Protege (4 page)

“It depends on each individual's preferences. We don't go by a standard set of rules recognized by a prudish society. Some couples encourage their partners to stray. Others invite swingers into their relationships, or thirds, or even trade off for an agreed length of time. It all depends on
who
is setting the rules.”

She swallowed and whispered, “I don't think Zack's a member here.”

His mouth curved in the slightest grin, deepening the slight creases around his eyes. “You never know.”

She supposed that was true. When he didn't continue with the questioning, she shifted. Her body had been unusually tense ever since he'd caressed her breasts while taking her measurements. Not to mention the way he touched her thighs and lingered longer than any seamstress ever had.

Her gaze traveled to his fingers. There was no telltale wedding band, but who knew with this crowd? He could have a wedding piercing from his lover, who might be named Buck. Besides, Mr. Duval was definitely too much testosterone for her.

His broad shoulders stretched the fine fabric of his dress shirt as his intense gaze studied her. He was tall and there was something mesmerizing about his jaw, the way the shadow of a beard threatened to rumple his sophisticated appearance. She bet he looked amazing in a simple T-shirt and jeans but could hardly picture him in such. His clothing was clearly selected to translate his authority.

Hopefully, if she passed the qualification process, she'd be put into the system and matched with a partner who appreciated her gentle disposition and didn't think she was a
brat
. Perhaps they'd find her someone who understood chivalry wasn't dead, someone who treated his woman like a lady yet heated her blood in private.

“You're blushing, Ms. Banks.”

“Pardon?”

“There is a pink flush creeping from your breasts to your throat.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Duval, but a blush is supposed to be on a woman's cheeks. I'd appreciate it if you would direct your attention there instead of at my chest.”

He chuckled, slow and threatening. “Would you? Well . . .” He folded his arms over his chest, gaze clearly locked on her bra. “I'd like you to unfasten your bra.”

She scoffed. “You're a rascal.”

“And you're a brat. I'm waiting.”

Hastily evaluating her options, she asked, “What if I say no?”

“We could always see how many swats it would take to make your ass blush the same color as your chest.”

“What?”

“A spanking, Ms. Banks. I believe you marked it on your last application as something you'd enjoy. Unless, of course, you weren't being honest.”

Would he really spank her? Would she let him? Would she enjoy that? No, probably not. It seemed she'd drifted into an alternate universe where anything was possible.

“Decide.”

Startled into action, she lifted her back from the chair and unlatched the line of hooks and eyes hidden behind the seam of her bra. Her shoulders contorted as she eased forward, her arms straining as her fingers worked to find each tiny latch. As the half corset parted, her heavy breasts sagged with the easing support. When she released the last fastener, she folded her hands lightly on her lap and waited. Her gaze once again focused on the expensive carpeting.

“I'm waiting.”

Setting her scowl to his expectant face, she snapped, “You only asked me to unfasten it.”

“Oh, my mistake. I should have been more specific. I want to see your bare breasts.”

She'd never come across someone so brazen and uncouth. What sort of man barked out orders to women like that? What sort of woman attended meetings like this? Suddenly, she seemed the more corrupt of the two. Again, she wondered what she was doing there.

“Ms. Banks.”

The peculiarity of the entire encounter resembled days past. Moments when life caught her so off guard her mind failed to process events at the speed at which they unfolded. Days like that were never good and always ended badly. She was past that. She was no longer a desperate child but a respectable lady, or so she thought.

Claustrophobia set in, but it was more than her surroundings suffocating her. It was the lingering sense that things like this didn't happen to other women. Disappointment swamped her as she realized she'd willingly walked into another poor choice, openly hoping to find normalcy.

Shame and self-doubt had her rethinking her steps and calculating the fastest way back to her little town full of sheltered secrets and unrequited urges. Her head shook and she whispered, “I can't do this.”

“Pardon?”

She silently laughed at her own stupidity. The material of her skirt teased her back from where it draped over the chair. Her sweater rested to her left. Taking a deep breath, she stood and collected her belongings. “I'm sorry I wasted your time.”

His chair creaked as he abruptly stood, but she was too focused on getting dressed and getting out of there. She considered grabbing her application from the trash and the one on his desk, but there was really no point, being that she submitted it electronically. The original was probably on his hard drive.

“Ms. Banks.” His tone was concerned, as she struggled to fit her head through the neck of her sweater.

Her gaze skimmed the furniture for her clip. Searching the floor—there it was—

He grabbed her upper arm and stilled her progress. “Tell me what just happened.” She couldn't look at him.

