Strictly Pleasure

“You can’t ban me.” Veronica Locksley crossed her arms over her chest, hoping the gesture would hide her shaking hands. “I’m a full-fledged member. I pay my dues.”

She’d come into Boots ’n’ Chains for a usual Saturday night of fun—pick out one of the handsome young submissives at the bar or on the dance floor and give him the time of his life.

Instead, a few minutes after arrival, she had been directed by Jackie, the assistant manager and gatekeeper, to go straight to the manager’s office.

Do not pass go, do not collect any subs and go straight to jail.

Or worse.

“You’re a liability.” Matthew Beck sat behind his desk. It was empty of everything other than a single file folder flipped open to show a stack of sheets at least a half-inch thick.

She didn’t have to ask what they were, because she had a pretty good guess.

Complaints.

Against her.

Matthew stroked his jet-black goatee, glaring at her. “I’ve given you warnings. Suspensions. More than I should have. If this were any other establishment, you’d have been blackballed long before now.” He raised one eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, we’re the last club in town you haven’t been banned from.”

Time to turn on the charm.

She smiled and leaned on the edge of the desk. “That’s because you’re wiser than those other managers.” She gestured at the papers. “You know most of those complaints come from whiny little boys who don’t understand what it means to be a submissive. They want to play games, and when I call them out—”

“No.” The stern tone startled her into silence, cutting off her explanation.

He stood, and Veronica had to hold herself in place, instinctively wanting to step back. Suddenly the small office seemed much, much smaller, mentally returning her to the principal’s office when she was caught smoking in the girls’ washroom.

Matthew was a tall man with broad shoulders, and impeccably dressed. The white shirt hung open enough to display the thin chain around his neck.

His collar.

His eyes narrowed as he saw her studying the silver links. “Do not mistake my preferences for a weakness,” he growled. “I may be a sub, but I’m not yours. I’m the manager, and I’m responsible for keeping everyone safe and sound when they come here. I know that those men you took into the back rooms knew damned well what they wanted.” A flash of anger in his eyes startled her, rattled her already-raw nerves. “You abused their trust.”

Veronica made a dismissive wave of her hand, trying to strengthen her argument. “I left them with a few bruises, if that. Nothing that won’t heal with time.” She felt the weakness in her words, the argument already lost. “They all agreed to go with me. I never took anyone against his will.”

“Yes. That’s true,” Matthew conceded. He sat down and reached for his half-full coffee cup. “Consent isn’t the issue here. Your continued aggression is the problem. This crap can’t go on. This last complaint coming so soon after your public fight with Kate—”

Bitch.

Veronica held her tongue, knowing it’d go worse for her if she said it out loud. Kate Dubois was one of Boots ’n’ Chains’ favorite Dommes, having just returned from a self-imposed exile to a glorious debut with her new submissive, Alex Hanson.

A lovely man she’d tried and failed to seduce on his first trip to the club, the puppy retreating as Kate came forth out of the shadows to claim him. A damned idiot who had no idea what Veronica could give him and instead tucked his tail between his legs and ran.

Right to Kate.

The curses died in her throat.

Badmouthing Kate and Alex wasn’t going to win any points.

“I can’t have you scaring off new members or pissing off the regulars.” Matthew jabbed at the file folder. “I’ve already put you on probation more than anyone else in the club. At this point, you’re damaging our reputation and affecting our business.”

Veronica swallowed hard, feeling the nervous burn in her belly.

She knew business.

She knew what a good employer had to do keep the company going.

But she didn’t have to like it or agree to it.

Don’t ban me.

You can’t ban me.

The plea stalled in her throat.

Don’t beg.

It’s too late for that.

A cold flush of fear shot through her veins at the idea of being tossed out of Boots ’n’ Chains.

She settled herself on the chair, the cold wooden seat chilling her skin.

Matthew entwined his fingers and laid his hands on the desk. “I’ve spoken to the other managers at the clubs you’ve been banned from. They won’t have you back for the same reasons we’re discussing here.” He stared at her. “So what should I do? Warning you doesn’t work. Suspending you doesn’t work. It hasn’t worked at any of the other clubs, and we’re now in the same place you were with them. So I’m forced to consider their final response to your continued infractions. Permanent banishment from this establishment.”

Her tongue went numb, the thickness filling her mouth.

What can I tell you—

She ran through all her excuses and found all of them wanting.

Matthew must have sensed her discomfort, because he kept on talking. “Strangely enough, you’ve already given me the answer. I realized it when I thought of your run-in with Kate and Alex.” The thoughtful smile didn’t alleviate her growing sense of trepidation.

He put his hands together as if in prayer. “I can’t have an abusive Domme in my club. It’s dangerous and goes against everything I stand for, everything this community stands for. Safe, sane, consensual. Remember that?” His gaze softened, and she saw the sub in him, the caring male that some lucky woman had caught and collared. “But I’m not going to throw you out like all the others have. I’m going to give you one last chance to figure out what your problem is, why you keep going over the edge.” He tapped the folder. “I have a contract in here for Hooded Pleasures.”

Veronica frowned. “The agency?”

“Yes. What do you know about them?” Matthew asked. “I assume you’ve picked up information here and there.”

She cleared her throat, more secure answering the simple question. “A private company. Some of their employees are members here and elsewhere, all Dominants. They deliver home services for those men and women who won’t or can’t come to the clubs.” She couldn’t help smirking. “For those too cowardly to come out and play.”

The softness disappeared. “For those who won’t or can’t,” he rephrased her last sentence.

