Masters of the Shadowlands 7 - This is who I am (6 page)

“Bye,” she whispered to the dial tone. She listened to the hum for a while, too tired to set the receiver down. Too afraid of starting to cry. Normally she’d have taken his behavior in stride. It was just…now…that everything seemed to abrade her feelings.

Saying no was the right thing to do. Even if she’d been rich, she’d make him work for part of his college expenses. People didn’t value anything unless they themselves put some effort into getting it. Which meant if she handed him all the money, he’d actually be more liable to flunk out.

Logic didn’t help. She’d disappointed her baby.
Welcome home, Linda.

* * * *

At the end of that week, Linda stood behind the counter in her beachfront store, ringing up the sale of a canvas, hand-stitched beach tote. Her feet were screaming at being forced back into her favorite high-heeled sandals, her legs ached from standing so much, and her shoulders were knotted from evenings spent on the accounting backlog. Yet it was wonderful to be home. Her life was returning to normal.

“You have a lovely store.” The customer signed the charge slip.

“Thank you.” Linda beamed as she handed over the receipt. “Have a wonderful day on the beach.”

After growing up in a tiny Florida town, she’d thought she’d simply be a teacher. Or maybe a preacher’s wife like her mother had been. Who knew that she’d love running her own business, love the interactions with customers? And after the slavers had tried to convince her she was nothing more than a slut, she needed the reassurance that she was good at what she did.

The store door was latched open, letting customers on the boardwalk flow in and out. Inside, a young couple, hand in hand, were checking out the etched coffee cups. A trio of older women studied the wall of Florida shore paintings. On the right, her clerk was restocking the glass case holding the handcrafted jewelry.

Linda inhaled, enjoying how the sand candles’ scents mingled with the salty air off the Gulf. Her tiny store specialized in handcrafted items for tourists. It held no shot glasses or T-shirts made overseas by the thousands. Instead, everything was created by Florida artisans. She even commissioned some of the more popular items. To her delight, the baskets she made also sold well.

She’d never make a fortune but had enough to pay bills and help the children with their expenses—although not working for five months had come close to being a disaster. Thank goodness that after Frederick’s death, she’d set up her affairs so the children and business would be handled in case of her death or disability.

But even though the accounting firm had handled the bills and payroll, everything else was behind. In fact, she’d only managed to join Lee for lunch once. Seeing the guy she’d dated off and on before her kidnapping had been…awkward. But Lee was a nice man. He hadn’t pushed her and had turned their conversation to local affairs, letting her fill in as she wanted. Although he’d asked her out, she’d put him off for another week. She really did have too much to do.

In fact… She frowned at the window display, which needed to be redone as well.

By the open door, two townspeople slowed to look inside. As their voices dropped to whispers, Linda stiffened.

Her four part-time clerks had been overjoyed to have her back. She’d needed that reassurance since her kidnapping and return had created ripples through the town. The beachfront shop owners and clerks formed a small community of their own, and her acceptance there and elsewhere had changed. She heard ugly whispers everywhere, even with customers in her own store, and the sound was wearing her down.

She’d started to feel like the prostitute in
Pretty Woman
—the one who had discovered that a respectable appearance didn’t mean she could ever belong.

“All done.” At the jewelry case, Maribelle straightened, patting her short gray hair into place. “I might have to buy my granddaughter those pretty shell earrings. What do you want done now?”

The store suddenly felt confining, and Linda wanted out. “If you’ll watch the store, I need to make a coffee run. Want one?”

“No. I’ve had too much caffeine already.” Maribelle took up position behind the counter as Linda stepped into the back to grab a few dollars from her purse.

The small coffee shop was a few stores down, and Linda had always enjoyed the short walk. Even in late January, the sounds of the beach were heartening. Children’s shrieks of joy as the gulls dipped down to look for food, a small dog’s high yapping, the
thump
and yells of the young men playing volleyball. Under it all, the shushing sound of the waves. She stopped to simply savor the cloudless blue sky over the blue-gray ocean and the white sand bedecked with brightly dressed tourists.