What an utter waste of time this trip had been. One more humiliating step toward the nothingness that amounted to her existence. “I shouldn't have come here.”

His voice was low. “But you did.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Why?”

“I need to get my clip. It's under your desk.”

“Forget the damn clip.”

She shut her eyes. His hand remained on her arm, keeping her there, but not holding her with force. She swallowed and strained to calm down.

“Tell me what changed,” he whispered.

“I don't know.”

“Was it my terms?”

“No. I don't think so.”

“Then what?”

She shook her head. “I—I don't know. Everything just became surreal and overwhelming for some reason and it felt . . . wrong.”

“You didn't do anything wrong. We're two adults—”

“But I don't know you.”

He sighed, his touch falling away. “Have a seat, Ms. Banks.” Placing a gentle hand on her spine, he ushered her back to her chair and her body lowered. The soft trickle of water topping off her glass filled the silence. “Take a sip,” he instructed, guiding the glass into her hand.

After she sipped, he took the glass from her and lowered his body so they were face to face. His hand rested on her knee as he squatted before her. His green eyes were bracketed with creases that no longer spoke of amusement. His gaze full of concern, he studied her.

“Did you change your mind about being here? Think before you answer. You came here because you required a service we provide. Does that service still appeal to you?”

She was so lonely yet saw no solution to her solitary existence, not when the thought of venturing out into the world was crippling. She'd done online dating but found nothing notable. The silence of her home was deafening, and she refused to become a crazy cat lady. Worse, her quiet life made the outside world all the more daunting. Every time she ventured outside her home, the presence of others grated, emphasizing every harbored insecurity she owned until she was convinced she didn't fit in anywhere.

Her anxiety had spiraled to the point where she could barely make it into a store and to the register. Her breaking point, the moment she admitted to herself how out of control her anxiety had gotten, came when she thoughtlessly shoplifted a bottle of shampoo because a man in the drugstore looked suspicious. It used to be a simple sense of not fitting in, but lately it had bloomed into a crippling fear of being too different, too vulnerable, and too alone to protect herself from an ever-changing world.

She very much wanted someone to look after her and love her, but she no longer knew how to find such a person on her own. With social paralysis as debilitating as hers, she didn't see dating as a possibility. “I'd like to meet someone who accepts me as I am.”

“And do you believe Fernweh can help you find that?”

She swallowed. It seemed a lot to hope. “I don't know.”

His hands, large and warm, closed over hers. “You're freezing.”

“Sometimes I—”

There was a sharp knock at the door. She slipped her hands out of his grip as he stood. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Hunching low in the chair so her bare shoulders were hidden, she waited as he opened the door, using his body to hide the interior of the room from whoever was on the other side. “I'm with someone. I'll call you when I'm through.”

“Do you want me to wait?” a deep voice asked.

“Don't go far. I'll call you.” The door closed.

Shaking off her apprehension, she stood and unfolded her skirt.

“You don't have to rush out.”

“That's okay. My meter's run out. I need to go.”

“Collette.”

She stilled. It was the first time he used her first name. She laughed to herself.

“Something funny?”

“Throw away the second application. I lied on that one too.”

He didn't seem amused. “What did you lie about?”

It was stupid. “My middle name isn't Catherine. It's Piper.”

“Piper suits you better,” he said, voice level. “I'll correct it. When would you like to finish the application?”

She shook out the skirt and stepped into it, sliding up the zipper. Her bra needed to be fastened, but she didn't want to spare the time it would take. With her sweater loosely concealing her body, people might not notice. She'd walk to her car with her arms crossed.

Bending for her clip, she lowered to her hands and knees and snatched it from the floor. Twisting her hair into a practiced bun, all she could really manage as her curls were too thick for rubber bands, she locked the clip in place. Tucking the springing wisps behind her ears, she turned and stilled.

His gaze burned into hers as he stood just a foot away with her down on her knees. “We'll schedule your next appointment before you go.”

Her breasts lifted behind her loose bra as the sudden urge to do something seductive came over her—what, she hadn't a clue.

“Say yes.”

“Yes,” she rasped.

“Good girl.”

His muttered comment sank into her belly and heated her insides.
Good girl?
She frowned, unable to recall anyone ever saying that to her. Strange that it was being said to her as an adult and even stranger that she sort of liked it—coming from him.

