Protege (2 page)

Fernweh had very specific policies about welcoming newcomers. It was unheard of for an application to arrive without a distinct link to a prior client. The site that linked the outside world to theirs would be disabled within an hour to avoid repeat episodes. But that still left this situation. She'd come all this way . . .

“Tell me about your family.”

Her hand delicately lifted to her throat, narrow and unmarked as porcelain. Rubbing lightly across her collarbone, she pursed her full lips.

“Take a sip of water, Ms. Banks.”

Lifting the glass, she did as he instructed without raising a brow. As the glass lowered, she smiled as if appreciating his assistance. “Thank you.” Such manners. “My father's in a Texas penitentiary.”

He made a mental note to check into that. “And your mother?”

“He shot her when I was eleven.”

It was a legitimate challenge not to show a reaction to her words. “And she passed from this?”

“Yes.” Her eyes held cool acceptance, as if after so many years she learned to look back on the incident without personal attachment.

“I'm sorry for your loss. Were you close to your mother?”

“Yes, but I was also close to my father. People don't seem to understand that when someone does something so heinous, they're somehow separated in your mind, split into two people—the before and the after. Everyone expected me to confess how horrible my father was after he murdered my mother, but I couldn't. The truth being, he was the one that helped me with my homework, and he'd lovingly prepared my breakfast the morning he killed her—peach oatmeal with extra raisins, the way I liked it.”

“That had to be difficult for you.”

“Very. After she died, I lost both of them. Not because he went to prison, but because he no longer fit the mold of my dad. I don't know who that man is, but he isn't my father.”

Eleven was a young age to be orphaned. Those preadult years usually held more implication than any other stage of life. He wondered what sort of challenges she'd faced, overly curious to fill in the gaps.

Then there was the disconnect she'd experienced with her father, a man she'd supposedly trusted and believed was good until he proved to be something undeniably bad. Having been betrayed by someone close to him and finding out she was not the woman he suspected, Jude understood what Ms. Banks was referring to. When a person shocks others by behaving well outside their expectations, molds
are
broken and one is left with shattered pieces that no longer fit. There's no point to solving the puzzle. Better to just throw away the broken bits and wipe the surface clean. Ms. Banks seemed to accept that theory as much as he did.

“Are you a violent person, Ms. Banks?” It seemed fair to ask, after the brief family history.

“No,” she answered quickly, with grave surety.

“Have you ever hurt an animal?”

Her head shook. “I once lost a litter of baby rabbits I was taking care of after the mother disappeared. I was devastated for weeks.”

She gave the impression of a bleeding heart, but something told him she was also strong. “Where were you the day of your mother's murder?”

Her eyes blanked. Every slight motion stilled as if she were no longer inside her body.

“Ms. Banks?”

Her tongue slowly licked her dry lips, but she did not blink. “I was in school. Our teacher had just passed out a quiz when the principal pulled her into the hall. Initially, I assumed someone was in trouble. I never suspected his presence had anything to do with me. My teacher stepped into the classroom and called my name. I still assumed the situation was about someone else, thinking she needed me to deliver a note or help the principal with something. But as I stepped into the hall, I saw their expressions and knew something very bad had happened.”

“Were your teachers male or female?”

Her head tilted as her brow knit. “My teacher was a woman, but the principal was a man.”

“Did they move you before explaining the situation?”

She nodded, her eyes again focused on a point just above his shoulder. “They told me to leave my books and for some reason that frightened me, though I think it was meant to calm me. We walked to the front office and no one said a word. The principal, Mr. Mattock, touched my shoulder. He never touched me, so that was when I really began to panic. When we reached the front office, two officers waited, dressed in blue.”

“Male officers?”

Again she nodded. “Yes, but I don't recall anything beyond their uniforms.”

“Do you recall what they said?” He couldn't imagine facing such a delicate situation with a fragile child. The tact necessary or lack thereof could easily impact a person for the rest of their life.

“No. I'm certain I cried, but I can't recall. I was at school. Then I was in a squad car. I can recall the creases of the warn leather interior, but not a single word said. Next I was taken to a building that seemed like a hospital, but it wasn't.”

“Why did it seem like a hospital?”

“Because it was scary, people only spoke in whispers, and it smelled clean.”

“Did you have relatives nearby, anyone you might know who could comfort you?”

“No,” she rasped, her hazel eyes shimmering. “My parents were both only children like me. It was just me.”

No matter how he tried, he couldn't imagine how frightening such a thing would be for a child. “How long were you at the building that reminded you of a hospital?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. It was dark. They gave me juice boxes and crackers.” Her lashes swept low as her head tipped down. “That's the day I got lost,” she whispered.

“Lost?” Had she run off?

Her mouth flattened as she audibly swallowed. “I never went home. I never finished my quiz. I never saw my friends at school after that. My belongings, selected by someone else, were transported to the place they took me.” She shook her head. “I was upset, because they forgot my favorite shoes and a doll I liked, but I never complained because none of the other children, aside from the babies, had dolls.”

“There were other children there?”

She nodded. “I think there were nine of us, but it changed every day. I wasn't there long, maybe five days or two weeks.”

“Did you attend your mother's viewing?” The state would have insisted on grief counseling, he hoped.

She nodded. “It was just a box. Part of me believed she wasn't inside, but I guess that was silly.”

“You were eleven, an age where seeing is believing. Death, I assume, wasn't something you had prior experience with. It's understandable that you might have doubts.”

“When I went to my first foster home and my mom didn't come rescue me, I started to believe she was really dead.”

“How many families did you live with before becoming an adult?” She obviously sought stability, and that might be a trigger from her unstable upbringing.

She shrugged. “I don't know. A lot.”

