BLIND: A Mastermind Novel (39 page)

“Oh.”

Well, good, because the last vacation she went on was at some hokey campground in upstate Pennsylvania. If he was flitting off to Milan riding gondolas or whatever people did there, they clearly didn’t belong together. Business was different. She frowned, the vast difference in their social class once again made apparent.  

“I’ll call you when I get back.”

She nodded.

“Good night, Scarlet.”

“Good night, Mr. Stone.”

On the ride home she worried that part of his reluctance to let her in had to do with her position as a simple middle school teacher. For all she knew, Mr. Stone could be some obscure version of American royalty. The car Pennyworth drove was a very nice Mercedes Benz. She had no idea what a car like that cost, but it was probably more than her annual income.

As the Mercedes hummed quietly along the drive, she worried what he must have thought when he saw her sad, diminutive Ford. He was probably repulsed. “Has Mr. Stone ever been to my house, Pennyworth?”

“I don’t believe so. Has he ever left you a gift there?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t believe so.”

“Have you ever described it to him?”

“Yes.”

Her lips pursed. “How did you describe it?”

“I can’t remember my exact words, but I didn’t say anything negative, Ms. Farrow. You’re house is a lot nicer than mine.”

She grinned, liking Pennyworth more and more each time she talked to him. “I’m just being paranoid I guess.”

“I give you a lot of credit, Ms. Farrow. I don’t know if I could do what you’re doing—blindfolded and all. By the way, we’re almost to your house. You can take the blindfold off now. Mr. Stone left you something on the seat.”

She quickly removed the mask, wincing as the tie snagged in her hair. Her eyes blinked in the darkness, adjusting to the dim interior of the car. To her left, sat a gift bag, gold tissue fluffing out the top.

She smiled and snatched the bag, ripping the paper from the opening and rummaging until her fingers closed around something plush. She pulled the present from the bag and gasped. It was a sock monkey!

The brindle pattern was classic brown, his eyes little black buttons, his mouth vibrant red. She laughed quietly, knowing exactly where she’d keep him—right on her bed, next to her E.T. and Yoda doll, two of her most prized toys from when she was a child.

Sifting through the bag, she found what she was hoping for—a note. Breaking the seal, she quickly scanned the familiar handwriting.

He told me his name is Caesar. Treat him well.

~Mr. Stone

Caesar, appropriate and reminding her of the character from
Planet of the Apes
. Her hand ran over the stitched detail of the monkey, fondly admiring the gift.

With only a few blocks to her house, she returned her attention to Pennyworth, asking the question that had been weighing on her most of all. “Pennyworth?”

“Yes, Ms. Farrow?”

“Did something bad happen to Mr. Stone?”

The driver sighed. “I honestly can’t answer that.”

“Because you don’t know?”

“Yes.”

And if he did know, he wouldn’t be able to tell her anyway. She’d get to the bottom of it eventually, with or without his help.

****

Typically, Asher left the mansion soon after Scarlet, but tonight he needed to face some demons. Their conversation had been uncharted, leading him into some very dark realizations. When she’d so brazenly asked about
his
desires, the resounding
yes
ringing in his head shook him to the core. Incapable of answering, he’d tried to cut their evening short.

Finishing a bottle of wine, he breathed in the lingering scent of her perfume. His mind painted pictures of Scarlet’s naked body tied before him, not cowering, but full of pride.

But the question was, how far did he want to take his attention? Over the course of their relationship he’d researched various fetishes, never finding any specific proclivity overly appealing. However, when Scarlet posed the question of tying
her
up, the game changed. That idea held an unfathomable amount of appeal, none of which he was prepared or confident he could manage.

So many times h
e’
d been restrained against his will and suffered pure terror. If she trusted him enough to voluntarily surrender to such limitation, without the fear he associated with restraint, it would be a true breakthrough, a testament to how far the
y’
d come. It would also place him on the other side of the paradox, a position h
e’
d never imagined.

He was coming to discover that control was
n’
t always tied to abuse. Sometimes a restraint led to freedom. It could be a liberating experience for both of them.

He’d never been the authoritative type—per say—at least before meeting Scarlet again. Sure, he managed million dollar accounts and ran a fortune five hundred company, but those experiences were generic. Dealing with Scarlet was acutely unique.

Hoisting himself off the chair, he slowly walked the bottle to the trash. This new conundrum required more thought than he was able to give at the moment. There was no denying his desire to act out his surfacing fantasies. The allure was there. The question remained, would he be a good lover?