Her body shivered and he abruptly turned, breaking the spell. Forcing herself to her feet, she found her purse. Fiddling with the strap of her bag, she asked, “Do you think you can find someone for me?”

“There's a process, Ms. Banks.”

She met his gaze, letting a bit of her vulnerability show. “I'm not asking for your process, but your personal opinion, Mr. Duval. I'm not independently wealthy and this membership will take all of my savings. If you think there's hope, then I'll stay and look for work in the area. But if you're just wasting my time, I'm afraid I have to get back to Georgia and beg for my old apartment back. Please don't play games with me. I can't afford them.”

“I can't offer guarantees—”

“I just want your honest opinion.”

He snickered. “Willful.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Equivocal,” she corrected.

***

His mouth hooked upward in a half smirk. She was exasperating at times, but her natural charm made it easy to overlook those moments. “I'll pack my thesaurus for our next meeting.”

“So you think there's hope?”

He wasn't sure if he'd find her a partner, but he definitely wanted to find out more about her—perhaps how she tasted and if her tongue was as sharp when he had his cock buried in her ass. “Yes, there's hope.”

She nodded. “When?”

“Friday.”

“I'll have to check my schedule and—”

“Adjust your schedule, Ms. Banks. I'm doing you a favor. Procrastination will only move you to the back of my agenda, and by the time my next opening comes around I'll have likely forgotten why I wanted to help you.”

Her brow creased. “Why
do you
want to help me, Mr. Duval?”

She was a nosy little thing. “Go before your car gets ticketed. I'll contact you soon.”

She shifted her bag more securely over her shoulder. “But—”

“And do yourself a favor and research the proper way to address and speak to a dominant male. Your ass will thank you.”

“My ass?”

“Good-bye, Ms. Banks.”

Understanding that their meeting was over, she dug in her bag for her keys. “Thank you, Mr. Duval.”

What was it about her? He sighed and gave her a polite nod. “My pleasure, Ms. Banks.”

As she left, he sucked his lip between his teeth. She was definitely not their typical applicant. The girl didn't have a clue about the world she was asking to join. This wasn't a dating game and she'd soon realize that, and likely go running for the hills when she did. Now he just had to explain who she was to Ezra.

Two minutes after she left, Jude dialed Ezra. His friend didn't waste time on a greeting. “What was that about?”

“I was with someone.”

“So I figured. Who?”

He explained the issue of Ms. Collette Piper Banks and how she'd stumbled across their private organization, as his friend traveled from his office on the twelfth floor to Jude's on the fourteenth. When he reached his door, he said, “I'm here.” The call disconnected and the door opened. “Well, she can't stay without an endorsement, Jude. You know the rules. You wrote them.”

Flexing his fingers in the air, Jude made a sound of annoyance. “I know. And typically I don't have the urge to bend rules. You know how particular I am, but this woman . . . I don't know what it is about her.”

“I'm amazed she discovered us online like that. We need to dismantle that link.”

“Already handled. I sent Aaron an e-mail with the link before I called you.”

Ezra's brows lifted. “She gave it to you?”

Jude chuckled. “She's a schoolteacher, Ezra, not a spy.”

His friend made himself comfortable on the couch in the back of the office. “It's pretty crazy her father killed her mother. That's not something I've ever thought about before. Must have been a hard life, coming back from that.”

Shaking his head, still struggling to imagine an eleven-year-old girl surviving such a massive adjustment, he muttered, “The world's gone to complete shit.”

“Which is why we exist. No wonder she wants to find Fernweh. After losing all security, who wouldn't feel adrift? She's probably dying for a sense of belonging.” He turned and sent Jude a meaningful look. “She
is
a teacher.”

“No.” He recognized his friend's logic.

“I'm just saying, we're going to have to find one eventually. August and Chastity's kids are almost four and Lisa and Josh are talking about trying. Our children would be persecuted in an ordinary school.”

“Our? I didn't know Lea was pregnant.”

His friend arched a brow. “Very funny. Until I find a second wife she won't even discuss children.”

Jude sighed. It wasn't always easy. As incredible as their system was, it still had limits. With close to two thousand members spanning the globe, not everyone had a perfect match. Ezra and Lea, for instance, had very specific taste. His wife wanted to be one in a marriage of three. To Ezra, that was the perfect setup. To Jude, that sounded like enough estrogen to turn a good guy postal.

“What's she like? Maybe she was sent here for a reason. She might be everything we're looking for.”

“Who?”

“The teacher.”

“She's not your match.”