His curiosity was erroneous, driven by intrigue, and the last thing he wanted was to traumatize her by probing at devastating memories. “We can stop now.”

She surprised him by looking forlorn, as though such a discussion could not conclude until she was finished. “I don't mind talking about it.”

“You appear upset.”

“It's upsetting,” she said quickly, and her fervor pleased him. It showed her strength.

“You're absolutely right. Continue only if you're comfortable doing so.”

“I am.”

“Do you feel your personal experiences led you to a career with children, Ms. Banks?” It wasn't rare for submissives to possess a protective nature. They were nurturers, caregivers, and strong-willed despite the outside world's assumptions.

Her gaze tenuously held his, as if testing their connection, but every few seconds her lashes lowered and she struggled to make eye contact once more. “Maybe. I love teaching and I miss the verve of the school. Children have so much energy. It's a great distraction from the mundane. I liked my classroom. I miss that a lot . . .”

Her words drifted as her hazel eyes glazed with unshed tears. She quickly wiped her eyes with the crumpled handkerchief.

He placed a gentle yet brief hand on her arm before easing back to his seat. It seemed telling that her classroom held such significance in the loss of her job. Or perhaps she was still expelling emotion linked to her childhood. Keeping his tone gentle, he asked, “Did you establish any bonds with the foster families that raised you, Ms. Banks?”

“No.” Her clipped answer left little to doubt. He sensed, despite her willingness to go on, she was reaching a limit.

“We'll readdress more of your past later if need be. For now, let's jump to the present.”

“Which brings me here.” He hadn't expected her to take control of the conversation. It seemed out of character with the woman he was interviewing, but completely acceptable behavior for a woman who'd been essentially on her own since puberty. He appreciated her ability to pull herself together quickly.

Putting his curiosity aside, he cleared his throat. “Let's discuss that. Tell me your first impression of Fernweh.”

“Honestly, I thought it was a joke or something from a book, like a fictional place in a romance novel.”

His brow lowered, understanding her misinterpretation but finding it necessary to clarify. “Fernweh isn't necessarily a place, Ms. Banks. It's a lifestyle, a society of like-minded people.”

“I know it isn't a compound or anything.”

He chuckled, imagining dust clouds and dirty trailers. Certainly not what his clientele would find palatable.

She frowned. “But I assumed . . . where do they go?”

He grinned as curiosity danced in her eyes, now clear of tears. “Out of respect for my clients' privacy, I'm afraid I can't disclose that information. Suffice it to say we have various places we call home.”

“Oh.”

“Typically, our clients are descendants or referrals of established members. I've cross-referenced your name and, after hearing your story, I'm certain that isn't the case with you, my dear.”

“No, I don't know anyone here.”

“Precisely. Which is why I hesitate to proceed with this interview.”

Her gaze lowered, sheltering her eyes behind a sweep of loose curls. “I understand.”

Silently, he searched for a loophole, but there wasn't one. His clients depended on the agreed rules. What sort of business would they be running if anyone could apply and be accepted? “Unfortunately, without the endorsement of a platinum client, I can't offer you a trial membership.”

She laughed, as though the rejection came without surprise. “I don't even know what that means.”

“Loosely translated, it means your situation doesn't meet Fernweh's criteria.”

Her head again lowered as she nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He frowned, disliking her easy agreement. True, submissives typically surrendered to authority without undue argument—at least the dedicated ones—but that wasn't what this was. This wasn't polite compliance—though her use of
sir
definitely struck a chord. This was dejection without the courage to try for more. She should understand that his decision wasn't a reflection of her qualifications, but rather a reflection of Fernweh's policies. “It has very little to do with you, Ms. Banks, and everything to do with the founding rules of Fernweh.”

Also, he wasn't convinced she truly grasped the level of commitment required. Delving a little deeper, he asked, “If I asked you what Fernweh was, Ms. Banks, what would you say? Explain it to me as though I'm not the president.”

She, again, licked her lips. “It's a place where every personal interest is taken into consideration, your background and education is formulated into some sort of theorem, and your sexual preferences are considered and weighed against other members' scores.”

“To what outcome, my dear?”

Her hazel gaze met his, steadier than ever. “To find the perfect mate.”

“Do you understand how much we trust our formula, Ms. Banks? It isn't just an identification process. It's an arrangement, a contract that we hope ends in permanence. Our clients come to us to find a spouse.”

“I understand.”

“This is not entertainment for those seeking something casual. Some of our clients work under a nonnegotiable clause, meeting their identified mate only after their attorneys have drawn up the marriage contracts and prenuptials. Are you prepared to sign your future over to someone you've never met, Ms. Banks? Could you surrender your judgment and trust the hypothesis of a mathematical program?”

“Well, there's science too, right?”

His breath stilled as he struggled not to laugh at her joke. This was not something one entered into lightly, not that she was being accepted. But he wasn't ready to send her on her way just yet. The interview had shifted now that he'd explained she didn't meet the qualifying criteria, and her tone had lightened considerably. Perhaps, knowing she didn't qualify and the opportunity was off the table brought relief—nothing more to lose, therefore nothing left to fear. His blood thickened in his veins as he relished the idea of toying with her a bit.

His interrogation, or interview, had not been easy. She'd handled herself impressively well, considering the detour into her past and the personal details she'd disclosed. But still, this was not a joking matter.

As he leveled her with a stern look, she apologized for the tart slip. “Sorry.” Her lips pursed and she went on, her words stretching out like taffy on a hot day as she pronounced each syllable with that lilting Georgian drawl. “The way I see it, sir, I'm not doing anything to move my social life along as it is. I'm thirty years old and the world's become a scary place to me. I'm done dating.”