Accidental Slave (6 page)

He filled the glass pitcher by her bed with fresh water and folded her gown, shawl and the stockings carefully over a chair, placing her shoes on the floor beside it. Finally, he smoothed a tendril of hair from her cheek and, with a last lingering look, left the room.

He stared unseeing out the huge picture window. “What would a lovely girl like that be doing with a jerk like that John Hunter person?” He shook his head, finding it hard to reconcile.

Why was it submissive women so often ended up with men not worthy of them? He’d only been in the scene a few years himself, but it had been long enough to know there were more bully boys than true Doms out there.

Instead of treasuring their partner’s gift of submission, they took it as their right, twisting it into something abusive and obscene. He’d seen too many public scenes where men used the guise of D/s to abuse, humiliate and torture their partners. The whip became a weapon, designed to wound, instead of an extension of lovemaking, one that, when used properly, could heighten the experience of both partners immeasurably.

Was Elizabeth a true submissive? Or just, as Fred contended they “all were”, a masochistic slut out for the sensation and attention a D/s relationship might bring her.

He poured himself a brandy and sipped at it as he pondered the curious events of the night.

He was hyperaware of the sleeping beauty down the hall. When he could stand it no longer, he downed the rest of his drink and stood. He would check on her once more and then force himself to go to bed.

The room was bathed in the rosy glow of a night light. She looked like an angel, her long lashes touching her cheeks, her dark hair spread over the pillow. The sheets had slid down to her waist. His cock hardened at the sight of those bare breasts and he resisted an impulse to push the sheets down farther, exposing her long, bare legs and sheer black panties. Biting his lip, he forced himself to close the door, to walk away, to wait until the morning to use the slave girl he’d won.

~*~

Elizabeth burrowed into the mound of feather pillows and tried to return to her dreams, in which James Bond was about to make love to her. It was no use. She had to pee. She opened her eyes, squinting against the bright light streaming in from the huge window to her left.

She sat up suddenly, hitting her head against the wooden headboard. She winced and became aware of a throbbing headache. She felt fuzzy and confused. Her bed didn’t
have
a headboard. And her windows were along a different wall. Nor did she sleep on feather pillows.

Where the hell was she?

She opened her eyes properly and stared around the room. It was large, easily half the size of her entire apartment. The furnishings were elegant—a blond wood bureau and matching armoire, two comfortable-looking red leather chairs facing one another beneath the picture window and tasteful paintings of Impressionistic landscapes on the walls. The floor was covered with an exquisite Oriental carpet that probably cost more than everything else in the room put together and then some. This was clearly the bedroom of someone with plenty of money.

But who? Where the hell was she and how the hell had she ended up here? She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes, trying not to let panic overtake her. There had to be a rational explanation. She tried to recall the night before. Gary and she had attended the fundraiser. She’d had more to drink than she usually did, but surely not enough to cause a blackout of such magnitude.

She tried to remember what she’d done after leaving the dinner. Dimly she recalled Gary wanted to go somewhere else. Another function, a club, she couldn’t remember. But what happened after that? Had they gone? Did she get so smashed she’d had a blackout? Would she really have done something so stupid? Had Gary had to haul her home as a result? Was she at his house?

Another horrible thought entered her head. Oh God, surely they didn’t have sex….

“No way.” That would be a disaster. Never get involved with people you work with—that was one of Elizabeth’s cardinal rules. It was so ingrained in her, she doubted she would break it, no matter how soused. And
if
, by some bizarre chance, she did, it would
not
be with Gary Dobbins, no matter how drunk she was. The very idea repulsed her.

She looked around the room again, trying to calm her racing heart. The space reeked of “old money”. She relaxed a little, seriously doubting this was Gary’s place. So where then? And how did she get here?

Tentatively she sat up, waiting for the dizziness to subside. She noticed a small blue glass pitcher on the nightstand beside the bed, a matching glass fitting neatly over the top of it. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton and tasted like tin. With shaky fingers, she reached for the pitcher and poured herself a glass.