Matthew rose again, towering over her. “Policemen. Judges. Lawyers. For those who can’t afford to be seen in a club, for whom exposure could destroy their lives.” He pointed at her. “You and I can afford the luxury of being who we are without suffering much other than a few nasty words and whispers behind our backs. Maybe a disapproving look here and there. The worst for most of us is that we don’t get invited over for dinner or cut off the Christmas card list.”

Matthew jabbed a thumb at the wall. “There are people out there who have to close off this part of themselves for fear of being exploited, blackmailed. Whether it’s because of their employment or their heritage, they can’t come out of the shadows and enjoy a simple night at the club. They are the ones Hooded Pleasures deals with.” He ran his fingers over the folder. “Sometimes it’s not that complicated. Sometimes it’s dealing with those who are too timid to come out to a new members’ night because they’re not sure if it’s what they want. So they pay for someone to come to their homes and learn in private what it’s like to be a submissive, what their inner nature is crying out for. Usually they migrate to the clubs and come into our society better off for their time with HP.”

“Like Alex,” Veronica said, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible.

She’d picked up the back story between Kate and Alex after she’d served her last suspension and returned.

“Like Alex,” Matthew repeated. “And that’s what gave me this idea.” His gaze fixed her like a specimen on a slide. “Effective immediately, you are indefinitely suspended from Boots ’n’ Chains.”

Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed instinctively, not wanting to throw up.

No.

You can’t—

“But I’m giving you a choice. You can either accept your banishment, or you can agree to take sessions from a Hooded Pleasures employee. A Dom who knows what he’s doing.” Matthew locked eyes with her. “He’ll come to your home and teach you what being a Domme is all about.”

Veronica frowned. “I don’t understand. How is he going to teach me? Does he have a private submissive or—”

Matthew shook his head. “You’re going to learn by being his submissive for six two-hour visits.”

She rocked back in her chair as if he’d punched her.

“No. No way. I’m no sub.” She spat the words out like poison.

“I didn’t say you were or weren’t. But you’ve got problems dealing with them, and this is the only way I can think of that’ll make you more sympathetic to their needs, to their desires.” He spread his hands. “Maybe this is all about you not being where you want to be, being who you truly are. I don’t know. I’m no psychologist and don’t want to be. But I know one thing about submissives—you don’t appreciate them.” He glared at her. “You don’t appreciate the love and the responsibility given to you. You don’t understand the gift a sub bestows on the dominant partner. Maybe if you see how it is from the other side you’ll get what being a good Domme is all about. Or maybe find out who you truly are inside.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Maybe there’s a bit more submissive inside you than you want to admit.”

She wanted to reach over and slap him.

Ridiculous.

What the hell does this guy know about me? Nothing.

Other than my checks don’t bounce when I pay that extravagant membership fee.

Veronica shook her head. “Even if I agreed to this stupid game, I can’t afford their rates. And I doubt they’re going to give over one of Wendy’s boy toys for free.”

“She’s not. We’re paying. Consider it part of your membership fees going to a good cause.” Matthew moved around the desk to stand in front of her. “No one will know other than the two of us, Wendy and the Dom she chooses. That’s why they come to your house, after all. Total confidentiality. Your absence from the club, if it’s noticed, will be seen as just another suspension. It’s not like I haven’t done it before.” His voice softened. “You’re a good woman Veronica. I like you. Others like you. I see the good in you, the beautiful woman under the anger. But you don’t seem to understand the responsibility a Domme has—the unspoken contract between a Dominant and a submissive. Maybe this will help you figure this out. Maybe it won’t. But I feel I have to try this one last option before I close these doors to you forever.” He touched the thin chain around his neck. “You deserve to be happy. Let me do this for you.”

Veronica couldn’t find her voice, his sudden gentleness cutting through her carefully crafted emotional armor like a virtual samurai sword.

“Here.” He opened the folder and placed it front of her. “Please sign at the bottom. I’ll pass this onto them along with your file here at the club as to your hard limits, likes and dislikes. They’ll be in touch.” Matthew plucked a pen from the stack filling the generic white mug on the desk and placed it atop the pages.

He stood back and waited.

Veronica picked up the pen and scribbled her name on the line, forcing herself to stay calm.

This is madness. Sheer madness.

But I’ve got no choice.

“O-Okay,” she stammered. “But I reserve the right to walk out at any time.”

He nodded. “Of course. You’ll be held to the same rules as any HP client. You can cancel the contract whenever you want. But if you do before the sessions are over or the HP Dom approves your return, the club doors will be permanently closed to you.” Matthew shook his head. “I can’t risk the mental and physical health of my members. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll take this gift and become a better woman and a better Domme for it.” He reached out and touched the gold bracelet she wore on her left wrist, indicating her Dominant status in the club. “If that’s what you find out you truly are.”

Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers slipped under the thin metal.

I’m a Domme.

What else could I be?

A quick twist and the bracelet was off, leaving an empty space both on her skin and in her heart.

He walked back around his desk before opening a drawer and dropping the simple gold band inside. “When you’ve been approved by Hooded Pleasures, you can have it back. All he needs to do is notify HP that he’s done educating you and they’ll let me know.” Matthew eyed her. “Or you can have a silver one.” He smiled. “Being a submissive isn’t that bad. I hope you’ll come to appreciate that.”

She didn’t know what to say in response, so she nodded.

What the hell am I getting myself into?

He gestured at the door. “Thank you. You’ll have to leave now. I’ll escort you to the locker room and then outside.”

She followed him in stunned silence. Matthew stayed with her as she picked up her coat and purse and walked out to the street where the doormen waited.

