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CHAPTER ELEVEN: MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE
Max sat in her office, her screen opened to the final chapter of Kat’s book. Like all her others, the romance was nice, steamy, and very believable. There was action and adventure, a nice whodunit with just enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing. The male lead was handsome and brave and charming with a primal, intensely sexual edge that would have Elysia’s readership panting with each passing page. And Lila was smart, savvy, and just sassy enough to pull off some witty one-liners as well as some serious verbal—and some not-so-verbal—trouncing. Lila was one tough, hard-ass bitch, while still managing to be likable, with a sexual appetite that matched—if not rivaled—her mate’s.
And, true to Kat’s word, she hadn’t cut any of the S&M stuff. If anything, she’d played it up since her last draft. Now instead of just fiercely playful banter and a bout of spanking in chapter ten, Agent Vin Morris, in an effort to protect Lila from her more impetuous and reckless tendencies, tied her to the bed before dashing off to save the day—ravishing her thoroughly beforehand, of course.
Max knew that she should have a problem with this. It was unarguably anti-feminist. All the rope-play aside, it was just another story where the big, strong man goes off to save the damsel in distress. Hell, this time, in an effort to save her, the big, strong man was putting the damsel in distress. Max should be throwing an unholy fit over this.
But, for some reason, she just couldn’t.
Predictably enough, the villain—a rival journalist out to out-scoop Lila while cahooting about with the drug cartel under investigation—found Lila conveniently tied up to the bed without her hero to help her. But, with the threat of danger, death, and, of course, the loss of her story hanging over her, the intrepid reporter manipulated, outwitted, and overpowered the villain, holding him tied up on the carpet when Vin and his fellow agents finally showed up in the nick of time to arrest him.
In the end, the damsel saved herself. Without help or aid from anyone. Using her intelligence, her power, and her self-defense training to defeat the threat. Leaving the man to play a more book ‘em, boys, cavalry role. What was more feminist than that?
The fact that Lila did it tied-up and still glowing from kinky after-fuck effects made it all the more impressive, didn’t it?
Max groaned and shut her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose. What was she going to do?
She had to send off a copy to Diane. She couldn’t risk her catching wind of it from someone else first. But, Max knew, Diane would not like this.
And, she knew too, Kat would not change it.
They were at a stalemate. One where, in the end, no one would lose more than Max.
This was, of course, all his fault—the ambivalence and confusion she was feeling. He—Hayato or Sir or whatever he wanted to be called—and his silk and mirror tricks; they were messing with her mind. The lines that used to be so clear, the sides that had once been definitively drawn, weren’t anymore. Sitting in her office, the soft, sleek satin slip hidden beneath her crisp, dark suit, she felt at a loss.
As a feminist, the idea of what Lila was doing—what Kat was doing and what Max herself had done—horrified and disgusted her. To allow a man—any man or anyone—such power over yourself, to submit to someone so completely… Max shook her head. It was, for a modern, evolved, fiercely independent woman, untenable.
She opened her eyes and turned to stare out the large office window at the urban chaos below her. The satin she wore, not because he asked—or at least not only because of that—caressed her every time she moved, keeping him never far from her thoughts.
But, as the woman who’d stood all-but-naked before him in those mirrors, subject to his demands, making some of her own, she understood the desire behind the games. Understood the thrill and the rush and, yes, the power in giving in to a man.
It hadn’t been like the liaisons and associations she’d had, and enjoyed, before. It hadn’t been clean. Hadn’t been simple. Hadn’t been efficient or easy.
It’d felt like a fight. Like a negotiation. Yes, she’d given in to his demands, but his demands had been for her pleasure—had heightened her heat. And, yes, he’d made her mindless and insensible, but she’d made him wild, raw and uncontrolled. It’d been an even trade; for everything he’d taken from her, she’d taken something in return. For everything she’d given, he’d given back too.
She’d submitted, yes, and he’d definitely dominated, but she hadn’t felt—didn’t feel—defeated or beaten. Disoriented, maybe. Confused, certainly. But also strangely centered.
