Vow of Silence (8 page)

“Do you kiss your clients? You know, on the mouth? I read
that prostitutes charge extra to kiss, because that is more intimate to them
than the sex act.”

I focus on the road. “I do not kiss my clients, and I am not
a prostitute.”

“What makes it different—in your mind? Prostitutes charge
for sex, you do get paid, and you might say it’s not sex, but I’m telling you,
for me, that was sex.” She giggles.

So, she isn’t mad? As horrified as she was that I am a
professional Dominant, that her grandmother would never approve of such a
match, her reaction seems odd.
Curious.
I realize she is looking at me.
Waiting for an answer.

“Prostitutes provide relief for the body, a Dominant
provides relief for the mind.”

“Reeeally.”

I frown, hoping this is the end of her questions.

“How can being a doctor be your kink? It seems like since
medicine was your profession, even though you obviously didn’t do gyno exams,
you wouldn’t want anything to do with lab coats and such for fun.”

She has a point. “You’re very intuitive.”

“So playing doctor doesn’t get you off?”

“I’m good at it.” It doesn’t get away from me that I am
avoiding the question.

She pivots in her seat, obviously curious and expecting me
to elaborate. Stopping at a traffic light, I give her my full attention.

“I receive a certain satisfaction, making someone’s fantasy
come true, and with Doctor Psycho as my alter ego, doctor office games and mad
scientist horror allows me to fulfill their needs.”

“What about your needs?”

“I don’t work at Lewd Larry’s to fulfill my needs; that’s
why I have a fully equipped basement.”

The light turns green, and I press the accelerator. After a
full block she asks, “So the medieval torture devices, that’s mostly your
thing.”

I smile. “I do have a certain affection for collecting
ancient devices of torture.”

“And using them?”

I turn into my subdivision’s main entrance and stop at the
gated guard shack. After handing the security officer on duty my
identification, I meet her gaze. “And using them.”

Gigi

Second Thursday of the month, dinner with Mommy and Daddy
and whatever guest of the moment is staying at the big house overlooking the
sea.
Guests.
I suppose not in the traditional sense. Mommy and Daddy’s
guests are kept nude and collared. For all intents and purposes they are in
training—like animals—if animals could be taught to be the perfect sex slaves.

I didn’t have what anyone would call a normal childhood.

Whereas some great families of wealth have gained their
fortune breeding horses or prized cows, my family are considered great traders
and purveyors of human flesh.

I grew up in a high-security mansion. The house was built to
remind each of my parents of the villages they grew up in. For my mother that
was La Tamarissière, France, and for my father Naples, Italy. Their marriage
was arranged to unite two great families—not for love, but for power. I do not
believe they ever learned to love each other. Lust maybe, but not love. I think
they respect each other. I think they will have companionable old age.

Tonight’s table has been set for ten. Mommy, Daddy and each
of their
guests
, myself, two couples of local influence and a lone male.
I refuse to meet the man’s gaze, although too late I realize I’ve already
weighed and measured him. He is tall, ruddy, with dark hair and eyes. He is not
local. By his accent he is Russian. I know their business has recently been
expanding deeper and deeper into northern Eurasia, and a marriage between an
influential family and their daughter would cement relationships that are
currently rocky and distrusting. Too bad for them, because I refuse to be a
pawn in their games.

I sit, eating robotically, my linen napkin folded across my
lap. The conversation is inconsequential as everyone pretends to enjoy each
other’s company. I pretend to not notice the young woman sitting to Daddy’s
right, a leather collar around her neck. She is nude, with high, perky breasts.
She has light-blue eyes and platinum-blonde hair. In her face I remember the
past—suddenly—and am left jarred by it.

Help me. Help me, please!

I gasp, hiding it behind a long swallow of the very best
cabernet sauvignon Daddy’s wine cellar has to offer. I keep my eyes trained on
my plate, trying to forget pleading cerulean eyes. It must have been a dream.
It didn’t really happen. It didn’t.

“Tell us what you’ve been up to, Giselle?”

The question comes from my mother, and I meet her gaze even
though I don’t want to. Long-repressed memories—unwelcome and painful—tease at
the edges of my brain, begging to be remembered.

It was just a nightmare.

I force a pleasant smile onto my face and shrug. “The
usual.”

She nods and turns her conversation interests to someone
else. What would she have said if I’d told her about the embarrassing incident
with the senator?

He died while I was riding him. His cock went soft as he
took his last breath.

Dessert doesn’t come a moment too soon, making the countdown
of minutes until I am free to leave manageable.

“You look pale.”

Oh God.
I don’t meet my father’s gaze.

