“You want this?” His voice purrs close to my ear, part thrill and part threat.
Yes. Yes. You know I want it.
I can feel the heat from his powerful body at my back. A trickle of sweat starts under the blindfold, runs down my cheek and lands on one taut, exposed breast.
I nod.
“You’re sure?”
Frantic, I nod again, jangling the chains that haul at my arms.
“How sure?”
I mewl helplessly against the gag as his breath burns into my shoulder. His deep murmur ripples through me as he runs a finger along the top of my thigh.
His lips hover close to my neck, fierce and hot. His hand circles my waist and slides softly over my hip and down my belly, infinitely gentle.
I grow still as he caresses my flank. His touch sparks tiny flames over my skin as his finger edges closer to the open peak of my splayed thighs.
The whip slithers over my skin, the snaking leather rough against the softness of my inner leg. I whimper as it trails upward making me quiver, making me pulse, making me plead in silent despair. Once more. Please, please, just once more…
My eyes open with a snap. The dream’s tormented me all year but only ever at night. Now it’s daytime.
My headphones crackle with sound. It cuts through the hum of the engine that lulled me into a doze. “And here we are, ladies and gentlemen. The Love Beat Corporation welcomes you to Beat Hall, your home for the next two weeks and the lavish setting for our themed media event where you’ll meet and greet the stars, enjoy our unusual hospitality and taste some of the darker pleasures featured in our forthcoming movie. Enjoy your stay.”
I shift in my seat as the pilot draws our attention to the lavish fairways, the extensive woods and the secluded parkland opening up beneath us in this large, privately owned chunk of Devon coastline. But the noise and the fabulous view seem tinny and unreal compared to the deep undertow of my dream. That voice, his voice, still pulses through me, making me wait, making me ache…
“Hey, Tunis, see that private jet over there? Do you think that’s him?”
Mel, my co-presenter, taps my shoulder. She’s leaning forward, her sharp eyes bright and alert.
He’s here already? I feel a wave of panic.
Her eyes narrow. “Yep, that’s the Love Beat logo. Wow, look at those suits. How many people does it take to feed the ego of a multi-millionaire? Hey, I might use that. Think I could slip it in at the end of an interview?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I grin back, still shaky.
Mel Macallan is from Glasgow and proud of it. She loves a swipe at the super rich. In interviews her wit draws them in then her pale stare dazes them just long enough to put in a killer question.
Even Cade Fitzlean, CEO of the mighty Love Beat Corporation, might find her a tough nut.
Sooner her than me.
Ben, our producer, has a thing for Mel. He’ll be only too pleased if I let her interview Cade Fitzlean. I make it a rule never to turn down work—we all do—but for him, I’ll make an exception.
I’m the new one who asks the innocent questions, gets them talking. Sometimes that works too. I have my uses. We work well together.
While we’re here, we’ll have to. This is a tough assignment.
As we land, a rush of wind ruffles the branches around the clearing. I take off my headphones with a sigh. Dream time’s over. From now on through the next two weeks we’ll be hard at work here.
Within minutes we’re clambering out of the helicopter and into the sunshine to shake hands with the pilot. In the soft, bright Devon air my demons fade.
The people around me are like family—Mel, with her craving to get into news, Ben Tyne-Follett, our producer, with his cut-glass accent, laid-back manner and a keen eye for a program opportunity, and Jake Simmons, whom I’ve known forever—floppy-haired, good-looking and an outstanding cameraman.
I owe him a lot. He got me this job. I used to think of him as an older brother until one evening when I found out he had other ideas, but no means no.
At least we’re still friends.
“Are the others here yet?” I’m worried now.
So is Ben. He’s muttering into his phone—a bad sign. The recording van with all our precious equipment and most of our luggage is coming by road.
At last he slips the phone into his pocket, his manner breezy. “It’s okay. Hold-up on the M3, ETA one hour. Wow, this the welcoming committee? Big guns or what?”
I feel a lump in my throat. This is it.
And it’s all because of me.
We’re guests of the massive Love Beat Corporation with exclusive access to the cast and the production team of the new BDSM-themed movie, Hit’n’MissTrix, based on a recent bestselling book.
The movie’s already in the can and out in a few weeks. We’re here for the top-secret pre-launch party—invitation only, strict security. But, strictly speaking, we’re not here to play. We’re here to work. We’re making a TV report on the party to air just before the premiere.
