Chapter Three

The rain pelted Andrea’s head. Still naked and harnessed under her raincoat, she had little protection from the powerful spring deluge. With every step, she stumbled anew, her awkward heels catching in the pock marked shoulder of the asphalt road. It was miles back to her hotel, but she didn’t care. This was what she deserved; this and much, much more.

A horn honked, as a car screeched to a halt just behind her. It was Tom again. For the last half hour, they’d been playing a game of cat and mouse, with him pulling up alongside, trying to get her in the car, and then, when she ignored him, speeding ahead, to try and stop her. After a few minutes of this, he would double back, pull up again and it would start all over.

Tom yelled something, then he was driving again, just behind her, honking and honking. He’d tried to keep her from leaving the condo, and then to give her a ride to her hotel, but she’d refused. What did he expect? That she should be normal and reasonable at a time like this? She’d just ruined her sister’s life, her innocent sister, the one who’d welcomed her with open arms, told her she would share everything, the money, all of it.

What could she ever say to her sister? Sorry, Ash, but when you said you’d share everything, I thought you meant Tom’s cock, too? Andrea shook her sopping head, in a vain attempt to keep the tiny rivers or rain water from running into her mouth. What was wrong with her, anyway? How could she have done this—broken the heart of her long lost twin, the one she never knew she had till two months ago? And why had she gone after Tom in the first place? She could have any man that was no secret, so why choose her sister’s one true love? She’d destroyed a sacred bond, that’s what she’d done, and that made her something less than human. No longer her daddy’s little princess, adored by all and lusted after by males everywhere, Andrea was dirt now. Lower than dirt.

“For God’s sake!” Tom shouted, leaning out his window as he pulled alongside her. “Get in the damned car, will you please!?”

Andrea stuffed her hands in her soggy pockets and doubled her pace. “Go home, Tom.”

He slammed his palms on the wheel and then sped off. A few seconds later, however, she could see him coming towards her again, backing up, looking like he was going to run her over. At the last second, he slammed on the brakes. This time, he opened the door and got out. Marching towards her with an umbrella, wearing shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops hastily thrown on, he put himself directly in her path. “You’re acting like a child, Andrea, get in the fucking car, now.”

She slapped him hard across the cheek. “Don’t tell me how I’m acting, you bastard! Exactly whose dick was that stuck in my ass, anyhow? Now get out of my way, or I’ll kick you in the balls, I swear to God!”

Tom grabbed her arm and she followed through on her threat. He doubled over at once, onto the asphalt. Serves him right, she thought as she walked over him. She did turn back, though, after a quarter mile or so, because he was just the type to actually die out here without help.

She found him leaning against the hood of his car. “Are you okay?”

“Okay?” he growled, spinning round to seize her upper arms. “Now there’s an intelligent question!”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I don’t care. You’re going in this car.”

Andrea tried to kick again, but this time he was ready. In a split second, he had spun them both around and had her pressed back against the car hood. The metal was warm, vibrating with the pulse of the powerful engine. His thigh between her legs, pelvis pinning hers, employing his natural male strength, breath in her face, he said, “Are you ready to get in this car?”

“Fuck me first.”

Tom backed off, like she was an electrical conductor. “What? Are you crazy?”

Andrea tore at her soaked coat. “Why not? It’s not like we have anything to lose.”

He stared open mouthed as she bared her wet body, arching her back over the smooth metal, doing things to herself with her hands. Like a moth to a flame, he went to her, seeking her rain-pelted sex.

“Get a condom,” she said, putting her hands on his chest to halt his advance.

Fortunately for both of them, he had one in the glove compartment. “Just a minute!” he called from the front seat, scrambling to put it on. This kind of protection was a necessity for Andrea, for reasons beyond the obvious. It was her father who’d drilled into her a special, almost mystical idea of conception and of keeping one’s womb pure for the right person.

“When you find the man whose children you’ll bare, give yourself to him unconditionally,” he’d told her long before she understood the meaning of the words. “Not before, and never again afterwards with another.”