The water refreshed her, but reminded her she needed to pee. Gingerly she swung her legs over the side of the bed and realized at that moment she was naked. No, she still had her panties.

Looking wildly around the room, she spied her dress folded over a chair. Then she noticed a nightshirt on the end of the bed. She reached for it and slipped it gratefully over her shoulders. It was pale blue silk with white oyster shell buttons. The silk was cool and slick against her skin. It was a man’s nightshirt, the sleeves falling past her wrists, the hem stopping just above her knees.

Had she undressed herself or had someone else? She flushed at the thought of someone removing her gown, perhaps fondling her breasts, doing who knew what else. Panic gripped her again and she shook her head. This was ridiculous. Obviously someone had gone to great care to get her safely to bed. Whoever it was surely wouldn’t have been so crude as to fondle her in the process. For all she knew, she was in the home of a wealthy elderly couple, who rescued her after she was hit by a cab crossing the street.

She walked toward the door she hoped led to the bathroom. It did. She examined herself in the large mirror over the sink. There were no signs of bruises and she wasn’t hurt, except for the fact her entire body felt as if it had been wrung through one of those old-fashioned laundry wringers.

She used the toilet, washed her face and rinsed her mouth with the small bottle of mouthwash that had been thoughtfully placed, along with a new toothbrush and a tube of paste, a hairbrush, soap and some deodorant, beside the lovely green glass bowl with polished brass spigots that served as a sink.

She heard a faint knock at the bedroom door. She looked like a wreck, her hair a tangled mess and traces of mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Grabbing the brush, she dragged it through her hair for a few seconds, gave up and returned to the bedroom.

The knock was repeated, louder this time. A deep, masculine voice called out. “Elizabeth?

Are you awake? Are you okay? I thought I heard you moving around in there.”

She didn’t recognize the voice, but whoever he was, he knew her name. Hurrying to the door, she took a deep breath and pulled it open. She leaned hard against it, a wave of dizziness again assailing her.

The man standing before her was tall, with broad shoulders, thick dark hair and eyes so black they looked like liquid tar. She realized with a jolt he had been the man in her dream.

Despite how lousy she felt, her nipples and pussy tingled. The guy was seriously good looking.

Reflexively she glanced at his ring finger, which was bare. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t married, lots of married men didn’t wear rings. Not that it mattered—she had no time for men.

These thoughts raced through Elizabeth’s head in the space of a few seconds but of course she voiced none of them, saying instead, “Uh, hi. Thanks for…” she waved her hand toward the bedroom, aware she wasn’t sure what exactly to be thankful for, and what to apologize for.

“You were more than a little out of it last night. I hope you don’t mind I took the liberty of bringing you home. John had left by the time I realized how, uh, impaired you were.” She squinted at him in confusion. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened. We can talk about the arrangements later. I thought it was better if you slept off whatever you’d done to yourself first.”

“What?” Elizabeth hadn’t a clue what the man was talking about. “Who’s John? What arrangements? What’re you talking about? Who are you? How did I get here?”

The man stared at her a moment before saying in a slow, careful voice, “Then, you don’t remember? You don’t remember anything about last night?”

Elizabeth wrapped her arms protectively around herself. She felt sick to her stomach and her head was pounding. “Hey.” The man moved forward. “You don’t look so good. Come and sit down.”

She didn’t protest as he palmed her elbow and led her carefully toward one of the red leather chairs. She sank gratefully down and drew her hand across her forehead. She was sweating, though the room was cool.

“Let me get you some water. You look awfully pale.” The man poured water into the pretty blue glass and brought it to her. She took it and sipped. The dizziness and nausea were dissipating, though her head still ached.

“That’s better.” He took the glass from her and set it on the table between the two chairs.

“The color is coming back into your cheeks. I thought you were going to pass out there for a minute.”

“I’m okay.” Elizabeth wasn’t sure if this was true or not. “Except for the fact I have no idea where I am, how I got here or who you are.”

