The Dom's Dungeon

Chapter Three

Panting from her dash up the stairs, MacKensie entered her bedroom and locked the door behind her. Not that there was much point since the guy probably had a key to every room in the house.

The bastard.

In the bathroom, she tossed her clothing into the bathtub. It landed with a wet splat.

She glanced in the mirror and rolled her eyes at the vision of beauty: face dead white, hair in tangles, tear streaks. Then again, she should look at the bright side; if she'd worn makeup, her mascara would have been all over her cheeks.

The bastard.

Speaking of which. She dropped the blanket and turned to check her backside. Fiery red handprints marked the white skin of her bottom. Her teeth ground together as another wave of shame ran through her.

He had no right to do that…

She touched her butt carefully, hissing a little at the sting. To her surprise, she saw he'd left no welts or bruises, and she realized he hadn't been totally brutal. His grip had been firm enough to hold her and had eased when she stopped struggling. No, he'd administered a carefully controlled spanking, and somehow that made him scarier than an out-and-out brute.

Didn't matter. She wasn't staying, and she didn't have time to wallow in self-pity. After rinsing the sweat and tear streaks off her face, she dragged on a T-shirt and jeans, then repacked her suitcase.

I am so out of here. And then what? Mac closed her eyes as worries piled higher and higher like thunderclouds before a storm. Worries that all started with the letter m for money.

Obviously she should have sold the house Jim had left her before coming here. She huffed a laugh. Face it. She'd been too insecure to put all her eggs in the Seattle basket; she hadn't wanted to give up the house until she knew she had a job.

But her lack of confidence had screwed her up now. She had no money, dammit. After paying funeral expenses, she'd barely managed to scrounge up enough money for the airfare and car rental.

She couldn't—wouldn't—ever regret helping Jim before he died. Nothing would ever repay what he and Mary had done for her; what were money and time? Her eyes burned with tears. What she wouldn't do to have them back again.

But they'd packed up and moved to heaven, leaving her all alone…and really, really broke. She'd thought she'd gotten such a lucky break to get to stay in this house while she looked for a job. Before leaving Iowa, she'd lined up interviews with vet clinics for the next two weeks, but now she had nowhere to stay and no money for a hotel room. Maybe she could sleep in her car? But since she didn't own a cell phone, she'd used the phone here as her contact number.

She'd so looked forward to moving to Seattle and starting a new life where no one knew her. A life surrounded by animals that gave back every bit of the affection they received. Being a veterinarian was the best job in the world…if she could find a position.

Fontaine had said he'd discuss alternatives to the legal route. What did he mean by that? If she sneaked out, would he really report her? Would he try to keep her from getting a job? She eyed the antique furniture, the leaded glass panes in the window, the Oriental carpet. Money. And money meant power. He could probably keep her from getting any job in the area with just a word.

Maybe she could go somewhere else? Only that might prove difficult. She closed her eyes, thinking of the hours she'd put in researching the clinics here, applying for jobs, sending out résumés, and setting up interviews. She could do all that again…if she had a phone, her computer and printer, and time. To try to accomplish all that from the back of a car, with no food or phone or money?

Desolation hit, sucking her down into the depths, and then she fought back out. Blinking back tears, she put her chin up and firmed her mouth. “No retreat; no surrender.” She'd manage, dammit; she always had. Picking up her suitcase, she glanced around the room and saw no trace of her presence.

Once downstairs, she set her suitcase in the foyer and headed for the family room.

“MacKensie.” Alex appeared in the door of the bathroom. Shirtless. Her eyes widened at the sight of his bare chest. “Excellent timing. Come here, please.”

Coldness swept through her.

He waited.

She hesitated, then realized his face wasn't flushed with lust. She chanced a quick look lower; he wasn't hard. “Excuse me?” Be polite but stay out of reach. She straightened her spine and marched forward to stand in front of him. “What happened to the discussion in the family room?” With you fully dressed.

“Soon. First, I have a favor to ask of you.”

She hadn't been wrong about him after all. Here came the proposition. “What?”

He huffed a laugh. “Such a suspicious mind. Little vet, can you handle the sight of human blood?”

Not waiting for her answer, Alex led the way into the bathroom, letting the bloodstained bandage on his back speak for itself. After a second, she followed him in.

