Arranging Love
Authors: Nina Pierce
Book 3 of the Tilling Passions series
Nina Pierce
Published 2008
ISBN 978-1-59578-455-1
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing,
10509 Sedgegrass Dr
,
Indianapolis,
Indiana
46235
. Copyright © 2008,
Nina Pierce
. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the
United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
http://LSbooks.com
Email:
Editor
Jean Cooper
Cover Artist
Anne Cain
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Dedication:
To all my readers, but most especially Mima Dixon, whose unwavering support has been a wonderful motivator. Mima’s unflappable optimism, despite battling the debilitating disease of multiple sclerosis, has been such an inspiration to me. Because of you, Mima, and all my dedicated readers, writing is a true joy. Please look for Mima’s appearance as a character (or two!) in this book.
Acknowledgements:
With this last book in the Tilling Passions series, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank my editor, Jean Cooper. She has been amazing through the process of wrangling in errant commas, catching runaway plot lines, and generally making sure the stories I offer to my readers are the best writing I can produce. I would also like to thank artist Anne Cain, whose amazing visions created drool-worthy book covers for all three novellas in the Tilling Passions series.
Thank you also to Michael Cormier and the Maine Romance Writers group for answering all my silly questions and to authors Jennifer Linforth, K.A. Mitchell, and Emma Sanders, who each helped in different ways with the writing of these novellas.
Chapter 1
Meghan Tilling blew out a puff of frustration, sending wisps of chestnut curls out of her face. Straightening, she pressed fists into her lower back, working out the tension hours of floral arranging had knit into her muscles.
Usually, she loved the holiday season: long hours filling orders and delivering flower arrangements to smiling customers, the bustle of shoppers in the stores, the smell of balsam and cinnamon wafting about the floral shop of
Tilling
Gardens
and Plants that she co-owned with her sisters, and the joy of being with her family. Normally all of the busy-ness combined to make her warm with nostalgia and giddy with anticipation, but not this year.
She couldn’t enjoy any of it. Not with her father so sick and Peter’s promotion. It all just sucked.
Her misery had worked itself into a throb that pounded in her temples with the rhythm of the hard-rock music blaring from the radio at the end of the workbench. And though it sent spasms of dull pain shooting behind her eyes, Meghan couldn’t bring herself to shut it off. Without it, silence would surround her like an unwelcome chill, opening her heart to the loneliness, and she’d find it impossible to go home to an empty house—again.
She stared at her reflection in the dark window over the bench. Despair stared back at her.
Even though she couldn’t see outside, Meghan knew the snow still fell. The Thanksgiving blizzard that began last week heralded the beginning of a very long winter. Well, officially November still counted as fall, but not here in
Maine
. In her hometown of Delmont, winter began with the first gentle snow flakes and ended when the last snow bank finally turned to mud—usually around Easter.
This year, winter had arrived with a vengeance, pummeling New England with back-to-back storms that had knocked out power and clogged all public transportation, including the plane carrying Peter Maddock, her fiancé, home from the engineering conference in
Philadelphia.
Meghan chided herself for not closing the shop early and heading home to the warmth of a fire. The floral arrangements for the Anderton wedding could wait. There would be plenty of time to finish them tomorrow for delivery on Saturday morning. But the thought of a white-knuckled drive and an empty bed just depressed her more, and she decided to stay and finish the rest; twenty centerpieces for the reception, eighteen pew markers, seven wrist corsages and fourteen boutonnières for the family. The bouquets were already complete.
Resigned to make the most of her lonely night, Meghan carried the cascading bridal bouquet of jade roses, button mums, and cymbidium to the walk-in cooler. She poked her head out front, simultaneously checking for customers and grabbing the heavy stool behind the counter. It was only five-thirty, and though the store was open until six and she didn’t really expect any holiday shoppers to venture out in this weather, staying open was a habit borne out of three years of repetition.
The antiquated cooler door opened with a groan, blocking her view of the front door. It was such a poor design. Add to that, the inside latch was failing, forcing Meghan to prop it open with the stool from behind the counter. She really needed to replace the door, but with her business growing, the idea of being without the appliance for a day or two seemed out of the question.
Besides, her older sister had always been the one to deal with contractors and such. But Julie had relinquished all responsibility, save for the books, when she’d taken the accounting job in
Bangor and moved in with her fiancé, Damon. With all the changes happening, getting estimates for new construction just seemed a tad overwhelming.
