He leans forward and presses his fingers against my clit, making circular motions that send shivers of ecstasy through me. The moan finally escapes from my lips, and I can hear Liam laugh softly behind me.
“I could make you come, if I wanted to,” he says.
It’s not a question, but rather an assertion of his power. I’m putty in his hands.
He knows it.
I know it.
Could I beg for it? Would I do that? Here on the floor, feeling my temperature rise, as euphoria begins to cloud my thoughts, it’s tempting. I need only a little nudge to find my release.
And if I begged, how would he do it? Would he finish me off with the whip alone? Would he bend down and use his hands, those strong fingers, working in and out of me until my body buckles with pleasure? Or would he get down on his knees himself? Drop his ironed slacks and plunge himself into me, filling every inch of me with his hard, hot cock?
The thought make my knees quaver beneath me. Another moan escapes my lips.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says sharply. “If you keep moving your ass around like that, you’re going to make me lose all control.”
The whip snaps against my clit, this time a little more strongly. My hand flies to my mouth to muffle a groan of pleasure.
“And I
hate
losing control.”
I twist my head around just in time to see Liam pull off his tie. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. The muscles in his forearms twitch with excitement, barely restrained.
He leans forward and dangles his tie in front of my nose. I have only a moment to admire the silky blue design before he wraps it around my mouth. The fabric slides between my lips, smearing my lipstick, pressing against my teeth like a gag.
Liam takes both ends of the tie into his fist at the back of my head. His free hand slides down the slope of my back. When he reaches my backside, his fingers press into my flesh. My skin is singing, electric, in response to his touch.
“Now hold still,” he instructs.
But whatever it is that he intends to do with me, or
to
me, I’ll never know. At this moment, his cell phone begins to ring in his pants pocket.
I can feel him hesitating beside me, debating whether or not to answer. The ringing sound is loud and screeching in the silent room.
At last, he groans and stands up, dropping the tie from his grasp. The fabric tumbles out of my mouth and onto the floor.
“Hello,” he says resignedly into the phone. After a moment’s pause, he says, “Yes, yes, that’s happening tonight.”
Another pause.
“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” he says hotly. “I’ve planned for every contingency.”
Deeply curious, I steal a glance upward. Liam’s posture is stiff and his eyes are glassy—the sexy, dominant Liam from mere seconds ago has disappeared.
Who in the world could be on the other line?
I wonder, watching the muscles tighten in his jaw. Who could be important—or intimidating—enough to interrupt Liam’s evening passions? And
what’s
happening tonight?
Liam’s eyes flick down distractedly. I avert my eyes, but it’s too late—he’s caught me watching him.
“Let me call you back. Two minutes,” he murmurs into the phone, and then quickly ends the call. He looks down at me. “Stand up.”
I scramble upwards, lifting myself once more onto the balls of my feet. But when I cross my arms behind me to complete the position, he shakes his head at me.
“Forget that,” he says. “This might take a while. Let’s call it a night.”
Not when things were just getting so good!
I want to protest, but I know that it would be futile. Especially in this room. I cast a wary eye to the leather whip, discarded on the floor between us.
“Let me get something before you go. I’ll be right back,” he says. He strides past me and slips out the door. I remain in place, lingering, hoping that he’ll change his mind about ending our night. When he returns to the room, there is a white roll of paper in his hand.
“What’s this?” I ask, momentarily distracted.
“It’s a contract, of sorts,” he says. The corner of his lip flickers. “If we’re going to continue with this relationship, there are some rules we should specify first.”
“
More
rules?” The words slip out of me before I can stop myself. I look up and add a hasty “Sir?”
Liam laughs. “Give it a read. We can discuss the terms the next time we see each other. It’s negotiable. Mostly.” He winks at me.
My fingers wrap tightly around the paper. Feeling breathless again, I just nod.
“I should return this call. They don’t like waiting,” he says, gesturing to his phone. “I trust that you can see yourself out.”