As he handed her the first-aid kit he'd brought from the dungeon, his eyes narrowed. That blank look, like a human whiteboard wiped of emotion, had returned the minute she'd seen his bare chest. She definitely had a problem. Noting a sub's responses was as automatic as breathing to a Dom, and her reaction to being punished—and to him—had been equivocal. Her quite understandable fury had also included an unmistakable need to submit. But the blank look, like the one she wore now, hadn't appeared until he'd asked about why she'd run from a Dom. He angled himself so he could watch her face in the wall mirror as she worked.

When she eased the thick gauze dressing off his back, she frowned. “How in the world did you get a cut like this?”

“I had an altercation at the airport. He had a knife.”

Life returned to her face as she cleaned the wound with efficient, easy movements. She obviously didn't have a problem with blood or with touching a man in a nonsexual way. She glanced at him in the mirror, a trace of humor in her eyes. “Since you're still breathing, I assume you won?”

Alex grinned. “I'm not sure I'd call it a win. Although he's behind bars, I missed my flight. My luggage is on the plane. I couldn't book another flight for two days.” He shook his head, ignoring the pain as she worked on his back. “There didn't seem to be any point to going to my conference.”

“Well, that explains why you came back.” She applied antibacterial ointment to the stitches and re-covered the wound with gauze. “I sure wasn't expecting anyone to walk in.” This time when her eyes met his in the mirror, her face turned a pretty pink.

He watched and saw her fingers tremble as she applied tape to the gauze. Her gaze followed the line of his shoulder, paused on his bicep—she was seeing him as a man, not a patient. Her color deepened. Arousal.Aversion. The little sub had conflicts.

With an audible breath, she stepped back. “All done. Keep it dry and have someone put a clean dressing on it tomorrow.”

When he turned and leaned against the sink counter, her gaze dipped to his bare chest. He stood close enough that he could see the tiny pulse in her neck grow more rapid. “Thank you, little vet,” he murmured. “You have gentle hands.”

“You're welcome.”

When he brushed his fingers along the delicate line of her jaw, she stiffened, obviously fighting not to step back. And yet her pupils dilated slightly. Fear and desire, like an abused puppy that wanted to be petted yet cannot trust.

“Let me put on a clean shirt, and I'll meet you in the family room.”

She backed up a step, gave him a nod, and headed for the door. In the stiffness of her spine and the ungraceful movement of her legs, he could see the control she exerted not to flee, like a little cat pretending not to notice a Great Dane in the next yard.

She was smart. Sweet. Terrified.

And not his problem, dammit.

Upstairs, he picked up a T-shirt, winced at the thought of pulling it over his head, and then chose a casual button-down instead. Odd how MacKensie's references all praised her character, dedication, and skill. Nothing had hinted at her being the type of person to break into a room. And when she'd apologized, he'd seen not only embarrassment but shame.

But if she were so innocent, how had she managed to get the door open?

He frowned and leaned against the dresser. Interesting conundrums. What did a Dom owe to a sub not under his command? She obviously didn't want to stay here, and problems or not, her choices were her own.

But what about Exchanges? He needed to notify them about her behavior. And he had a certain responsibility to the animals and veterinarians in this community. Could she be trusted?

Yet he'd completely destroy her career if he voiced those questions. Dammit, he didn't know enough to—

His cell phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. He flipped it open. “What?”

“Oh, Alex, you sound so angry.” Cynthia's rich voice poured out like syrup.

The day just got better and better. He should have checked the number. “Cynthia, we're done. Stop calling me. I won't see you or talk to you.”

She laughed lightly. “You're my master, so I'll obey and get off the phone now. But I know you'll see me again. You aren't with anyone else, and I know you never go long without a woman. There's something between us, Alex, and I'll wait for you. I'll wait just as long as it takes.”

He heard the sound of a kiss, pulled the phone away, and cursed. This was worse than he'd thought.

Hell. He could denounce her in public and humiliate her. He sighed. He not only couldn't do that to a woman, but Cynthia happened to like being humiliated.

“You aren't with anyone else.” He could fix that at least. Pick up a sub from the club and—he grimaced—probably end up with another problem. Here he'd thought Cynthia a good choice since, with her wealth, his money wouldn't be a draw.