Cutting that thought short, she opened her email. She couldn’t think about that now. Not at work. And though, at the moment, she wasn’t thrilled about it, she knew what she had to do about Kat’s manuscript. So, taking a deep, resigned breath, she sent the copy off to Diane with a short, succinct note saying that they needed to discuss it at her earliest convenience.
Max, feeling entirely too mixed up, wasn’t sure what she’d say about it, wasn’t sure how she felt about all of it—the manuscript, her friend, her own situation, him—but she knew that she’d better figure it out fast.
New message popped up on her screen, just as she finished sending her email. Looking in her inbox, she was surprised to see a message from Hayato@hwrnllp.com.
Him.
Sir.
Whatever.
Max stared at the message warily, only vaguely aware of why. Before, when he’d emailed her, he’d emailed her personal account—the one she’d included in her contract with the club—from his own personal account, not his work one. Which she’d appreciated. She liked to keep her personal and her professional lives as separate as possible. So why was he emailing her at work?
The minute the message opened, Max gasped and quickly closed it again.
Oh my God, she thought, her heart racing and her chest clenching. Oh my God.
She flinched away, trying to fight off hurt, angry tears. Choosing fury over feelings of betrayal, Max got up.
Calmly, she walked to her office door and closed it.
With definite and determined motions, she threw the lock and tested the door.
When it was safely secured, she moved back to her desk and reopened the email. Her heart lurched, but she ignored it while image after image of her—half-naked and disheveled—materialized on her screen in startling resolution. If wetness threatened behind cold, hard, glaring eyes, she refused to acknowledge it.
She just stared, silently seething, at the black-and-white pictures spread out on her screen. Her in the negligee with her hair tumbling free down her shoulders and back. The next showing her slipping the delicate lace down her body, her nipples clearly visible, pointed and hard. In another, she stood looking hungrily at herself in the pinstriped teddy, pressed up against the mirrored glass. Her nostrils flared and her lips parted on a pant, she looked ravenous and ruined, wild and wanton.
Then there were several sets of him with her. Him over her. Him with his hands on her. Him with his hands, his fingers, his lips and tongue inside her.
A traitorous tear fell from the corner of her eye while her gaze focused on the face of the woman who looked nothing like her.
It couldn’t be her.
This woman, caught in a maelstrom of sensation, looked half-crazed. Her head was thrown back, her tangled, tousled hair tossed about while she thrashed. Her face—what you could see of it—was contorted, held at almost horrific angles as if in unbearable pain. Her fists were clenched and reckless, tearing at the man’s tied-back and tidy hair, as she greedily thrust needy hips up to his lips.
Oh God. Disgust roiled through her. The photos were ugly. Raw and absolutely unforgiving. Their angles harsh and the lighting poor; everything seemed exaggerated and pronounced. She could read in every line a cold censure that branded its disapproval over the overexposed flesh.
Max bit her quivering lip and swallowed hard.
That wasn’t her.
Couldn’t be.
She didn’t look like that. Wasn’t ever like that. Had never been.
Until him.
She would never have done anything like that—would never have looked or acted like that—before him. He’d made her like that, turned her into that.
So he could do this.
Max shook her head, but couldn’t look away. Couldn’t so much as blink away the weak emotion that trickled down from her eyes.
He’d done this to her. And he’d taken pictures. Photographed it. Froze it on film so she couldn’t forget. Couldn’t deny.
Looking up from the pictures at the email address, she felt her anger surge.
He’d done this to hurt her.
And she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let him get away with that.
———
“You miserable, perverted voyeur!”
He looked up from the soft, pliant female in his arms to see Max—in an absolutely striking snit—storm into his office.
This is becoming a habit, he thought, fighting a smile. And, though the last time she’d barged into his domain had ended quite nicely, now was not a good time.
Murmuring into the other woman’s ear soothingly, he settled her into one of his office chairs before grabbing Max by the elbow and ushering her aside.
