Satisfying Her Darkest Desires

"Have you ever wondered how it feels to place yourself completely in a man's hands-one whose only goal is to give you mind-blowing pleasure?"

Morgan stared at the words glowing on her laptop.

For several seconds, she forgot to breathe.

She had been talking to this man for less than three minutes. They had met in an online chatroom because she was supposed to interview him for her cable television show. That was all. She had told him her name and explained why she was contacting him. Nothing more.

So how the hell had he managed to know that?

He had to be guessing.

That was the only explanation.

Yet before she could formulate a reply, another message appeared.

Would you want a man who could see beyond what you show everyone else? A man who could discover the fantasies you keep buried, even the ones you'd never confess to your closest friends-and then make them real?

Heat spread through Morgan's stomach.

Her fingers became damp against the keyboard.

She swallowed.

Outside the windows, evening had settled over the living room, painting the walls in shifting shades of dusk. Morgan shifted restlessly on the black leather sofa and tried to shove the thoughts racing through her head somewhere they couldn't bother her.

This was work.

He was a potential interview subject.

Nothing more.

Having the hots for the man she was supposed to interview was a terrible idea. Turn Me On might be a late-night cable program, but it wasn't some silly hobby. It was her creation, her gamble, her little act of rebellion.

More importantly, it was her life.

And being attracted to a man whose real name she didn't know, whose face she hadn't seen, and whose lifestyle she probably shouldn't even be imagining was ridiculous.

Morgan forced herself to type.

So, Master J, is that what being dominant is about? Handing out fantasies?

His answer took longer than she expected.

That's part of it. But reducing the relationship to that would miss the point. The most important thing for a dominant is earning his partner's trust.

Morgan read on.

Trust matters in every relationship, but it's especially important in a Dominance/submission relationship. Without trust, how can a woman willingly place herself in a man's care? How can she know he'll always put her safety and well-being first? How can she know he'll understand her well enough to give her the fantasies she's afraid to admit she has?

Morgan's eyebrows rose.

So it wasn't simply about ropes, restraints, and sex?

Trust.

Care.

Understanding.

She hadn't exactly experienced much of any of those things with Andrew.

Her former fiancé had never understood her. Not really.

Trust allows a woman to connect with the primitive part of herself that wants complete surrender, Master J continued. She can place herself at her master's mercy without knowing beforehand whether what he has planned will bring pleasure, pain, or some combination of both.

Morgan stared at the screen.

She was even more intrigued than she had been when Reggie first sent her Master J's biography.

She switched windows and opened the email again.

She scanned the information.

A member of the BDSM and D/s community for nearly ten years, Master J is experienced in numerous aspects of the lifestyle and continues to expand his knowledge. He owns a private security company and has worked as a bodyguard for senators, international diplomats, and professional athletes. A graduate of West Point, he served in military Special Forces as a team leader before receiving an honorable discharge.

Morgan closed the email.

It told her plenty.

And almost nothing.

Self-discipline. Military training. Strength. Honor.

But who was the man behind the mysterious screen name?

Could he really be as confident as his messages suggested?

Could he truly make a woman surrender simply by knowing exactly what she wanted?

Her attention snapped back to the chatroom.

Morgan? You still there?

She quickly typed.

Sorry. I was thinking. Obviously, I have a lot to learn if I'm going to do the show properly. I guess I assumed it was mostly velvet ropes and handcuffs.

Those things are part of it.

She laughed softly.

The ache she'd been trying to ignore tightened in her stomach-and lower.

Curiosity didn't make her depraved.

It didn't.

She was simply learning about a world she'd never experienced.

But it's also an exchange of power and trust, he wrote. A woman chooses to give her master authority over her body and mind. She surrenders control because she trusts him to handle that power responsibly.

Morgan's breathing changed.

What kind of surrender?

The question hadn't come from her fingers.

It had come from somewhere deeper.

Images she'd never willingly shared with anyone pushed into her thoughts. Kneeling before a powerful stranger. Being ordered to expose herself. Being restrained while someone else decided what happened next.

Her cheeks burned.

She shook her head sharply.

Enough.

She wasn't going to let her imagination run away with her.