It seemed an enormous responsibility. He never wanted her to feel like he wasn’t enough to meet her needs—ever. As if the thought of mere sex wasn’t enough to worry him,
great
sex
was creating new levels of anxiety. He needed to do more research. Never in his life had he studied something requiring more investigation than women—this woman in particular.

Chapter Sixteen

Gratification

Ms. Farrow,

I could not feel your heartbeat in Italy, which means yo
u
w
e
re too far away. Looking forward to holding you in my arms again.

The choice is yours, Ms. Farrow. Should you choose to continue, it will be on my terms and your trust. If you consent, place the mask over your eyes and my chauffeur shall deliver you into my care. I hope to see you soon.

~Mr. Stone

A.R.

Tucking the note in her purse, she grinned at Pennyworth. “I’m ready when you are.”

Her eyes voluntarily shut as she placed the blindfold over her face, and gently tied the ends. Once the chauffeur assisted her into the car they were on their way.

“Did Mr. Stone have a nice trip?”

“You know the rules, Ms. Farrow. All personal questions go to the man in charge.”

“Did you enjoy your time off?”

“Actually, I went with him.”

“You did? He said it was only him and his partner going.”

“Elliot had a last minute change of plans.”

“Elliot?”

Silence filled the car. After a long moment passed, music came on. “No more talking, Ms. Farrow.”

Who was Elliot?
Was Elliot his partner? Or was that Mr. Stone’s name?
Elliot Stone.
No, he didn’t strike her as a Elliot.

When they reached Mr. Stone’s place, she was still pondering who Elliot was. Pennyworth escorted her up the ten steps and the door opened.

“Good evening, Ms. Farrow.”

“Good evening…Elliot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Shit. “Never mind.”

“I’ll be in the car,
”
Pennyworth announced, making a fast retreat.

“Were you interrogating my driver, Ms. Farrow?”

“Just the usual small talk.”

“You talk to Pennyworth?
”
This seemed to strike him as odd.

“It gets lonely being shuttled around in the dark. I have to do something to keep myself occupied.”

“I see.”

“Who’s Elliot?”

“A colleague of mine.”

“Ahh. So this Elliot…what’s his last name?”

“Nice try. Let me help you with your coat.”

She giggled. “I missed you.”

His fingers stilled over the button. “I missed you too, Scarlet.”

As he removed her coat, scarf, and gloves, he made no comment about her not returning his gloves. He wasn’t getting them back. They were too big for her, but they smelled like him and she was just weird enough to hold onto them as a constant source of his scent. She may have even gotten carried away one night while he was away, sniffing the gloves with her eyes closed as she did bad things to herself. Thor hadn’t been able to look her in the eye in days, but it was worth it.

He escorted her past where they usually sat and into a room that echoed. “Is this the room with the bed?”

“Yes, but we’re not using the bed tonight.”

“Oh.”

He stepped close, his finger dragging over her collarbone and down her back. “Does that disappoint you, Ms. Farrow?”

“I just assumed…your note said you’d be holding me in your arms tonight.”

“Correct. Stay here please.”

His steps echoed as he walked a distance away. Her body pulled to attention as the hum of soft strings filled the room. Music. She beamed.

He returned to her and lifted her hand. “We’re going to dance, Ms. Farrow.”

Her breath caught. Oh, dancing. She loved dancing, especially slow dancing.

The composition was lovely. Her mind worked to place the familiar melody as it picked up pace, but she grew distracted as Mr. Stone pulled her close.

Lifting her right hand, he fit his left hand to her hip and slowly led with evident experience she lacked in the dancing department. Her heart fluttered, so many girlie emotions coming to life inside of her, as vocals harmonized like angels softly in the background over the gentlest plinking of bells.

The orchestra tempo picked up and—why was she imagining snow? He spun her as the symphony peaked, vocalists taking her breath away as the masterpiece built. She was dizzy from the sensations provoked by the stunning compilation as much as she was dizzied by his competence as a dance partner. No men danced this well in her world.

Building and building, to the highest crescendo, he pulled her back to his front and she smiled from the thrill of being twirled around like she was in a fairytale world. It was perfect.

She knew this song. What was this beautiful song? It made her want to cry and at the same time she could not get the image of snow and ice out of her head. The melody slowed and she tried to place the piece one last time.

“Do you like dancing, Ms. Farrow?”

“Yes,
”
she answered breathlessly. “You’re a very competent partner. I’ve never danced to classical music like this before.”

“These are some of my favorites.”

The next song began, clarinets pitched low, their soft melody climbing then drawing back. Her brow crinkled under the blindfold. This one was familiar too. It triggered a sort of pent up euphoria inside of her leaving her with traces of longing and too much time gone by.

