Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (85 page)

“It’s fine, Tyson. Let me go see
to Mia.”

He set his phone down and leaned
forward on his bed. She could see all of him again, the tight muscles of his
abs, the bulging thighs. The need for him pierced her, but she pushed it down.
Everyone else saw all these things every day. It was his job. They could touch
him and laugh and call him up to come over. She couldn’t ask for anything.

“Can I call you later, when she’s
gone?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Sure.”

He nodded. “Okay.” His playful
expression was gone as he rubbed his hands over his rough cheeks. He looked
tired, actually. “We’ll work this out, Syria. I want to work this out.”

She reached over for the phone.
“Bye, Tyson,” she said.

“Goodbye, Syria.”

Mia leaned against the doorframe
to the room. “You crazy kids will figure it out,” she said, lifting a bottle of
water to her lips and taking a long drink.

Syria fell back on the bed,
wrapped in the comforter. Maybe. It seemed the two of them ran hot and cold all
the time, and now it was dead winter, the coldest time of the year.

After Mia left, Syria pulled
herself together and dressed in some sweats, planning to eat ice cream and
Photoshop belly bulges all day, a combination that never failed to fill her
with irony.

But when she sat at her computer
with her pint of Blue Bell, instead of opening images, she clicked on Google
search and for the hundredth time since her mother had given her the sheaf of
letters from her father at Thanksgiving, typed in his name.

The same set of links came up as
always. This time she clicked on the image search, studying the faces for any
resemblance to herself. Most were young men, many babies. Tons of images of a
handsome Indian actor came up, although she wasn’t sure why, since his name was
completely different.

Her breath stopped short at the
sight of a gray-haired man shown in profile. Arnav Sharma would be over fifty
years old by now, and probably not on many social networks, if any. She clicked
on the image, but it linked to the page of a young man again, apparently
sharing an image of his grandfather, who had a different name.

Syria closed the link. She had no
idea how wired India was, if the older generations there were any more or less
active on the internet than here. Her own mother did not own so much as a
laptop, and if you mentioned Facebook or Twitter, she stared at you blank-eyed.
As an emergency dispatcher, she sat on the phone all day. Syria could guess
that the old paper manuals they flipped through to read procedures to panicked
people had been replaced with an electronic version, but undoubtedly, she had
zero access to any sort of internet connection. 911 dispatchers couldn’t
exactly play Angry Birds between calls. Her father might be no different.

Most of the twenty-year-old
letters had no return addresses. Arnav had not wanted any responses, except for
the one — an exuberant note that his wife was leaving him, a last hurrah
before the final door slammed shut. Shortly after her threat to leave, the wife
had changed her mind, telling him that if he claimed his bastard daughter, he
would never see his other children again.

So Syria’s father cut off all
contact with her and her mother, unwilling to trade the unknown daughter for
his sons.

But the happy letter was the one
that had the most information. A phone number and an address. Syria had checked
both. The phone number was now assigned to a pizzeria. And the address had been
bulldozed in 2003. But still. It was a way to narrow down her Arnav Sharma from
all the others. When he’d written that letter, Syria was eight, some seventeen
years ago, and electronic databases had existed. Surely someone somewhere had a
record and could get her another piece of the puzzle, a forwarding address, a
government connection to some identifier. She couldn’t afford a private
investigator, but she had time. In January, she’d have even more.

*

Syria was even more bleary-eyed
when her studio line rang a few hours later. She should have slept some. She
answered with false pep, bracing herself for an anxious client who wanted her
Christmas gift ready
now
. “This is Syria.”

“Syria McMillan. The
photographer.” The low voice wasn’t asking a question, but rumbled through the
receiver as a statement of fact.

“Yes, this is she.” Syria’s heart
sped up a little. She knew this voice.

“We met recently. At an
exhibition.”

Syria swallowed. “Is this Erik?”
Her voice wavered a bit.

“You have an excellent memory. I
hope this means I made an impression.” His voice flowed like silk, and the way
he talked made her picture the syllables against her skin.

As if knowing the direction her
thoughts had gone, her cell phone lit up on her desk, but only the first few
notes of “Santa Baby” played before she silenced it. Tyson picked the darnedest
times to call.

“Can I help you?”

“I would like to book a session
with you.”

“I’m actually done with sessions
until after the holidays. It gets a little crazy this time of year.”

“It’s not for a gift, so I would
not rush your work.”

Syria hesitated. This man had
seen her having sex with another woman on stage. He might have the wrong idea
about her. “Can it wait for January then?” Maybe he would hire someone else.

“I have an associate about to
leave my company. I would like a photograph before the contract is over.”

“So, a business head shot then?”
She relaxed. She could probably work in something as simple as that.