People had fantasies about bondage. She'd read enough to know that. Having fantasies didn't make her abnormal.

Besides, Andrew had made her feel ashamed of far less.

She shifted again, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through her body.

Another message appeared.

But a D/s relationship is about much more than that.

Morgan waited.

How do you restrain someone, blindfold her, take away her control, and still make her feel completely safe? How do you build something emotionally satisfying when one person has surrendered so much power to the other?

Morgan frowned.

Then another message appeared.

It's not as simple as people think.

She stared at the screen.

For a moment, nothing else came.

She waited.

And waited.

Was that it?

Had he decided not to answer?

It seemed oddly appropriate. He possessed the power to give her what she wanted-or simply withhold it.

Finally, another message appeared.

Sorry. I've had an urgent call. I have to go. If you think I have enough experience to help with your show, let's meet. Somewhere public, so you won't have to worry about me being a serial killer luring you somewhere private. It'll be easier to answer your questions in person. I've mastered quite a bit, but typing isn't one of my strengths. I'm still a hunt-and-peck guy.

Morgan smiled despite herself.

She couldn't help it.

I understand. Can we meet tomorrow at three? I found a place in Lafayette called La Roux. It seems popular. Do you know it?

His answer came quickly.

Cher, I'm a native. I know every crack in the sidewalk around here.

Morgan grinned.

Cher? I'm not nearly old enough to have been singing since the sixties.

LOL. It means dear in French. I'm Cajun. I grew up speaking the language.

She read that twice.

Then ignored the little flutter in her stomach.

The flirtatious tone was probably just part of the culture he'd grown up with. It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

I've lived in Los Angeles too long, I guess. I'll see you tomorrow?

You will. How will I recognize you? There are plenty of beautiful women in Louisiana. I want to make sure I reveal my innermost secrets to the right one.

Morgan shook her head.

He was a charmer.

He had to be.

A man involved in this lifestyle probably needed to know how to get inside a woman's head.

Most ordinary women would probably run in the opposite direction at the thought of surrendering control.

I'll wear a straw hat, sunglasses, and a huge boxy coat.

Sounds more like a disguise.

He had no idea how accurate that was.

Morgan wasn't about to advertise the real reason she needed to hide herself. She had no intention of telling him about the stalker who had made her life a nightmare.

She only hoped someone would catch the bastard soon.

Preferably before he found her.

See you tomorrow, she typed.

Au revoir.

A moment later, a notification appeared.

Master J had left the private chatroom.

Morgan moved to close the window.

Her hand trembled.

She looked at it.

Then realized her entire body was trembling.

Despite the heat that still crawled beneath her skin.

She was tired.

That was all.

Tired doesn't make you ache in private places, a wicked little voice in her head whispered.

Tired doesn't make you wet.

"Apparently, tired also makes me hear annoying voices," Morgan muttered.

She forced herself to think about tomorrow's interview instead.

That was what mattered.

The outline for the new season had to be submitted soon, and she wanted the second season of Turn Me On to launch with a bang. The show already had a surprisingly loyal following. If she found the right stories and the right guests, it could become something much bigger.

So she needed to concentrate.

Work first.

Everything else later.

Ten minutes passed.

Morgan stared at the blank screen.

She hadn't written a single word.

Master J remained firmly lodged in her thoughts.

What was it about him?

Besides the fact that he apparently lives out every fantasy you've ever been afraid to admit you have?

Morgan groaned.

She refused to listen to that voice.

She was curious.

That's all.

Curious.

Not deviant.

Certainly not whatever Andrew had accused her of being.

And her mother would probably have a heart attack if she ever knew what Morgan was thinking.

Before she could think anything else, the front-door lock rattled.

Morgan's head snapped toward the entrance.

Relief washed through her when Brandon stepped inside, forcing the door closed behind him.

"Hey, little sister," Brandon called.

She went up on tiptoe to hug him.

"Hi. How was your day?"

Brandon's aristocratic features tightened.

"Not exactly great."

She pulled back.

"What happened?"

"I've been ordered to Iraq for the next three weeks."

The news hit Morgan's stomach like a punch.

"Iraq?"

She tried to hide her alarm.

"I thought you mostly worked behind a desk."

"Mostly."