“Please call a taxi for Ms. Locksley,” he said to one man. “Veronica won’t be back for a little while.”

They nodded, familiar with the routine.

Veronica felt her cheeks burn with the embarrassment of being walked out of the club.

Again.

Okay, she told herself. All I have to do is get the guy to sign off on this crazy scheme, and I’ll be back.

She straightened up, mentally steeling herself for the upcoming battle.

Easy peasy. Either he’ll want to get rid of me as soon as possible, or he’ll see it my way.

Matthew touched her shoulder as the car pulled up. “I hope to see you soon.”

She resisted the urge to grin.

Sooner than you might think.

Veronica nodded and got into the cab without looking back.

Oliver Greenwood paced around the meeting room, circling the expensive rosewood table clockwise first, then counterclockwise.

The phone call had been delightfully vague—enough to tease his curiosity and bring him downtown on a Sunday morning.

Please come to the office.

Wendy would like to see you.

When one of the two owners of Hooded Pleasures asked you to come in, you usually came in.

Unless you never wanted to work for them again.

The door opened, and Wendy McMaster walked in. The plus-sized woman wore a sharp-looking black blazer and matching pants, the pale pink blouse a lovely counter to the darkness. She carried a dark blue file folder.

“Oliver.” She reached out and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming in. I appreciate it.” She gestured at one of the plush dark leather chairs. “Please sit. Can I offer you some coffee?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” He adjusted his tie as he settled into the chair. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I came straight from work.”

“No problem.” Wendy looked him over and smiled. “You always look good in a suit and tie.” She frowned. “Early event? It’s only nine in the morning.”

“No rest for the weary, especially when the store’s open twenty-four hours a day. We’ve got an author signing today. New release going out.” He smiled. “Nora Roberts. I can get you an autographed copy if you’d like.”

Given the excitement in her eyes, he knew she would.

Mentally he made a note to courier one over as soon as he finished up here.

“Maybe, you know—if you can spare a copy.” She looked down at the file and cleared her throat, ending the social aspect of their meeting. “I called you in today because I wanted to talk to you about a special case.”

Oliver pursed his lips. “I’ve already got two clients. And I’m very happy with them.”

“And they are thrilled with you,” Wendy said. “Charlotte especially, given she keeps dropping you tips.”

“She’s come a long way from when we started. I’d say she’s about ready to graduate to going to a club.” He smiled as he brought up her image in his mind’s eye.

The busty redhead had been a lovely surprise to work with, her early inhibitions giving way to an enthusiastic woman any Dom would be proud to collar.

Oliver cleared his throat, banishing the vision. “I think she’ll be moving on within the month. She’s at the point where she’s considering where to tender her membership.”

“Linda’s close to leaving as well.” Wendy opened up the folder. “She called earlier this week and said she’s moving to New York. We’re going to provide her with references to some good clubs and private Doms.” She looked up. “Sorry.”

“Nothing for any of us to be sorry for. It’s a great opportunity for her, and I’m glad she’s taking it,” Oliver said. “She got a promotion at her firm, up to the big leagues, which is why she’s moving. I’m glad for her—she’s worked hard for it.” He recalled the slender lawyer who was a terror in her office on the clock and a lovely submissive on her knees after hours.

“And that leaves you with no one.” Wendy leaned back in the chair.

“I’m not—” He paused. “I was thinking of leaving HP once my current roster was finished.”

“I see.” She closed the folder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Oliver said. “I’ve enjoyed working here, helping people. But I believe I’m ready to go back to the clubs and start socializing again.”

Melissa.

He felt the familiar pinch in his heart, in his soul. Three years, and it still felt like yesterday.

Wendy paused for a few seconds before speaking. “Are you sure? You know we’re not going to push you out of the nest if you’re not ready.”

Oliver couldn’t help smiling at the mental image. “I’m ready to fly again. Mel—” He looked down at the finger where his wedding band used to sit. “I’ll always miss her.”

The sigh came without warning, pushing the breath from his lungs.

Always.

“We talked about this sort of thing once. Years ago when we made up our wills, discussing who would get what and all that stuff. She told me if anything happened to her to grieve her passing and then move on. I told her if I died, I’d want her to enter a convent.” He chuckled at the memory.

Wendy smiled. “Evan and I have that conversation about once a month usually when I’m annoyed at him. But then I realize how hard it’d be to train a new husband and—” She gave an exaggerated eye roll.

Oliver nodded. “I didn’t think anything of our chat until—” He waved his hand in the air. “It’s been a few years, and I think it’s time for me to start living again. I’ll probably start with visiting the clubs once a week and sitting at the bar, getting up to speed.”

Small steps.

It’ll be hard going back alone—but it’s time.

“Don’t worry about catching up on gossip. You’ll be fine. It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.” Wendy nodded. “I’m glad we were able to help you through a rough patch.” She put her palm down on the folder. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you going to look for a permanent partner or just a ‘friend’? I can help you with either choice—I’m at Boots ’n’ Chains two times a week, if not more. Give you some references and maybe set you up, if you’d like.”

Oliver pressed his lips into a tight line, considering his answer. “I’m not interested in just casual sex.” He swept his hand over the table. “I know I can go into any club and find a woman, put her on her knees and give her pleasure while taking my own. But I don’t want that. I want to find a woman who can stand on her own when she needs to and can kneel to me when she wants to. That’ll have to be inside and outside of the club atmosphere.” He smiled, hearing his own words. “But that’s for the future. I guess it sounds pretty complicated.”

Wendy laughed. “I find life generally is.”