“Not this way,” she told Tom, when he tried to mount her on the hood. “I want you to take me down there.”

He looked down into the ravine where she was pointing. “But it’s all muddy,” he said, his voice a pathetic whine.

She grabbed the collar of his t-shirt. “That’s right, Tom,” she smiled sarcastically. “I want you to actually be a man and force me down there, then I want you to make me lie down in the mud and fuck me like the whore I am. Think you can handle that?”

He swore at her, but he did what she wanted, pulling her by the wrist as he stumbled over the edge of the lonely roadway. The ground squished beneath them as they walked.

“Here!” she cried when the cool, thick ooze was as deep as their ankles. “Force me, here!”

She didn’t wait for him to act. Pulled down on top of her, Tom landed with a thud. “Fuck me!” she hissed. “Like an animal.”

He plunged into her, but not before rechecking the condom’s positioning on his still preserved erection. His motions were furious, like a piston, and he grunted with satisfaction, finishing himself off in seconds. She looked at his face. Simple bastard. What man wouldn’t want to use a woman like this, taking no responsibility for her feelings? Well, it’s what she deserved, that was for sure.

To increase her punishment, she’d taken no pleasure in the act herself, allowing him to rut and puff and finally shoot himself off. Her lack of passion didn’t seem to diminish Tom’s enjoyment any, however. Funny, how she’d never noticed this before, she thought, how little he cared about her reactions.

“Shit,” he muttered as he climbed off. “Look at me, I’m a mess. I’ll never get this crap off my shoes. Come on,” he urged, “let’s get out of here.”

Andrea refused his extended hand. “Leave me here,” she said.

He laughed. “Are you insane? Look around—there could be wild dogs out here, or worse.”

“Good. I hope I’m raped to death by a pack of wild dogs or worse.”

Tom spat out a healthy batch of curse words, then stooped to pick her up.

“Let go!” she squealed, squirming in his arms.

He threw her over his shoulder, showing surprising strength. “No. I’m taking you back home to get you cleaned up.”

How gallant, she thought, cynically. He probably just wanted another round with her, a nice two-hour blowjob while he watched the sports channel. And why not? Didn’t they say that rabid dogs could smell out a bitch in heat miles away? Should she be surprised that someone like him would size her up, exploit her slutty nature yet again? Sure, she’d go home with him, and eagerly, too.

“This is for your own good,” he declared, laying her across the backseat and covering her with a blanket so no one would see her for the drive home. “You’ll see.”

***

Ashley was enjoying the drive. And getting the hang of Andrea’s peppy little car, to boot. It was a good thing, too, because the club listed on Andrea’s matchbook was in a part of town Ashley had never been. She’d need all her skills. There might even be danger involved. All the better, she thought grimly, to mark her debut into a new life, a new identity as a true pain slut. She hoped she’d find the way. The directions, along with the matchbook itself were still on her dresser. She’d forgotten them before she left, having been distracted by Libby’s tears. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her mother, but everything was so unclear all of a sudden.

Turning Andrea’s car efficiently to the left, Ashley entered the Cross-town expressway. She’d be going over two bridges and into the heart of the city, into a section well out of her familiar little world. Funny, she’d never thought of her life as sheltered till tonight. Nothing was as it seemed, she mused, watching the rain bead on the windshield. Here she was, raised by the perfect mother, sent to all the best schools, groomed to marry a banker’s son, a good steady mate who’d give her a happy home of her own, bringing her children who could visit their grandparents every weekend.

But Andrea had ruined all that. Upset the apple cart, shattered the dream, whatever cliché you wanted to use. Oh, how she needed some gum. No. Another drink, that was it. At the club, maybe she’d order something for herself. She didn’t like drinking, and she wished Tom wouldn’t either. Better still, she wished he’d put his foot down where she was concerned, say no to her sometimes, like the night they went to dinner to celebrate Andrea’s arrival, and he’d let her drink three glasses of champagne. She’d been so out of it, she’d had Tom take Andrea back and leave her in the lounge.

