The Dom's Dungeon

MacKensie
slowed
the rental car and looked down the curving cobblestoned driveway to the red
brick English Tudor house. Surely this was a mistake. But the number on the
wrought-iron gate matched the one on the form from Exchanges for Vacations. She
drove past a landscaped lawn the vibrant green of the Pacific Northwest and
stopped in front of the garage.

Feeling as
if someone would call the police on her at any moment, she walked up the steps
to the front door. Here was the true test: a keypad. She punched in the number
the owner had e-mailed, and her jaw dropped when the lock
snicked
open.
Right place.

She
glanced down at her scruffy T-shirt and faded jeans.
Wrong person.

A growl at
the door announced the reason the owner had picked Mac rather than some other
vacation-exchange client. She
huffed
a laugh. It was
probably the first time anyone had ever chosen her for anything. She pushed the
door open.
“Hey, Butler.”

Another
growl, a whine.
Mac dropped to her knees on the tile flooring,
averted her gaze, and held out her hand.
“Easy, Butler.”
His owner, Alex, called him all bluff and no follow-through. He'd damned well
better be right. She sure didn't want to start her new life by becoming a dog's
chew toy.

In her
peripheral vision, she watched the elderly black mongrel inch up to her hand,
tail curled under his belly.
A scared dog, the most dangerous
kind.
But oh, the scars on his muzzle and his legs, his ragged ear, told
a story of pain. “You've had a hard life, haven't you?
Me
too.
I think we can be buddies, don't you?”

She felt
the warm muzzle touch her hand, and she turned slowly. Butler held his ground,
his tail still low but starting to wave back and forth. He wanted to be friends
so badly. A mixture of Lab and golden retriever, she'd guess, the friendliest
breeds in the world. “Yeah, we're good, huh, Butler.” She gently scratched his
neck and ruffled his fur. He edged close, and the big body started to wiggle.

She
laughed, still not moving anything but her hand, slowing her petting and
letting him nudge her hand. As they got to know each other, she gave him a
quick once-over to make sure there weren't any problems the owner hadn't
mentioned. She could do a more complete one later. “But you look just fine and
healthy, don't you, Butler?” she crooned. Babysitting him would be a pleasure,
not a chore. She gave him a final pat and rose.

Her
suitcase weighed a ton and grew heavier as she climbed the stairs. Panting, she
stopped on the little landing and ran a hand over the hand-carved railing.
What a place
. Was the owner insane,
wanting to exchange this palace for her tiny Iowa house?

On the
second floor, she checked out the guest rooms. The owner's information sheet
indicated she could take any of them. Tough choice, but the view of the Olympic
Mountains decided her on the fourth one. With pale blue floral wallpaper and a
cream and blue Oriental carpet on the floor, the room felt very peaceful. With
her limited wardrobe of interview clothes and jeans, unpacking took only a few
minutes.

Time
for a tour of the house.
She trotted downstairs and explored what would
be her home for the next two weeks. On the west side: a formal living room with
a gas fireplace and a traditional den that held an office area, dark leather
furniture, and well-filled bookcases. She stopped long enough to check the
books.
Classics and mysteries.
History
and historical fiction, with a major emphasis on war.
Bloodthirsty
guy.
No romance books—not surprising—but very little science fiction
either.
Pretty worthless library.
Oh well.

She
continued and found a well-appointed kitchen near the back of the house. The
east side held a formal dining room and a cozy family room that led onto a
patio. Walking back toward the foyer, she noticed a heavy, dark oak door tucked
neatly under the staircase. Just like Harry Potter's cupboard, only done with
style.

Locked.

Now isn't that odd?
The master bedroom hadn't been
locked, and neither had the den with all the office equipment, although the oak
filing cabinets were. The owner had even left the computer unprotected, with a
note taped on the monitor that she could use it if she wanted.

So what
was behind this door?

Butler
walked up behind her, his toenails clicking on the pale gray tile.

“You're
right, guy,” she told him.
“None of my business.
Why
don't you show me the backyard?”

Out
through the family room to the covered patio and, okay, if she'd fallen into
hog heaven, so had Butler, with at least an acre of backyard. Wiggling in
excitement, he brought her a ragged ball for her to throw. And throw. And
throw. For an old dog, he didn't tire out worth a darn. Finally she called it
quits and tossed the ball into a box filled with more throw toys. “We'll get to
those tomorrow,” she told him.

The
uncovered end of the patio had an
inground
Jacuzzi.

She eyed
it. The foster home where she'd been raised hadn't possessed amenities like
Jacuzzis, and she sure hadn't had one during her year on the streets. She'd
been in a hot tub twice during her college years at Iowa State, none since.
Although lots of homes in Oak Hollow had Jacuzzis, once her past had been
discovered, the good and righteous townspeople shunned her socially, even if
she was good enough to treat their pets. And in all reality, if she hadn't
partnered with Jim Anderson in the only vet clinic in town, they probably
wouldn't have allowed her to touch their pets.

The
familiar bitterness mingled with sadness, and then she brushed the emotions
away. Hey, she was here, in Seattle. No one knew her or that she'd been a
whore. She could and would start a whole new life.

And that life really should include a Jacuzzi
. She
eyed the eight-foot brick fence around the backyard. No one could see over that
thing. Giggling at her boldness, she stripped right down to her birthday suit.

* * * * *

Alexander
Fontaine strolled toward the security gate at Sea-
Tac
Airport.
Excellent timing
.
He'd left just enough time to clear security before the plane to Des Moines
boarded. As he walked, he programmed a reminder on his BlackBerry to check that
the veterinarian was doing all right with his dog. Her credentials had been
excellent, but Butler had never been impressed by academic awards.

Before
he'd finished, the phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
The Seattle Harbor Hotel
.
Odd.
He thought he'd left everything tied up, at least until
he returned.

“This is
Fontaine.”

“Alex,
this is Craig Dunlap. I wanted to check…” The manager of the hotel paused. “Ah,
it's about the seating arrangements at the ball.”

“Go on.”
The head table's seating had been set and confirmed weeks ago.

“My
secretary had a call from
your…
from Miss Hanover. She
wanted to add a few extra people and rearrange the—”

“Stop.”
Alex
took a breath to cool his anger. Not Dunlap's fault in any way. “Craig, I
appreciate your calling to confirm. Please leave the seating arrangements as
they are and tear up anything Miss Hanover suggested.
Now and
in the future.”

“Of
course, sir.”

“I'm sorry
for any inconvenience this”—
millstone
around my neck
—“lady might have caused. Thank you again for checking.”

“My
pleasure, sir.”

Alex
flipped the phone shut,
then
opened it to check the
recent calls.
Five from Cynthia.
With a grunt of
annoyance, he dropped the phone back in his pocket. The woman had passed
persistent
and headed right into
obsessed
. Apparently his plan of
escaping her attentions by attending a conference and touring Fontaine holdings
in Iowa had been extremely optimistic.

He dodged
a woman pulling her bag on a leash, then a gaggle of teenagers. What was he
going to do about her?

“No…my
bag!
Stop!”
The wavering voice came from behind
him.

Alex
turned and spotted an elderly woman frantically trying to rise from the floor.
A suitcase lay beside her. The unkempt man sprinting away from her, and toward
Alex, had a black purse tucked under his arm like a football.