“Let me get back to you on the referrals. I’m not much on blind dates.” His attention went to the folder, his curiosity piqued. “But that’s not why you called.”

Wendy pushed the dark blue folder around with one finger. “We have a new client. A Domme who needs a bit of training.”

Oliver frowned. “I’d think you could do that here. The classes are very thorough.”

He’d attended a few at the start of his employment and had learned a few new tricks. The small classes allowed discussion and practice, something he’d enjoyed.

“True. But this is a bit different. She doesn’t need any more instruction on being a Domme. She’s been reprimanded for abusing her submissives. Repeatedly.”

“Then she should be tossed out on her ear,” Oliver answered. “Problem solved. Either she’ll figure it out, or she’ll have no one to be with.”

Wendy nodded. “I agree. She’s been banned from all the clubs except Boots ’n’ Chains, and now she’s pushed Matthew into a corner with her most recent incident.” She opened the folder. “He seems to think she’s redeemable. I’ve trusted him before, and he’s been a good judge of character. We talked it out and came up with a short-term contract that might be the answer.”

Oliver fidgeted in his chair. “Let him work with her, then. She can’t be that stupid not to understand what the consequences are when you’re not in tune with your partner. And if she is and it’s still not working, then she deserves everything she gets.”

“He can’t. In the first place, he’s a submissive and there’s no way in hell she’s going to listen to him in any other capacity other than as the club manager. And his own Domme won’t let him, so that’s not an option.” Wendy slowly pushed the folder across the table to rest in front of him. “He thinks she needs to experience life as a submissive in order to become a better Domme. Walking on the other side might give her more appreciation and temper her attitude. Or, and this is only on his gut feeling, she’s a submissive deep inside and needs help to embrace her inner nature. Either way, he’s willing to pay HP to alleviate the situation.”

“Why? What’s his stake in this?” Oliver couldn’t help but be drawn to look at the color picture clipped to the inside paper. “Is she someone important, someone who the club can’t do without?”

The redhead winked slyly at the photographer with a trace of a laugh on her lips.

Interesting.

He couldn’t look away. There was something about her eyes, something daring him to look deeper.

Challenging him.

“He’s a romantic. Along with his Domme. Along with myself and Evan.” Wendy smiled. “I’ve run into Veronica a few times at the club. She’s got something wrong with her wiring. I can see it.” A wistful look replaced her smile. “If you’re not honest with yourself, how can you be honest with those around you? We’re willing to work with Matthew to help her get her head on straight because our community needs to try to help each other when it can. We’ve got enough enemies out there.”

“So instead of booting her ass, you’re going to rehabilitate it?” Oliver shook his head. “If she’s as much trouble as you say, it’s going to be tough for her to even admit she’s got a problem, much less accept help for it.”

“This is her last chance, and she knows it. After this, we’re all willing to cut her loose.” Wendy pressed on. “I was thinking she’d be right for you. One last assignment before you leave us and move on.”

“Why?” The words came out harsher than he’d expected. “Why me?”

“Because I trust you and your instincts.”

Whoa.

Didn’t see that coming.

Wendy began to walk around the room. “This is a unique situation, and I believe we need a unique individual to deal with it.” She paused and looked back. “Have you ever wondered where we find our employees?”

He shrugged. “Never thought about it.”

“We find them in a variety of situations, in a bad spot of their lives. They need what we can give them and, in exchange, help those who need help with the most private part of themselves. You were honest from the start when you approached us—what you wanted and what you needed.” She paused and ran her fingertips across the varnished wood. “After your loss.”

Oliver swallowed hard. “I couldn’t deny that part of myself forever. You gave me an outlet where I could be happy while helping others without the emotional entanglements.”

She continued. “You’re one of the most levelheaded men I’ve met. If anyone can show Veronica what the interaction between a Dom and a Sub is all about, it would be you.”

“And if I decline?” Oliver said. “Who gets her then?”

“No one. I won’t put anyone else in her line of fire.” Wendy looked directly at him. “I won’t sugarcoat it. She’s going to be pissed and angry and spitting mad. But there’s no one else I think can handle it. If you say no, I’ll tell Matthew we’re not up to the job, and he’ll send her on her way.”

“She’ll be banned from the club and have no place to go.”

Wendy gave a noncommittal shrug. “There’s always the underground venues, the places that aren’t as careful as the private clubs you and I frequent.”

“That won’t be good for her,” Oliver said. “I’ve heard about these places. Unsafe and ugly doesn’t begin to describe them.”

“Place of last resort,” Wendy answered. “If she needs to play that badly and that roughly, she’ll have to go there and reap the consequences.”

Oliver turned his head to one side and studied the wall.

She needs help.

How can you refuse that?

“Okay. I’ll take this one.” He lifted a finger. “But it’s the last assignment for me. No more.”

“Understood,” she said.

Oliver saw in her eyes that she did.

“Okay. How long do I have?”

“Six weeks, six sessions. Two hours each.”

“What?” If his eyes could have shot out like a cartoon character’s, they would have. “That’s nothing. I’m not starting from scratch with someone with no knowledge of the scene. It’s almost a case of deprogramming her, it’s—” He mentally started to draw up schedules and plans. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“Six weeks is all Matthew and Evelyn could afford,” Wendy confessed. “Hooded Pleasures is still, after all, a business. I’ve given them the best rate I could.”

“And if I forgo my fees?” he said.