Why didn’t Tom ever say no to her? she wondered, swerving to the left lane to avoid a perilously slow junker. Why didn’t he ever care enough to ask where she’d been, or comment on her wardrobe, what he’d like to see, etc? And why had he never once just taken her in his arms and made her kiss him, cutting her off in mid sentence and not releasing her till she was doe eyed, docile and attentive to his every need?

A tractor-trailer swooped in from behind flashing its high beams impatiently, and in the blaze of light, Ashley had a vision. A vision of herself in Tom’s bed, in Andrea’s place. Only she wouldn’t do those disgusting things willingly like her sister. She’d have to be forced to dress that way. Made to strip off her decent clothes and put on that humiliating, outrageous get up, made to go to bed that way, so Tom could play his sick games with her. And it would all start with that one kiss, the one that would be sprung on her open, talking mouth, that kiss that would change everything.

“You made my dick hard, Ashley,” he would say when he released her, breathless and woozy. “Now you have to do something about it. Take off your clothes, Ash, it’s time for you to slip into something a lot less comfortable. Like a collar and…

A surge of electricity shot down Ashley’s spine as she thought again about the whip she’d seen on the bed, next to Ashley’s stocking clad thigh. The little black one, in plain sight. She wondered if it was like the one her mother had carried clenched between her teeth, the one she had learned to fear and respect, the one she’d told her daughter she yearned for in her dreams, even now.

A whip! How absurd. Imagine it. Tom, catching Ashley at something that irritated him—talking too much maybe, or beating him all the time at tennis—and her having to face the punishment, having to endure on her own tender flesh a device meant for a horse. How would he do it? Would he tie her up, or make her face the wall, her palms against it as he struck her, again and again. Or maybe he would simply use his hand to discipline her, taking her over his lap, like a school girl, making her wear that little pleated uniform skirt she had in catholic high school, so he could pull down her panties, baring her pink, wriggling cheeks.

Ashley had exited the highway by now, and was using her near photographic memory to find the correct side streets. Thoughts of whips, thoughts of spanking and leather persisted. She laughed at her own ideas, at how silly they were. No, she decided, parking a short ways down from the seedy looking smoked glass and neon covered structure known as The Edge, I’m not like them at all. I’m nothing like Libby or Andrea.

As if they cared!

She slammed the car door. Heels clicking on the cracked pavement, she considered the odds of death or dismemberment for a girl in her position, a single girl, provocatively dressed on a dark, sinister street, filled with alley ways populated by yellow faceless eyes peering out of every nook and cranny. Those odds didn’t seem good—that was for sure.

Ashley stepped over a sleeping drunk, trying to avoid soiling her favorite suede shoes. The neon beckoned ahead, and she could hear the tinny beat of cheap rock and roll music. The man guarding the door of The Edge—and she saw now it was a bar, not a club—looked like an original Hell’s Angel. Barely shifting on his stool, massive biceps still evident under rolls of fat beneath his shirtless leather vest, the bearded man looked her up and down, then asked for ID.

Ashley said thank you when he handed it back and made a point of smiling. He just puckered his lips in a bored way and pulled down his leather cap, like he was going to take a nap. He seemed pretty vigilant, though, and she could see the sides of his eyes following her as she opened the painted glass door and went inside.

She’d half expected him to recognize her and call her Andrea, but he hadn’t. Maybe he didn’t know her. Or maybe he was pretending not to. It was very smoky inside and the smell of alcohol and cigarettes was nearly overpowering. From the few faces she could make out, scarred, cragged and surly, it was not a friendly place. It was also very far from being the sort of ironic, avant-garde nightclub she’d hoped for.

Clutching her spare purse, feeling both horribly naked and terribly overdressed at the same time, she made her way to the bar. A woman with spiked hair and a dog collar twice the size of her sister’s took her order. The woman never heard of any of Ashley’s brands of water, so she settled for a beer. Ashley said thank you very much, wishing she had a few minutes in private to give the girl some tips on her makeup. All that black on her lips and eyebrows just didn’t suit her coloring at all.