Could anyone who hadn’t been imprisoned truly appreciate the glory of just being outside?

When she entered the coffee shop, the scent of newly brewed coffee zinged across her senses.

Waiting at the pickup counter for her order, the toy-store manager nodded at her. “Good to have you back, hon.”

Linda smiled. She didn’t like the reminder of her ordeal, but the warmth of friendship was never unwelcome. “Thank you, Sandy.”

Behind the counter, the coffee-shop owner handed Sandy her drink before looking over. “Linda, what can I make you? The peppermint drinks are on sale today.”

“Um.” Be virtuous or go for indulgence? She considered. Her body hurt and not in the happy way Sam had given her.
Don’t think of that
. “Peppermint white chocolate mocha.” Caffeine, fat, sugar, and chocolate—all the essential food groups except salt. “Thanks, Betty.”

“Coming right up.”

As Linda wavered over buying a scone, she heard whispers from a threesome at a table. Lawrence, who managed the upmarket art gallery, an older woman, and a woman from Linda’s church.

Keen hearing was sometimes a curse, she thought. And hating herself for the weakness, she listened anyway.

“That’s right. They kept her as a slave.” The older woman.

The churchwoman said, “A sex slave.”

Linda felt as if her legs would give out.

“Really?” Lawrence leaned forward. “You think she—”

Tears prickled in her eyes as Linda fought the urge to flee. To simply walk away from the coffee shop, her store, everything. To hide in her house and never come out. But what would that achieve except losing her business? The gossip would certainly continue.
Tough it out, girl
. Eventually, some new, ground-shaking scandal would replace hers.

She unclenched her hands and moved to the other end of the counter, close to their table, to wait for her drink.

The table went silent as the two women concentrated on their doughnuts. Lawrence gave her a slow perusal that made her skin crawl. “Hi, Linda. Taking a break?”

“Just a coffee run.” She forced her lips into a smile, then accepted her cup from Betty. Turning her back to the room to hide her trembling hands, she added extra sugar and eventually managed to get the plastic lid snapped on.

When she turned, the two women gawked at her as if she’d worn pasties and a thong rather than her cream-colored, button-up shirt and tan slacks. When she stared back, their attention turned to their food.

She headed for the door.

“Nice to see you again,” Lawrence said.

She glanced over and nodded. “And you.”

“We should get together sometime.” His gaze dropped to her breasts, and he licked his lips.

Her anger flared.
I’m not a slut. Not
. Taking a sip of coffee, she let her gaze slide down his body. After deliberately checking out his crotch area, she gave a dismissive sniff—
way too small
—and left the room.

Well, way to make yourself an enemy
. She didn’t care. At one time, she might have ignored Lawrence’s sleazy stare. But the constant verbal abuse she’d suffered as a slave had erased her tolerance.

“Slut, that’s all you are. Nothing else.”
The Overseer’s voice, like putrid oil, still oozed through her memories.
“Just a convenient hole to use.”
She shuddered.

Then she recalled a different voice.
“Linda, I don’t see you as a slave.”
The memory of Sam’s rough words was like an afternoon downpour, washing the gutters clean of debris. His intent blue eyes had been hot, but he’d shown respect as well. He’d given her a safe word, mapped out what he’d do, how far he’d go.

The need to have his arms around her, his sandpapery voice in her ears, shook her so hard she stopped on the boardwalk.
Breathe. Get it together
. She drank her coffee, letting the burn settle her. How annoying for that sadist’s voice to be so darned calming. What Sam sought from her might not be enslavement, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Her life was normal now. She needed to keep it that way.

The comfort of her store wrapped around her as she entered. Since Maribelle was handling the customers, Linda picked up a wide basket and headed for the display window.
Florida winter. What would look appropriately seasonal?

“Linda? Hey, Linda!” The man who walked in wore dark slacks and a long-sleeved shirt with garish red and purple stripes. His brown hair needed a trim.

“Hi, Dwayne.” Before she met Lee, they’d dated a few times until their one time in bed had shown her that they didn’t suit. He made love as badly as he reported the news.