Wendy’s eyebrows rose at the offer. “Maybe two more sessions.” She ran her fingers over the folder. “It’s not just the money—it’s a case of seeing if she’s open to change. You can lead her to water, but if she’d rather die of thirst than go on her knees, it doesn’t make a difference if you have her for two months or a year. Some people are beyond saving. I don’t think she is, and I hope to hell all our efforts aren’t in vain.” She spun the folder around. “If she finishes the sessions and still needs help, Matthew can find her someone at the club, a Dom who doesn’t mind assisting with the re-education you’ve started. But if she’s bound and determined to keep making mistakes and hurting people, there’s nothing any of us can do for her.”

“Okay,” Oliver said. “It’s obvious I’ll have to do things differently with her. She’s being forced to see me. She’s not going to be open to the usual routines, the usual methods.” He spoke out loud, verbalizing his thoughts. “Especially if she’s got her mind set against it.”

“I’ll leave it to you to decide if she’s worth the continued effort or not.” Wendy shook her head. “Matthew’s caught between a rock and a hard place. He feels sorry for her as a submissive, but as a manager, he can’t afford to have her running rampant and upsetting the club patrons. That’s why I thought you’d be right for the job,” Wendy replied. “You’re her last best chance of finding what she needs, what she wants.”

“Why me?” Oliver tapped his chest. “What in your mind makes me the right Dom for her?”

Wendy tilted her head to the side and studied him for a second before responding. “Put it down to a feeling. I think now is the right time for this. For both of you.”

He allowed him another ten seconds to let the matter percolate in his mind.

Wendy waited.

She needs someone.

You have to help her.

The last thought was the most sobering.

Melissa would want you to.

Because everyone deserves a last chance to find love.

“All right.” He faced Wendy. “But I reserve the right to call it off if I think she’s unredeemable.”

“Agreed.” Wendy nodded. “Thank you. I’ll make the arrangements and send you the contact information. I’ll also include the form we need signed to complete the deal. As soon as Matthew gets it, he’ll pull her suspension and return her to full member.” She gestured at the file. “Keep it. It’s got her club membership information forms.”

Oliver looked at the photo one more time.

Veronica Locksley.

Her eyes were as blue as the sea and as deep, a trace of sadness drowning out the cheerful image he had originally seen.

He unclipped the photograph and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

Wendy’s eyebrows rose, but she said nothing.

You’re a romantic fool, he imagined Melissa saying. But the world needs more romantic fools.

Sometimes he thought his heart would burst from the void she’d left inside.

Veronica slammed the door so hard, she swore she heard the hinges groan with pain. She did hear her neighbor’s curse from downstairs, the grumpy old man she rented the upstairs from preparing to deliver another sermon on how he needed peace and quiet.

Don’t rent the apartment to anyone under forty, then, Pops.

She’d been in the mood for a little fun, so she’d visited one of her regular clubs, hoping they’d removed her ban. She hadn’t been there for a few weeks and figured they might have forgiven and forgotten.

No such luck.

The bouncers had grinned as they turned her away, relishing their experience as she waved at the taxi she’d just gotten out of, frantically trying to get his attention so he could turn around and take her away before anyone else saw her embarrassing attempt to gain admittance.

Same with the second club.

The third was the one she’d been escorted out of a day ago.

When she’d arrived at the doorstep of Boots ’n’ Chains, she’d hoped Matthew had been kidding about the entire HP thing and everything was as it’d been before. She’d go to his office and grovel and promise to behave herself, and he’d give her the gold bracelet again and let her loose on the floor.

No such luck.

The idiot doormen had the nerve to stand there, arms crossed, and offer to call her another taxi.

Damn.

She tossed the keys in a plastic bowl sitting on the rickety table under the coatrack and hung up her leather jacket on one of the wooden pegs nailed to the wall.

How dare he—

She pulled off the red wig and tossed it into her bedroom as she headed for the kitchen.

That son of a bitch Matthew. I should have put him on his knees right there in his bloody office. Damned dirty sub.

The whiskey bottle was right where it should have been beside the boxes of oversweetened breakfast cereal and instant oatmeal.

The bastard wants me to go through with this game. And if I don’t, he won’t let me back in the front door. Ever.

She suppressed a shudder as she grabbed a juice glass out of the other cupboard and poured out an inch of alcohol.

Me. A sub.

A few steps brought her to the lumpy couch filling up the majority of her living room, the large-screen television being the big investment in her household. Running her hand through her short blonde hair, Veronica plopped herself down and took a long sip. The blinking light on her answering machine signaled a waiting message, but she couldn’t get up the enthusiasm to see who was bothering her on a Sunday night. It’d been there when she’d gotten home from work, but all she wanted was to get out to a club and get her game on, so she’d left it unanswered.

If it was work, they’d call her on her cell phone, as her private line was only for management.

Since it was on her landline, she ignored it.

Damned telemarketer.

Veronica shifted on the couch, trying to find a solution to her problem that didn’t involve any Dom-for-hire.

She was at a loss to find one.

Bloody hell.

I’ve gotten myself into it now.

She resisted the urge to look over at the family portrait hanging on the wall between two abstract paintings she’d picked up from the art fair a few years ago.

Mom—

I miss you so much.

Veronica gave in and stared at the image, trying hard not to replace it with her last memory.

This picture was so much better.

Her vibrant smile, the blonde curls framing her always-too-thin face before her body had been ravaged by disease.

Veronica reached up and twirled a lock of her own hair around her finger.

Mom would tell me to suck it up and keep on going. ’Cause quitters never get anywhere.

She forced herself to move away from thinking about her personal issues and back to business.

It was better than whining to an empty room about her banning.

She laid her head back and mentally went over the computer readouts she’d received before charging out on her fool’s errand.