"But there are exceptions."

"Obviously."

He gave her a weary smile.

"Why Iraq?"

"Classified."

His bitter laugh told her how much he hated saying the word.

"You know how it works. I can't tell you where I'll be or what I'll be doing. I won't have regular access to a phone or computer."

He looked directly at her.

"Morgan, I don't want to leave you alone. It's dangerous, and I know you're scared."

She swallowed.

Brandon had already done more for her than most people ever would. He had taken her in despite their father's anger and had protected her from the man who wouldn't stop stalking her.

She was afraid.

Of course she was.

But she couldn't make Brandon feel guilty for doing his job.

"I'll be fine."

She forced a smile.

"I have plenty of work to keep me busy. It'll be okay."

"If something happens, I think you should call Dad."

Morgan stared at him.

Then she fought down the sarcastic response threatening to escape.

"He may be your father," she said carefully. "He's my biological father. There's a difference. He's spent twenty-five years pretending I don't exist."

Brandon sighed.

"Morgan, you know what would happen if the truth came out. Especially with politics in the South. If people found out he'd had an affair with a barely legal campaign volunteer while his wife and three sons were at home-"

"I know."

She folded her arms.

"It could ruin the senator from the great state of Texas."

"Exactly."

Brandon's expression softened.

"They're talking about a presidential run in 2012."

"Which is precisely why I can't call him."

She gave a humorless laugh.

"Not that he'd answer if I did."

"He would if you were in real danger. Dad could protect you."

Morgan wasn't convinced.

She didn't argue.

"Too bad we can't just keep telling people I'm your fiancée," she said. "It's worked so far."

Brandon gave her a look.

"If anyone ever discovers the truth, we'd have to explain either incest or a very elaborate lie."

"Neither sounds particularly appealing."

"Let's hope it never comes to that."

Morgan's expression darkened.

"I don't think my stalker knows I left Los Angeles. He has no idea where I am."

Brandon nodded and turned toward the pile of mail.

He began sorting through it.

Then he stopped.

His hand closed around a large manila envelope.

His expression changed.

"Morgan."

She looked up.

"Does anyone know you're here in Houston?"

She thought about it.

"Other than Reggie, a few close friends back home..."

She hesitated.

"And Master J. But I only met him online fifteen minutes ago."

Brandon's face tightened.

"Morgan."

"What?"

He held up the envelope.

"There was no name on it."

Her stomach dropped.

"No postage, either."

He turned it over in his hand.

"It was hand-delivered."

Morgan stared at the envelope.

That stalker knew she was here.

Morgan took it, and dread immediately tightened in her stomach.

She knew that handwriting.

Her blood seemed to turn cold.

Dear God. How did he find me here? And how could he have found me so fast?

No.

Her hands shook as she opened the envelope. Her breathing had already become shallow by the time she pulled out its contents.

Red rose petals spilled onto the blond hardwood floor.

Some were still fresh, their centers damp, while others had browned around the edges. They scattered across the room in ugly little splashes of red.

For one horrifying second, they looked like drops of blood.

Morgan gasped.

He knew where she was.

He had found her.

Her eyes dropped to the photographs.

The first showed her arriving at LAX on the day she'd left for Houston.

The second had been taken in Brandon's backyard. She was wearing thin sweatpants and a tank top, standing outside in the cool morning air.

The third made her stomach twist.

She was dressed in her sage silk-and-lace shift and matching robe, kissing Brandon's cheek in the driveway before he'd left for work.

The photograph had been taken that morning.

Fear clawed through her as Brandon snatched the pictures from her numb fingers.

He flipped through them, his jaw tightening.

"These came from your stalker, didn't they?"

Morgan couldn't answer.

"He's been here." Brandon swore under his breath. "Son of a bitch."

He dragged a hand through his brown hair, ruining the neat banker-style cut.

"I'm calling the police."

"I wish it were that easy."

Brandon looked at her.

"The police in L.A. told me he has to actually commit a crime before they'll put serious resources into finding him. Taking pictures isn't illegal."

"He's been on my property."

Brandon held up the photograph of her in his backyard.

"My backyard is private. He couldn't have taken this without trespassing. That's a crime."