Sipping from the bottle as delicately as she could, Ash tried to take in her surroundings. The bar was narrow and very long. There were tables and she noticed now that interspersed with the biker types were some men in suits. Interesting. A lot of them were looking down to the back, where there appeared to be some kind of stage. Yes, it was a stage. With a pole and colored lights. A loud cheer went up as a blonde with a staggeringly large chest waltzed onto the wood surface wearing a silver two-piece outfit with hanging tassels.

Pretending to be interested, and trying not to peel the label of her bottle (an action she’d once read in a magazine was a signal used by women to show sexual need) Ashley made the best of the show. It was an experience, after all. People were looking at her, though, particularly men, and when she’d catch them at it, they’d just grin or wink instead of being ashamed, which they should have been. Plus, she was pretty sure the man next to her, just behind her left shoulder, was blowing kisses, though she didn’t dare look.

“Hey, you,” called a gruff voice, in accented Australian. “Yea, mate, I’m talking to you.”

Ashley sighed in relief when she realized that the man wasn’t calling her, but the gentleman next to her, the one with the kissing problem.

“What do I want? How ‘bout you pissing off and leaving the lady alone, okay bloke?” she heard the Australian say. Unable to resist, she stole a peek at her newfound hero.

The Australian was a pale, muscular crew cut blonde who was wearing a very nice button down shirt with rolled sleeves and a loosened tie. He looked like a swimmer. He had two friends, she noticed, also well dressed and muscular, which meant the fellow harassing her didn’t stand a chance. One or two grumbles later and he was gone, not a shot fired.

“Round of brews for my mates,” he told the bartender, moving into the newly vacated space next to Ashley. “And one for the lady.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she smiled demurely, trying to seem neither interested nor ungrateful.

“Sheila, you’re more than fine,” he grinned, running his hand down her back.

“I beg your pardon?!” she squealed.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, ignoring her protest as he rubbed a hand over his handsome chin. “You’re Kitty. No! Not Kitty. Andrea, right?”

She bit her lip. The man knew her, or her sister at any right. As for calling her Sheila, Ash was pretty sure that was down under slang for any girl.

“Yes, that’s right,” she nodded, trying to sound natural.

One of the others, taller and prematurely balding, smacked the Aussie on the back. “Jesus, don’t you even remember the names of the girls you shag?”

Shag. That meant intercourse, in English slang. She learned that her junior year of high school from an exchange student.

“Hey! I was drunk at the time!” the Aussie protested good-naturedly.

“Well that’s no way to impress a lady,” the Englishman declared, focusing his rather small and intense hazel eyes on Ashley. “I apologize for my friend’s rudeness. So tell me, have the marks healed over yet?”

Ashley nearly dropped the bottle. He wasn’t smiling. This was no joke. These men had obviously done things to her sister. Wicked things. Blushing heavily under their curious gaze, she lowered her eyes to the floor.

“Now who’s a pig?” bellowed the third man, an American, his black hair slicked back in a neat ponytail. This one was built like a wrestler with massive biceps under his black silk shirt. “It’d serve her right if she told you both to go fuck yourselves!” he declared, elbowing his way forward. “As near as I can tell, that makes her all mine tonight.”

Ashley was rendered speechless as this huge man stepped up, took her bottle, set it on the bar and put his hands on her waist. “How about a little kiss, Andrea?”

“Knock it off,” the Australian told him lightly. “The lady told you last time, no kissing.”

He snapped his fingers, like he was annoyed with himself. “Oh, right, I forgot. Well how about a blow job, then?”

“H—here?” Ashley croaked.

There was a moment of awkward silence, then they were all three laughing. “’H—here!’ That’s a good one!” the Wrestler agreed, snaking an arm behind Ashley to give her a congratulatory squeeze on her buttocks.

Ashley nearly leaped out of her skin.

“Okay, okay,” said the Englishman, “enough nonsense. Andrea, how about we go in back for some fun, eh?”

