Emma Holly (24 page)

Maybe they'd been shipped right along with the furnishings.

"Sylvia?" she said—or tried to. The name came out a whispered croak.

Anyway, it couldn't be Sylvia. If a real live person were making that noise, the lights where they stood would have come on. Damn B.G. anyway for being so concerned with saving energy.

I'll go the other way
, she thought, spinning on her heel. Sooner or later, she'd end up somewhere she recognized.

She walked faster in her nervousness, trying not to run on legs that felt as stiff as two-by-fours. She wasn't sure if she still heard the swishing or just the panicked rush of her blood. She had long since clutched one hand to her breast.

Stupid
, she scolded herself.
If anyone saw you, they'd laugh their asses off
.

The scold couldn't soothe her, but a strip of light from an open door in the darkness up ahead had her sighing gustily in relief. She prayed there'd be a person to go with it.

Or a phone
, she thought with a surge of hope. Even if the room was empty, the switchboard could call Eric to lead her back.

The room wasn't empty, but its occupant was too engrossed to notice her arrival. He was a tall lunk of a guy: cute, but more like a football player than a techno-geek. For sure a techno-geek was what he was, though. He sat in a chair that put her ergonomic number back at Future-Tech to shame. It was shiny stainless-steel mesh with gas suspension, a tilting seat, and motorized wheels. Plus, it had a cupholder.

Awed, Charity came to a halt as he cruised a horseshoe-shaped console topped by a huge monitor.

From side to side, the guy played the controls like a record producer in a studio, splitting the screen, then quadrupling it, then zooming in on different areas.

With a start, Charity realized all the pictures showed Sylvia. Sylvia massaging various members of the household. Sylvia pouting while being tied to a column stark naked. Sylvia—here Charity flushed—being spanked to orgasm by the pool. Finally, like a TV addict finding his favorite show, the techno-geek allowed an image of Sylvia riding Maurice to fill the screen. The chauffeur, whose hands were shackled to a mission-style headboard, looked as if the masseuse was doing a particularly inspiring job. His face was twisted, his legs twitching spasmodically.

If this drama was happening now, Sylvia was either disobeying B.G.'s new orders, or she'd been set free from them. Charity noted how determined the masseuse appeared.
Don't
, her lips very clearly said to Maurice, the order succeeded by a slap. Charity assumed he must have given some sign he was about to come. Whatever rules Sylvia was or wasn't following, she wasn't "living to please" Maurice.

She was surprised Maurice let her treat him like this, but maybe he'd been left tied up by someone else and hadn't had a choice. Maybe, now that Sylvia was barred from the game, she took satisfaction from wreaking havoc on those still allowed to play. Maurice did have the look of a man being forced to enjoy something against his will.

"Is that live?" Charity asked.

The techno-lunk's jerk of surprise sent his coffee flying out of its holder. Now that he'd turned toward her, Charity eyed him curiously. A minute longer and he would have spilled more than coffee. His fly had been gaping all along, revealing an erection as stiff as it was high. His cock wasn't as thick as Maurice's, but it was an impressive shade of purply red. Charity noticed he was uncircumcised. His foreskin was stretched around the middle of the head as if he was so swollen it was stuck.

Blushing fiercely, he spun his chair away to zip up.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said over his shoulder, obviously struggling to get everything back in. "Mr. Grantham didn't approve it."

"The door was open. I was told I could go anywhere that wasn't locked."

"It should have been locked," he huffed. "And you should have knocked."

He'd turned back to face her, his finger wagging at her face. His erection seemed not to have relaxed, pressing behind his zipper like a curving pipe. The bulge was at odds with his self-righteous pose, and she couldn't resist teasing. She tilted her head at the silent screen where Maurice's image was gasping like a fish. No matter what consequences he faced, the chauffeur was about to blow.

"That Sylvia sure is hot," she commented casually. "I can see why you'd want to watch her work."

"I was checking files," said her accuser, his gaze clearly wanting to follow hers to the screen. "To test if they'd been recorded right."

Charity smiled at the flimsy lie. She put her hand on his shoulder, feeling how close his sport shirt was to being soaked with sweat. At her touch, his breath came faster, maybe with fear, maybe with excitement at being caught. She was kind of aroused herself, the inseam of her jeans digging insistently between her legs. She didn't think this man was one of B.G.'s players, but she had no doubt she could have seduced him. He was too turned on to choose a careful path. Oddly enough, she had no urge to take the risk.

Keeping him in suspense seemed equally interesting. She imagined this was a shadow of the thrill Eric and B.G. experienced.

"Tell me," she said, her voice sultry. "What's your name?"

"Michael," he answered suspiciously.

"Well, Michael, I'm thinking you and Maurice look a bit alike. Maybe you've been picturing yourself in his place… while you 'check files.' "

"Don't get her into trouble!"

His plea confused her. Frowning, Charity perched on the curving edge of his console. "Why would I get Sylvia in trouble? Maurice could complain as easily as I could. Unless—" Michael paled as she paused, causing a spurt of adrenaline
to
warm her veins. "Unless you've been letting her in here to watch with you?"

The moment she said it, Charity knew it was true. How else could the masseuse have known about her jumping wineglass? She doubted there were cameras in B.G.'s rooms, but Sylvia could have heard her and Eric discussing the incident in hers.

"It was only a couple times," Michael begged. "Sylvia deserves a treat now and then. I don't think Mr.

Grantham and Mr. Berne really even see her. Most of the time, they treat her like furniture."

"That may be," Charity said, "but breaking Mosswood's security isn't your call."

Listening to herself, Charity could hardly believe her ears. Never mind she didn't like the thought of Sylvia watching her unawares, Charity sounded as prissy as an old school marm. Despite her consternation, she was grateful when the prissiness did its job.

