Page 17 of Binding Their Hearts

“No specific attire is required, Ms. Driscoll. Our meeting today is merely to ascertain whether we will move forward with plans for a commissioned piece.” He gestured toward the settee, though rightly she ought to have done so as the hostess. The sooner they sat, the sooner he could disabuse her of her notions, and hopefully end her dramatic performance. “Shall we sit and speak awhile?”

“If that’s what you want, Master—Mr. Webb. Of course.” She passed close enough to catch him in the wash of silk and perfume, a strong floral bouquet lingering in her wake. With exaggerated slowness, she sat primly on the edge of the settee and smoothed the drape of her coverup. She patted the pale cushion beside her. “Come, sit, and tell me of your art. What pleasure you must give your subjects.”

He reclaimed the chair opposite and lifted his notepad, running his finger along the side of the leather case. “Elliott tells me you have a portrait in mind, Ms. Driscoll. Is there something specific you wish to capture?”

“You’re quite adept at evasion, Mr. Webb.”

Her calculating, avaricious eyes as she studied him revealed more than if she had taken the ambiguous conversational opening he’d left her. A less manipulative—or less practiced—submissive on the prowl would have bluntly revealed their intention to capture a new dominant. He’d had his fair share of those inquiries over the years. “Merely focused on my art.”

“And rejection.” Leaning forward, she exposed the deep gap down the front of her nightgown. Slowly, suggestively, she rubbed the smoothly polished wood of the low table between them. “You haven’t accepted my hospitality with a drink, nor kissed my hand or sat beside me, nor used my first name despite the explicit invitation. I might think you don’t enjoy my company.”

“I’ve yet to experience your company.” If this woman became a client, he could conceivably be spending hours with her. The knowledge weighed heavily against her in the consideration of whether to accept the commission at all. He rapped his pen against the thick paper with a satisfying thunk. “I might think you are shopping for something other than an artist.”

“Do roles need such sharp definitions in fluid situations?” Flouncing back with a sigh, she spread her arms along the top of the settee. Her coverup parted, sliding off her crossed knees. “One thing may lead to another, may it not?”

“In this instance, it may not.” He kept his voice unyielding but level. The lead had come from the art unveiling at the club last month, but this potential client might have made assumptions without inquiring about his relationship status. “Is there a commission you wish to discuss?”

“Yes, yes. So businesslike. Brusque. The girls at the club say you’re kind and considerate, willing to help out masterless submissives.” She tried to pin him with her stare, but her gaze lacked a flinty edge. “I’m between masters myself just now.”

He held his face neutral; if she meant for her behavior to goad him into dominating her, she would be sorely disappointed. “I teach monthly classes to introduce submissives to the club experience, yes. If you feel you are deficient in the fundamentals, the classes are open to all.”

“Deficient.” She pulled air through her teeth, emitting a soft teakettle whistle. “I do like to be hurt, Mr. Webb, but that may go too far. You teach fascinating things there, I’m sure. Some women need a more advanced curriculum. Something…” In shifting her weight, she thrust her chest forward. The sapphire peignoir set did give the room a pop of color. A tactic she used often, perhaps, not unlike an angler fish offering its luminescent lure. “Personalized.”

“That is a subject you’ll need to take up with someone else. My advanced curriculum is spoken for.” In a few short hours he would be enjoying another lesson with his prize pupils, introducing new elements to enhance Alice and Jay’s experience. The wonder of their discovery would enhance his own.

“Those little pets who follow you about? They can’t possibly provide the challenge a man like you desires.”

“Can’t they.” He slid the pen into its loop at the top of the case. A thousand apologies could spill from her lips, and still he would refuse to do work of any sort for Irene Driscoll.

“Don’t get me wrong—we all know the tragic tale of your little lost boy. How exciting it must have been, rescuing him from the clutches of a fiendish brute.” Her eyes sparkled as if she might feast on Jay’s pain as well as her own. “A little bird told me he showed up at one of Emma’s teas, still skittish years later, cowering beside the plaything you’ve gotten him.”

He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, lest he unleash a scathing indictment that would only serve to expose Jay as a suitable target for baiting him. Gossiping wrens, speaking out of turn after pledging to hold their confidences at tea. If attendees couldn’t abide by the rules, he would need to alert Emma to prune her guest list.

“Why not cut them loose and share your talents again?” Ms. Driscoll traced the edge of her plunging neckline, coy and challenging. “I’ve heard you used to throw a whip with as much skill as Master Victor himself. I never did have the joy of being at the end of his lash, but you could make me your victim. Can they do that for you, those little pets of yours?”

He closed the notepad gently, settling the cover in place with barely a whisper of sound as he rose. An icy chill descended his body, smothering the dragonfire her casual dismissal stoked. As if Alice and Jay meant nothing to him. As if their claim on him, their right to every iota of his love and devotion, existed only in his imagination. “Ms. Driscoll. It seems we will not be able to do business on this or any other day.”

As she shot to her feet, her coverup fluttered to the settee. “You don’t like me naughty?” The silk spilled over the side in a brilliant blue waterfall, sliding until it puddled on the rug. “I can behave, Master Henry. Punish me. You’ll see. I have whips upstairs. Would you like that?”

Punish me. Please. I need it.

The voice came from long ago and far away, hoarse with tears.

The arctic chill invaded his speech. “What I enjoy is irrelevant to this conversation. I am neither your master nor your artist. Our meeting is concluded.”

Ignoring all further calls, he swept out of the house and down the outer steps to his car, waiting for him in the circular drive.

The grounds of the Elm Bank gardens sprawled out before him. He’d departed the grasping woman’s estate in restrained haste and driven aimlessly, passing the Needham Forest where Jay often went mountain biking on weekends—though less so now that their social calendar had expanded—and wound up at the quieter botanic garden. A pleasant and familiar haunt for sketching, but his tools rested untouched beside him.

He sat in the parking lot with the windows down, taking the crisp fall air into his lungs. The fierce, territorial fire yet smoldered in his belly; a mental reset would be necessary before he ventured home to greet his loves. He had time yet. Thirty minutes to drive home, give or take. His phone lay on the passenger seat; he’d left a voicemail for Elliott closing the door on any work for Irene Driscoll. She would be banned from his client list henceforth. Emma he would speak to personally tomorrow, after his morning class.

That ought to have ended his ire. He held the power to choose his projects. The woman was nothing more than an irritant, a fly at a picnic. He’d encountered more obnoxious members of the community by far. No, this growling challenge in him stemmed not from her pathetic prodding but from within. Some truth he had left unconfronted.

A luxury, to have degrees he’d never bent to a purpose beyond self-knowledge. The wisdom of the classics and philosophy, the revelation of art therapy—both would serve him here, as they often did, offering calm and guidance.

He gazed into the distance, a lush greenscape flecked with the promise of autumn, a season of beauty and change. His breath swept in and out, the sensation slow and acknowledged, his mind settling until a single word rose to the top and floated on the current: Profane.

Ah.

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