Setting the arrangement on the shelf, Meghan hauled out the bucket of hydrangea for the centerpieces and pew markers, tripping over the leg of the stool before setting the flowers, not so gently, on the floor next to the bucket of white roses. Returning for the buckets of carnations and lilies, she let out a groan of frustration at the jumbled mess of flowers. Neither had been properly unpacked or stored.
Her part-time help came in the form of a lovely young woman, the granddaughter of one of her mother’s friends, who worked several days after school and Saturdays. And though Chelsea was wonderful with the customers, like most teenagers, her sense of hearing often times crossed wires with raging hormones, resulting in Meghan doing double the work, fixing a mess before properly doing the original task. Kneeling next to the buckets, Meghan pulled the trimming shears from her belt and began working on the bundles.
The crash startled her and sent her hand flying through the buds, the tip of the shears shredding two beautiful lily blossoms. She turned to see the door to the cooler swing shut in a sickly, slow motion. The click of the latch was a thunderous noise, punctuated by the absolute darkness surrounding her.
At least, the automatic shutoff for the light switch worked.
A giggle escaped her trembling lips. What an absurd thought.
Meghan stood on shaky legs, pressing a hand to the fear coiled around her belly and swallowed the bile filling her throat. Instinctively she reached for the cell phone she perpetually carried in her back pocket—but came up empty. It was sitting on the bench next to the blaring radio she could barely hear, waiting for Peter’s call. Only the sound of her heart racing filled the silence. Even her sneakers made no noise as she took unsteady steps through the blackness, praying the inside latch would work just one more time.
* * * *
The snow had barely relented. Sometimes it let up enough for Peter to see the car in front of him, but I-95 through
Massachusetts
was a slick, white road of snow. Even the snowplows, which had been running non-stop since last week couldn’t keep both sides of the highway cleared. Only the travel lane was passable at this point, which meant all the other people stupid enough to be driving in this blizzard were left trailing in one long line down the interstate. It had been this way for nine hours, nearly twice the time it would have taken him to drive from Philly to
Boston in good weather.
But nothing about this trip was good, now, was it? He’d lied to Meghan last night about his plans for today. She had no idea he wasn’t holed up in some hotel in Philly waiting for the storm to blow over. Which storm? The physical weather or the crazy idea he’d decided to set in motion after Meghan’s father, John, had had his last heart attack?
All those Tilling sisters and their mom huddled together seeking familial support from each other had been too much for him. Rather than feeling part of the clan, it had isolated him—made him yearn for his own place in the world. Being an orphan sucked. He wanted someone who would be there for him, a person who could understand the despair of solitude. Meghan and her family had no idea what it was like to walk the earth knowing everyone was a stranger to you. He needed more. Peter had taken to searching the Internet for that companionship, someone who could fill the growing chasm in his heart. He loved his fiancée, but lately that didn’t seem to be enough.
Meghan knew nothing of his late night searching. His forays into the darker side of chat rooms had taken him to places that he was sure would make Meghan’s conservative persona gasp in horror. This road trip was the culmination of months of searching. He scanned the piece of paper cradled in his palm with directions through
Boston. He’d found his way to
Arch Street
; now two more lights and he should see her building.
The business district he drove through surprised him. Within walking distance was the famed Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and in the other direction, Boston Common. This wasn’t what he’d expected when she’d told him where she worked. Peter had thought the establishment would be on the other side of
Boston in some seedy, run-down neighborhood with dilapidated buildings only slightly less grungy than the drunks sleeping in the alleys or the hookers huddled at the street corners. But none of that was visible here. Here were upscale businesses and quaint shops, and normally people would be milling on the streets. Of course, no one was out in this storm. Only fools on errands—like him.
Grateful for the lack of traffic, Peter cruised by the buildings slowly, checking the numbers. Spotting the one he sought, he did a double take and rechecked the numbers. It was a hotel, complete with a doorman, tucked between an upscale women’s clothing store and a tavern. He thought he was going to her place of business. What had he gotten himself into?
He should just keep driving.
Though he wanted to meet this woman, doing so in the privacy of a hotel room surely crossed a line Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to step over. But he’d come this far, and turning away now seemed cowardly.