He grabbed the nearest cordless phone and dialed 911.

Morgan didn't argue.

Brandon was right about the trespassing. She simply wasn't convinced the Houston police would be any more interested than the officers in Los Angeles had been.

The man hadn't stolen anything.

He hadn't damaged anything.

He hadn't physically hurt anyone.

Not yet.

But Morgan could feel the situation changing.

The more frequently he contacted her, the more personal his messages became. Now he'd followed her from California to Texas.

Her instincts told her he was getting angrier.

Unfortunately, instincts weren't evidence.

Brandon hung up.

"They'll be here soon."

Morgan nodded weakly.

There wasn't much else she could do.

While they waited, she began gathering the photographs and pushing them back into the envelope. Her fingers stopped when they encountered something inside.

Another piece of paper.

She frowned and reached deeper into the envelope.

Usually, the disturbed bastard sent photographs. Terrifying photographs, sometimes shockingly private ones, but photographs were all he'd ever sent.

This time was different.

Morgan pulled out a small scrap of paper.

Black handwriting covered it.

Only one sentence.

You belong to me. Only to me.

She swallowed.

For the first time, he wasn't simply watching her.

He was talking directly to her.

Claiming her.

And now she understood something else.

He was angry.

He believed she belonged to someone else.

He didn't know Brandon was her half-brother. He'd believed the cover story Brandon had created, partly to explain why Morgan was staying at his house and partly to discourage the obsessive man from getting any closer.

Morgan hated the thought of being alone.

Yet another part of her felt relieved that Brandon was leaving tomorrow.

If the stalker decided to eliminate what he believed was competition, Brandon wouldn't be there when it happened.

During the three weeks Brandon was gone, Morgan would find somewhere else to stay.

She had to.

Brandon had been the only one of Senator Ross's sons who had ever cared enough to find her, protect her, and treat her like family.

She couldn't put him in danger.

Maybe Reggie had been right.

Maybe she really did need a bodyguard.

"You honestly have no idea who this guy is?"

Brandon's voice pulled her back.

He was looking over her shoulder at the note.

"None."

Morgan shook her head.

"I wish I did. I don't have any enemies at work that I know of. And my ex-fiancé left me. I didn't leave him."

"Someone who's watched your show?"

Brandon's expression hardened.

"A fan who doesn't understand boundaries?"

"Maybe."

Morgan shrugged.

"I've gotten strange fan mail before. But nothing like this. Nothing threatening. Nothing that invaded my privacy."

Brandon looked at her.

"I'm going to find someone who can figure this out, kiddo. I'm not letting anything happen to you."

Morgan's chest tightened.

Sometimes she wondered how she and Brandon could possibly have come from the same father as Senator Ross's other sons.

They were nothing like him.

Nothing like his greedy, ambitious children, either.

"Damn it."

Brandon suddenly broke the silence.

"I wish like hell I didn't have to leave tomorrow."

He looked at the clock.

"The car is picking me up at five hundred. Couldn't be worse timing."

He shook his head.

"Uncle Sam can be a demanding mistress."

Morgan knew very little about what Brandon actually did.

He wasn't allowed to tell her.

From the things he'd said during the three years since he'd discovered the skeleton hidden in their father's closet and tracked her down, she'd guessed he worked in Intelligence.

She didn't know for whom.

"If you hate the job so much, and you want to run for office as badly as I know you do, why don't you quit?"

For once, Brandon didn't answer immediately.

He looked away.

Morgan watched his hands curl into fists.

Then, with visible effort, he relaxed them.

"I can't."

The next afternoon, Morgan lowered herself into a wrought-iron chair outside a small sidewalk café tucked among a charming collection of independent shops.

The February weather was warmer than she'd expected. The afternoon air felt heavy and almost lazy, a surprising change from what she'd imagined Louisiana would be like this time of year.

She hadn't slept much.

Exhaustion dragged at her eyes as she checked her watch.

Three o'clock.

She'd made good time driving from Houston.

Master J should arrive any minute.

Her stomach tightened.

Partly because she was nervous about meeting him.

Partly because she couldn't shake the sensation that someone was watching her.

Morgan glanced around.

The feeling had been there since she'd arrived.

Eyes following her.