“Not quite. I sensed that you
might be willing to do some nontraditional work.”

He probably wanted to have sex
with his “associate” on camera. She got calls like this all the time, as if
boudoir
somehow mean
porn
.

“You know, I don’t think I’m your
girl,” Syria said. “I’m sure I appeared to be pretty open to things on stage,
but actually I keep my business and my pleasure pretty separate.” Except for
Mia, she thought, remembering her contortionist shoot. And Tyson, of course,
the shoot that started it all. Erik didn’t need to know about that. “I could
maybe give you a referral.”

“I’m willing to pay you well for
this.”

“It’s not really about price.”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Syria gripped the phone.
“Wh—what?”

“Is that sufficient for the
shoot? I am willing to pay much more for the images.”

Syria hesitated. That much money
meant a plane ticket to Seattle to see Tyson. And maybe even one to India, if
she got the chance.

“So I have your attention. How
about I send you ten thousand now, and another five thousand on the day of the
shoot, as a deposit for the prints?” His voice was still smooth, with not trace
of smugness or anything but a business transaction taking place.

“When were you thinking of coming
in?”

“My associate will be with me two
more weeks.”

“So nights, weekend? Week day?”

“I think we can accommodate most
times.”

Syria grabbed her schedule from
beneath a pile of print outs. “So, next Thursday, maybe?”

“Certainly. Midafternoon?”

“Three o’clock. That works.
Should I send you directions?”

“I know where you are, Syria.”

Her belly quivered. Who was this
man? “Should we do a consultation? What sort of clothing? Style? Backgrounds?”

“I leave it all in your very
capable hands. The girls will bring a sufficient wardrobe for contingencies,
plus a stylist. We will make it come together.”

“All right,” Syria said. “I’ll
set up something classic.”

“Perfect. See you in a few days.
A courier will arrive in a few hours with the fee.”

The line went dead.

Syria stared at the phone. She
knew the men at that exhibition had to be powerful and wealthy. She was about
to find out exactly how much.

Tyson had been impressed when she
told him about the shoot. Syria sent him a snapshot of the cashier’s check for
ten thousand dollars. She didn’t mention that she’d met the man before, just
that he’d been referred. This small deceit settled like a black space beneath
her heart. Somehow, she knew there was more to this than just photography.

She fretted over every detail the
day of the shoot, straightening her shelves, shoving the boxes of prints and
proofs into another room. With the extra money, she’d splurged on a rush job
for a hand-painted backdrop that suggested a French bordello, just enough sexy
to set your mind the right direction if the subjects where posed for it, but
also very classic if the shoot was more traditional. She’d wanted a drop like
this for a long time, but couldn’t justify the expense.

When the doorbell chimed, Syria
nearly jumped out of her skin. Her belly fluttered with nerves. In addition to
the drop, she’d bought the most amazing pair of distressed leather ballerina
slippers that felt like she was wearing nothing at all, so that she wouldn’t
feel the urge to shoot barefoot as she normally did. It seemed too informal for
a session like this.

She opened the door and
suppressed sucking in a breath at Erik, dressed as perfectly as he had been at
the exhibition, a three-piece suit immaculately tailored and fitted to his
broad shoulders and tall frame.

Syria swallowed. “Hello, Mr.
Andrada.” Behind him were several women, all stunningly beautiful, one blonde
and two with dark, exotic features.

He took her hand. “Erik, please.
It is such a pleasure to see you again.” He lifted the back of her hand to his
lips, closing his eyes as he kissed it as if meeting her was the most treasured
moment of his life.

Syria’s heart beat faster.
Everything about this man was geared toward trusting him, falling under his
spell.

She stepped aside to let the
group in. A young man came up the sidewalk, pushing a rolling wardrobe box. The
blond woman paused to make sure he made it up the stairs. “We brought plenty of
options,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Elise, the stylist. I prepared
their hair and makeup in advance, but we wanted to see your vision before
choosing outfits.”

“Okay.” Syria didn’t know what
else to say. She felt like she should have assistants, a team maybe, for a
shoot like this. Lots of photographers charged fees like the one Erik had
offered, but they usually had some staff. At least this group had brought some
of their people along. She didn’t know who was the associate she was
photographing. The two dark-haired women had the same slightly aloof demeanor,
the way she imagined models to be.

Syria moved along the hallway.
“This way.” Erik followed her, and she now saw her rented house through his
eyes, banged-up wallpaper, scratched wood floors, inexpensive strip lighting
for the images. He must wonder why he’d made such a leap of faith.

He paused of the image of a woman
in white lingerie on a motorcycle, the same one that got Tyson’s attention
weeks ago. “Stunning. So you will shoot on location?”

“Yes, of course.”