“Party time!” the Aussie yelped, throwing his hands in the air.

Before Ashley could mount any objection, they were shepherding her though the crowd, one each on her arms, the third in front to clear the way. She was able to see a lot more things now, close up, and they were none too reassuring. One girl, wearing a leather bra, had a chain on her neck, a long one, the end of which was wrapped round the fist of the man she was sitting with. He was some kind of punk rocker, and he was sound asleep, leaning against the wall. Another woman, with a tattoo on her backside was doing some sort of dance with a man, one that involved him smacking her ass repeatedly with his hand.

On stage now, there was a brunette, tied to a chair as two other girls tickled her with feathers. That wasn’t too bad, she thought, as they led her to what looked like an exit door guarded by an even bigger Hell’s Angel. This time, there was no talk of IDs. A large bill was produced from the Aussie’s wallet, and the man moved to the wall to punch in a code on a keypad. Just as the lock released, there was a voice behind them.

“Is everything all right here?”

The three men had their backs up at once. The newcomer was older than them, close to forty-five by Ashley’s estimates, and though he was sharply featured and quite healthy, he lacked their bulk.

“That depends on you, my friend,” the Wrestler told him, pointing a beefy finger.

The man smiled thinly, unperturbed by the vast sea of testosterone around him. “My concern is the young woman. How about it?” he asked Ashley. “Are you okay?”

She met his gaze. It was deep, complicated, penetrating. For a split second she wanted to start crying and say no, it wasn’t okay, it was all a terrible, awful mistake, and she shouldn’t even be here at all. “I’m okay,” she said at last.

He considered for a moment, then inclined his head to the three. “Very well, then.”

Ashley was still looking at him over her shoulder, with his silk pants, open shirt and elegant jacket. There was a trace of silver in his hair, which she found attractive. The eyes were silver blue, with flecks of light in them. The accent was very faint. He might have been an Englishman like the balding man, though he’d probably lived abroad many years. His eyes were still on her as the steel door slammed shut behind them. It was dark, except for emergency lights along the wall. Ashley shivered in the damp, cool air. It must have been some kind of service way. She could hear the hum of machinery.

They hustled her down the corridor, which was rounded and made of something like concrete. There were doors along the way, all windowless, to the left and right, with numbers spray painted above them.

“Got to love this dungeon effect,” the Australian commented, as they stopped in front of one of them.

“A bit gimmicky if you ask me,” the Englishman sniffed as he punched in a code on yet another keypad. Ashley watched the display message change from ‘unoccupied’ to ‘occupied’.

The Wrestler, who talked like he was from Chicago or New York, was the first to open the door.

“Whatever,” he grumbled. “Just get her in here and get her freakin’ clothes off.”

The Australian hustled Ashley forward over the threshold, with a cupped hand on her buttocks. “You heard the man. Start stripping, sheila!”

Ashley gasped audibly when she saw what was inside. It looked like some kind of torture chamber, complete with a rack, chains hanging from the ceiling and some kind of padded table with straps on it. There were even whips on the wall, big ones like you saw at the circus. In the far corner, looking very out of place, was a brass bed, with fresh sheets. It might have been humorous, seeing something so incongruous, except that it wasn’t funny, considering what it implied under the circumstances: namely that they intended to hurt her and then have sex with her. Three of them. On one girl.

“Like the bed?” the Aussie crooned in her ear from behind, his hands up under her dress, creeping down into her panties. “It was my idea. A little touch of class, right?”

The Wrestler was in her face, looking mean and apparently trying to play some version of bad cop worse cop with his buddy. “Yea, it’s a friggin’ bed, but you got to earn the right to be used on it, capeesh?”

His hands on her breasts were foul, invasive, and yet she was still not resisting. What was she waiting for? Was she going to follow Andrea’s path to the end, letting herself be scarred, defaced or even worse?

“You like that?” he demanded moving one hand to her bare thigh. “Does that turn you on?”

“Of course it does,” snapped the Englishman, already stripped to his briefs. “That’s why she’s here. Now are we going to get her on the rack, or what?”