Measuring her.

Waiting.

The hairs along the back of her neck rose.

She searched the crowd.

Nothing.

She drew a slow breath.

Maybe she was becoming paranoid.

But after everything that had happened, could anyone blame her?

If the man had followed her from Los Angeles to Houston, there was no reason to believe Lafayette was beyond his reach.

At least she was sitting in the middle of a busy public square in broad daylight.

That should make her relatively safe.

Unless he recognized her.

If he saw her meeting another man, especially someone as attractive as Master J, he might assume the worst.

And if he believed she was replacing him-or Brandon, as he'd assumed-his anger could become something much more dangerous.

Morgan pushed the thought away.

She couldn't think about tonight.

Not yet.

She had to treat this meeting as business.

If her stalker was watching, she didn't want him seeing anything that could be interpreted as romantic or sexual.

She adjusted her scarf and pulled her hat lower, making certain her hair remained hidden. Then she pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose.

Nobody should recognize her like this.

At least, that was what she told herself.

After the interview, she might find that little European-style bed-and-breakfast she'd noticed while driving into town. A few hours of sleep would help.

Then she'd figure out what to do next.

A waiter approached with a broad smile, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his dark skin.

Morgan returned the smile.

"Iced tea, please."

He nodded and walked away.

Morgan pulled the oversized coat she'd borrowed from Brandon's closet farther down over her hips. She flipped up the collar.

The waiter returned with her drink.

Morgan checked her watch.

Three-oh-five.

She'd give Master J a few more minutes.

Still, sitting here suddenly felt like a mistake.

She was exposed.

If the man really was nearby, she had nowhere to hide.

"You must be Morgan."

The deep voice came from directly behind her.

His words were barely more than a whisper.

Warm breath brushed the side of her neck.

Morgan shivered.

She spun around.

She hadn't heard him approach.

Not a single footstep.

And then she saw him.

For a moment, she forgot about her stalker altogether.

He was devastatingly handsome.

Thick dark hair framed his broad forehead. His angular jaw and cleft chin were covered with the faint shadow of a beard, giving him a ruggedness that made him look even more masculine.

His wide mouth curved into something between a smile and a challenge.

But it was his eyes that held her.

Dark.

Confident.

Knowing.

They seemed to look straight through her.

As if he already knew everything she was trying to hide.

Morgan's gaze dropped before she could stop herself.

He stood around six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a solid, muscular build beneath his fitted black T-shirt.

There was nothing flashy about him.

He simply looked powerful.

Steady.

Like someone who didn't need to prove he was strong because everyone around him could already see it.

Morgan's pulse jumped.

Attraction hit her so quickly it almost embarrassed her.

Thank God this was happening in public.

Because if she had to spend more than an hour alone with this man, she wasn't sure she could trust herself.

She swallowed.

"Yes. I'm Morgan."

She extended her hand.

He took it.

But instead of shaking it, he kept his gaze locked on hers, bent slightly, and lifted her hand to his mouth.

His lips touched her fingers.

Morgan's breath caught.

Heat rushed up her arm.

Her heartbeat became erratic.

He lingered just long enough to make the gesture feel deliberate before releasing her.

Morgan felt a strange tingling in her palm.

She pulled her hand back.

"Thank you for meeting me here, Mr..."

She hesitated.

"What should I call you? I don't even know your real name."

His smile deepened.

"For now, just call me sir."

The word landed differently than she expected.

"Okay."

She cleared her throat.

"Yes, sir."

The instant the words left her mouth, Morgan wished she could take them back.

They sounded far too intimate.

Far too submissive.

And judging by the amusement in his eyes, he knew exactly what she'd heard in her own voice.

Morgan suddenly wondered what it would feel like to say those words when nobody else was around.

She reached for her tea, desperate for something to do.

"So, according to the biography I received, you're in personal security."

"That's right."

He shrugged.

"I protect politicians and their families, diplomats, athletes. Whoever needs the service."

"You must meet some interesting people."

She glanced at him.

"Celebrities, too?"

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"Too flaky."

Morgan blinked.

He continued.

"Politicians lie, but at least their lies are predictable. Hollywood people are either paranoid, self-absorbed, or as crazy as the people stalking them."