“I worry about you, Gigi.”

“I’m fine, Papa.”

“You need to be here, working with your family.”

I swallow, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
Fortunately my mother draws all the attention back to herself, because that is
what she does best. I watch her lead the dinner party out onto the veranda and
am surprised my father doesn’t leave immediately.

Taking my hand, he states his case. “You’ve had enough
childhood; it’s time to take your place in the organization so no one ever
questions your loyalty.”

“My loyalty? Really, Papa.” I meet his gaze and refrain from
shuddering when he cups my jaw. I keep his secrets. I keep Mother’s secrets.
“Someday. Not yet.”

He presses a kiss to each of my cheeks. “Very soon, Gigi.
I’ve coddled you too long. There is a man here tonight. His name is Lenka.”

“No!” I shake my head. “Not the Russian.”

“He’s not handsome enough?”

“You know he’s easy on the eyes, Papa.”
Damn, why did I
just admit that I find him attractive?

“Show him around the grounds while we entertain the rest of
the guests.”

“Papa. We’ve discussed this before. I’m not agreeing to an
arranged marriage.”

“What arranged? It’s not arranged if you
choose
. I am
giving you that opportunity. I am giving you time to make love happen.”

“As long as the man I fall in love with strengthens family
alliances?” This is an old argument we’ve been having for at least six years.
“We’re not living in the Middle Ages, Papa. I don’t want or need a husband.”

“Don’t force me to choose for you, Giselle.”

“Haven’t you already chosen? Aren’t you already trying to
force this?”

He laughs, but it is hard and harsh. I know and he knows
that he hasn’t even attempted to force anything—yet.

“I will show him the grounds, but nothing more.”

With my assurances, he pats my cheek before joining my
mother and their friends outside. I am left alone in the dining room, staring
at my plate. I wish I’d been born into any family but this one.

Movement close to my shoulder startles me and I jerk,
finding the Russian mere inches away. Too close. He is pouring more wine into
my glass and then empties the bottle into his own.
God, how long has he been
standing there? Did he hear the entire conversation?

I would be embarrassed except for the fact I am completely
enthralled. I could say he is handsome but he is too roughly hewn for such a
pretty description. Still, he makes my knees weak.

He lifts my glass and hands it to me. “I am Lenka
Illich-Svitych. You may call me Lenny.”

I take the proffered glass and down a large gulp.

“You are Giselle?” He glares at me with a predatory look
that makes me take a step backward.

I’m not afraid. Why would I be? I’m at my father’s house,
armed guards in sight, and yet… I swirl the ruby liquid in my glass and feign
boredom. “Unfortunately.”

I can imagine him naked—way too easily in fact.

His suit is excellently tailored, boasting of wealth, and
accentuates rather than hides the fact that Lenka Illich-Svitych is very
muscled. I feel as though I am standing in the shadow of a Greek god, a god of
war, and the way he looks at me tells me I am privileged to be there. He’s the
kind of man who should have a stunning woman clinging to his elbow—not someone
like me. I am so far from beautiful it is laughable. Why would he ever agree to
this arrangement?

“Your father expects us to be walking by now. You will show
me the grounds?”

What type of man cares to do the bidding of another? He
would walk around the manse’s many gardens, pretending to be interested,
because my father suggested he should. He would marry me—without even knowing
me—or liking me.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do.”

A throat clears behind us, one of my father’s guards making
his presence known. He is dressed in a business suit, but his jacket serves
only to hide an armory.

“Joy, an escort.” I stand, taking my wineglass with me, and
meet the bodyguard’s gaze as I pass him. “I hardly think Mr. Illich-Svitych
intends to molest me behind the roses.”

Lenka chuckles, closing the distance between us. He is too
close, invading my personal space. I can feel his body heat, I can smell his
lightly applied expensive cologne. His breath is warm on my cheek when he leans
nearer to whisper, “You do not know me, Giselle. Your father does. I would more
likely kidnap you.”

I stare at him blankly.

He strokes my cheek. “You are very exotic. I would stand to
make a fortune with you—after I made certain you were properly trained—on the
black market.”

My stomach turns but I manage to restrain a shudder. “That
wouldn’t exactly strengthen our families’ relations.”

“No, but then I heard what you said to your father. You do
not want a husband. Are you a lesbian?”

“No.”

“You wish to marry for love?”

“That’s the excuse I give my father.”

“I’m not very lovable, Giselle.”

I could say the same thing about myself, and I look at the
man in front of me with new interest, trying to see past his ruggedly carnal
beauty. He didn’t shave. His dark eyes are steely and there is a scar that
bisects his left eyebrow. He seems to be a very dangerous man.