“You haven’t returned my phone calls.” He halted a step too close.

She retreated a pace. “I’ve been busy. How are you?”

“I watched your testimony about being a sex slave.”

Her mind blanked.
Sex slave
. She had never, ever called herself that.

“I want an interview. You tell me what it was like, what they did to you, and I’ll make you famous.”

Startled at his insinuating tone and unwholesome interest, she couldn’t speak. Did he really think she’d give him a
Penthouse
-worthy report of the horrors she’d suffered? “I don’t do interviews.”

“How about the other slave—the blonde college kid? Were you close with Holly?”

The name was a hammer blow to her heart. Her inability to protect the girl had been far more devastating than her powerlessness to protect herself. Holly had been so terrified, had pleaded with the Overseer to let her go home. She’d been sold and died under the lash instead.

Linda blinked hard. “I’m busy. Please leave.” As customers turned to look, she set her face into an expressionless mask.

Dwayne swept his gaze down her body. His voice dropped. “I gave it to you good, so why’d you dump me? Cuz you’d wanna be tied up when you’re fucked? Did you have a better time with them than with me?”

Her stomach twisted. “Get out of my store!”

“Did you—”

Swallowing against the nausea, she yanked her cell phone out, punched two numbers, and turned it so he could see the display.
Nine. One.

He made an ugly sound and walked away, turning in the door to snarl, “Welcome back,
slave
.”

You bastard
. Her skin had turned cold and clammy, and as she filled the basket with the contents of the display window, her chest grew tighter and tighter, making it hard to breathe. Abandoning the pretense, she hurried toward the back of the store. As she passed, the two gray-haired customers looked at her as if they smelled week-old garbage.

At the counter, Maribelle was oblivious as she bantered with two children.

The back room was cool. Dark. It didn’t help.
Oh God, oh God, oh God
. The tears started. Then her stomach heaved, and she ran for the bathroom.

Crying. Shaking. Throwing up.

Finally she rested her face against the wall.
Get up, Linda
. Her body wouldn’t move. She watched a tiny spider in the corner. Working so hard on its web. The cleaning lady would probably destroy all its work.

That made her cry again.

Sunday finally arrived. Linda had given herself the whole day off to enjoy. A day for bare feet, ripped jeans, and a Queen Latifah T-shirt. She hadn’t been ready to face church, so she and the children had rescheduled their traditional after-church dinner for the evening. In the meantime, she planned to ignore the outside world and just…settle.

As she finished putting her lunch dishes into the dishwasher, she realized she was singing along with an old Carpenters’ song on the radio, “I Need To Be in Love.” She snorted. Wouldn’t that just be a disaster, considering everything that had happened to her? Added to her past, she also had her
strange
desires…

Her jaw clenched. That horrible Dwayne. At least Lee had been polite, although the memory was still uncomfortable. Last fall after a couple of drinks, they’d gone to bed, and she’d asked for…more…trying to get him to bite, to spank. He’d been appalled.

Her mouth turned down. The mortification she’d felt with him had been the spur that sent her to a BDSM club. Like beads on a necklace, each event had led to the next and the next, until here she was. Postkidnapped. Kind of a mess. Trying to be normal.

She huffed a laugh, remembering the sting of Sam’s hand hitting her bottom. Not exactly normal. Well, at least she was alive to whine about all her weird problems. And she was home, at last.

Sunlight streamed in through the big kitchen window, setting dust motes to dancing. Spirits lifting again, she sang the last line of the song into a pretend mic and finished with a quick spin before dropping the spatula into the rack. Yesterday at work had gone well. Her nightmares had decreased. She’d had a big bacon, tomato, and lettuce sandwich for lunch.
Yummy
. Slavery had taught her how important the tiny things in life were. A smile instead of a frown. Comfort foods rather than slop. Kind words. A warm hug could be more satisfying than the most intense orgasm—not that she’d gotten off recently.

Not since the night of the auction with Sam. A flush heated her cheeks. Damn the man.

Then again, maybe she should thank him. If it hadn’t been for that night, she’d think nothing would ever arouse her again.