Emma Holly (10 page)

Charity would have said he was welcome except she wasn't the least convinced he was thanking her.

For her part, she was shaking like a leaf with unrequited lust. Going without release had, illogically enough, been easier when Maurice was working toward his. Now she had nothing to distract her from Eric's promise of a penalty.

"I should make you wait," he said as he helped her slide off the car, "but I suspect you need your punishment now."

Charity didn't know how to argue with this and lacked the breath for it in any case. She watched as Eric pulled an elegant leather valise from the trunk. Inside it was a stiff leather swimsuit sort of affair that was part warrior princess and part
Playboy
bunny wear.

"If that comes with ears," Charity managed to gasp, "I'm going home."

Eric laughed and, once she'd peeled off her dress, he held the suit for her to step into. When it was on, he laced it snugly up the back.

"It fits perfectly," she said, liking the feel of it clasping her.

"Of course it does. It was made to your measurements. No one's ever worn it but you."

"Excuse my ignorance, but how is this a punishment?"

"It's a chastity corset," Eric said. "If you'll notice, the gusset between the legs is stiff and thick, as are the breast cups. It's nearly impossible to stimulate you while you're wearing it—at least by way of standard erogenous zones."

His finger skated across her bare shoulders, demonstrating where else she might be teased. A shudder of unusual strength chased his light caress. Whatever Eric claimed about her needing this punishment, it didn't take a genius to figure out that this contraption was going to increase her frustration—especially since it was inherently sexy.

"Very ingenious," she said, choosing pride over protest.

"The chastity corset is also impossible to get out of without help," he added pleasantly.

The glint in his eye was very close to rubbing it in.

Charity
had the odd sensation of not being settled into her body when she returned to the car with the men. Her leather undergarment, covered now by her dress, might have been part of the reason but not all. The men's clothing was set to rights, the flush of sexual excitement fading from their skins. The car was exactly as it had been. Still, it seemed wrong that Maurice would simply get behind the wheel and start driving, as wrong as Eric shrugging into his jacket and straightening his tie.

Charity sat in back with him, a choice that came more naturally than it should. Even though—strictly speaking—Maurice had been the one to take her, it was her connection to Eric that seemed stronger now. She didn't think this was a good thing. In her experience, her love life tended to run smoother when she didn't want the guy in question too much.

As if he sensed her mood, he laid his hand atop her thigh, tightening his fingers just enough to be possessive. The touch was so welcome she couldn't help rolling her sex against the seat. That was when she discovered the corset's true deviousness. She hardly felt a thing through the stiff gusset.

"You all right?" Eric asked, his habitual furrow threatening to appear again between his brows.

"Fine," she said. "I'm just… restless."

His eyes darkened at her admission. "You won't be left unsatisfied forever. B.G. wouldn't waste your sensuality that way."

At the moment, Charity was more interested in what Eric would do than B.G., but she kept the thought to herself. "I'm satisfied about one thing at least," she said with a rueful grin. "Waiting for gratification does seem to have dramatic effects."

Eric made a noise of agreement, a cross between a groan and a growl, one that said their little episode outside the car hadn't left him unmoved. If that hadn't convinced her, the tentpole behind his zipper would. She laughed, patted his hand, then turned her gaze to the safer scenery outside. She noticed the instant he removed his hand from her leg, though she tried to pretend she did not.

They rolled up to the estate soon after—or at least to its formidable looking gate. The barrier was black forged iron, complete with curlicues and spearheads and lightning bolt warnings that it was electrified.

Two stone pillars anchored it on either side. The right one held a modest bronze plaque asserting that this was Moss wood. The left sat in the shadow of a small guardhouse.

The uniformed man who came out of it looked like the real deal—as opposed to another player in Grantham's game. With his hand on the butt of his holstered gun, he leaned down to Maurice's open window, exchanged a few words with him, then peered into the back at Eric and her. She felt as if her corset must be screaming its presence beneath her clothes, but his expression, or lack of it, was all business. After he'd stared long enough to memorize her face, he put two fingers to his mouth and blew a sharp whistle. An eager-looking German Shepherd, seeming happier than his master but no less efficient, bounded out of the bushes to sniff around and under the Rolls.