He parked the car on the nearly deserted street, hoping there wasn’t a parking ban in effect. Having the rental car towed would be difficult to explain. No one at the company knew he was here, and if all went well, it would stay that way.
Turning up the collar of the wool overcoat against the bitter wind, Peter stepped into the blinding pellets of snow and jogged back down the block, reprimanding himself for doing this. He’d tried to talk himself out of this trip for the last week, but finding this place had become an obsession—or more precisely, finding
her
had become his obsession.
The fact that she’d set up their first meeting in an upscale hotel worked to further unravel the frayed ends of his nerves. He pushed the thought away and went on autopilot. If he thought about what he was doing and how it would affect Meghan, he would surely turn tail and head out of town. That’s what any self-respecting man would do.
But he’d sold his integrity months ago when he’d subscribed to the online service. This trip was just the culmination of illicit hours spent in chat rooms. It had taken weeks to convince this woman he wasn’t a serial killer, and when she’d finally typed “MIRL”—meet in real life—his stomach had clenched, and his hope soared.
And now it was here—the moment of truth. Peter wasn’t sure if the burn in his belly was anticipation, uncertainty or shame. Without analyzing it, he nodded as the doorman pulled the ornate handle on the glass door and prayed Meghan would forgive him for his transgressions.
Chapter 2
Panic quaked through Meghan’s muscles as much as the bone-chilling, thirty-eight degrees of the cooler. Her fingers had gone numb as she alternated between fiddling with the handle and banging on the unmoving door. She had no idea how much time had passed. She suspected it hadn’t been longer than thirty or forty minutes, but everything stood frozen here in the dark. Her fear-clogged throat still burned from the screaming she’d done in total despair. But no one could hear her. No one was here. No one was expected. Peter wasn’t even home to wonder why she hadn’t returned.
Damn him!
Her forehead fell heavily against the icy metal of the door, her palms caressing the pebbled surface. She sank to her knees, burdened by the weight of her circumstances.
She should have fixed the door. She could have done it this fall before the holidays overwhelmed her with orders. She should have gone home an hour ago when the storm shut down most of Delmont. No one would have blamed her for closing the shop. She should be snuggled in the heat of Peter’s arms, not fighting to stay warm in the black hole of her cooler. But Peter was never home anymore. His post-promotion schedule, filled with projects and other people, kept him from her. Over the past several months, he’d become preoccupied with work and increasingly distant. She had no idea what was excavating the chasm growing between them. Perhaps it was her. Maybe in light of her father’s illness,
she’d
been neglectful.
Well, she’d change that. Peter obviously needed more of her time, and when she got out of here, Meghan would make sure he got it. That thought shot her straight to her feet, her awareness a momentary flash of lightning, heating her blood. She would not freeze to death in this vault. She would survive. Hypothermia took hours to claim a life, and though her teeth chattered and her body shook uncontrollably, she wouldn’t succumb without a fight.
Meghan began pounding and shouting in earnest. But the noise brought no one. What had she expected? She needed to calm down and think, like that actor who fashioned bombs from cotton candy and popsicle sticks. Meghan felt her way back to the bucket of irises and found her shears. Maybe working them into the latch would spring the door.
* * * *
The plush lobby he entered held chairs of leather and large potted plants. People of all ages milled about, obviously hemmed in by the storm. Peter’s heels clicked on the marble tiles as he made his way to the front desk.
“May I help you?” The man behind the desk aimed his faux smile at Peter.
“Yes, I’m looking for Crystal Ice; she’s a guest here,” Peter said, feeling foolish saying the woman’s name aloud, wondering if she’d even given him the correct information.
“Yes, of course, sir. May I ask who is inquiring?” The man’s fingers flew over the keyboard, his eyes intently scanning a computer screen.
“Sal.” Peter looked away, fearing the man would see his deceit. SAL was the acronym for his screen name,
SingleandLooking21
. He wasn’t any of those things. Okay, maybe the looking part, but he’d been of drinking age for nearly a decade, and the engagement ring on Meghan’s finger made him far from single.
“Yes, here you are.” The front desk clerk smiled. “Ms. Crystal is in our honeymoon suite on the twelfth floor.” He handed a card key to Peter. “Take this to elevator four over to your right and hand it to the operator. He’ll bring you right up.”