Erik nodded. “Excellent.”

They entered the studio space,
and he glanced around, tapping a finger against his chin. “All very much in
order.”

Syria dashed around to the
lights, switching them on. “I thought this might be a nice drop to start with,
although if you’d rather keep it black or high key for simplicity…” She
trailed off.

Erik watched her with his dark
eyes beneath immaculately combed black hair and perfect eyebrows.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what I’m
shooting,” she said.

He smiled and once again Syria
warmed over. What was so charming about this man?

“Let me introduce you to my
associates,” Erik said. “First is Aliara. She is my slave.”

Syria inhaled sharply at the
word, but Erik went on, gesturing to the other girl. “And this is Malin, my
submissive.”

Syria looked from one woman to
the other, beginning to pick out their discerning features. Aliara had longer
hair, black and glossy, parted neatly down the middle to frame an oval face.
She was slight, dressed in a black shift that accentuated her wraith-like body,
not unlike the women Syria remembered from the bondage exhibition. She wore an
unusual silver ring around her neck, fitted with an ornate series of loops.

Malin was perhaps a few years
younger, early twenties, and wore a flowing silk sundress in a tawny gold. She
was large-breasted but not otherwise curvy, her almond eyes emphasized by
skillful makeup.

“Hello,” Syria managed to choke
out, still wondering the difference between the two labels. She turned to Erik.
“Will I be photographing them both?”

“Yes, in some instances. Aliara
has come to the end of her contract with me, and is moving on. I am very sad to
see her go.”

The woman lowered her eyes,
focusing on the wood floor. Erik touched a finger to her chin and brought it up
again. “I thought I might like to capture some of my favorite things about her
before she was gone.”

Syria picked up her camera,
fiddling with dials to avoid having to stare at the woman, who seemed perfectly
nonchalant as this man talked about her. “So what sorts of things?” Hopefully
not body parts.

Erik turned to her and placed his
hand on the camera, stilling her nervous movements. “I know that you are probably
thinking that in this modern day, we should not have women as slaves. And I am
not overly fond of the word. It’s just a common term in the BDSM community.
Aliara is one of my favorite possessions, and I have treated her very well. She
chose of her own free will to give up her life to me for a period of five
years.” He turned to look at the woman, who smiled at him now. “It’s been a
very good five years for us both.”

Aliara nodded. “It has.”

Syria startled a little to hear
the girl speak. She had no understanding how these relationships worked. The
only submissives she’d seen had been at the exhibition, and that had been in
the context of the bondage show.

“So the stylist has some outfits
for Aliara?” Syria said. “Maybe if I saw them, I’d get an idea of what we’re
going for.”

“Absolutely.” Erik turned to the
blond woman, who was showing the boy where to place the wardrobe box. “Elise,
show Syria what we brought along.”

Malin stepped back to let Syria
pass by to approach the wardrobe, a tall cherrywood box with ornate gold
latches. Elise bent to pop them open, and the boy pulled the front cover aside.

Syria felt a little wave of shock
at the contents. Hanging inside the door was an assortment of whips, floggers,
paddles, and objects she couldn’t identify. On a rack in the main section,
several outfits in leather, some with solid pieces, and others with cutouts in
intriguing places, shifted from side to side from the movement of the box.

“I think you may sense the
direction the shoot is going now,” Erik said.

“I do,” Syria said.

Elise pulled out a drawer from
the bottom of the box with professional detachment. “We also have some silks, a
few bits of lingerie, and this.” She unfolded a shiny vinyl body suit.

“I do hope we’ll get one in the
Ligne,” Aliara said.

Syria whirled around. “The
Ligne?”

Elise rummaged in the drawer.
“It’s a ballet term. I have the shoes.” She pulled out a pair of silver heeled
shoes so high that it would not be possible to walk in them. The feet
went straight up, like a ballerina on pointe. Elise pushed aside a solid
leather dress to reveal a soft pink, almost completely sheer corset with silver
laces. “Here’s the top.” She shifted through the lingerie. “And here’s the
bottom.” She held up a scrap of pink silk on a silver wire.

Syria couldn’t even imagine
wearing something like that.

Aliara stepped forward to touch
the tinsel-thin thong. “Can we shoot that one, Erik? I’d love to have a print
of it.”

Erik bent and kissed her on the
forehead. “Of course. And the outfit goes with you. I cannot imagine anyone
else wearing it.”

Aliara reached for one of his
hands and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

“Why don’t we start with that?”
Erik said. “Elise, can you prep Aliara?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a dressing room just
around the corner,” Syria said. Elise and Aliara disappeared that direction.
“Anything you want to do while we wait?”

Erik turned to Malin. “Yes, I
love this dress on her. Can we do a few like that?”

