The Keyholder (12 page)

~*~

Eva stood in front of ceiling-to-floor windows in Jack’s loft and admired the view of building rooftops and the New York skyline beyond them. It was a crisp fall day, and lemony sunlight filled the room. She loved the airiness and space, a marked contrast to the small, dark prison in which she’d been confined for the past seven weeks.

It was a relief to be here in this quiet, peaceful space, especially after all the hubbub and overwhelming attention, both at the hospital and afterward at the police station. Eager to get it over with, they had gone straight from the hospital to the station, where Eva had given her statement in a small, claustrophobic interview room with institutional green walls and cups of watery, bitter coffee.

While it had been embarrassing and even humiliating at some points to state what had happened into the tape recorder set on the table in front of her, it was also a relief. As if by saying the words aloud into that machine, she was purging them from her being—letting them unspool from the tightly coiled knot she’d held inside herself all these weeks. When she had finished she felt both exhausted and curiously light as a result. That dark and terrible time of her life was over.

The evil psychopath who had abducted her was now the one imprisoned, locked behind bars without bail, awaiting trial for kidnapping and repeated sexual assault. Jessica had warned Eva the trial process could be stressful and invasive, the hours spent at the police station only a taste of what she might expect as key witness in a sexual assault case. While Eva understood this, she was ready, more than ready, to do whatever it took to put Phillip Duncan behind bars.

Jack had held her hand underneath the table during the interview, for which she’d been grateful. His grip was both firm and comforting, and she’d felt safe with him beside her. She had been glad Jessica was there, too, especially when one of the cops taking her statement asked questions in such a way that made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced Eva hadn’t asked for the treatment she’d received, at least on some level, by virtue of applying for the sub for hire position. Clearly, he was clueless about the lifestyle, with only the vaguest notion of what it entailed. He made no effort to hide his disapproval of what he thought he knew about BDSM. Jessica had swiftly put the guy in his place with a few well-aimed barbs that had the guy stammering his apology.

She could hear Jack moving about in the kitchen. He was making them a late lunch of spaghetti, and the delicious aroma of tomatoes and garlic wafted toward her, making her stomach growl, despite the hot dogs they’d bought from a street vendor on their way back from the police.

She looked down at herself and smiled faintly, thinking it wouldn’t be long before her clothes fit properly at this rate, though at the moment she resembled nothing so much as a scrawny fourteen-year-old boy. As a result of the enforced near-starvation diet Master Phillip had her on, the jeans Jessica had brought stayed up only because of the belt they came with, and two of her could have fit into the knit top. The stretchy underwear and sports bra were fine, though. She was glad to be covered up, at any rate, her welted, pale skin hidden from prying eyes and unwanted attention.

Before leaving them at the station, Jessica had given her a fat envelope filled with cash. Embarrassed, Eva had tried to hand it back. “Absolutely not,” Jessica had insisted. “It’s the very least we can do. As a result of what happened to you under our roof by someone we hired, you’ve lost your apartment and your job. I’ll follow up as we discussed to see if we can trace and recover your things, but meanwhile you’ll need money for the basics. This is
not
a loan, so don’t even think about trying to pay it back,” she’d added before Eva could suggest precisely that.

“Would you like a glass of wine with the meal?” Jack’s smooth baritone startled Eva from her reverie. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly as she turned to face him. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He had two glasses of red wine, and he held one out toward her. “It’s a cabernet. Or I have white, if you’d prefer.”

“I love cabernet,” Eva said, smiling as she took the glass. “Thanks.”

There was a dinging sound from the kitchen. “Oh,” Jack said. “That’s the garlic bread. Come to the table. Everything’s ready.”

Eva followed Jack, sipping the wine as they walked. The loft was just one huge space, but it had been sectioned off into rooms with tall folding partitions made from cherry wood and rice paper.

Eva had been delighted but not really surprised to discover Jack was an artist, the bulk of the loft dedicated to his studio. As soon as he’d told her he was a sculptor it had made perfect sense. His hands were long-fingered and beautifully shaped, and there was a quiet fire in his eyes she associated with creativity and passion.