“Sure,” I murmur, my curiosity deepening once again. I watch him advance toward the door before calling out, “When will I see you again?”
He pauses. Looking over his shoulder, he says with a smirk, “I’ll let you know.”
And then he’s gone. I hurry to the edge of the room, where my clothes are neatly folded on the floor beside my purse. I slip on my bra and my dress—but no underpants, of course. That was Liam’s first rule for me.
Little did I know that there would be so many more.
I can feel my heart patter excitedly as I wonder what they could possibly be. I shove the folded contract into my purse, eager to read it once I’m back at my hotel.
But I’ll have to wait for that. At least for a little while.
There’s something else that I want to do first.
I hurry towards the door, following the path Liam took mere moments ago. Back in the bright light of the hallway, I turn an ear this way and that, hoping to catch the stray sound of conversation. Hoping for some kind of indication of where Liam went.
I need to know—
what’s happening tonight?
There was something unsettling about the stiffness of Liam’s tone, about his urgency in returning the call.
There’s something that feels nefarious about this. I just know it. He
is
a Hawthorne, after all.
I need to hear more.
My footsteps are cautious but quick as I make my way down the hallway. I flit between each room, pressing an ear against the wood of the doors, hoping to hear the muffled murmurs of Liam’s voice.
Door after door, I am met with only silence—until I have reached the last door in the hall. It’s at the opposite end from Liam’s sex room. From the outside, it looks exactly the same: white door, beveled inset.
But as for what lies behind it—I haven’t the faintest idea.
I lean in close, holding my breath, daring not to make a sound. I can hear Liam’s soft, low voice, punctuated by the creaking of floorboards. He must be pacing around the room. I can just picture him on the other side of the door: restless and feral, like a caged animal.
“You need to talk to Robinson about that,” he’s saying irritably. “That’s not my responsibility.” He’s quiet for a moment, presumably while his companion is speaking, and then snaps, “He’s not going to like that. You know he has a certain way of doing these things.”
A pause.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be there to supervise. I’m leaving shortly. Let’s hope that I don’t run into any midnight swimmers.”
Another pause, and then a protracted groan.
“It was a joke. I was joking. Look, I’ll be in touch when it’s all said and done.”
I linger at the door, unsure of what I’ve just heard. I’m desperate to hear more, but the house has fallen into silence. Liam must have ended the call.
The floor creaks again. And as though I’ve been jolted with a thousand volts of electricity, I leap back. It’s time to slip downstairs and into the safety of the moonlight, before he catches me.
2
I’ve had the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign hanging from my doorknob for over a week now. I’m not sure what the housekeeping ladies would make of the walls, covered in scraps of newspaper and scrawled notes, but there’s one thing I’m sure of: it would raise far too many questions. Better to make my own bed, and re-use my bath towels. Better to be certain of my privacy.
After all, Liam’s not the only one keeping secrets.
Having just come back from Liam’s house, I make myself a mug of powdered decaf coffee using the ancient hotel coffee maker sitting atop the desk, and then take a step back to survey my research.
There’s a print-out of an old
Financial Journal
cover story on Mr. Hawthorne, detailing how he launched his company, and about the seed investment that propelled it into a billion-dollar business; I’ve taped up the papers side-by-side, like sheet music. There’s an excerpt of a profile on Mrs. Hawthorne from the
New Orleans Home & Garden Monthly
, with phrases I’ve highlighted in yellow:
…beautifully decorated pied-à-terre in the heart of Paris…
…serves on the board of trustees for the Oscan Art Gallery…
Beside that, I’ve taped up an announcement for an upcoming reception at the gallery, for which Mrs. Hawthorne is committed to attend.