As I assess him, he does the same to me, taking a full look
at me from head to toe with a scrutiny that makes me tremble. “In the event of
your refusal, I will only take what I want from you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Show me the gardens, Giselle, so that I might have the
opportunity to woo you.”

I back away from him, stumbling. “I don’t think so.”

As much as I don’t want him to know he rattled me, he did,
and as I run from the room his laughter follows me. I run for the front door,
barely making it outside before I hear my father’s rage.

“Gigi!”

My father’s shout stops me.

I don’t wait for him to reach me to shout, “He threatened
me.”

“Lenka is a very strong man with few soft edges, but I think
in time you could grow to respect him and perhaps even appreciate him. He could
protect you.”

“I don’t need a man to protect me!”

“You are my daughter and I have many enemies. Do not pretend
to be so naïve. I want you here this weekend for the annual gathering. The
festivities begin with breakfast on Saturday. I expect you to woo Lenka with
all the finesse I know you possess. I need someone in Russia that I trust. You
will be my eyes and ears. It is time for you to take your place beside us in
the business, and I will expect the announcement of your intended nuptials no
later than Sunday at midnight.”

He walks away, leaving me on the grand front porch. From the
shadows Diego, my mother’s gardener, rushes toward me. “Gigi!”

Seeing him, I curse under my breath and hurry down the steps
to my car. I remember only belatedly I put Diego off yesterday and the day
before too. He reaches my side just as I climb into my bright-yellow Maserati
GranTurismo.

“I’m in a hurry, Diego.”

“I know you know where my niece is!”

“No, Diego. I don’t know anything.”

“You are a good girl, Gigi. I’ve watched you grow up. Why
would you let them keep my Isabella?”

“Diego, I swear, your niece is not here.”

He holds a picture in front of my face. “This is Isa. I
showed your father this same picture two months ago. I asked him if he could
get her a job in the kitchens. He said, ‘yes, of course, send for her.’ Isa
came here on his word. I paid to have her brought here, but she never showed
up. I know she is here, Gigi. In my heart and in my bones I know something
horrible has happened to my niece.”

Starting my engine, I expect him to step away from the car
but he doesn’t. “Diego. I haven’t seen her. Maybe the border patrol picked her
up.”

“No! Jorge said he got her across the border five days ago
and that two men picked her up and said they were bringing her here, to Señor
Marconi, and now. Poof! She is gone. Please. You must help me.”

“Diego.” I sound exhausted, I’m so tired of lying, of
hiding. I wish I knew where Isabella was so that I could help both her and
Diego get away from the insanity of this place. Looking into his worn,
weathered face, I remember the face of the much younger man who used to play
with me in the gardens. I don’t let him see the pain I’m trying so hard to keep
hidden because I know even if she was here, she wouldn’t be now. “I would tell
you if I knew anything.”

Of course, I wouldn’t—I’d never betray my family.

I peel away, squealing tires, without closing my door,
letting the force of the wind slam it closed. I imagine Diego shouting after
me, calling my name. I hear my name screamed over and over, even though I am
too far away to hear him.

I wish I’d have set up a date for tonight…

Digging in my coat pocket, I retrieve a business card I’d
shoved there earlier in the day. I was flipping through a bondage magazine when
a terrifying voice whispered behind me, “If you ever get tired of fantasizing
and want the real thing…”

He dropped his business card between the open pages of the
magazine, and by the time I turned around to tell him to shove off he was
already exiting the store. From what I saw in profile he was every bit as scary
looking as he sounded. My heart started pounding with excitement.

I look at the business card—no name, only a phone number and
a promise.
Discover Your Darkest Desires.

“I’ve already discovered my darkest desires. The question
is, mystery man, can you fulfill the fantasy?”

A psychiatrist I once fell in love with told me I have a
death wish. Maybe I do.

Is that why I meet strangers?

Not just strangers, sadists.

I flick the card again and again, as though the man might
magically appear if I flick it enough times. I shouldn’t call him. I’ve been
doing so well the last few days since I made that promise to Rachel. I haven’t
visited a single fetish chat room.

Discover. Your. Darkest. Desires.

The mystery is too much temptation. I dial the number and
when the man answers, his voice sounds as deeply sinister as it did in the store.
I hope the man is everything his voice promises him to be. The senator was such
a big disappointment, not because he died, but because he talked such a good
tale in the chat rooms, only to prove his sadist prowess had been greatly
exaggerated.

“You think you know my darkest desires?”

“I do.”

“You better not be a disappointment.”

“What will you do if I am?”