sitting at our table.
 

I drank my champagne and continued to survey the room.
 
Familiar faces filled every corner of the rather large reception area.
 
Some people smiled at me and I smiled back.
 
Some guests were already on the dance floor, swinging their hips to the jazzy sounds of Michael Bublé.
 
I glanced over at the entrance, my stomach churning with fear and anticipation.

Where the hell is Seton?!
 

“Look at you!” Jeremy said, sitting on the empty chair next to me and giving me a soft kiss on the cheek.
 
I was now sandwiched between him and Alfred.
 
“My God, you look just like Audrey Hepburn!
 
Simply fabulous.”

I made an inelegant snorting sound and grabbed another champagne flute from a waiter.
 
“Honey, you flatter me, always trying to make me seem more appealing than I really am.”

“Nonsense, hon, you’ve always reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.
 
You’re my Holly Golightly.”

I raised an eyebrow.
 
“I’m a screwed-up social-climbing prostitute?”

“Maybe not a prostitute, and definitely not a social climber, but you are pretty screwed up.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said dryly.

“Don’t mention it, Miss Golightly.”

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be sitting next to Magda?”

I waved at Magda, who sat next to her husband.
 
She smiled her pretty dimpled smile and mouthed, “You look beautiful.”
 
I mouthed back a thank you and added, “So do you.”
 
She really looked adorable in a simple dress that matched the color of her ivory skin to perfection.
 
A pearl necklace decorated her neck.
 
I smiled to myself.
 
It was nice to see Magda in something other than a polo shirt, a pair of khaki pants and penny loafers—her usual attire.

“Yeah, I am,” Jeremy said.
 
“But there are two extra seats at this table.
 
Besides, Magda’s designer impostor perfume was making my eyes water.”

I smacked him in the arm.
 
“Don’t be a jerk!” I warned.

He rubbed his arm.
 
“Ow!
 
Well, it’s true.
 
Isn’t it, Magda girl?”

I cast a worried glance at Magda.
 
She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and gave me a helpless, what-ya-gonna-do shrug.
 
What a strange friendship those two had.
 
It seemed that their constant bickering had reached a point where insults were no longer insulting.

At that moment, I heard a commotion coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the main entrance.
 
Heads swiveled to see what all the fuss was about.
 
I peered over to see what was going on, but there were so many people gathered around the main walkway that I couldn’t see a damn thing.
 
My knees trembled underneath the table when I finally spotted the object of everyone’s attention.
 
David J. Seton had arrived, looking absolutely delicious in a formal black suit as he strode into the reception hall.
 
His short, wavy hair was styled in that mousy, carefully disheveled look that was so fashionable among thirty-ish men these days.
 
Before him, people parted as if he were a king headed to his thrown.
 
My breath caught in my chest as he gracefully made his way toward his designated table—my table.
 
Alfred, Samantha and a few others quickly crossed over to him.
 
Jeremy, Magda, Tom and I remained seated.