The man gave a small laugh. “I’m sorry. You had me so worried I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Cole Pearson. We met last night at House of Usher when I bid on you. You were—”

“When you
what
?”

“Bid on you. You know, at the slave auction.” He smiled tentatively, his expression quizzical. Despite her complete confusion, she couldn’t help but notice it was a kind of lopsided grin, but thoroughly charming. Somehow it made him more appealing than a movie-star-perfect smile would have. Then she processed his words.

“Slave auction? What the…? The only auction I remember being at was the fundraiser for Autism.” She closed her eyes, trying to think. A vague recollection was returning to her.

Something about a club Gary wanted to take her to after they’d left the dinner.
Why
couldn’t she remember? What had happened to her?

“Where’s Gary?” she asked abruptly. He would know what the hell was going on, surely.

“Who’s Gary?”

“Gary Dobbins. He’s the guy I work with. Who I attended the fundraiser with. I dimly remember him talking me into going to a club after the dinner, but then everything’s just—

blank.” She pressed her fingers against her eyelids, trying to fight a rising sense of panic. It was horrible not to remember. It was as if someone had reached into her head and ripped away a chunk of her brain.

“I don’t remember any Gary.” Cole was thoughtful. “You were with a man who introduced himself as John. John Hunter. Your Master.”

She looked at him. “Master? Are you out of your mind? I don’t know any John Hunter.”

Cole regarded her, his black eyes penetrating her own so she suddenly found herself looking down. She forced herself to meet his gaze, daring him with her expression to explain what in the name of God was going on.

He shook his head slowly. “This whole thing is getting more bizarre by the minute. I
knew
something wasn’t right. Even beyond your being drugged. Something about that guy—”

“Drugged! What—”

“At first I thought you were drunk, but now I think it was drugs. Maybe some kind of date rape drug. You were really out of it. You passed out completely on the way home in my car. He said you’d had a few too many, that you did it all the time and you’d sleep it off and be fine in the morning. Then he took off so fast I really didn’t know what else to do, so I brought you home. I was pretty sure by then you were on drugs, and from your complete confusion, I’d venture to say you were drugged against your will.”

“My God,” Elizabeth cried, horrified. “Who would do such a thing? Who was this Hunter guy? Why was I with him? What happened to Gary?” She looked around the room for her purse and saw it on the bureau. “I’ll call Gary. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” She stood too quickly and just as quickly sat back down as a wave of dizziness assailed her.

“This Gary.” Cole knit his brows, his face creased in a frown. “What’s he look like?”

“Uh, he’s about five foot, nine or so, with blond hair always hair-sprayed into place. Blue eyes, smallish nose. I don’t know. Handsome, in a bland kind of way.”

“And he was wearing a black tuxedo last night? Black bow tie?”

The blood in Elizabeth’s veins turned to ice, though she still wasn’t consciously processing what Cole was getting at. “Yes. You met him then?”

“I did. Except he called himself John Hunter. According to him, you’re his personal slave girl and he was quite happy to lend you out for a night of consensual BDSM play. He put you on the auction block and I won you.”

Elizabeth stared at the man sitting so calmly across from her and tried desperately to make sense of his words. She failed. “I’m sorry. What? Did you say slave girl? You…
won
me?” She rubbed her hand over her eyes again, but it did nothing to clear the fog in her brain.

Why would Gary introduce himself as John Hunter? Slave girl? Auction? BDSM? Date rape drugs? None of it made any sense. It sounded the plot for a made-for-TV movie. These things didn’t happen in real life.

Wait a minute. She glanced sharply at Cole.
Something
had definitely happened last night, but who said this guy, who she didn’t know from Adam, was telling the truth? “How do I know
you’re
telling the truth? Maybe
you
slipped some kind of drug into my drink and kidnapped me.”

The man gave another lopsided grin and despite herself, her heart lurched. “Wait here a second. I’ll be right back.” He returned a moment later with some kind of pamphlet, which he handed to Elizabeth.