His gaze settled on her.

"No thanks."

Morgan couldn't decide whether she was offended.

Or amused.

"I'm none of those things."

"Give it time."

He winked.

Morgan nearly laughed.

Incorrigible.

That was the word for him.

There was just enough arrogance to make him irritating, just enough humor to make it difficult to stay annoyed, and more than enough Southern charm to make a woman forget she was supposed to have common sense.

She swallowed.

The waiter returned.

Master J ordered chicory coffee.

When the waiter placed the thick, dark drink in front of him moments later, Morgan wrinkled her nose.

"Tell me about your show."

His words sounded casual.

But there was something underneath them.

A quiet authority.

Not forceful.

Not aggressive.

Still, she heard it.

And her stomach tightened.

"Turn Me On is a combination of interviews and factual segments exploring different aspects of sexual relationships."

She settled into the explanation, grateful to have something professional to focus on.

"We cover everything from fairly conventional relationships to things most people would consider outside the mainstream. Last season, we did an episode on first-date etiquette, another on friends with benefits, and another about couples with tattoo fantasies."

She smiled.

"This will be our second season. I was thrilled when the network renewed us. Since their programming is aimed primarily at women and couples, I think the show fits perfectly."

Master J took a slow drink of his coffee.

"Tell me what you're planning for this season."

Again, the request sounded more like an instruction than a question.

Morgan noticed.

She also noticed that she didn't mind.

"Well, we're still working through the ideas. But we're definitely considering episodes on boudoir photography, couples' massage, erotic finger painting, and-"

"And Dominance and submission."

Morgan swallowed.

She'd become so absorbed in explaining the show that she'd almost forgotten why she'd invited Master J to meet her in the first place.

They were supposed to discuss the very subject that had been responsible for far too many of her secret late-night fantasies.

"Yes."

One dark eyebrow lifted.

Master J looked at her expectantly, somehow managing to appear both impatient and completely at ease.

Morgan stared back.

What did he want from her?

Then it occurred to her.

"Yes, sir," she said cautiously.

His expression changed immediately.

A slow smile spread across his face.

"Very nice."

Morgan shifted in her chair.

"I thought that kind of address was reserved for one's..."

"Submissive?"

He finished the sentence for her.

"Usually. But you contacted me because you wanted to understand this lifestyle. I thought we'd start with a small taste of the dynamic and see how you respond."

He leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table.

His attention settled completely on her.

"Do you understand what it means to submit to a man?"

Morgan's breath caught.

"To surrender completely?"

She tried to inhale normally, but her breathing had already betrayed her.

His eyes darkened with unmistakable approval.

"This isn't about me," she said, although her voice came out far less firmly than she'd intended. "I only need enough understanding to explain the concept to the audience."

"How can you explain something you've never experienced, cher?"

His smile was devastating.

"A little taste won't hurt."

He paused.

"You might even enjoy it."

That was exactly what frightened her.

Morgan forced her expression into something professional.

"It doesn't matter whether I enjoy it. I managed to interview couples about tattoo fantasies without getting a tattoo myself. Understanding someone's motivations doesn't require me to experience everything they do."

"Getting a tattoo while your partner watches is considerably less intimate than being blindfolded, naked, and restrained for a master's pleasure."

Morgan's throat went dry.

He had a point.

And that little taste he'd offered was beginning to sound dangerously tempting.

No.

She knew better.

He was simply putting ideas into her head.

Morgan wasn't some woman looking for a bully to order her around. She wasn't secretly desperate to be chained up and controlled.

The idea was merely unfamiliar.

She was curious.

That was all.

Mostly.

Even if Master J happened to look like the kind of man who could make pleasure itself look like an invention he'd patented.

"What are you afraid of?"

The question caught her off guard.

Morgan looked away.

"It's just not my thing."

His eyebrow rose again.

This time, the expression in his eyes was unmistakably demanding.

"Sir," she added reluctantly.

The tension in his face eased.

"That's better."

He studied her.

"In the few minutes we've been sitting here, your skin has flushed. Your pulse has quickened. Your nipples have hardened."

Morgan's eyes widened.

"I know what arousal smells like."

Her stomach dropped.

"I can smell yours."