The Wrestler cast a hard glance. “I’m doing something here, you mind?”

The Englishman threw his hands in the air in disgust. “Bloody wonderful! I’ve a raging hard on and I’ve got to go and bloody draw the short straw!”

The Wrestler chuckled, enjoying the role of king of the roost. Rubbing a beefy finger on Ashley’s cheek, he sneered, “Now where were we?”

Ashley felt the blood pounding in her head. The Wrestler had been on the verge of invading the veneer of her panties. Had he done so—much to her horror and confusion—he would have found dampness. Sexual heat.

“You were going to make her take her clothes off,” the Aussie said, or rather drooled, his still sheathed cock prodding her from behind. “And if she doesn’t, we’re going to have to punish her.”

“Blah, blah, and fucking blah!” she heard the Englishman call out, apparently dissatisfied with the direction of the evening. “Enough talk. When are we gonna get some action going?”

A chill went down Ashley’s spine as she saw him idly flicking a very long whip, like a coiled snake, practically fondling the thing in the process. Clearly he intended to subject her to it, to strike her with it, perhaps until she cried for mercy.

The Wrestler grabbed Ashley’s cheeks between his fingers, forcing her to look back at him. “Don’t worry about him, okay? I’m the one to worry about. You do everything I say, when I say, and I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt, okay?”

Ashley nodded.

“Terrific game, isn’t it?” the Aussie whispered enthusiastically, continuing to caress her bare ass under the imported silk panties.

A game. Was that what it was? Of course it was; these were law abiding men, playing by rules no doubt set by Andrea herself. Only she wasn’t Andrea.

“The dress. Take it off, now.”

The final command issued, the Wrestler folded his arms, waiting. He did not seem like a man used to hearing no from anyone, especially not from a female. He’d been patient with her so far, really he had. From his perspective, he was dealing with a woman who’d already given herself, allowing her body to be seen and played with and abused. Now she’d come back, displaying herself in scanty clothes. They were men. They had rights and they wouldn’t expect to be ignored or made fools of by a mere girl.

Besides, her panties were wet. For whatever reason, it was true. And when they found this out, if they had to strip her by force, they’d be angry, on account of her holding back, acting aloof, when moisture in the crotch was an established sign of her complicity. Ashley had the hem of the dress in her crossed hands, ready to pull it over her head when she heard the door open.

“What the—?” The Wrestler pushed Ashley aside, moving to confront the invader. The others were right behind him.

When Ashley turned, she saw it was the man from upstairs. The silk shirted gentleman pirate. Her heart did a little flip. Had he come all this way, for her?

“Look pal, I don’t know who you think you are,” the Wrestler menaced, “but you’re about to be a dead man!”

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, his stance as unwavering as his eyes. “But I have come to re-pose my question to the lady.”

Ashley rushed forward, falling head long against his chest. “Yes!’ she cried. “I mean, no, in answer to your question before, I’m not okay now. I’d like to leave.”

“Unbloody believable!” the Englishman roared, throwing up his hands again. “Can you believe this?” he asked the Wrestler, who was standing very still.

“Calm down, will you?” the Aussie said. “Just let her go.”

“Not so fast.” The Wrestler was moving to grab Ashley’s arm, but the silk shirted stranger moved faster than anyone anticipated. Lashing out with a flying sideways chop and kick, he knocked the Wrestler to his knees. When the others moved in to defend him, they too found themselves promptly on the ground. Dazed and confused, they just glared at him.

“No harm done,” the man said graciously, though his stance was still all business. “Provided that is, you gentlemen move along quietly.”

The Aussie laughed nervously, rising to brush off his knees. “No problem, mate. We were fancying a round of darts elsewhere, anyway.”

The Wrestler scowled, but he hadn’t a word to say on his way out. The Englishman was right behind him, still trying to put on his trousers.

“Unbloody believable!” he kept saying all the way down the hall.

“Oh, sir,” Ashley exclaimed after they were gone. “How can I ever thank you?”