"Wow," said Charity, "that's some security your friend's got."

"It's just a precaution," Eric said, obviously used to it. "Some of the projects B.G. works on are sensitive."

"
Well, all
I can say is, I'm glad I
left
my stash at home."

Maurice chuckled as they drove through the opening gate. Charity was glad someone got her joke—although, from the half smile Eric rubbed with his hand, maybe he did, too.

Eager to catch a glimpse of where she'd be staying, she moved to drape her arms over the front seat.

Ahead of them, the drive curved gently through dense green trees. Its surface was paved in mossy cobbles arranged in fans. As fancy as the roadway was, Charity didn't expect it to continue far. To her surprise, minutes passed and she still saw nothing but old-growth forest on every side.

"There is a house, right? Mr. Grantham doesn't live in a cave."

"There's a house," Eric assured her, humor coloring his voice. "It's a few miles from the gate."

Not wanting to betray her lack of sophistication, she kept the rest of her questions to herself. Eric had to know she didn't hang with the upper crust, but she didn't have to remind him. Despite her resolve, she couldn't contain a gasp when the trees thinned out to reveal the residence.

"Holy cow," was all the exclamation she could manage. She'd been expecting a dreary Victorian manse: turrets, curtains twitching at the attic windows, shrubbery cut into persnickety Gothic shapes. What she got was a spread from
Architectural Digest
, with soaring modern lines and windows that glowed gold within the leafy murk. Parts of the complex
were
underground, leaving glassed-in domes and pyramids to poke through the earth.

Flummoxed, Charity sat back.

"Cool," she said, forgetting to move again until Maurice came around the car to help her out.

To her secret pleasure, Eric claimed her arm after that.

"This way," he said, leading her to a heavy, brushed-steel door that was sheltered by a wing of glass. A camera whirred to life as Eric rang the bell. She thought of asking him why he didn't have a key, then figured this was another layer of security.

"State your names," said a disembodied computer voice.

They didn't get a chance, because the silvery entrance swung open, the door making a sound like a refrigerator breaking its vacuum seal. Charity suspected it could have sealed a vault at Fort Knox.

She guessed at once that B.G. Grantham stood behind it. He was tall and slim, younger than she expected, with a swoop of dark hair brushing his eyes. The individuality of his face struck her immediately. His long, thin nose gave him the slightest air of geekiness, though he really was too beautiful to qualify as a nerd. He was dressed casually in tan cotton trousers, bare feet, and a white linen shirt. His posture was casual, too, one arm propped on the open door. In spite of this, his spine seemed straighter than most people's.

"Welcome to Mosswood, Charity," he said formally. "I'm so pleased to meet you in the flesh."

"Uh, likewise," she said, trying not to blush.

As they passed inside, their host squeezed Eric's shoulder. Then he faced Maurice. His expression was hard to read: not stern, not angry, not fake authoritative. Mostly, he just seemed watchful.

"Mr. Grantham," said the chauffeur, his cap pressed to his breast in an oddly old-fashioned way.

Grantham inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Maurice. You'll spend the afternoon in the mystery room. Please freshen up, then report there and wait for me."

This sounded innocent enough, but from the way Maurice shuddered, Charity knew he'd just been told the nature of his penalty. The threat was enough to harden him again.

Grantham didn't watch to see if Maurice complied but turned to her. He looked, if possible, even more benign than before. "Charity," was all he said, just as he had to his chauffeur.

Regal as a king
, she thought amusedly. The Fates must be having a laugh at a girl like her turning up in a palace like this. The atrium in which she stood was a rise of more steel and glass—a cubist greenhouse, except that the greenery was outside. Opposite the door, two funny-angled squares formed wide arches.

Rooms swept out behind them, similarly washed in light. The furnishings were the colors of sand and sea, each perfect works of art. In what appeared to be the living room, a V-shaped, green-glass catwalk hung suspended halfway up the space. Charity couldn't begin to calculate what a place like this would cost.