The first reports had come in about the new patio expansion at Java Jive—her coffee shop. It looked good, with plenty of new customers taking advantage of the extra space to sit and drink and eat and enjoy the experience out in the fresh spring air. There’d been a few bumps in the road and an emergency trip to the grocery store for extra half-and-half when three jugs had turned out to have turned bad, but it’d all gone fine.

Unlike her evening.

“All that damned money,” she muttered before taking another sip. “They’re fast enough to cash the check for my yearly membership.”

She studied the amber liquid.

All I wanted was a little fun. Now I’m a damned pariah.

The knock on the front door startled her out of her annoyance.

“Son of a—” Veronica put the drink down and pushed herself up from the thick gray cushions. She raised her voice as she headed down the hall. “I’m being quiet. I don’t even have the damned television set on.”

She threw open the door, expecting to see short, stout Anderson, wheezing from climbing the stairs and ready to deliver another lecture on being a quiet tenant.

Instead, she saw a stranger eyeing her with a smirk on his lips and curiosity in his stare. He wore a black leather jacket over a light-blue dress shirt and jeans, hands jammed in his pockets as he waited.

She paused, sizing him up.

He had short black hair and a whisper of beard on his chin, sapphire-blue eyes studying her as he waited for her to react.

Possibly a good end to a crappy night, she mused.

But first she’d have to figure out who this handsome man was.

And if she could have him.

He’d checked the address twice after his driver pulled up to the curb. The row of two-story houses was duplicated on each side of the street, small homes with postage-stamp sized front yards and painted in a dizzying array of colors.

Despite their appearance, he knew these to be expensive homes, their location near the subway guaranteeing a rising property value.

And yet—

“Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

The driver had nodded and settled in his seat, eyeing the lunchbox discreetly placed on the passenger-seat floor.

Oliver walked up to the front door and studied the two metal envelopes working as mailboxes.

K. Anderson.

V. Locksley.

The mailbox with her name on it had pointed him to the upstairs flat with a neon-red arrow made of tape.

Interesting.

Oliver opened the main door and stepped onto the landing. Steps led up to the apartment, while another door nearby indicated the ground-floor residence. Said door creaked open, revealing a wizened old man who peeked out into the dimly lit lobby. Oliver had given him a neutral smile and headed up the stairs.

K. Anderson is a very curious man.

He hadn’t been prepared for the blonde opening the door, matching the photograph save for her hair color. She looked shocked and angry, the blush on her cheeks pronouncing her emotions. Dressed in tight black leather pants and a white blouse, she looked as if she’d just come back from one of the clubs.

Except he knew she hadn’t.

“You’re not Anderson.” She put her hands on her hips and studied him, regaining her composure. Her lips curled into a smile.

“If you mean your tenant downstairs, I’m not.” He extended his hand. “I’m Oliver Greenwood.”

Her face twisted into a confused frown. “Who?”

He dropped his hand to his side. “I work for HP.”

There was no need to say the entire name. Shock dissolved to anger as realization of who he was and why he was there dawned on her face. She didn’t shake his hand. Instead she took a step back and turned away, allowing him entrance.

Oliver walked in and closed the door before going down the hall and entering the living room.

“Anderson’s not my tenant. I’m his.” She plopped herself on the couch and picked up her drink. “So you’re from HP. Come here to work your magic on me or something like that.”

“Something like that,” Oliver echoed as he moved to stand by the couch. He gestured at the single matching gray chair. “May I?”

She waved her hand. “Sure. Whatever you want.” She sipped the drink, and Oliver heard the underlying grumble. “You’re calling the shots.”

He shrugged off his jacket. “Yes. Yes I am.” He watched her eyes widen as she realized he’d heard her.

“So now what.” Veronica put the glass down. “You should have called.”

“I did. I left a message I’d be visiting you.” He gestured at the phone lying on the table, the red light blinking for attention. “So either you didn’t get it or you didn’t care I’d be coming over.”

Her scowl told him both options were true.

You knew this wasn’t going to be easy, he reminded himself.

You hoped it wouldn’t be this hard.

Oliver pulled the jacket around and folded it in his lap. “Do you not care about getting back into Boots ’n’ Chains? Because if you don’t, then I’ll stop wasting your time and mine and go. Just say the word.”

The emotions flashing over her face told the story.

She didn’t want to do this. But she had to.

He smiled, sensing her nervousness.

“My name is Oliver, as I said before. I’ve been chosen by HP to be your Dom for the next six to eight weeks.”

The scowl deepened as she absorbed the length of time.

He continued. “I did my research on you. Veronica Locksley, owner of the Java Jive coffee shop. Moderately successful, holding your own against the larger franchises swarming around the downtown core.”

“Very successful,” she corrected him.

“Moderately successful,” he repeated. “With a great deal of future potential. But that’s not why I’m here.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in the dark fabric on his lap. “May I assume you don’t have a whole lot of privacy here?”

“Little to none.” She placed the empty glass down. “This is an old house, and Mr. Anderson is a retired mailman with nothing to do other than visit the local Legion to drink with his war buddies and listen to me play with myself. I don’t bring men here either. Don’t want to give the old man a heart attack. I’m a bit of a screamer.” Veronica smiled. “With or without the real thing between my legs.”

Oliver nodded.

If you think that’s going to get under my skin, you’re so wrong.

“So,” she kept talking, “since there’s no place here for you to do your thing, we’ll either have to go to a club or call the deal off. You sign the papers, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

He cocked his head to one side. It was hard not to enjoy the power play when she was so bad at it.