As he tucked his shirt into his pants and the movement pulled at the tape on his back, he stilled, remembering the little submissive who had applied the dressing. Maybe one simple solution would solve all his problems.

Mac waited by the door of the family room, relieved when she heard Fontaine's footsteps approaching. It had taken him long enough.

He nodded to her as he entered the room. After crossing to the tiny bar, he poured a glass of wine and then tilted his head, asking silently if she wanted some.

She shook her head. This was no social occasion.

He picked up his glass and moved over to flip a switch on the fireplace. Flames sprouted under the logs, then caught, and within a minute a fire blazed, giving off both heat and a false sense of comfort.

Why was he bothering with all this?

He took a seat in one of the dark leather chairs. Leaning back to watch her with an unreadable gaze, he held his glass of red wine in one big hand, his lean fingers gentle on the delicate crystal.

Mac frowned. Those hands on her body hadn't been gentle at all. Time to get this over with and get out of here. She held her head high and marched forward. “Mr. Fontaine,” she said in a cold voice, stopping in the middle of the room.

His lips quirked. “'Alex' will do for now.”

For now? What did that mean? “Once again, I'm sorry for my actions. The room upstairs is clean, and I'll just get out of your life now.” The thought sent anxiety like ice trickling down her spine.

“Sit down.”

“Listen, I—”

He pointed to the chair across from him.

She walked to the chair, a little startled at her compliance. Her usual reaction to an order was defiance, not obedience. When her tender butt made contact with the cushion, she sucked in a breath. A glint of amusement appeared in his eyes. If she could have laid hands on anything throwable, she'd have heaved it at him. “What do you want to talk about?”

His fingers rubbed his lips as he studied her, in no hurry to answer her question. In fact, he appeared totally at ease in this awkward situation.

Another reason to hate him. She might be a confident vet, but in social situations she bumbled around like a badly trained puppy. Turning her gaze away, she held her clammy hands out to the fire and then realized how badly her fingers shook. New plan: fold hands in lap, lean back in chair, meet the man's eyes, and be polite. Piece of cake.

“The information from Exchanges stated you wanted to trade places to save money while you job hunt,” he said finally. “I have the impression that leaving my home might prove more than just an inconvenience for you.”

Her breath caught at the accurate blow. She laced her fingers together. “That's not your problem,” she said stiffly. But God help her, it was hers. All those interviews that she'd set up. Several clinics still needed to call her with dates and times. “If someone calls… Um… Tomorrow I will call and give you a number… Could you please…” Her voice trailed off. How could she ask him for anything?

“I could, perhaps, be persuaded to let you stay here with me,” he said softly.

Her eyes closed as nausea whirled inside her. For a moment, one horrible moment, she actually considered giving in to his pressure tactics. Tacky motel rooms and dark alleys.Being used.

She rose. “Forget it. I'm not a prostitute.” Never, ever again.

His shrewd gaze dropped from her face to her fisted hands. “MacKensie,” he said in an even voice. “I've never paid, traded, or bargained to have sex with a woman. I'm too old to start now. Sit down.” The command had a touch of the whip this time, and her knees dropped her in the chair before she had a chance to think.

She rubbed her hands on her jeans and frowned. If he didn't want sex with her, then what did he want? And why did his voice give her quivers inside?

“So?” she managed to say, striving for a hint of defiance and failing miserably.

“You need a place to stay during your interviews.” His eyes seemed too blue, too intense. “Am I correct?”

How much did she want him to know? Would admitting this make her more vulnerable? “It would be useful,” she ventured.

Elbows on the arms of the chair, he steepled his fingers, contemplating her over the top. “I have a problem with just letting you go and not warning Exchanges or the community about your behavior. And I don't know you well enough to assure myself it won't happen again.”

Oh no. The iron in her spine started to fold. All her worst fears…but why had he said persuaded? “So you suggest what?”

“An exchange of sorts. I would let you stay here, and unless you prove to be untrustworthy, will not speak about your behavior.”

“What do you get in return?”

“Let me explain. Over the past month, I took a submissive to a few parties and a BDSM club and then stopped calling her. She apparently has become…fixated on me, and nothing I've said has deterred her. She feels that since I haven't taken on anyone else, it's just a matter of time before I return to her. I think if I appear to be in a relationship, she will give up and move on.”