Ezra frowned. “Have you even entered her data yet?”

Instinctively, he withheld minor details, but didn't understand why he would do that when Ezra was his partner in Fernweh and closest friend. “There were some issues with her résumé.”

“Like what? You know we're putting her info in no matter what. We don't have to accept her, but I'm curious to see how she computes with the other candidates. If she fits what Lea and I are looking for, fuck, I'll sponsor her. Is she submissive?”

The first issue was her tendency to fib. “I'll see how she computes, but we still can't add her to the book without an endorsement and even then it'll be difficult to tell. There are huge gaps in her application. She has no experience with the life she claims to want. It could turn out to be a total bust.”

“Well, if she matches us
you
better endorse her. Lea's getting impatient.”

He stilled. He could endorse her. Why hadn't he thought of that? With his endorsement, she could be written into the book and within a week the process of review would start and he'd be fielding queries from other men—
if
he felt her information was reliable. Experience trumped intuition every time.

He frowned. Announcing her arrival to the masses didn't settle with him as easily as it should have. “I don't think she's what you and Lea are looking for.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't think she's into women.”

“You don't think? Did you even read her application?”

Yes, and her application had every box checked when it came to trying new things in the bedroom. The woman didn't have a clue about her personal preferences. “She's inexperienced.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty.”

“Hot?”

Very.
“Average.”

“Without adequate experience, someone's going to have to sponsor her. She's not a virgin, is she?”

“No, and I've already considered the fact that she'd need a sponsor. The woman has a lot to learn.”

Ezra chuckled. “I always wanted to sponsor an innocent. Why don't you let Lea and me take her for a bit? She might actually like having her pussy played with by a woman.”

“No.”

“Why not?” His friend sat up. “If she's as inexperienced as you make her sound, she's going to have to be a boarder for a while to get a feel. Come on, Jude. Let her be our little foster sub. It would buy me some time with Lea.”

His neck prickled at the term
foster
. “I said no.”

His friend arched a brow. “You like her.”

“She has some interesting qualities.”

“Such as?”

Her wild curls and willful manner.
“She's fluent in French.”

Ezra snorted. “Like that has anything to do with the price of eggs. You can't endorse her if you want to sponsor her. It doesn't work that way. Otherwise everyone would be endorsing anyone they wanted to fuck.”

“I don't want to fuck her,” Jude argued.

“Please, you've probably already imagined what her eyes would look like as you stuffed her mouth full of your cock.”

They'd be wide, then soft with lust. His knees tingled as blood rushed through his veins. “That's not true,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Ezra laughed. “Well, you're imagining it now. Want me to send Kelly in here to get you some relief?”

The image of his assistant relieving him quelled some of his lust. She typically serviced him on a fairly regular basis these days, but he wasn't in the mood for Tuesday sex. He wanted spontaneous first-time sex with southern expletives and muttered French as he yanked on unruly curls. “No.”

“So are you planning on actually sponsoring her? Jude, you know what people will say. You don't get involved with the clients. This is going to stir up questions, namely, how the hell our company was listed for the general public to find. Maybe you should let someone less high-profile take her; that way people won't assume she's anything more than a typical referral.”

“No. I want her.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to weigh their effect.

Ezra stared at him, face devoid of humor. “All right. Then she's yours . . . for now. I'll offer my endorsement so you can ethically be her sponsor. Just keep in mind that the objective of a sponsor is to prep a client for someone else. It's not about you and your idiosyncrasies. It's about unveiling hers so that she can be better matched. You sure you're up for that?”

Being that he wasn't in the market for anything permanent, but very much had the desire to fuck Ms. Collette Piper Banks, yes, that would work just fine for him. “I'm aware of what a sponsor does.”

“You won't be able to come to the office every day.”

“Do you think I'm new? I wrote every damn policy, Ezra. I know what's expected.”

The other man held up his hands in defense. “Okay, okay. I was just checking. You don't typically get this involved.” He paused, then cautiously asked, “Will you take her to the château?”

Swallowing, he imagined what it would feel like to walk back through those doors, sleep in his and Tiffany's bed again. “I suppose I'll have to.”

Giving the issue of residence further consideration and loathing the discomfort that the thought of returning to his old home brought, he said, “Perhaps Lea would like to update some of the furnishings for me. I could set her up with an expense account and—”

“Say no more. She'll do it.”

“Did you want to ask her first?”

“No. I'm not giving her an option. It'll be good for her and it'll take her mind off other things. She'll start today.”

