The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (22 page)

“I should.
 
I really need to get some rest.”

He sighed.
 
“Very well.
 
George will drive you home then.”

I managed to free myself from his hold and glowered up at him.
 
“That won’t be necessary.”

“George will take you home,” he said with finality, his eyes narrowing into a don’t-you-dare-contradict-me glare.

“Fine,” I shot back as I shuffled away from the dance floor and headed to my table.
 

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he bellowed as he followed me.
 
He reached me and caught my arm, trying to pull me back to him.
 
“Marjorie, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Leave me alone!” I shouted, shoving him backwards.
 
Realizing what I’d done, I cast a worried glance around the reception hall.
 
Everyone was either engaged in conversation or wandering around the place.
 
The now empty dance floor was completely dark and no one paid any attention to us, except for Jeremy, who stood alone near the bar, staring at us and frowning.
 
I turned stormy eyes back to Seton.
 
“Let’s not make a scene in front of my colleagues,” I muttered through gritted teeth.
 
“I would like to show my face at work on Monday.
 
I’m not your little pet tonight,
Sir
, and I’m not in the mood to play games, so just leave me alone.”

His jaw tightened.
 
“This isn’t a game, my dear.
 
And you are my pet
all the time
or until I say otherwise.”

I didn’t deign to answer, just stormed off before he had a chance to grab me again.
 
Back at the table, I grabbed my purse and gave good night kisses to Alfred, Samantha and Magda.
 
Then I stalked away without sparing Seton another glance.
 

A cold nighttime breeze stirred the air when I dashed out into the street.
 
George stood at the curb, leaning against the Mercedes and smoking.
 
He extinguished his cigarette and rushed to open the back door the moment he saw me.
 
Seton must’ve called him to let him know I was on my way out.

Warding off a weather-laden shiver, I staggered over to the car and squinted down at my watch.
 
It was now midnight.
 
My eyebrows shot up in surprise.
 
I left the party at midnight, just like Cinderella.
 
I threw my head back and barked out a loud, snorty laugh.

George’s bushy eyebrows furrowed as he held the door open for me.
 
“Are you all right, ma’am?”

I waved him away dismissively and continued to laugh as I tumbled into the car.
 
I was Cinderella and the black Mercedes was my pumpkin-shaped carriage and Seton was my Prince Charming—a dark and domineering Prince Charming.
 
Still laughing, I glanced down at my feet.
 
Well, at least I had both my shoes on.

*
         
*
         
*

The ride back home was uneventful.
 
I held back tears the entire time.
 
George peered at me from his rearview mirror often, asking me if I was feeling all right.
 
I assured him that I was fine and gazed out the window.
 
I didn’t want him to report back to Seton that I had cried on the way home.
 
I would cry in the privacy of my own home, thank you very much!
 
Maybe I would do it over a nice bubble bath.
 
I could soak in the tub and let out a good wail as I picture Seton and Karen York going at it like rabbits after their little night cap.
 
What could be more fun than that?
 
Maybe I’d have a night cap too!
 
Was there any wine and chocolate left from the other night?

In the end, I did not cry or take a bath or have a night cap.
 
After George dropped me off, I crept into my apartment, kicked off my shoes, slipped off my belt and crawled into bed, falling asleep almost instantly.
 
I hadn’t bothered to undress.
 
I was too tired to care about my clothes, about Seton, about anything.
 
As I started to slip into sleep, I thought how lovely it was to be too exhausted to be obsessive.
 
Seton’s face flashed in my mind just moments before darkness took over me.
 

Chapter Seven

“No more poetry!” Alfred shouted, slamming a coffee mug onto the large square table and scowling down at us like a schoolteacher in a roomful of fifth-grade brats.
 
He lit a cigarette and paced around the room in an agitated manner, a faint sheen of perspiration beading on his leathery forehead.

           
Jeremy and I exchanged puzzled looks from across the table.
 
He mouthed, “What’s up his ass?”
 
I shrugged as I filled a glass with water and downed it all in one gulp.
 

           
Alfred took a drag on his cigarette and continued to pace around the small conference room.
 
“Ralph!” he suddenly barked.
 
Ralph, the IT guy-slash-website developer, jumped at the sound of his name.
 
“Update our website and say we’re no longer accepting poetry.”

           
Ralph nodded, eyes squinting underneath large round spectacles.

I toyed with my empty glass and avoided eye contact with Alfred and the others.
 
A faint wave of nausea surged through my stomach.
 
I still hadn’t fully recovered from the champagne binge I had at the book launch last Saturday and wished I was still in bed, where I stayed all day yesterday—watching movies, drinking tea, nursing a massive hangover and hating myself.
 