“Dear God,” Max said, her gaze narrowing on the sobbing woman, “is that Hallie?”
“Yes,” he answered simply.
She looked at him accusingly. “Why is she crying?”
He huffed, still irate at Wayne’s gall. “There’s been an incident at the shop.” His voice grew chill and sharp. “Vandals.” Clenching his fists, he turned to see Hallie hunched over in the leather chair, her shoulders shaking. “They trashed the place. Overturned racks, threw paint all over the walls and floors, flooded the back office areas, smashed all the lighting fixtures and mirrors. It’s a mess.”
“God,” Max murmured, “who would do that?” When he just shook his head disgruntled, she asked, “What’s she going to do?”
He shook his head again and sighed, running his hand over his hair. After the threatening phone call—true to the lawyer’s earlier threat—the photos of Wayne and the sex worker had been sent to the prudish man’s wife. It didn’t do to make threats and not live up to them, but it seemed somehow empty.
With this latest retaliation, Wayne was showing that he was unafraid of the fallout.
He’d kept tabs on Wayne for days now. Even though he and his wife weren’t sleeping in the same bed, neither had moved out of the large brownstone they shared. While it was obvious that Eliza Wayne wasn’t happy with her husband, the PTA chairwoman and church treasurer seemed unwilling to subject herself to the inevitable scandal.
So much for the woman scorned.
He looked up at Max and imagined that, should a man ever scorn her, she’d make him look longingly at any hell anyone else could show him. Hers was a fury that could and would flay.
But, right now, she was softened with worry while she gazed at the other woman. “Is there something I can do?”
He shook his head, feeling—knowing—he was responsible for all of this. He should have seen Wayne for what he was. But he’d been distracted, unfocused. Unacceptably. “There’s not really anything that can be done until the place gets cleared by the state.”
Max’s head popped up, a fire lit in her brown eyes. “Bullshit.” He watched curiously while she fished out her phone. “Jeri,” she said when someone picked up on the other end, “it’s Max. You know the idea you pitched last quarter about Elysia getting more involved in the local community? I’ve got the perfect cover story. Get ad sales, promotion, and accounting together. I want to know how much it would cost in dollars, manpower, and hours to get a project like this off the ground. I’m still gathering details, but I’ll send them to you as soon as I have them. And quietly call Mina down at city hall; tell her that I’m calling in my favor for writing her sister that letter of recommendation. Don’t tell Diane or anyone else until we have some solid numbers, got it? Good.”
She turned triumphantly to him. Without preamble, she said, “I’ll need to see the property and get pictures of the damage.”
“What are you going to do?” Hallie asked softly.
He watched, a little awed, when Max tossed her head back and gazed at the broken woman still seated in the stuffed office chair. “I’m going to get you your shop back.”
———
Max laid the stack of papers down on her desk, her watering eyes throbbing from all the fine print. As they had all day, her eyes strayed back to stare at the pictures of Hallie’s store. After talking to Hallie and having gone to the store to see the damage for herself, Max had been outraged at her story.
If Lionel Wayne thought that he could use intimidation to enforce his ridiculous, outdated agenda, he’d better think again. The idea of some man bullying a woman just trying to make a new start for herself with a new business made Max furious. And because she knew Hallie—knew the talent and the potential for real success the woman possessed—she was sad too. And determined.
And, sure, a part of her knew that she could use this to her advantage, could tip the professional scales back in her favor, if she pulled off this coup.
But, mostly, she was doing this because it was right. She just couldn’t stand to see Hallie so beaten down. Max may be a product of the post-feminist world, but she still lived and worked and moved within an old boys’ club. Women before her—like Diane and Max’s own mother—may have carved out the paths Max was privileged enough to walk, but it was women like Max and Hallie who maintained those roads today. And Max, for one, believed in lending a helping hand where she could.
She looked up when her intercom sounded. “Max,” her assistant, Jeri, said over the speaker, “there’s a man here to see you.”
“A man?”