She couldn't move.

"So I'll ask again. What are you afraid of?"

Myself.

The answer screamed inside her head.

Morgan lowered her gaze.

She'd never felt so transparent.

"Don't overthink it," he said. "Lying comes with consequences."

Her head snapped up.

"Consequences? You don't have the right-"

His expression remained calm.

"I told you yesterday that trust is essential to this kind of relationship."

He paused.

"I trusted that you were exactly who you claimed to be."

Morgan listened.

"To help you trust me, I allowed your production assistant access to some very personal information about me."

Her eyes widened.

"You knew?"

A faint smile touched his mouth.

"I knew the moment he started making calls."

He leaned back slightly.

"If I hadn't told the clubs he contacted that they could speak with him, Reggie wouldn't have learned a thing. They wouldn't have even acknowledged knowing me, much less confirmed anything about my private life."

Morgan didn't know what to say.

Master J shifted closer.

His thigh brushed hers again.

Then he reached out and gently lifted her chin.

Morgan froze.

The simple touch sent a startling mixture of embarrassment and attraction through her.

"Trust," he said quietly.

His thumb remained beneath her chin.

"I gave you some. If we're going to work together, you need to give me a little in return."

His voice softened.

"I'm not going to attack you. I'm not going to force you into anything. Whatever dramatic scenario you're imagining, forget it."

He released her.

"If I'm going to help you understand the psychology behind Dominance and submission, you need enough trust to be honest with me."

His eyes held hers.

"With me."

A pause.

"And with yourself."

Morgan swallowed.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Good."

He leaned back.

"Now I'll ask one final time. Why does the idea of submitting frighten you?"

The question struck much deeper than he could possibly know.

There were too many answers.

Rejection.

Humiliation.

Being laughed at.

Being made to feel worthless.

Pain.

Degradation.

And the possibility she feared most of all-that she might actually enjoy surrendering control to a man like him.

That she'd discover something about herself she couldn't take back.

She couldn't tell him any of that.

Doing so would be like handing him the keys to every locked room inside her.

"Please," she whispered.

Her voice broke.

"Please..."

His jaw tightened.

His eyes narrowed.

And for some ridiculous reason, Morgan hated the thought of disappointing him.

She owed him nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He was an interview subject.

He would be paid for his time.

That was the beginning and end of their relationship.

She was still struggling between the urge to resist him and the terrifying desire to surrender when she noticed the waiter had returned.

The young man refilled Master J's coffee.

Then he turned toward Morgan with a puzzled expression.

"Some guy gave me twenty dollars to give this to you."

He handed her a plain mailing envelope.

Morgan recognized the handwriting immediately.

The waiter walked away.

Her heart began hammering.

She tore the envelope open.

Red rose petals spilled across her fingers.

Fresh centers.

Brown, dying edges.

Her face drained of color.

"No."

She looked around the square.

"No."

"Morgan?"

Master J's voice changed.

Concern replaced the teasing edge.

"He's here."

She could barely get the words out.

"He followed me."

Her gaze darted from one person to another.

"I have to leave."

She stood abruptly.

"Hide. Now."

Master J caught her shoulders.

"Who is here?"

Morgan jerked free.

"Where are you going?"

She scanned the square frantically.

Most of the chairs were empty. A few people sat inside nearby shops. Windows and balconies overlooked the street.

Anyone could be watching.

The coffeehouse patrons barely seemed to notice her.

Her stalker had always been like that.

Invisible.

Silent.

Present without ever being seen.

"I can't stay."

Her voice shook.

"I'm sorry."

Master J reached for her again.

This time, he wasn't trying to restrain her.

He was trying to understand.

Then he stopped.

His attention shifted across the street.

Morgan saw his entire body change.

The relaxed man she'd been talking to disappeared.

"Down!"

He shoved her toward the ground.

Morgan hit the pavement beneath the table a split second before the gunshot cracked through the afternoon.

Master J dropped over her.

Another shot followed.

People screamed.

Chairs scraped across the pavement as the crowd scattered.

Morgan trembled violently beneath him.

Master J kept his body between hers and the direction of the gunfire.

Damn it.

Revenge had been his plan.

But none of that mattered if Morgan ended up dead.