“Good.” He didn't want to return to the château and be constantly reminded of his ex.

After Ezra left, Jude withdrew the application he'd tossed in the trash. It wasn't a fair appraisal of anything. The only thing that paperwork told him was that she would try anything once. With any luck, she'd fill in the second application a bit more honestly.

He'd call her tomorrow and confirm their second appointment. During that time, he'd offer her sponsorship. If she declined, the interview would be over before it began and her new application would join the first in the trash. If she accepted, they were going to Fernweh.

***

“Did you finish the application?”

Allowing him to take her coat, Collette nodded, wondering what on earth had possessed her to return. “Yes.”

She couldn't justify the longing she suffered to be somewhere more meaningful than where she was, the pull to discover more. It seemed a homesickness for something she never knew.

“And were you honest?”

“Yes.” Her glance slid sideways, mocking his. He too seemed to be teasing.

“Don't be coy, Ms. Banks. Our last encounter showed what a talented little liar you can be when you want. Take a seat.”

Familiar with the office, she lowered herself into the same chair she'd occupied last time, only this time she was obsessed with who'd sat there since. Her eyes combed the office for any changes but found none. Mr. Duval was a very tidy man.

“Are you looking for something?”

She folded her hands on her lap. “No, just curious.”

“About?”

Well, if he was going to give her the floor . . . “How often do you host interviews like this?”

“I can't divulge that information.”

“How many members does Fernweh have?”

“Enough.”

“What's the divorce rate?”

“Two.”

“Percent?”

“No. Just two.”

She frowned. “How many marriages have you orchestrated?”

“Somewhere just above five hundred.”

If one in three American marriages ended in divorce and Fernweh had arranged five hundred marriages but only two ended in divorce, and Tommy was traveling on an eastbound train carrying two dozen apples—there was a reason she taught French.

Mr. Duval chuckled. “The statistics are as follows. According to the latest census, there were just over two million marriages per calendar year, over a third ending in divorce. If our fail rate matched the rest of the country's we'd be on our one hundred and sixty-sixth divorce, but luckily for us, we've seen only two divorces since our company was founded.”

“Why did they break up?”

“One found a God that required a more traditional arrangement than they had contracted, and the other fell in love with someone else.”

“But shouldn't your company make sure that doesn't happen?”

“We do our best, but nothing is foolproof.”

She supposed that was true. “Well, you've certainly had more success than the traditional methods.”

“One might ask which method is actually the true traditional one. Before men and women based marriage on love, there was the practice of arranged matrimony, be it for strong lineage or the magnetism of a female's dowry.”

She laughed. “You'll note on page six, I have no dowry.”

He grinned and paged through her résumé. His brow arched at a few parts, but she wasn't sure what caught his eye. The silence carried on as he took his time perusing her responses. She tried her best to accommodate him, but the longer she sat there, the more impatient she grew.

After trying to read the spine of each book on his wall and deciding she needed to visit her optometrist, she sighed.

“Am I keeping you?”

“Sorry. No.” Chastised, she tried to still her fidgeting. If she listened carefully, she could hear the soft hum of cars passing below and the glide of a filing cabinet opening and closing nearby.

“Is this true?”

She jumped, his voice startling her in the mix of buffered silence. “What part?”

He arched a brow. “The fact that you need specifics to verify the truth of your answers does not bode well, Ms. Banks. The part about your fantasies.”

Oh. That. Her face heated. “You asked for honesty.”

“Did I get it?”

She nodded. “Does that make me weird?”

He smirked. “No. That's not even that extreme. Fantasies are meant to be outlandish. I'd say this is a healthy one.”

Relieved, she sighed. Having someone take her aggressively and hold her down wasn't something she'd categorize as timid. It seemed hot and something—for some reason—men never really did, perhaps for fear of their legal safety. She didn't have rape fantasies. She only wanted intimacy to be a bit more . . . intense. But he made it seem like her fantasy was wimpy. “I could probably come up with more, but you only asked that I describe one.”

“One suffices.”

She'd hoped they'd continue to chat, but when he went back to reading and the unwelcome silence threatened to return, she panicked. “I can never tell if it's going to be a warm afternoon or if I should bring a jacket. This weather's nothing like what I'm used to.”

“Yes,” he answered, turning the page. “You'd be wise to keep a jacket with you until May.”

Her foot tapped irritably over the carpet. Why hadn't he asked her to e-mail the paperwork so he had time to familiarize himself with her answers before she arrived?