“Yes,” she said. “He didn’t give his name, but he said that you should be expecting him.”
Max scoffed. Subtle, counselor. “Let him in.”
Closing her screen, she forced the reluctant grin from her face and set her phone to Do Not Disturb. There was nothing good about him coming here. She was still pissed at him. The only reason why she was letting him into her office at all was so she could hear more about Hallie’s progress. After talking to her contact at city hall, Max had been promised that an inspector would be sent to Hallie’s shop immediately to examine the damage and determine what needed to be done.
He was just here to talk to her about that. To keep her informed. That was all.
It was all she would allow it to be.
Max held her breath as the door to her office opened and he stepped in. As always, he was impeccably dressed, neat and precise in an expensive suit. His long hair was tied back, making her wonder what it looked like—felt like—when the alchemic strands flowed loose and free down his strong, bare back.
They both paused when their eyes met. The wariness and hesitancy seemed odd in his eyes. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, staring at her, his arms crossed over his chest. When he finally spoke, he simply said, “I wanted to thank you for what you’re doing for Hallie.”
“It’s criminal what they’re doing to her.” Her voice was chill and remote. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“Not many have,” he replied just as distantly. His eyes studied her, took her in. He met her gaze again before nodding as if deciding something. Then without transition or warning, he asked, “You were angry with me earlier. When you first came into my office. Why?”
She shut her eyes as images flashed in her mind, monochrome and malicious. “It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head sharply to try to wipe her memory clean. It didn’t. They—whatever they were—were done. He had become too costly to deal with and she could no longer afford the association.
He stared at her silently for another long moment before uncrossing his arms and letting them fall straight against his sides. He gave a small tip of his head—an odd, almost gentlemanly gesture on such a modern man—before speaking again. “I’d like to repay you for all your help.”
She turned back to her screen, dismissing him. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I’d like to repay you anyway.”
She sniffed stiffly. “Give me my file,” she said, unable to keep the scorn-touched hurt from her voice, “and anything else you might have and we’ll call it even.”
He gave a half-smirk. “I was thinking of a different form of payment.”
She was sure he was.
He nodded to her encouragingly. “Come with me tonight.”
She shook her head and huffed. “Look,” she told him defensively, “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for Hallie.” She narrowed her gaze disdainfully. “Because no one should have to put up with some sexist asshole trying to strongarm her.”
“Do you expect me to argue with you?” His voice was firm but quiet.
She looked up at him, studying his controlled power as he stood stalwart at her door. No, of course, he wouldn’t argue the unfairness of this. It’d been his fight first. He’d started this battle before she’d ever heard of Hallie or Wayne. Of course, he believed in the cause.
Hallie Hannings was a friend of his and, just because he was willing to manipulate and use Max, for whatever means or motive, that didn’t mean he’d do the same to Hallie. Because, she knew, whatever she was to him, Max doubted that she could count herself among his friends.
“Fine.” She sat back in her chair. “What do you want?”
“I want you to come with me,” he said. “To Donovan’s. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
She gave a humorless laugh and shook her head. “I’m not going back to that place,” she said. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m trying to distance myself from you and your club,” she replied, shooting him an irritated glare, “and you’re asking me to go back there. With you.” She rolled her eyes at him. “That won’t be happening.”
“As long as your file exists, there will be a connection between you, me, and the club,” he pointed out.
“So give me my file and we can both get on with our lives.”
“I’ll give you a sheet,” he offered. “I’ll give you a sheet to come with me right now.”
“I want the whole thing,” she countered. “You owe me that.”
He tilted his head one way and then the other, his gaze continuing to scan her, read her. She let him. She wanted him to see the defiance and determination within her.
Finally, he nodded. “On one condition,” he added. “Tell me why you’re mad at me.”
Remembering the email, she was disgusted at the gall he had for even asking the question. Stalking challengingly toward him, she grinned tightly as he took an instinctive step back. She reached around him to grip the knob and opened the door. “Because you’re an asshole,” she said, glaring up at him. “Now are we going or what?”
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