Chapter One
Bloody hell, she hurt.
Anne patted the wrought iron doorknocker on its snarling lion nose and pushed the door open. Damn thing seemed a lot heavier tonight.
She stalked into the foyer of the Shadowlands BDSM club—well, she tried to stalk—a Mistress had her pride, after all, but the limp must have destroyed the effect.
Damn her cousin anyway. Grandstanding plays belonged on the baseball diamond, not during an operation with armed felons.
As the door closed behind her, the Shadowlands security guard looked up. Scowled. He rounded the desk. A good six feet five, shoulders as wide as a football field, the goliath could have taken Schwarzenegger’s role in the Terminator. “What the hell happened to you?” he barked.
Huh? She hadn’t known he could raise his voice. He seemed such a sweetheart that, until recently, she’d wondered why Z had hired him for security. Then again, he looked rather like a Rottweiler—big-boned, oversized, and battered—and maybe he’d never needed to put his skills to the test.
He loomed over her, brows pulling together. “Are you all right?” His faded New York accent thickened, turning the all right to ahrite.
“Hello, Ben.”
“Mistress Anne...” His voice came out a low rumble, and she lifted an eyebrow. The guard dog had a growl after all.
“I’m fine.” She patted his arm and found rock-hard muscles beneath his loose, button-up shirt. She had to—quite inappropriately—wonder at what else lay under all that fabric.
“Were you in an accident? Should I call someone?”
She laughed—and halted quickly as her right side blazed with pain. It felt as if someone had jammed a fiery spear between her ribs. Don’t laugh, stupid. She put her hand over the ache, pleased that her over-the-dress bustier served as adequate support for a bruised ribcage. “The only accident was the need to rescue an inadequate member of my team.” Because her cousin had located the fugitive and tried to apprehend the man himself without waiting for backup. Because the idiot had gotten the pistol kicked out of his hand. Because she’d had to jump in before the felon smashed Robert’s head in with his baseball bat. “He got in a couple of good blows”—and a kick to her thigh—“before I took him down.”
The narrowing of Ben’s eyes made him look impressively menacing.
But after a second, he shook his head and returned to his position, leaving the air in his wake unsettled, as if a thunderstorm had moved through. He braced a hand on his desk and frowned at her. “Picking up fugitives is dangerous. Maybe you should…” He trailed off, frozen to silence by her icy stare.
Her father and uncles possessed an identical belief, and she gave his comment the same careful consideration she accorded theirs. None.
“Benjamin,” she said softly. She met his gaze. Held his gaze. “When I want your opinion about my occupation, I’ll beat it out of you.”
He sat down slowly—and she gave him props for that, since a lot of boys went weak-kneed. But this was a man. She’d have said a very vanilla man, but heat flushed his cheeks and lips. And the concern in his eyes had changed to an edgy arousal.
Interesting.
But she shook her head. She didn’t do vanilla.
And she certainly wouldn’t mess with an employee of Z’s.
Lifting a hand, she sauntered—with a damn limp—into the main clubroom. Into gut-wrenching screams, flickering sconces, and the scents of sex and sweat and pain.
Home sweet home.
* * * *
Three hours later, she’d assessed the various scenes being conducted, chosen a nice quiet caning, and eased down into a leather armchair outside the roped-off area. Done, done, done. Her stint as dungeon monitor was complete, and her leg throbbed as if a dwarf logger was using an ax on it. Galen and Vance were out of town, leaving the Masters short-handed, or else she’d have called to tell Z she couldn’t make it tonight.
But she’d performed her duty.
“Mistress Anne, may I fetch you something to drink?”
She eyed the young man. Dressed in running shorts and nothing else, the blond actually vibrated with his need to please. He must be one of the new ones.
After eliminating the trainee positions, the club owner, Z, had tried professional waitstaff, been displeased with the results, and now offered his submissive members discounted dues if they served drinks a certain number of hours a month.
“What’s your name?” Anne asked.
“Apple, Mistress Anne.”
“Apple, as in take a bite out of you?” She watched him quiver.
“Yes, Mistress Anne. Any time the Mistress wishes.”