He shook his head. “It isn’t necessary to thank me. I apologize for not coming sooner. It wasn’t till I spoke to the doorkeeper about your license that it became apparent to me this was a case of mistaken identity. The man may seem slothful, but he never forgets a face, or a name.” He extended his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Simon Rice. And you are—I believe—Ashley are you not?”

She laughed, her face reddening at his good-natured treatment of the mix up. “I am, yes,” she agreed, giving him her hand. “Do you know my sister, then?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure, though I’m told she is your spitting image. But tell me, are you injured in any way?”

Ashley swooned at the feel of his hand still grasping hers. “Hmm? No, no,” she managed, feeling a bit lost at the sensation of having his strong yet surprisingly gentle fingers wrapped round her own more delicate ones. “They didn’t hurt me. It was my fault, you know. They thought I was her. Andrea.”

Simon’s brow furrowed. “Even so, there was no cause for laying hands on a woman against her will. None whatsoever.”

She blushed again, this time because of his piercing gaze, the unflinching power of his stare.

“Are you in need of a ride home, Ashley?”

“I have a car. But I don’t want to go home.”

He smiled very slightly, straightening the cuff of his shirt. “I would offer to buy you a drink, though I think that would be inappropriate under the circumstances.”

“No! It wouldn’t!” she blurted, drawing a curious look. “I mean, I would love to have a drink with you, Simon. In fact, I should buy you one to say thank you!”

“Agreed,” he said, holding his arm out for her. “Shall we go, then?”

Ashley tucked her arm in his, delighting at once in his lean physique. They continued in light conversation as they walked, his each remark more wonderful than the last. If there was ground underneath them on the way to his limo, she never felt it.

An hour later, the time melting like snow in spring, Ashley found herself tucked into a corner nook at an all night café, gazing over candlelight telling her life story to a stranger. She even shared things no one else knew, like about Tom and Andrea and her mother. Why was she trusting him this way? Was it because he’d rescued her, or was it something deeper—like maybe he reminded her of her father, or what she imagined a father of hers should be like? But there was more to it; hot little feelings, like pin pricks on her bare arms, feelings born of the way he made her laugh and how he was so protective, feelings that were not paternal at all.

“More wine, please,” she said effusively, somewhere in the middle of a discussion of the best ski resorts in Switzerland.

His brow seemed to knit ever so slightly and he grew strangely somber.

“Tell me, Ashley,” he said at last. “What is it you want from life?”

“What an odd question,” she laughed. “Where on earth did that come from?”

He shrugged. “Idle curiosity, I suppose. Then again, don’t you find it interesting that you talk about everyone else in your life as though they were doing things to you over which you have no control?”

Ashley felt herself redden. How was it he could see so deep, so fast? These were things she didn’t like to think of, let alone speak about. She took a gulp from her glass, emptying it. He’d caught her off guard. Up to now he’d been the perfect listener, making no judgments at all, even when she’d told him the terrible secrets of her family. She’d felt safe with him, dammit, and now he was starting to pry.

“I wanted wine,” she said curtly. “Are you going to order me another glass or not?”

“No.”

Ashley gasped. The word struck her like a ball of heat, landing in her gut, but racing downward, settling in other parts. She put down her glass. “Are you telling me I can’t have anymore to drink?”

Simon regarded her impassively, his dimpled chin firmly set. Ashley’s own chin was tremoring. A whole river of conflicting emotions surged through her. Resentment, anger, betrayal and hurt. What nerve he had to imply she was some kind of lush. Cutting her off like he owned her!

Then again, weren’t you the one complaining that your boyfriend wasn’t strong enough to make you stop drinking at Andrea’s party? And didn’t you fantasize on the way to the club tonight about finding someone who would?

Ashley frowned. She hated her conscience, she really did.

“I’m ready to go,” she announced, planting her drained glass on the center of the table as conspicuously as possible.

Simon made no move to rise. “Put your hands on the table, Ashley. Palms up.”

She blinked. Had he heard nothing she’d said?