The food was simple but delicious, and Eva had to pace herself to keep from falling on her plate of pasta like a ravenous beast. She took a bite of hot, crusty garlic bread and had to press her lips together to keep from moaning her appreciation.

“Good?” Jack said, and Eva realized he was watching her with an indulgent smile. “I’m glad you’re eating. We need to get some meat on those bones.”

“Delicious,” she enthused, picking up her wineglass to hide the sudden heat in her face as she thought about what he must see as he regarded her bald head and baggy, unflattering clothes.

To think, she’d finally met a man she was reasonably sure was a Dom, though they hadn’t had a specific conversation in that regard—but he was a keyholder at the Hawthorne Dungeon, which meant he was into the lifestyle in a serious way, and he didn’t strike her as at all submissive. To top it off, he was single, artistic, successful, handsome, kind, considerate
and
he could cook! Jack McQuade was her ideal—the very man she’d dreamed of when she came to Manhattan in search of herself, with all that implied.

And Jack—what did he see when he looked back at her? Instead of the confident, sassy young woman with the long, golden curls cascading down her back and a bounce to her step, did he see a broken weakling with the haggard look of a death camp victim? He had found her bound and gagged, sitting in her own filth, naked and shaking with fear. Would he ever be able to move past that stark and dreadful first impression to see the woman she was inside?

It’s up to you, Eva. You’ll have to show him—and yourself.

To do otherwise would be to admit Master Phillip had won. Yes, she knew she would have to deal with what had happened to her—to fully process it so she could then let go—but now was not that time. First, she needed to recover her physical health. She craved peace and rest and sunlight.

Jack, as if sensing her need for some semblance of normalcy, gently steered the conversation to safe topics like where she’d been born and raised, and what had brought her to the city. He was attentive and seemed genuinely interested, his focus on her complete without being overbearing.

As they discussed career dreams and aspirations, Eva admitted, “I went the practical route, focused on a ‘readily marketable degree,’ as my guidance counselor was fond of saying. But truth to tell, I always kind of regretted majoring in business. I’m twenty-seven and I’ve worked in commercial banks and for a stockbroker and I’ve hated every second of it. I came to Manhattan, not just to explore the BDSM scene, but also to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The thought of actually making a living doing something you love”—she shook her head—”that’s got to be the most amazing thing.”

“It is pretty fantastic,” Jack admitted. “I got really lucky, though. I won a full scholarship in Italy based on this competition thing my senior year of college, and that really got me on the right path. If I hadn’t been handed that amazing opportunity, I doubt I would have found the courage to strike out on my own.” He smiled at her, those green eyes crinkling into half-moons. “What you did—coming to New York from Buffalo to make it on your own—now, that takes
real
guts.”

Eva felt warmed by his words, and by the sincere look in his eyes, though she felt compelled to set the record straight. “Oh, come on,” she protested, “millions of people do that every day. It’s called desperation.” She laughed ruefully. “It must be amazing to be able to do the thing you love most in the world, and earn a living in the process. I’m so envious of that.”

“It is amazing. I feel very lucky.” Jack regarded her with an earnest gaze. “What about you? What do you love to do? What’s your passion?”

Eva shrugged, about to say she didn’t have one. But that wasn’t really true. It was just that she’d never dared to imagine passion and work could be fused. Seeing Jack’s success and obvious happiness with his life, she was starting to understand there were possibilities of which she’d never dared dream.

Though she felt a little ridiculous admitting this to a world-renowned artist, she offered shyly, “I used to love to paint. I haven’t done it in years, though.”

“What medium?” Jack said eagerly. “I have some oils and canvas in my studio. I could set up an easel for you if you want to dabble a bit? Good therapy.”

“Oh, no,” Eva said, shaking her head. “I was terrible with oil paint. I liked to do watercolors. I found it, I don’t know, very peaceful.”

“Watercolors,” Jack said, his tone almost reverent. “Now I am even
more
impressed. One reason I love working with clay, and with oils too, is I can redo it. I can smash it up and start over. I can scrape it off and start fresh. I can tinker endlessly until I get it just right. It takes a definite and specific sort of courage to paint with watercolors. I don’t have any watercolors here, but there’s a great art supply shop a few blocks over. How about we’ll go out later and pick some up?”