Mac stared at him in disbelief. Rich, handsome, exuding a power that should have women buzzing around him like flies. “You want a girlfriend?”

His deep laugh went through her skin and squeezed her chest. “Absolutely not. I want the appearance of a girlfriend. A submissive lover, to be exact.”

“Me?”

He nodded. “Perhaps we can solve our problems together in this way.”

“No way.” She shook her head. What a horrifying thought.

“You have an interest in BDSM.”

“No, I don't,” she said automatically.

His brows drew together, and his blue eyes darkened as if a rain cloud crossed the sky. “MacKensie, the first thing a sub learns is not to lie to her Dom.”

“I'm not your sub.” Just the thought sent chills through her. She'd seen the way the Doms in the clubs treated their subs, handling them as if the subs had no say over their bodies. She shivered. This man would be no different. Yet she could still feel his arms around her, how he'd held her against him.

“The thought of being my sub appears to frighten you,” he murmured, “as well as arouse you.”

“Right,” she said sarcastically. Like she even knew what arousal felt like? Sex was always for the guy, not the girl. She scowled when his gaze dropped to her chest. “That's not true.”

“You may not want to acknowledge it, but your body is interested. And aroused.” As if aiming a pistol, he pointed a finger at her chest.

She glanced down at her tits and frowned. Under her thin bra and T-shirt, her nipples blatantly poked out. Aroused? Me? And yet her body did feel different, as if her skin had become more sensitive all over. This is just not happening. “I'm not going to have—to fuck you. Forget it.”

He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine, reining in his overpowering presence and giving her a chance to breathe. “Ah. You're uncomfortable with the idea of sex. Perhaps we can work around that. What if”—he smiled slightly—“no fucking were involved?”

“Let me get this straight. I'd follow you around, looking all wussy—with no sex—and you'd let me live here for the next two weeks and wouldn't destroy my reputation.”

One eyebrow tilted up. “Nicely put. However, I'd expect true submission from you, MacKensie.” He rested his forearms on his thighs and pinned her with a stare. “That's quite different from being wussy. That's giving control to me—control over everything for certain occasions.”

The room felt awfully hot, and her heart raced as if she'd run laps for an hour. “What occasions?”

“When at my club. At any party I take you to. Whenever we're with my friends.”

Not all the time, then. Could she let him boss her around for two or three hours? With sex out of the picture, this might be doable. A trickle of hope eased the tightness of her stomach. But all that control. She tried to remember what had happened in the BDSM clubs. Oh frak. “No whipping or any of that stuff, right?”

He leaned back. “I have a list we'll go through together. But I will expect you to bend over backward to please me, so unless there's something on it that is past your endurance…”

With a mighty yawn, Butler stood up and wandered over to sit next to Fontaine's feet and laid his big head in the man's lap. Mac watched as the lean hands ruffled the dog's ears, scratched under the collar, and then stroked Butler's side. The dog's tail thumped against the floor.

She frowned, feeling a tug at her heart and a decrease in her wariness. Could anyone who loved that ugly mutt be all bad? Don't be stupid, Mac. Even mass murderers adored their pets. And yet… No sex, her reputation undamaged… Ack, her reputation. Dear Lord, she couldn't do this.

“What?” he asked, even though she hadn't said anything.

“I plan to start a life here, work here. Being your…whatever… It's too… I can't afford to damage my reputation.” And God, she knew how important that was.

“Ah. A fair concern.” He nodded. “I will not ask you to”—his flashing grin was devastating—“act as my whatever anywhere except with a few discreet friends or at Chains, which is a private club. Anonymity is part of the contract, and the members value their reputations.”

Well. But could she really do this? “A trial period?” she offered.

He nodded. “Fair enough. Tell you what. If you do a really fine job and Cynthia gives up, I'll make some calls and shove some influence your way.”

Oh sure, like Mr. Big Shot would know the vet community. “Thank you,” she said politely.

Chuckling, he rose. He gave her his hand and pulled her to her feet. “The foundation I oversee helped start both of the county's no-kill shelters and the city's feral-cat program. Once a year we sponsor a fund-raising dinner and dance to benefit all the pet charities in the area. As it happens, the dance is in two weeks, and just about every vet in the city attends.”

Her mouth dropped open. This was just what she needed. Oh God, could this possibly work?