“Were my words unclear?” he asked.

She shot him a hateful glance. “No,” she said, putting her hands where he wanted them.

“Towards the center of the table. Lean forward. Good.”

Ashley had to press her belly against the edge of the table. The position rendered her breasts painfully vulnerable.

“I want you to shut your eyes, Ashley. Good. Now I want you to begin to pay attention to your breathing. Block out every sound but the tone of my voice. Can you do this?”

“I’ll try,” Ashley whispered, not at all sure why she was doing this.

“You are on an island, washed ashore from a shipwreck, Ashley,” he told her, placing his hands over hers, his fingers tracing lines on her open palms as his voice began to work its melodious charms. “A storm crushed the bow of the ship and you barely escaped with your life. Around you, you saw men die, strong men. The sea took everything. Every hope, every dream. You are lucky to be alive, Ashley, lucky to be breathing, wet and grateful, barefoot on the shore.”

“Barefoot,” she whispered, slipping off her pumps, the texture of his voice, his probing fingers having become her world.

“What are you wearing, Ashley?”

She licked her lips, wriggled her stockinged toes. She could feel it, see it, as if she were there. “A dress,” she exclaimed. “Long and flowing, but it clings to me now, because it is wet.”

“Wet from the sea. Damp and salty. I want you to taste the saltwater, Ashley. Can you taste it?”

“Yes.”

“Your hair hangs limp about you, you are barefoot, defenseless, scarcely clothed, and you have lost everything. Your family, your betrothed, your dowry, all of it was upon that ship, bound for the New World. You are alone, utterly alone. Exiled by the sea, by the thundering waves, which rose to swallow your life, but then spared it, inexplicably. Choking waves, killing waves. But they have spared you. An eye in the midst of the storm. Tempest encircles you, girdles you. You wade onto the land, waves lapping at your thighs, and then your knees, and finally your calves. Thirsty, hungry, Ashley, breathless, glad to be alive. The beating sun, and the wind, lightly caressing your pale, unaccustomed skin. Green everywhere, trees and raw vegetation . Nothing at your back but the sea wall, and in front of you warmth and greenery. Under your feet there is only sand.”

“Sand,” she whispered. “I think I can feel it, on my toes.”

He seized her hands. “Don’t think anymore, Ashley. Don’t speak. Make it real. The sea. The sun, beating on salty damp skin. The waves, caressing your calves, your thighs. Everything else is behind you, nothing is left. Stop looking back! There’s something on the island what is it?”

Ashley tried to free her hands. She wanted to please him, so much, but if she said the wrong thing again he would be mad at her.

“Ashley! Quickly what do you see. There. Coming out of the trees. Can you see?”

It was Simon’s voice, but a deeper one in her own soul was echoing the words. She had to go back into the ocean. The storm might kill her but better to die than to look any further. She was running, the hem of her dress high in the air, back into the surf, the waves crashing on her tender breasts, the salt wafting into her mouth, choking her. She screamed, as a white cap crashed over her head. She was drowning, gurgling.

Ashley, why do you run? What you will see if you turn back to the island is going to be whatever you want to see. The choice is yours, and yours alone. It is going to be whatever you most want, whatever you most fear.

Ashley clamored for the dry land once more, arms and legs flailing. She was exhausted, going under, but at the last second, under her belly, the dress torn and useless, she felt the sand once more. She’d been washed ashore. Laughing, crying, she rose to her knees, shaking the spray from her hair and looking to see what it was she would see. She laughs like a girl, so free. She can see whatever she wants.

Ashley sucked in her breath.

It was a man. Shirtless, in pantaloons, masked. The last thing she remembered, before losing consciousness was the way he was moving towards her and how, in his hands casually, but very purposefully, he was uncoiling a long rope.

I’m going to be raped, she told herself, in that odd, calm little voice you use inside for something impossible but true.

Ashley awoke again briefly, sometime later, with a dim awareness of someone carrying her into an elevator and then up to the top floor, across the threshold to a secret penthouse.