“Oh, no, I mean, it’s been years,” Eva protested. “I’m sure I’d be horrible. Especially compared to a real artist.”

Jack laughed. “Don’t be silly. I promise not to look if you don’t want me to. Think of it as a kind of meditation. If that means it’s for your eyes only, I totally respect that.”

When the meal was over, he stood and reached for her plate. “Let me help,” Eva said, also standing. “I really don’t require being waited on hand and foot.” Though she hadn’t had that much, the wine must have gone straight to her head. Suddenly dizzy, she reached for the back of the chair to balance herself.

“Whoa,” Jack said, sprinting around the table in a flash, his steadying hand on her shoulder. “I will let you help, I promise.” He put his arm around her and guiding her away from the table. “Just not today. You haven’t even been out of that place for twenty-four hours yet. The hospital stay was hardly what you’d call restful. Here’s what you’re going to do.” He led her toward a partition at the far end of the loft. “You’re going to lie down here in my amazingly comfortable futon guest bed and get some much needed rest. When you wake up, if you feel up to it, we can go out to the art supply shop. Nora wants to come by later to take you clothes shopping, too.”

They stepped behind the partition to a small but comfortable space that contained a futon bed covered in white sheets and a dark blue quilt, two plump pillows at its head. There was a long, low bureau across from the bed, several small bronze statues of horses arranged on top of it.

They were beautiful pieces, all sinew, muscle and flowing manes. Eva ran her finger along the back of a horse in mid-gallop. “These are beautiful. So alive.”

“Oh, those?” Jack shrugged. “Thanks. They’re from my early days, back before I worked up the nerve to sculpt the human form. I just have too much stuff, you know? These are overflow—I had to stick them somewhere. But I’m glad you like them.”

“This is the
overflow
?” Eva said incredulously. “Show me the studio,
please
. I have to see what you’re working on now.”

Jack shook his head, laughing. “You will, I promise. I’ll give you the full tour. But right now you’re going to take a nap. Understood?”

“Yes,” Eva replied, barely succeeding in biting off the word
Sir
at the last moment. Jack McQuade was a Dom, all right—there was no question about it. And the sub in her was responding—and how.

“You’re kidding!” Charles exclaimed into his cell phone. “So what’s his real name?” He paused, listening, then said, “Blake Stanton,” as if the words were a curse. He scowled. “That little piece of shit sure had us fooled.” Charles looked at Nora. “Well, most of us, anyway.” He listened a while longer to Jessica, asked a few more questions and then ended the call with promises to keep her posted on Eva’s progress.

He turned to Nora with a bleak expression, fury and remorse in his eyes. “Tell me,” she said softly, placing her hand over his. They were sitting side by side on the bed, having been wakened from a fitful late morning nap by Jessica’s phone call. Nora had only been dozing, over-stimulated and over-tired from all that had gone on since the night before when they’d made their devastating discovery.

“The cops did a routine run of Phillip’s fingerprints to see if he had a record, and they got a hit on a totally different guy. Turns out this dude we’ve had working for us is an imposter with a prior criminal record! His name is actually Blake Stanton.”

“You’re kidding!” Nora cried, stunned. “He’s got a record? He’s done this before?”

Charles shook his head, though his expression was dark. “He hasn’t been arrested before for kidnap and assault, though that just means he was never caught.” As Nora absorbed this, Charles continued, “His record is for illegally hacking into some corporate accounts and stealing credit card numbers. He got off with time served and some hefty fines, but apparently that wasn’t enough to deter him. It seems he commandeered the real Phillip Duncan’s FetLife, email, and Facebook accounts and stole his identity, at least for purposes of getting the job with Hawthorne Dungeon.

“Jessica asked the detective they keep on retainer at her law office to do a little poking around into Phillip Duncan’s background,” Charles said, “and the guy turned up the interesting fact that the
real
Phillip Duncan apparently accepted a long-term transfer to Hong Kong for his firm just before we started our search. He hasn’t been in the States for several
months
.”