This place, once home to dukes, now hosts open-air concerts and an annual rock festival, so it’s perfect for filming. While we’re here, we’ll mingle with visiting celebs, the stars of the movie and the super-rich, get five-star treatment and even red-carpet entry to the premiere. The whole bit.
But our report’s got to be discreet enough—and wholesome enough—to soften up the movie launch, bearing in mind that most of the stars here will have to be shot in shadow, off camera, their voices disguised. It’ll be a guessing game for the fans and a nightmare to edit. Plus they’ll freak if we reveal too much.
It’s a dream ticket but it’ll be a close call. Headaches all around.
On the plus side, if it comes off, it’ll be a terrific scoop. BDSM’s still off limits, and the company hopes any fun spin we can put on it will soften the image, make it more acceptable.
And to make the TV doc, who better than Ben and his team, led by me, Tunis Vale, now a budding presenter, and—get this—the very person who destroyed the original launch? Perfect.
We’re all really excited.
Correction—they’re all really excited. I’m plain scared.
We walk across the tarmac, a vast golf course to one side of us, lush woodland to the other. Beyond loom the towers and pinnacles of the mansion. I feel small.
The others chatter happily. Their voices rise and fall on the breeze from the sea. I shiver.
Ahead of us a gleaming private jet crouches in the sunlight like a great white insect. Before it, a small group is waiting to meet us. Four are uniformed crew members with small enameled bows pinned to their lapels. There’s a slim, neatly suited blonde with a notebook and a stony expression—I’m guessing a PA—and a chunky individual who has to be a bodyguard.
Next to him stands a sulky woman in tight black leather. She’s got black hair and a slash of crimson lipstick for a mouth. A diamond-studded buckle at her waist spells Nera.
A Dominatrix.
Ben gasps and I see Mel’s eyes narrow. Nera’s a marked woman.
And standing in the center is Cade Fitzlean.
For an instant, the world stands still.
I did my research—not that he left much to find. Rich men cover their tracks. I found traces of a patchy past and some colorful connections. I even found photos.
They’re nothing like the real thing.
Good-looking doesn’t come close. This can’t be a CEO. He looks too young, too mean—a sulky angel pushed into an Armani advert, all sculpted mouth and high cheekbones. And his eyes—dark, intense, burning into me like I’m wax.
And looking like he wishes I were somewhere else.
Me too.
In truth, we’re all out of our comfort zone here. Ben misses his support team, his assistants and his rookies. Here he’s on his own. Mel likes a constant stream of data and coffee. Jake likes an art director, lighting director, technicians and his camera firmly mounted on a tracking dolly. Here he’s reduced to his beloved antique handheld.
And I’ve got Cade Fitzlean—but not for long. According to our notes, he’s flying back to the States after lunch. And it’s not really him that scares me. It’s what he represents.
All at once I’m back on the rain-drenched sidewalk outside that scary private club a year ago, that terrible night when the bearers carried the woman on the stretcher right past me and the blanket slipped, revealing the bondage harness and the cruel spiked cuffs.
Later, the CEO issued a statement taking full responsibility, regretting the incident and attempting to reassure the public. The statement was signed Cade Fitzlean.
But we’ve never met.
Until now.
I clench my teeth. Now I’m different.
Back then I was a rookie runner on my first day, thrust in front of the cameras for the very first time. Now I’m a seasoned presenter, and I’ve got a job to do.
As we draw near, the blonde is murmuring at his shoulder, “And this is Tunis Vale, the presenter who will be—”
“I know.” He steps forward and takes my hand. “Miss Vale. We meet at last.”
He seems friendly. His hand’s warm. I blink and remind myself that this man hates me.
I murmur something vague in greeting, but Ben’s already crowding my elbow. I try to take my hand away but Fitzlean holds it fast.
His sudden glint of humor startles me into a smile. For a long moment we’re alone, sharing some mysterious private joke, his touch sending urgent signals up my arm. At last he releases my hand and I step aside for Ben to push in.
“Mr. Fitzlean? Thank you so much for this opportunity to see you and your company at work.”
To my relief, Ben gushes on for some time and I get a chance to recover while the others crowd round to meet him.
Fitzlean’s easy, casual. He takes the trouble to say a few words to everybody but I sense tension in the air.
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