Peter headed toward the bank of elevators, avoiding the eyes of those around him. How many people would look at him and see a man intent on exploring the darker side of life? He wasn’t sure if the guilt weighed on his facial features like it did on his heart. He didn’t want to feel compelled to do this, didn’t want to admit that he hoped meeting a strange woman in the honeymoon suite of a Boston hotel would fill the desperate void in his heart. But like a train whose conductor had thrown the wrong switch, he was helpless to stop himself, even if the result of this liaison wrecked his life.
Peter handed the keycard to the bellman at elevator four. The young man was barely past the pimply stage of adolescence. The smile sliding over his lips was reptilian, and Peter was surprised the tongue flitting out to wet them wasn’t forked. From the spark in his eye, the kid had to know to whom the suite belonged.
Stepping into the elevator beside the bellhop, Peter stared at the door as the man fitted a special key into the control panel. The lurch of the elevator nearly had Peter leaving his lunch on the plush carpet. Fortunately, paneling rather than mirrors decorated the interior. Peter didn’t want to stare at his own embarrassment. From the temperature of his cheeks, he was sure his discomfort was visible. But the young man stood statue-like near the wall, saying nothing—very professional of him.
Peter jumped when the bell sounded their arrival. The doors opened into the foyer of the suite, and Peter had to bite his tongue to keep his mouth from hanging open.
* * * *
The shears slipped in Meghan’s hands and caught the side of her thumb. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she tasted the metallic flavor of blood. Damn it all to hell! At least she couldn’t feel the pain through the cold, but she also had no idea how badly she’d cut herself. Working with the shears had been an exercise in futility. It didn’t seem to be doing anything. Frustration and fear had her hurling the tool through the darkness. They clattered over the shelves and broke something on the far side of the cooler, the sound of glass shattering echoed through the stillness.
“Let me out of this arctic hell!” Meghan screamed at the door, pounding her fists against the cold metal, begging for help. Panic clawed at her throat and twisted in her gut. Her muscles quaked with uncontrollable spasms of chill, and her jaws ached from the incessant chatter of her teeth. “Let.
Me.
Out. Someone. Please.”
Meghan shook the handle and slammed her shoulder into the door, once, twice, and on the third ramming, her body met nothing but air. She stumbled forward, heat and light assaulting her senses. Strong arms caught her as she fell to floor.
“Meghan, what are you doing?” Doc McCarty’s soft blue eyes stared down at her. “Oh, my dear, you’re chilled to the bone.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “The cooler door … broken … jammed … cold … stuck … I could have…” Words fell from her frozen lips through the sobs of relief.
“Hey, Meghan, you need a ride…” Deirdre came bounding through the back door of the shop, but the words clogged in her throat at the sight of Meghan crumpled on the floor, cradled in the older man’s arms. “What’s happened?” Deirdre knelt on the floor next to them. “Meg, are you all right? Where’s all this blood coming from? What the hell happened here, Doc?”
* * * *
“Welcome to the dungeon, sir.” The beauty standing before him wore a black corset, her breasts spilling pleasantly over the top.
Peter’s eyes scanned down the length of her long legs, hugged in thigh-high leather boots, and back up to the collar around her neck. It looked more like a show piece than a useful bondage tool. But what did he know? He forced his eyes to meet the cherry-red lipstick smile before he spoke. “I … I’m looking for someone.”
“Aren’t we all?” Her voice was a sultry breath of sound that heated his blood. “I’m Mima, one of the hostesses. Have you ever been to one of our soirees?”
“No, I…” Peter shook his head. This was wrong on so many levels. The main room in front of him was filled with twenty or so people of both sexes in various stages of dress. No one, except Mima, seemed interested in his arrival. But the activities taking place on the couches and chairs scattered throughout the space begged for his attention.
“Are you a guest or client?” Mima’s hand wrapped around his forearm, forcing him to concentrate on her.
“A what?” Tearing his gaze from a man leading a naked woman on a leash, he finally found his tongue. “A client? No … I, I’m a guest of Crystal Ice.”
“Of course.” She inclined her head. “May I check your coat and get you a drink? They are complimentary for our guests.”
“May I see
Crystal?” he asked, removing the coat and laying it over her outstretched arm, his fingers maintaining possession of the sleeve.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. She has many clients…” She paused and winked. “…and guests to entertain this evening, and she is still working to get everything ready. Now, about that drink?” She lilted the last words into a question.