There are newspaper clippings from my parents’ trial, the ones I cut out with trembling hands fourteen years ago. The paper has turned yellow and flimsy over the years. The names leap out at me:
Charles Hawthorne…Barbara Hawthorne…District Attorney Robert Chaisson…witnesses Kimberly and Eric Benz…
I have notes on them, too. Up on the wall, there’s a photo from the celebration of Robert Chaisson’s twentieth year of service: Robert’s broad, toothy grin as he wedges a gleaming knife into a chocolate box cake. There is a brief newspaper profile to go along with the photos, which I scan again briefly. Golfer. Recently divorced. Member of the Knights of Columbus, for three days only—the rumor was that it was a bet. Regular at the Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro.
On the Benzes, there is significantly less information. There’s a brief quote from Eric Benz in a print-out of the
Times
, which discusses an impending steelworkers’ strike. The quote is so brief I might have missed it, if it wasn’t for Google. There is Kimberly’s name on a decade-old roster of PTA members. An announcement of the birth of their granddaughter. And that’s it. I guess it makes sense that there wouldn’t be much, at least compared with a district attorney and local public figures.
Still, there’s something about the lack of detail that seems…odd.
I sip my stale coffee and sweep my eyes across the scraps of paper, searching for any mention of someone called ‘Robinson.’ The name is unfamiliar, but still a part of me hopes that it’s tucked into one of these articles, that I might have come across it earlier without realizing.
As I pore over the notes, I can’t help but wish that I could pick up the phone and ask my parents if they’ve ever heard of this person. But of course, that’s not a possibility. You can’t call inmates in a
prison whenever you please. The only way I’d be able to speak to them is if they called me collect, but in order to do that, they’d have to have my number in the first place.
But they don’t. I can still clearly remember what Miranda said to me, back when this all began:
No one can know you’re back in New Orleans
.
Not even your folks. Someone might overhear. It’s too risky.
So I’m on my own.
After a few minutes of searching, I pull away in resignation. There’s nothing here. No mention of a ‘Robinson.’
Fine
, I think disappointedly. This might not help me now, but maybe it will be of some use later. I’m quickly learning that this process is something like cleaning out a dusty old closet, one that hasn’t been touched in years: you have to unpack it all first before you can make any sense of it.
There’s a notepad on the desk, stamped with the logo of the hotel. I tear off a piece and write down:
ROBINSON??
I tape it to the wall, next to Mr. Hawthorne’s feature story.
My phone suddenly starts vibrating beside the notepad, making the whole desk tremble. I pick it up and glance instinctively at the screen, even though I already know who it is: my cousin Miranda.
“How’s it going, you saucy minx?” she asks when I answer.
I roll my eyes. “I
told
you to stop calling me that.”
“What would you prefer, then? Madame Morrison? Mistress of pain?”
“I’ve actually just decided to go by ‘April’ these days,” I quip. After a moment’s thought, I add, “Or ‘Sophia,’ depending on who you are.”
“How
is
our dear Sophia doing?” Miranda asks. “And more importantly, how is her paramour, the indomitable Mr. Liam Hawthorne? How did tonight go?”
“You’re having way too much fun with this,” I tell her, somewhat regretting having informed her about this evening’s date. “Anyway, it went well. He wants to keep seeing me.”
“Perfect,” says Miranda approvingly. “What’d he say? Give me details.”
Details?
I can feel a small, involuntary twitch between my legs. If I gave her details, I’d have to start charging her by the minute.
“Well,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “he told me that he wants to discuss the terms of our relationship.”
“He actually used that word?
Relationship?
”
“He did.”
“That’s great news,” squeals Miranda. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s time to move on to phase two.”
My heart skips a beat. “All right,” I say slowly. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, you know that I’ve been giving it a lot of thought since you ran into him. I knew he was our ticket, but going after Liam obviously meant I needed to re-think the details of the original plan,” she says. “I was considering the idea of having you nick some personal documents so we could get access to their bank accounts—but it occurred to me that anything we take, the Hawthornes will just get reimbursed through their insurance anyway. Which is fine enough if we cash out quickly, but it doesn’t jive with your vengeance crusade, right?”