“I can’t take you to a club. At least not one I’d feel safe patronizing.” Oliver watched her for any reaction. “There are only three reputable establishments. I know—I have active memberships at all of them. However, my status isn’t the problem here. Your suspensions are still valid, and they won’t let you in the door even if it’s just to use the facilities.” He allowed himself a smirk. “You think I’ll sign off on your submissive training because you asked nicely?”

Veronica smiled and spread her legs a little further apart. Even though she wore leather pants Oliver could see the toned muscles flexing under the dark material.

“I can make you a much better offer than a few bucks from Matthew,” she purred. “How about six weeks of fun and we don’t tell if anyone asks?” She gave him a sultry wink, running one finger over her lower lip. “You look like you’d be fun in bed. Six weeks, and you not only collect from Boots ’n’ Chains, but you get this”—her hand roamed across her front and unbuttoned the top of her blouse—“and we both win.”

Oliver sat back in the chair. “Ah. So your counteroffer is to fuck like bunnies in secret, and you figure that’ll make your problem go away?”

She shrugged and sat up. “Pretty much.”

There was something wonderfully adorable about her attitude, something that appealed to Oliver more than the trouble it’d take to get through to her.

Nothing good comes easy.

Veronica licked her lips, and Oliver couldn’t help the flush of arousal singing through his veins. His pulse increased as he registered the effect she was having on him despite his refusal to play her game. Maybe he had been out of circulation too long.

Still hot as a blonde. Maybe hotter than when she was a faux redhead—

She’s going to be a handful and a half, his inner voice croaked. You’re going to have to work hard for this one.

He couldn’t help grinning.

I love a challenge.

She stared at him, and Oliver realized he’d spoken the last sentence out loud.

He got to his feet and put his jacket back on. “We’ll have to do the sessions at my place, then.” He fished out a business card and tossed it on the table. “This Saturday. Be there at two in the afternoon. Not one fifty-five, not two o’one. Two o’clock exactly. Wear something comfortable.” He studied her legs before dragging his eyes up to lock with hers. “Not the leathers.”

If she could have shot laser beams from her eyes, he’d be a dead man.

“That’s not right,” she sputtered. “That’s against the rules. That’s got to be against the rules.”

“The ones you were ready to toss out a few minutes ago for a fast bang and me signing off on your deal?” Oliver couldn’t hold back a grin. “Consider this your first lesson.” He tapped his chest. “I’m the one calling the shots now.”

Veronica bounced up from the couch and advanced on him, wagging her index finger. “No. I’m not going to be your little plaything.” She moved inside his personal space to stand toe to toe with him. “I’m not a submissive, and I sure as hell don’t want to play at being one,” she snarled. “No matter how cute you look.”

He couldn’t help himself.

His right hand shot out and grabbed the back of her neck.

She froze in place.

The soft silky skin yielded to his touch as he moved in on her, their noses almost touching.

Oliver lowered his voice to a hot whisper. “You say you’re not. If you’re so confident in your knowledge as a Domme, then you won’t mind learning about the other side, since it’s where your shortcomings are being noted.”

The flush in her cheeks wasn’t only from the alcohol. He saw her pupils dilate a fraction and noticed a hitch in her breathing, the nervous pant he knew all too well. She bent back into his grip, pressing against his fingers. Her hands remained at her sides as he studied her.

The knowledge hit him deep in the gut.

And lower.

There was more under the surface than a bad Mistress who needed to learn when to back off.

Veronica was a natural submissive masquerading as a dominant.

She licked her lips again, and for a second, Oliver thought about kissing her, bending her to his will right here, right now.

She blinked, and he saw the battle in her stare, the fight for control.

You can’t have it, the silent taunt said. Not until you earn it.

The standoff broke.

Veronica laughed as she twisted out of his grip. She picked up her glass and tipped it up to try and drain the last few drops. He saw her hand shaking.

“You don’t know me. You don’t know what I want or what I need. All you know is what Matthew told you, what HP has in that little file of lies they created to get you to take the job.” She laughed. “But I’ll play your game until you’ve had enough and sign off on this charade.”

Veronica walked into the kitchen. “You can let yourself out, Mr. Greenwood. I’ll see you in a few days.”

Oliver walked to the door, noting how she kept her back to him, hid herself away as quickly as she could.

So it begins.

A rush of excitement curled up in his belly.

This is going to be—interesting.

The liquor splashed around the sides of the glass as she poured, the stream wobbling from side to side as her hand shook.

That bastard. How dare he—

Veronica felt the back of her neck burn, the skin tingling where he’d touched her.

Where he’d grabbed her.

Should have hoofed him in the balls. Should have headbutted him. Should have—

She took a long drink and swallowed, feeling the whiskey burn all the way down her throat.

Should have never screwed up in the first place.

She flashed back to the last incident, the one that had broken Matthew’s back.

The kid had no right to be in the club, no right to be there wearing a sub bracelet. He’d flinched at the first smack of the paddle and should have tapped out right then and there, used his safe-word to call her off. Instead, the little punk had waited until she’d halfway tanned his hide before weeping his way out with a few scratches and sores on his skin.

Crybaby went straight to Matthew and ratted me out. As if I was responsible for him not knowing his own limits.

She took another drink.

Not my fault.

Her scorched throat rebelled, and she coughed hard, leaning over the sink.

You could always leave, she pondered between chest-tearing hacks. Go to Montreal, Vancouver or New York. There were plenty of clubs there that would take her in, no questions asked. A new start and no one would know or care as long as you were careful.

Her stomach burned and not only from the booze.

It’d cost too much even for one night. And it’d be one hell of a commute. Leaving the city isn’t an option.

