Page 60 of Indiscreet

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hands shook my body. “You need to wake up.”

The voice sounded like someone was calling me from the other end of a tunnel. I drew air into my lungs and was hit by pain in my chest and ribs. My cheek hurt, and so did my arms. The memory of how I’d gotten hurt was fuzzy at first, but with every painful breath I took, it became clearer. I had been attacked by Liz’s boyfriend, Marco. He’d been upset that I recognized him and witnessed him going through Dane’s things. His violence was chilling. Poor Liz. She’d been in pain the last time I saw her, when I didn’t listen or insist on helping her.

Pain and remorse ate away at me. She could be hurt badly by now, or worse.

“Here’s an ice pack. I’ll be right back,” said a female voice. Someone pressed cool gel on my face. The drug haze was losing its effect, and now, without effort, I opened my eyes and glanced around. The brightness of the light pouring in through the three large windows in the room took a few seconds to get used to. When my eyes adjusted, I could see a stunning panoramic view of the Golden Gate Bridge and blue skies. I was in San Francisco, but where?

I went to sit up on what I now saw was a four-poster bed and winced. My shirt and jeans were gone, leaving me in my underwear. Bruises stood out on my skin, but I was relieved that nothing had been broken. The band was still on my wrist. Dane and Elliott—they’d probably returned and realized I was gone. Were they looking? They must have thought I left.

If Marco and the guards searched the room, they must’ve found my identification by now, so they know I’m the ex of the governor of Washington and a prominent business owner that was active in the community. They’ll have to let me go.

That was what I kept telling myself as I took in my surroundings. The furnishings were a mixture of imported antiques, though more custom contemporary in styling. The bed I was on was near one of the two stone and marble fireplaces in the room. Each one had custom couches, tables, and lamps surrounding them, all perfectly set. The famous paintings and sculptures with authentications displayed throughout the room led me to believe this place didn’t belong to someone who was just rich, but someone of great wealth. The closing of a door in the far left corner had me turning my attention there. An older woman in an old-fashioned black and white bibbed maid’s uniform wheeled in a portable wardrobe that was twice as big as her. Her gray hair was platted closed to her scalp, making me think of pictures from the 1930s.

“Like my hair? I’ll give yours some style too.” She sat on the bed. “Maybe cover the side of your face to hide the bruise. Honestly, you’re a bit of a mess. I don’t know what you did, but try not to do it again or you’ll attract the wrong man at the trade show.”

“I don’t understand,” I asked. “What’s a trade show?”

“You don’t even know?” she said, flabbergasted. Then she shook her head. “Of course you don’t. What were you promised? Cinderella stories?” She snickered. “You will find out there are no shortcuts in life. Everyone is paying, even those glamorous socialites you worship.”

I opened my mouth and closed it. At one time, I had been one of those socialites she criticized, and in a way, she was right. I’d paid, and I’d built a new life, one I wanted to return to.

“All I know is that I was supposed to leave,” I said after she helped to prop a pillow at my back. “I mean, I went to an Agency mixer and cruise…”

She patted my leg. “Don’t worry, I know everything. Maybe it’ll all come back to you once the sedative wears off.”

“It’s not the drug. I never got an answer on the trade show,” I replied before clearing my throat.

“You were with a man who was taking care of you,” she said. “But if you’ve been put in the pool of women they decided it didn’t work out with them for whatever reason then you’ve been sent to the trade show. You’ll still get your sweet deal, but with another sponsor of sorts.” She spoke with unconcealed repulsion.

“I never asked for a sweet deal or a sponsor,” I groused in frustration. “I’m not supposed to be here. I only went to one mixer—I’m not really a part of it. I had problems with my business and came to work on it with one of the people involved, but then I was forced into coming along. I don’t belong here. I need to get home. Will you please help me? Do you know Dane Westbrook and Elliott Carmichael—”

She held up her hand for me to stop. Her eyes shifted from side to side, and I had to strain my ears to hear her. “Stop speaking. I have no power to help you here, at least not in the way you want.” She pointed to the door and she didn’t have to speak for me to understand that guards were outside.

I mouthed, “Send a message?”

She did a slow shake of her head and I deflated.

“I’ve never heard of those men you mentioned, and you haven’t either,” she cautioned before sighing heavily. “Now, let me help you in a way I can.” She went over to the wardrobe and pulled out a high-collared, long-sleeved evening gown. The front was all lace and the flowing silk of the bottom half was long enough to cover my feet. “This will cover any bruises from what happened to your arm. The sheer material on your breasts will be attractive.”

“I don’t want to attract any of them,” I grumbled.

“I understand, but Mr. Santiago is picking you up in the next hour. You must be ready.” She pulled out a thong and silk stockings for me to wear with the heels that were set out. “You need to get dressed. It’s the only way out without getting hurt. Choose your battles.”

She helped me stand up, but I was conscious and coherent now. I went to change into the lace lingerie and the gown. She entered the bathroom and turned on the faucet.

“I have some e-comply,” she whispered, showing me a tablet in her hand. “It’ll help you to not remember all that they do to you.”

They? My insides crumbled, but I refused, comforting myself by thinking I’d find a way out without her help by getting the information she would share. “What do they do?”

“Mostly sex, maybe try out some toys, spanks, clamps, whips,” she said. “Some even more, but we’ll try to get you to someone kind.” I doubted she’d have any control over who I went to. Besides, her speech seemed practiced, something she probably told many before me to get them to behave, but I wouldn’t, nor would I get past the idea of pain.

“Are some of the men…sadists?” I asked.

“You wish,” she said sadly. “Sadists play with those that are masochists. They play by rules and have limits. Most want to keep playing, not damaging their submissive beyond repair. These men have too much money and power to play around with. They like to raise the stakes for their own enjoyment.”

I gasped and clutched my stomach. I wasn’t leaving with any of them. I will get out, I kept repeating in my head.

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