Probably more than she could earn in her whole lifetime.

It doesn't matter
, she told her wavering self-confidence.
If you didn't have something these Ralph
Lauren poster boys wanted, they wouldn't be making you their next plaything
.

"If you're going to call me Charity," she said, her gaze on the sinuous, abstract lines of a glass sculpture,

"you'd better be prepared for me to call you B.G."

When she turned back, she saw she'd startled him. He was rubbing the edge of one hand across his lean, sharp chin. Eric set down her bag—as if he might need his hands to protect his boss. For now, Charity ignored him. This was between her and B.G.

"You're younger than me," B.G. said, more like he was curious than arguing. "Why shouldn't you address me respectfully?"

"I'm old enough to vote, old enough to drink, and—as far as I'm concerned—old enough to call a fellow adult by his first name."

"You called me Mr. Grantham in the car." His eyes alive with interest, his face and body remained still.

"I hadn't met you yet. Now I have."

"You believe that calling me B.G. will put us on an equal footing. You think our statuses need leveling because I saw you unclothed."

"You more than saw me unclothed."

"I suppose I did. Maurice put on quite a show." He stepped toward her into a patch of dappled sunlight, nearly close enough to touch. His lips had a lovely delicate cut. "I don't always watch, Charity, but I always reserve the right. There are few rooms in this house into which I can't see."

"Does anyone ever watch you?"

Eric sucked a breath, but B.G. smiled for the first time, an expression that had an unexpectedly goofy sweetness.

"That could be arranged," he said, "for an appropriate trade. To be honest, however, I don't offer anything like the entertainment value of my guests."

"You'll excuse me if I doubt that."

He laughed softly and, without even looking, she felt Eric relax. "Will Maurice be all right?" she presumed to ask.

B.G.'s coffee-brown eyes didn't just warm, they heated. "I have no doubt in the world he'll enjoy his penance, especially if you'd be kind enough to assist."

She couldn't respond to that, the prospect of tormenting the recently satisfied chauffeur making the air go thick in her lungs. Submission might not be her natural state, but teasing men very nearly was.

"Why don't I show you to your room?" B.G. suggested. "Then you'll see how open every area is to everyone."

To her surprise, Eric didn't follow, but there was too much to see to worry about that. B.G. hadn't lied about the house being exposed. At least half the walls were clear glass. A long Turkish runner led them along the center of a wide limestone hall. As they proceeded down the off-kilter angles, she could see into every room. Only the bathrooms and those walls necessary for load-bearing were made of weightier stuff. They were composed of huge sandy-looking blocks.

"Rammed earth," B.G. said. "Very good insulator."

"Tree hugger?" she asked, razzing him a bit.

B.G. answered calmly. "I've been known to embrace a trunk now and then."

Her room overlooked a small courtyard with a fountain in which a weathered cherub was pouring water from a vase. The space was shady but inviting—certainly to the birds. They twittered in and out of the pool like it was party time.

"Pretty," she said, though it didn't match the house at all.

"It's from an estate in England. I had the stones shipped here and reassembled. I prefer that the place I live reflect varied architectural periods."

This was precisely the sort of conversation Charity didn't know how to contribute to. Clothes she could talk about. Television. The latest Hollywood romance. But anything remotely intellectual left her at a loss.

It wasn't that she knew nothing, just that she was afraid of looking stupid. By the time she decided what was safe to say, the topic had changed. Frankly, she would have been more at ease if B.G. had moved straight to jumping her bones. She wasn't used to being this nervous.

"I know this can't compare to being home," B.G. was saying, "but I hope you'll be comfortable."

"I wouldn't worry about that. My whole apartment could fit in here twice."

She was glad B.G. hadn't seen it. By comparison to this, her things could only look cheap. Everything here was the epitome of good taste: pale wood floors, a low queen-size bed, a graceful chair and console desk, plus a Japanese-style screen behind which she supposed she could change if she were feeling shy.