“Absolutely.” She led Malin to
the center of the set to a Queen Anne chair that matched the French-styled
drop. “Sit here, cross your ankles, and lean on the arm.”

Malin lowered herself primly onto
the cushion, but when her eyes lifted to the camera, the expression was pure
sex. The heat of it bolted straight through Syria, and she tightened her grip.

A quick glance at Erik confirmed
that he was cool as always, seemingly unaffected. Syria took a couple test
shots, then adjusted the lights. As she passed Malin, she tugged on the hem of
the flowing skirt, making sure it didn’t gather or crinkle.

She had it now and fired several
rapid shots, squaring off Malin’s exquisite face, then broadening out to
include her shoulders and deep cleavage. Syria pulled over a ladder to get a
full-body shot, letting the image focus on her eyes and skim across her body to
the ankles.

“Spin the dress,” Erik said, and
Malin immediately rose from the chair.

Syria jumped off the ladder and
tugged the chair out of the way. “Do you know how dancers turn in circles?” she
asked. “Where they sort of pause then go around, pause and go around?”

Malin nodded.

Syria wondered if the submissive
was allowed to speak or if Malin was just naturally quiet.

Malin spun precisely as Syria
described, revealing some dance training.

“Beautiful,” Syria said, shifting
her shutter speed up to freeze the movement of the skirt. She kneeled to focus
on the girl’s amazing strong legs, working a swift pattern as the dress rose
higher to her thighs.

It wasn’t until she glanced at
the screen did she realize Malin was naked beneath the dress, and the shots
were more bare than she realized. The girl kept spinning. She had to be tired,
or dizzy. “I have it,” Syria said, but Malin continued to spin.

Syria looked at Erik, who watched
with calm deliberation, his face unreadable. “She can stop now,” she said to him.

Erik made no indication that he’d
even heard her, watching the girl turn and turn and turn.

Syria’s discomfort grew. “I’d
really prefer it if we let her stop.”

“You may stop,” Erik said.

Malin halted, clearly affected by
the whirlwind, but standing as straight and relaxed as possible with her rapid
breaths.

Erik walked up to caress her bare
shoulders, his fingers slipping across her skin so lightly that she shivered.
“That’s my beautiful girl.”

Syria was caught between horror
and envy. She could see how their relationship probably played out in other
ways with rope or bondage or even infliction of pain.

He toyed with the silver clasps
on the straps of the dress, then stepped back. “Take it off,” he told her.

Syria’s heart beat painfully as
Malin opened the clasp at the shoulder. She trained her lens to focus on the
graceful hands with their simple French manicure. When Malin let go, that side
of the dress slid down, revealing a perfect golden breast and a dark puckered
nipple. Syria swallowed, pulling back on the shot to show more of her body.

Malin turned to the other clasp
and freed the opposite side. The gold silk cascaded across her skin, puddling
together at her hips. A small blue jewel winked from above her belly button.
She released the dress with only the slightest push from her palms, and it
fluttered to the floor. Malin stepped away from it, now naked other than a pair
of gold stilettos encasing her delicate feet.

Erik stepped forward and into the
shot, lifting Malin’s chin as he leaned in to kiss her. Syria’s pulse beat in
her throat, snapping as quickly as her studio lights would reset, some shots
pulled out, to show the contrast of his suit against the unbroken skin, others
tight, especially when Erik’s strong hand cupped a breast and his thumb crossed
her nipple.

Malin stepped her feet wide to
give him access, but Erik did not touch her. He grasped her elbow and spun her
to face away, holding her arm tightly. Now Syria could see the things he did to
her, the skin of her back crisscrossed with red. He ran his fingers across the
scars, some fresh welts, some older, with measured care. Malin sighed at his
touch, her head lowered.

Syria assumed he wanted her to
capture the scars, but when she lifted her camera, he waved his hand at her and
shook his head. Apparently this show was just for her.

Syria stepped back. The shoot was
for her. To let her see how he worked. She burned inside, unable to even
imagine such a life. No way.

Everyone turned to the hall as
Elise and the boy helped Aliara into the room.

Her outfit was breathtaking. The
sheer pink corset pressed her body into a shiny cocoon, her girl-like breasts
pressed into a tender cleavage above it. She still wore the strange silver ring
around her neck.

The fine-strung thong was mostly
invisible, just a touch of pink between her legs, drawing attention more than
concealing anything. The shoes, though, were not something you could walk in.
Aliara took each step with great pain, her feet straight up from the floor. The
boy kept his eyes on the ground as he and Elise moved the girl toward the set.

“Pick up your dress and move
away, Malin,” Erik instructed. “Put on the slave attire.”

Malin’s eyes lit up at this
instruction and she snatched up the gold dress.