Everything she had was sunk into the café. All her savings, all her nickel-and-dime scrapings including the down payment for the house her father had given her upon graduation she’d put instead into the business.

He’d been pissed as hell.

She had added it to the list of things he’d disapproved of. It was pretty damned long by this point and getting longer every time he called and lectured her on how to run a successful business.

The membership fees for the clubs were the only real luxury she allowed herself. That and her leathers, because no self-respecting Domme would ever show up in anything but.

Veronica washed out the glass and filled it with water.

Best not to get drunk too quickly. You have to find some way out of this.

She drained the first glass and refilled it before walking back to the living room.

The faint aroma of his cologne hung in the air, recalling his spirit.

Veronica sighed. The man was handsome as hell, she’d give him that. Had that warrior look going on with the short hair and the chin stubble. Those eyes, those deep-blue eyes. She could easily fall into those and keep on going.

He was in good shape as well. From the way the shirt sat on his shoulders, she guessed there was a fine set of abs underneath; the jeans—

The jeans held all sorts of potential surprises. When he’d turned to leave, she’d had a great view of his ass.

Definitely grabbable.

And despite his refusal, she could see he’d been interested in her offer. The bulge in the front of his pants signaled she’d gotten through to him, even if he wanted to deny it.

Delicious.

She returned to the memory of his face, strong and solid.

Love to nibble on that. Start at his jaw and keep on working my way around, up and down.

She growled, remembering his reaction to her offer.

Why couldn’t he go along with the game?

It wasn’t as if they both wouldn’t enjoy the sex.

Six weeks of guaranteed hot horizontal mambo, and he turned her down.

Her.

Who the hell is this guy?

She glared at the business card lying on the table, the cream-colored rectangle a ghost against the black wood.

Veronica reached over and slid it toward her with a single index finger, turning it to see the embossed dark letters.

Oliver Greenwood.

A phone number and address in smaller font; email address at the bottom.

She frowned.

Where have I heard that name before?

She snatched up her tablet from the end of the table and flipped the protective cover over.

God bless the Internet.

The search results took only a few seconds.

Oliver Greenwood.

Greenwood Books.

One of the up-and-coming bookstore chains, eating up the remains from the larger companies going under. Good books at good prices and the usual pithy sayings to draw the customers in.

Very successful, if the financial stories were correct.

He was, in a nutshell, darned well off. Not filthy rich, but he wasn’t having yard sales to pay for his club memberships.

Veronica frowned as she studied the screen, flipping through the images.

Why is this guy working for Hooded Pleasures? It can’t be for the money. This is a man who can pick out any woman he wanted to either at the BDSM establishments or at the fancy nightclubs. He can afford to fly to New York City or Los Angeles and buy a one-night membership at any club without blinking an eye.

Why is he whoring himself out for HP?

A series of taps on the screen brought her to the company web page, where Oliver preened in front of a variety of storefronts surrounded by happy, smiling employees.

His personal history lay another few clicks away.

Once you got past the promotional babble, it was pretty plain to see where he came from. Took over the family business a decade ago. Grandfather, father and son expanding the chain from a handful of stores to a decent-sized enterprise.

He’d expanded it into thirty stores in three cities, Toronto, Vancouver and a new start-up in New York City barely a year old.

Veronica let out an annoyed huff.

The company was on the verge of breaking out, and he was playing around at HP being a Dom-for-hire for the lost and dispossessed.

The ache in her stomach disappeared as she continued her search, her curiosity unsated. Another click and Veronica pulled her finger off the screen as if it were on fire. The headline itself was startling.

BOOKSTORE EXECUTIVE INVOLVED IN FATAL CRASH.

She read on, unable to look away from the horrific photographs some bystander had snapped with his cell phone.

The expensive limousine wrapped around a thick oak tree as if it were made of taffy.

A cloth-covered body lying on the asphalt.

Police vehicles circling the accident site like wagons trying to protect it from an enemy attack, chasing off photographers.

A picture of Oliver and Melissa Greenwood at a charity event, smiling as they posed for the camera.

Veronica kept reading.

The investigation showed the driver had lost control of the car due to a flat tire. By itself, it might not have been fatal, but the man had taken allergy medication, and his reactions were slowed, just enough to make him unable to avoid the accident.

The driver needed facial reconstruction from the impact with the windshield.

He survived.

Oliver had survived.

Concussion, bruised spleen and a broken left wrist.

Melissa hadn’t made it.

Internal bleeding, head injuries and a broken rib that had punctured her lung.

Veronica swallowed past the lump in her throat.

The funeral was a week after the accident. Oliver had attended despite misgivings from the hospital. The photograph showed him with a cane, standing at her grave with two nurses hovering nearby, waiting to catch him if he fell.

How horrible.

Veronica scanned the date. It’d taken place three years ago.

Right in the middle of Greenwood Books’ first big leap forward. The couple had been returning from the successful opening of yet another bookstore, their new flagship store in downtown Toronto.

It must have killed him inside. On the night of one of your biggest accomplishments—

She flipped back to the previous images, staring at Melissa Greenwood. Long-legged blonde with flowing waist-length hair and a smile that never stopped being cheerful. They’d been married in their second year of university, both of them studying business.

You didn’t have to look hard to see why Oliver loved Melissa. The woman shone with happiness and sunshine—

Until she died.

Veronica frowned.

So how did you go from grieving widower to working for Hooded Pleasures?

Veronica kept clicking around the links searching for an answer.

If nothing else, you’ll find out when you visit him this weekend.

A shiver crept up her spine at the thought.

This was going to be—intriguing.

She loved a challenge.