PROLOGUE

 

Gina was on Tilghman, a tiny island on Maryland's Eastern shore. The day was bone-chillingly cold and grey. The dank smell of dirty, fishy swamp water filled her nostrils. The riggings on the ancient fishing boats clanked like dissonant temple bells as she tried to climb them. She strained against the ropes above her but her arms were numb. She couldn't pull herself up.

The clanking - or something, she wasn't sure what - jarred her into wakefulness. Her leaden eyelids fluttered open.

She shivered uncontrollably. She was so cold! Her breasts were covered with goosebumps and her nipples were constricted into such frozen points they felt like tortured icicles. Her back and shoulders ached ... and - Oh my God! - her head pounded. Where was she?

She tried to raise her head to look around. The throbbing made even the smallest motion agony, made nausea hit her in waves, forcing her to quickly lower her head again. The horrible swampy smell made it worse. Her hair hung in her face and she couldn't move her arms to push it aside. She struggled to lift her eyes but her vision swam and went black.

Had she passed out? She tried again. This time her sight cleared a little.

It was probably only an instant before she understood but it seemed like an eternity. Each thought fluoresced painfully in her mind.

Her first impression was of the dim light and something cold, rough and hard against her back. The space seemed large with several - many? - people scattered through it. A large whitish shape floated at some distance in front of her. She shook the hair from her eyes as best she could.

Why couldn't she move? She realized with shock that she was naked ... and somehow held immobile. Through the gloom she peered down at her feet past the bulge of her breasts. They were fixed wide apart against the wall by something thick and rigid. She strained her neck, twisting upward to see her hands. They also were held together full length above her head in painful, unyielding bands. The bands cut into her wrists when she tried to move her hands. "Metal?" she wondered, as her mind cleared and her horror and fear grew.

She turned her head and would have reeled back from the sight that met her if she was not pinned upright. It was a warehouse, large and bleak. A row of naked women were stretched full length against a long wall, their wrists and ankles locked in place by wide black bands. Single or groups of men stood in front of each girl, talking. She couldn't clearly see what they were doing but they appeared to be examining the girls.

The girl next to her looked so young - certainly no more than a teen - with the lovely curves of a woman but the delicate bones of a girl. Though Gina couldn't see her clearly in the dim light, from the tremulous motion of her long blond hair she had the impression the girl's entire body shook. Gina watched a short Oriental man open the girl's mouth and peer inside, then work his way down her body, prodding and squeezing. The girl did not struggle or make a sound, even when the man bent to examine and finger her genitals.

Her mind was still befuddled but clearing ... and it was racing faster and faster the more Gina tried to focus. Anxiety hit her in the chest and coursed through her with the jumble of thoughts. How did she get here? One inconceivable thought flashed in her mind. It was Phillipe.

CHAPTER ONE

 

Ward watched the tall man shepherd the woman between tables in the discreetly lit old restaurant.

The restaurant had ceased to be "hot" when Ward was a boy but was still one of the finest and most expensive restaurants in Washington DC. All the quietly important people could be found seated on the ornate banquettes at one time or another when Congress was in session and perhaps more frequently when it was not.

While waiting, Ward's attention had been absorbed by the arrival of several puffy, magisterial men who the imperious maitre d', Monsieur Paul, immediately seated individually. Each dined at his "regular" table in inviolate privacy with the epic excess of past centuries. Ward shook his head bemusedly. In here men were rigorously shielded from any intrusion, including modernity and fitness.

The tall man was ruggedly handsome and impeccably dressed - Ward knew he was one of the few Americans to still have suits made on Saville Row rather than by the Italians - with an elegantly unruly mop of thick sandy hair. He was always in the news but recently more so in DC due to his $20 million purchase of thirty five acres of raw land on the best road in Great Falls, the favourite Northern Virginia domicile of IT mega-millionaires.

But every man here was a celebrity. It was instead the woman, Ward knew, who caused the slightest turn of heads and the smallest exchange of quizzical looks when they passed. .

She was exquisite, her body lithe yet voluptuous under her simple black sheath, her long pale brown hair shimmering like softest mink in the muted light. Her features, her wide almond eyes, narrow patrician nose and full clear red lips, were Grecian in their perfect regularity. She glided through the room with an unusual grace, the man's hand resting gently on the back of her neck. In his vision's periphery Ward took in all of the diners' meticulously discreet responses. He smiled cruelly.

Their guarded distress was perfectly transparent to him. With satisfaction, Ward watched their incipient recognition of her impossible fragility, of her oddly inward - pained - eyes, of the care her every movement seemed to require. He watched their internal conflict between the desire to shelter such exquisite femininity and their discomfort at her illusive abnormality. "Little do they know," Ward thought. She was femininity perverted, femininity taken far beyond its essential need for shelter to a magnificent victimization wretched to look upon. He noticed a few of the most aware cautiously expressing their unease to their lunch companions. She was truly a work of art.

Ward, standing at their approach, pleasantly noted the small tremor that ran through her when she saw him. He covered her cold delicate fingers with his warm strong ones and kissed her cheek. One powerful finger pressed into a vulnerable point between her index and middle fingers. With shrouded gratification, he watched her lips compress in anguish as she bowed her head to him. He lifted her chin and impassively examined her eyes. "How are you, Karen, my dear?"

Her smile was pallid and barely perceptible. "I am well, Sir." Her husband helped her tenderly to her chair.

'Such a lovely scene. So warm, so thoughtful,' Ward thought wryly. With a warm glow of sadistic appreciation, he watched her husband's profound solicitousness of Karen's every need and comfort. Her husband, Michael, was so gentle and considerate when he helped her with her napkin and when he assumed control of every aspect of the ordering process, from her drink to her entrée, so she would not have to trouble herself.