Violins and flutes joined the clarinets as a far away trumpet quietly announced a sense of hope and new beginning. “I know this,
”
she whispered.

His steps slowed, losing a bit of the rhythm, but quickly recovering the cadence. “Pardon?”

Harps plucked and she could perceive an image clear as day in her mind, imagine the birds chirping and water babbling. The words soft and smooth came to mind. She gasped. “Are we dancing to
Attack of the Clones
?
”
These were movie scores! No wonder she recognized them. “What was the one before this? I knew that one too!”

“Ms. Farrow, you’re distracting me. Stop trying to play name that tune and enjoy the moment.”

“Oh, sorry.
”
She quietly gasped, placing the previous song as
Ice Dance
from the movie Edward Scissorhands. Was Mr. Stone somehow involved in the movie business? Oh my God! Was she dancing with Danny Elfman?

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Farrow.”

“Yes?”

“Where are you? I feel your body in my arms, but I sense your mind has gone elsewhere.”

“Sorry…Danny.”

“No.”

“Damn it.”

He chuckled, his palm traveling up her back as they swayed. Leaning closer, she rested her head on his chest, breathing in his scent.

She hummed, her heart content. “This is nice.”

They danced for a long time to some of the prettiest ballads ever composed. It was unlike any other experience she had with dancing. Mr. Stone did that a lot, took something familiar and made it new and exciting, different, so it couldn’t get lost in the shuffle of similar memories. No. The memories of him would always stand a bit taller than the others in her mind.

He’d created an incredible compilation. The problem was, as she recognized each score, she remembered the movies—and the love scenes they accompanied.

Her mind was a medley of memorable kisses and passionate acts.  Mr. Stone had done exactly as he promised and held her in his arms all night. In short, her body was on fire.

“Mr. Stone,
”
she asked, her fingers trailing over his collar. He’d worn a dress shirt.

“Yes, Scarlet?”

“I want to kiss you.”

He stilled. The music continued, building to crescendos that were written for making love. Lifting her cheek from his chest, she tipped her face upward. His hand left her hip, his finger tracing softly over her lower lip.

Pressing up on her toes, she leaned into him, only to have him place his hands firmly on her upper arms and take a step back. “Ms. Farrow.”

“Please.”

“Not yet.”

“When?
”
She’d never been so sexually frustrated in her life. Being celibate for two years was nothing in comparison to the two months of knowing this man.

“When it’s time.”

Frustrated, she stomped her foot in a despicable display of immaturity.  “What’s wrong with now?”

“It isn’t time.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be tedious, Ms. Farrow. Because I said so.”

She scowled. “I’m not being tedious. I’m telling you how I feel.”

He stepped closer, his hand cupping the side of her face, as he whispered, “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m going to die if I can’t touch you soon.”

Holding her breath for a pregnant moment, he finally took her hand. “Come with me.”

He moved at a clipped pace and she panicked as he towed her blindly behind him. “I don’t want to leave.”

“You’re not leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“You ask too many questions, Ms. Farrow. Get on the bed.”

Not realizing where they were, her legs crashed into the mattress. Bed was good. She eagerly climbed onto the soft covers.

He took her hand. “Sit on the edge.”

Scooting quickly to the edge, her feet dangled over the end of the mattress not quite touching the floor. Her hands folded in her lap as excitement rushed through her.

He stood before her, his legs taking up space between her knees. “Which hand do you write with, Ms. Farrow?”

“My right.”

“You may use your left hand to touch me, but nothing else and you may not move from your seat on the bed. Any questions?”

“Is there a time limit?”

“Until I tell you to stop.”

“Can I take off the blindfold?”

“No.”

****

This was a mistake. He knew it the second he walked her toward the bed, but…she knew the score from
Attack of the Clones
—not the main theme, either.

Sucking in a deep breath he stared as her hand slowly lifted. Fanning her fingers wide, she gradually reached for him. The first contact was to his stomach. Her palm pressed into the buttons of his shirt, heat searing through the fabric. He was suddenly grateful for all the medicine ball crunches he’d bitched about every morning.

Her breath sucked in as her lips parted. Could touching him really mean that much to her? Her hand traveled up to his chest, grazing his nipple and causing him to suck in.

His cock lengthened as her thumb teased through his shirt. Her fingers curled, traveling slowly to his throat. The backs of her nails traced his jaw and he swallowed. The soft pads of her fingertips dragged over his lips, following the small divot beneath his nose.

Her brow creased the moment her fingers made contact with his glasses. “Glasses?”