“Scotch on the rocks.” He wanted to ask for a double, but he wasn’t sure how long he was staying.
“Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll get that drink and a
menu
.” Mima gently squeezed his hand before brushing it from the coat. “You might as well have a look before you decide to leave.”
He let out a laugh of disgust. He wanted to tell the hostess he wasn’t here to eat, but she turned and walked from him before he could mention that detail.
Settling onto one of the plush leather chairs, Peter pulled the red handkerchief from his front pocket, allowing it to spill over his thigh. It was stupid, but he couldn’t think of another way to help the woman from the chat room identify him. He rubbed nervously at the sweat glistening on his upper lip. The moustache that had been there only this morning was gone. He’d grown it in an attempt to look older. Tonight he wanted to look like a college kid at his first titty bar.
Nervously scanning the room, Peter swallowed his revulsion—and guilt. The two emotions warred in his belly, burning through the lining of his stomach. He’d been popping antacids like a chain smoker with cigarettes since hatching this little scheme of his. What kind of den of iniquity had he walked into?
A few people, like himself, sat alone, sipping drinks and accepting hors d’oeuvres from naked waitstaff. Others focused their attention on what he could only assume was the menu. Several small groups were seated at other chairs and couches scattered throughout the room. One lovely brunette, sitting with two men in business suits, caught his eye and winked.
Crystal? But when she turned back to her companions, seemingly uninterested, he turned away from her and focused his attention on the rich wood bar running along the wall to the right of him.
The bartender’s substantial torso was bare save for the black leather straps crisscrossed over his well-defined pecs and abdomen. Leather armbands spanned both biceps. A dark mane of hair swept over his broad shoulders. The man leisurely dried and hung glasses, his gaze never roaming over the clientele. It seemed anonymity was important to everyone.
Peter tried to relax and let the subdued jazz music and sensuous atmosphere settle his jangled nerves. Lit by filigree sconces mounted on the red walls, the room oozed old money. This wasn’t any typical honeymoon suite, and
Crystal obviously wasn’t the typical professional working girl he had expected to meet.
Perhaps he had it wrong. No one had spotted the bandana and attempted to approach him. Save for Mima and the brunette who was currently being escorted into another room by her companions, no one had paid any attention to him. Peter had questioned both his sanity and naiveté countless times. The woman from the chat room had no intention of meeting him here. In his desperation, he had let himself be duped. What a fool. He slid to the edge of the chair, thinking he should just go home to Meghan.
“Every time I come, you look ready to bolt for the door.” The leggy woman returned. “Here’s your drink and a menu.”
Peter settled back into the chair. “I don’t need the menu. I’m not eating.”
She leaned over and pressed her cheek to his, the corset losing the battle to contain her tits. “The first time’s the best. Give it a chance.” Her tongue flicked his lobe before she straightened. “The menu isn’t for ordering food.” Her mouth curved in one of those breathtaking smiles she kept flashing him. “
Crystal’s selections are on the right-hand side, but if you desire something else, it can be arranged.”
Relief flooded through him. At least the woman in the chat room hadn’t lied about her working name or her place of employment.
“Why don’t you have a look at that menu?” Mima asked. “I’ll come back shortly to take your order.” She turned on her heel and left him again.
Peter drank deeply of the liquid courage in the highball glass. How unfortunate the woman sashaying her nearly naked ass provocatively around the room wasn’t the one he’d been chatting online with. She certainly was beautiful and pleasant to talk with—the type of woman he was looking for. He watched her escort a man through a side door, wondering what sort of treats the other rooms offered. Obviously, that’s where all the major action was located.
Peter opened the menu. It didn’t hold the usual selection of appetizers, salads, and entrees. There were titles that brought heat to his face:
Whips and Chains
,
Fantasy Role Play
, and
Doms and Subs
. Peter closed the placard and drained the scotch.
He knew this foray into something dark and mysterious was exactly where he was headed when he’d made plans for this road trip. His pulse quickened at the thought of having a woman trust him so completely that she would give up all control in the bedroom for him. He’d fantasized about how it would be to know a woman’s sexual pleasure was his sole responsibility. Blood throbbed painfully between his thighs. This situation certainly hadn’t started that way. But as his cock jumped at seeing what this hotel suite promised, he wondered if
SingleandLooking21
was more than just a display name.