It was all so sweet and so gruesome. Ward simply could not resist the impulse to reach over and pat her hand. He felt her flinch almost imperceptibly but otherwise remain immobile. She sat with head bowed and eyes downcast, raising nothing but her fork when her entrée was served.

Ward looked up when the exotic young woman entered and scanned the restaurant. Her companion, a towering, rail-thin man her father's age, stood a little too close beside her. Once a senior Presidential appointee, he was now a consultant who managed to be an insider - by whoring, he half joked - no matter the party in power.

Ward saw the dark woman's gaze light curiously on their table, flitting first to Karen nibbling at her entrée then moving on to the men. His eyes locked with hers and, with no apparent force whatsoever, he caught and then firmly held her vibrant brown eyes in his quiet pools of grey.

No detail escaped him even as he trapped her. Her strong features under chic, long dark hair were beautiful without being pretty - unusual and compelling, oozing cultured sexuality. Her very conservative suit was artfully tailored to closely follow the curves of her abundant breasts, round ass and shapely athletic legs. As she leaned forward to survey the room he could see the bare curve of a breast peek above the V of her jacket. 'This is no bland political wife,' he thought appreciatively. 'The profit potential here is obvious.'

He could see she was not having such an easy time returning the appraisal. She had recognized his companions but she did not recognize him. He kept his gaze neutral and lacking in aggression with no indication of any interest or intention toward her. He saw she could not break away, was intensely curious and - he smiled inwardly - captivated.

"Gina! Our table is ready." Her companion's voice shook her free. As she followed Monsieur Paul to the table Ward noticed the flick of her eyes rapidly back to him, then away.

Karen flinched when she felt Ward's finger press deep into her leg under the heavy damask tablecloth. Under her husband's concerned gaze, she carefully, intently raised her coffee cup to her lips and a spot of pink appeared on each cheek below her lowered lashes. She opened her legs wider apart. Ward smiled indulgently.

His hand made its way across the top of her old fashioned silk stocking. He lingered a moment to enjoy the porcelain sensation of her skin then continued onto the fine soft hair on her mound and the heavy stitches securing her lips tight together. His thick fingertips lightly ran across the row of ridges in her tender flesh and the hundreds of tiny scars made when she was opened, cleaned and restitched each morning, then downward to the clamped off plastic tubing protruding from the lower stitches. His voice was pleasant and confidential but loud enough for her husband to hear. "You realize Michael cares about nothing but your protection. Everything he does is for your benefit. He wouldn't have to treat you this way if you weren't so filthy and weak."

The flush spread across her face and her head dipped lower. One tiny tear glittered in her lashes. "Yes Sir. I am filthy and weak."

The waiter arrived with their coffee. Suddenly the exotic woman was at their table.

"How are you, Michael?" She kept her voice low enough so no other diners would hear.

His manner was cool when she held out her hand to him. He nodded at his wife and Ward. "I'm fine, Gina, but as you can see this is a private lunch."

"I'd love to interview you and your wife," she glanced at Ward, "and your friend too? Would you give me a few minutes?"

His eyebrows raised in astonishment. "Here?" Then a darkening pause. "You know my wife never gives interviews."

Ward's fingers were still on Karen's labia. He squeezed hard enough to cause the flesh to strain and burn against the sutures. Karen's pale face reddened further. She stared fixedly at her plate but otherwise did not move.

Gina's glance down at Karen was earnestly apologetic but then she forged on. "Really, it would just take a minute or two. I'm eager to know about your recent purchase. What ARE you going to do with it? Are you moving from California?"

Heads had turned throughout the restaurant. Disapproving looks bored into Gina's back.

Michael's annoyance was palpable. "Gina, please call my publicist."

Monsieur Paul appeared at her elbow. "I'm terribly sorry, Mademoiselle, but if you do not return to your table I will have to ask you to leave."

Again Gina's eyes locked with Ward's. He smiled pleasantly, enjoying how powerfully his innocuous expression taunted her. She handed him her card. "Please call me any time." The maitre d' led her away.

Ward watched with narrowed eyes as her elegant rear swayed across the room. An agreeable sequence of possibilities flashed through his mind. He smiled to himself. There was never a lack of scenarios. She reached her table and he saw her companion waving his arms and expostulating.

"You know this is neutral territory." Michael shook his head in doleful amazement. "I'm surprised Le Grand Monsieur didn't throw her out on the spot. She's going to have to do some serious damage control to ever get another reservation ... and most of the people here, not to mention their friends, will never forgive her."

Monsieur Paul instantly returned. "Madame et Messieurs! Please! Please! Forgive the intrusion and be assured this will NEVER ..." Ward was surprised the man didn't spit, the word flew from his mouth with such force. "... happen again. Would you like a cognac? No?" Paul picked up the check, ripped it in half and turned smartly on his heel.

Michael eyed Ward then patted Karen's hand. "If Karen hadn't been here this might have been amusing." He smiled. "You never cease to amaze me. What do you do to them?"

Ward shrugged slightly. "So tell me what I can do for you."

Michael gazed adoringly at his wife. "As you can see, Karen is doing quite well. But I've been travelling so much I haven't been able to give her the attention she deserves. I also have some ideas about additional training. I'd like to send her to you for several days and then pick her up myself during my next trip here. Would you mind? You'd be doing me a great favour."

Both of Ward's hands were now on the tabletop. He tenderly touched Karen's cheek. She flinched almost imperceptibly but did not pull away from his hand. "You know I'm always happy to help."