"I know," Michael said, his head hanging. "Please don't report me."

If he'd been part of the game, this might have been an invitation to torment him more formally. Instead, Charity was obliged to make a real-life choice. She knew how persuasive Sylvia could be, even if B.G.

didn't. Maybe it was a female thing, or maybe bigwigs never realized the mischief little wigs could get into. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sylvia tear herself off Maurice while he shot impressively into the air—not much help to her decision, though she hoped he didn't end up regretting his pleasure.

"If I keep this to myself," she said, "you have to promise never to do it again."

"Absolutely," he said, a little
too
readily.

"I mean it." In a fit of ingenuity, she grabbed what had to be the key to the room from a hook. She shook it warningly in his direction. "I can check up on you unannounced."

Michael swore he'd never dream of breaking his word. This was the best job he'd ever had. He didn't want to risk losing it. Charity believed him… up to a point. His promise would wear off eventually, especially if Sylvia wanted it to.

I ought to tell B.G
., she thought, then shook her head. She didn't care how that Svengali tried to remake her. Not for anyone would Charity Wills become a tattletale.

After
her cowardly reaction to getting lost, Charity felt the need to reassert her nerve. One outfit she'd packed suited her purpose perfectly. Bought as an act of defiance after being fired from her waitress job, it included shiny red leggings made of PVC with Stripperella-style laces running up the legs. The things required twenty minutes to put on, and she took satisfaction in being late as a result. Sadly, her backward triumph was spoiled by the fact that dinner had been switched from B.G.'s suite to the dining room.

When she reached it, neither he nor Eric were there.

The space she'd been rerouted to was dramatic: the polar opposite of the creepy Elizabethan hall, with sheets of windows and a ceiling so high you could bungie jump off the colorful Dave Chihuly chandelier.

Both the table and chairs were clear plastic copies of Louis the Something originals.
Ghost furniture
, she thought, pushing back a shudder. The long line of chairs looked funny with only two seats filled.

"Just us," Maurice said with a smile of lower wattage than usual. A trio of fresh scratches on his neck suggested the scene Charity witnessed might have been recent—that, and the two empty seats between him and Sylvia. "Mr. B and Mr. G had business that couldn't wait."

For the sake of the chauffeur's feelings, Charity hid her dismay. Chances were, he was glad B.G. wasn't there, even if he hadn't minded his previous punishment. Sylvia, the likely instigator of his sin, simply looked grim. She waved her fork in hello, already tucking into a blackened tuna steak.

The food
was
good, but the masseuse ate as if she feared someone would steal her plate, her forearms defending it from either side. Then again, maybe she wasn't supposed to be eating with her and Maurice anymore. Charity considered mentioning her chat with Michael, then decided against it. Sylvia was apt to take her interference as a challenge. Given the volatility of her moods, discretion seemed the better part of valor to Charity.

She finished her dinner with as little talk as she could manage, declining Maurice's invitation to a friendly round of pool. Everything seemed flat without Eric and B.G., the game barely worth thinking about unless they were around.

She didn't regret turning down Maurice until she returned to her room where the quiet and the shadows were the last things she wanted to face. Determined to keep her mind occupied, she showered and dressed in a yellow silk camisole and tap pant set. Her legs were shaved, her skin nicely moisturized. She considered repainting her nails, but they weren't chipped. She sighed loudly when she saw the time. Eight thirty-two. If she wasn't careful, she'd be creeping to the library to get a book. Frankly, she doubted the Sherlock Holmes room would ease her fears.

Since she was little, she'd had an irrational terror of ghosts. One of her mother's boyfriends found out about the phobia and decided it would be fun to pretend every creak in his old Massachusetts farmhouse was the shade of his dead grandma. Charity had been twelve, old enough to act as if she thought the taunts idiotic. Nonetheless, her mother's failure to step in, coupled with the fact that she'd laughed along, had left a scar. A stranger guessed she was afraid. Why couldn't Charity's mom?

To this day, she couldn't watch a commercial for a horror movie without wanting to switch it off.

"I am a quantum being," she recited as she sat in the center of her bed hugging her knees. "I spit at ghosts."

It was a measure of how upside down her world was that this mantra made her feel better.

"I am a quantum being," she said again to the ceiling. "I am unbelievably brave and wonderful."

Unfortunately, when she flopped back on the pillows, she was still lonely.

"If I am a quantum being," she said more sternly, "my astonishing mental powers will call Eric to my room."

She nearly choked on a gasp when a knock sounded on her door. "Who is it?" she said, having failed to see the person cross her window wall.

"It's Eric. Who are you talking to in there?"

She jumped off the bed with her cheeks gone hot and her heart pounding. She told herself not to be silly.

Eric had already been at the door. No way could her words have called him. Nonetheless, she turned the knob with a sweaty hand. Eric peered at her curiously as he walked in.

"I was talking to myself," she said. "Like any self-respecting nut."

"Glad to hear it. I wouldn't want to think you were getting into trouble with someone else." He held up a small, handled bag stuffed with tissue. "I brought you a present—in case you were thinking I was neglecting my duties as your keeper."

"A present!" She plopped on the bed and held out her hands. Grinning, Eric handed her the gift.

"Let's see," she said, digging through the wrapping. "Pink velvet wrist cuffs—very feminine—some sort of minty-smelling rub, and—wow—a gorgeous pair of evening gloves!"

"B.G. picked those."

"B.G. has good taste—not that I could doubt it with you around."

With an endearing grimace of denial, Eric sat beside her. "I noticed you liked being bound. I thought you might enjoy a variation on the theme."

"Just to keep me revved, right?"

"Yes, just that for tonight."

They looked at each other, blue eyes to gray, the electricity between them abruptly strong. She knew they were both remembering this morning—being skin to skin, straining in unison for one more explosive climax.