All of that champagne came back and bit me in the ass in more ways than one.
 
I couldn’t remember everything that went on at the party, but I remembered slow dancing with Seton and making a jealous scene involving his drop-dead gorgeous agent.
 
My memory was still fuzzy, and certain details escaped me, but I knew, just knew, that I’d made a fool of myself, that the drinking had lessened my inhibitions and made me more vulnerable in front of him.
 
I sighed, promising myself that I would never go on another drinking binge again.

           
Alfred stopped at the center of the table, towering above us, his arms stretched along the corners of the table.
 
He shot us a glare that made us all wince and look away.
 
“I don’t want any of you accepting calls from lit agents offering poetry…or short fiction or screenplays or any other crap that doesn’t sell.”
 
He paused while he dragged on his cigarette.
 
“From now on, you will cater to mainstream authors.
 
I want mystery, suspense, thrillers, comedy, chick-lit, guy lit, erotica, commercial non-fiction, romance.”
 
He shuddered at the last word.
 
“No, not romance.
 
Definitely not romance.
 
But everything else is fair game.”

           
I heaved out a sigh and rolled my eyes at no one in particular.
 
Stupid Northamptoners and their literary snobbishness!
 
What’s so wrong with romance?
 
I read them.
 
I enjoy a healthy dose of fantasy and escapism as much as the next person.
 
But reading romance novels is inconceivable in this town.
 
If you go to a bookstore in Northampton and ask to see the romance section, they’ll look at you as if you’ve asked them if they sold illegal weapons.
 
For one thing, there are no romance sections at the local bookstores.
 
Believe me, I’ve looked.
 
You will have to leave town to find a bookstore that sells them.
 
You will have to leave town to read them too.
 
One day, I sat on a bench near the Academy of Music with a worn-out copy of a Kathleen E. Woodiwiss novel and this guy—a hippie type with long greasy hair, a sweaty t-shirt and torn jeans—shot me a look so full of scorn I had to get up and leave before he chased me away with sticks or something.
 
Northampton is gorgeous, but the snobbery among the locals is a little overwhelming at times.

           
“I want you to be on the lookout for the next John Grisham, Stephen King, J.K. Rowling—someone who will make us millions.”
 
Alfred dragged on his cigarette and looked pensive for a moment.
 
“Bookends AtoZ will grow, with or without David J. Seton.”

           
My head shot up at that.
 
A lump of dread formed in my throat.
 
Had Seton turned us down?
 
Was that the reason why Alfred was so restless this morning?
 
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and felt my stomach twist into knots.
 

           
Alfred turned stormy hazel eyes to me.
 
“I’d like a word with you, Marjorie,” he said darkly.
 
“In private.
 
The rest of you can go.”

           
Gulp.

Everyone at the table got up and marched toward the exit, relieved to finally be out of there.
 
Magda gave me a rueful little smile before disappearing out the door.
 
Jeremy walked over and gave me a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
 
I patted his hand and flashed him a grateful smile.

           
When Jeremy left, I turned fretful eyes to my boss.
 
He perched on the side of the table, smoking his cigarette and staring into space.
 
I sat up straighter, shoulders squared, and filled my glass with more water.
 
I took a long drink while moving the large pitcher of water to the center of the table, trying in vain to keep myself busy and take my mind off the wave of nausea that bit into my stomach and threatened to rise to my throat.

           
“Has Seton mentioned his book to you?” Alfred said in a controlled voice that made it obvious he was trying to sound casual.

           
I grimaced and held my glass of water with both hands.
 
“No.”

           
He nodded absently, brushing away an imaginary speck from his crisp white shirt.
 
“Has he discussed writing for us at all?”

           
“I’ve only seen him a few times,” I said apologetically, “and they’ve all been during social occasions.
 
I’ve only been courting him for a week, Alfred.
 
There’s no way to know if I’ve persuaded him or not.”

           
“Has he mentioned any other publishers to you?”

           
“No.”

           
Alfred spun around and extinguished his cigarette on an ashtray.
 
“Huh.
 
He’s keeping you in the dark then.”

           
My stomach sank.
 
I knew it!
 
I knew something was wrong.
 
I gnawed at my lower lip as I gathered my thoughts and tried to calm my nerves.
 
“What’s wrong?
 
Did he sign a deal with another publisher or something?”

           
Alfred moved to the window and lit another cigarette.
 
He blew out a puff of smoke and said, “No, not yet.”

           
I raised an eyebrow at his back.
 
“Not yet?
 
You mean he will sign with someone else?”