He hadn't brought her here to kill her.

He'd brought her here because she was connected to Brandon Ross.

Because she was supposed to become the instrument of a revenge he'd spent three years planning.

He intended to discover what made her tick.

To understand every secret desire she carried.

To make her want him so completely that Brandon Ross would become irrelevant.

But whoever was shooting at them had a very different objective.

That man wanted Morgan dead.

Another shot rang out.

Morgan jerked.

Master J tightened his hold around her.

His instincts had taken over.

Protect her.

Get her out.

Nothing else mattered.

Brandon Ross might deserve everything he'd planned to give him.

Morgan didn't.

"I'll get you out of here," he whispered beside her ear.

His hand moved toward the .38 concealed beneath his clothing.

He stopped himself.

Too many civilians.

Too much chaos.

One wrong shot could hit an innocent person.

And Morgan was already terrified.

She wasn't trained for this.

She wasn't a soldier.

She was a woman who spent her days talking to cameras.

She wasn't supposed to be hiding beneath a café table while bullets flew overhead.

Master J glanced toward the chair where she'd been sitting.

The back was splintered.

Fresh bullet marks gouged the metal.

He swore.

Morgan tried to push herself upright.

"Stay down."

"I have to go."

Her voice shook.

"Run. Hide."

He looked across the street.

The rooftop where he'd seen the flash of gunmetal was empty.

The shooter could have fled.

Or he could have moved closer.

Either way, staying in the open was suicidal.

Master J grabbed Morgan's hand and pulled her upright.

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head.

"No."

"Then run."

She shoved her hat back into place and tightened the scarf around her hair.

Master J looked down at their joined hands.

Her fingers were tiny inside his.

He closed his grip around them.

"Stay with me."

He pulled her after him.

They ran.

Another shot cracked through the street.

Master J dragged her behind an overturned table.

They waited a second.

Then moved again.

He guided her behind the café counter before pulling her around the corner of the building.

Morgan clutched her hat with her free hand and followed as quickly as she could.

"Where are we going?"

He didn't answer.

He was already working through possibilities.

They cut through side streets.

Then an alley.

Another shot rang out.

A bullet tore through the air near his ear.

He swore.

If that bastard so much as touched Morgan, he'd tear him apart with his bare hands.

They ducked into a busy store.

They nearly collided with an elderly woman.

Master J stepped aside long enough for her and her walker to pass.

Those few seconds felt like an eternity.

As soon as the way cleared, he grabbed Morgan's hand again.

"Come on."

They ran through the store and out the back.

A narrow walkway led them toward another alley.

The light was fading.

Behind them came another burst of gunfire.

Master J glanced over his shoulder.

The shooter had reached the front of the store.

"Shit."

He pulled Morgan faster.

"Run, cher."

She was breathing hard.

Sweat dampened her forehead.

But she nodded and kept going.

At the end of the alley stood a metal door.

Its black paint was chipped and scarred.

Across it, in bright red lettering, were two words:

Sexy Sirens.

Even with the door shut, loud music vibrated through the metal.

It was barely three in the afternoon.

The club was already alive.

Master J knew the place.

He also knew the door would probably be locked.

He raised his fist and pounded against it.

"Open up!"

Nothing.

He glanced behind them.

Nothing.

Then another gunshot exploded.

Brick shattered less than a foot from Morgan.

Master J spun toward the sound.

The alley was cluttered with garbage bins and tangled vines.

Plenty of hiding places.

"Son of a bitch."

He slammed his fist against the door again.

"Open the damn door!"

At last, the metal door swung inward.

A familiar bleached-blonde woman stared at him.

"Jesus, Jack. What the hell happened?"

"There's a shooter out there."

Jack pushed Morgan through the doorway.

"I need your help."

He followed her inside and slammed the door behind them.

The back room was cluttered with empty beer cans and equipment.

A child's stick pony lay beside a riding crop near the entrance to the stage.

Angelique had apparently just finished performing.

Jack's eyes swept across the room.

A single red bulb cast a dull glow over peeling black walls.

Beyond the thin door separating them from the main club, music thudded heavily.

He listened for movement outside.

Then looked at Morgan.

She was still shaking.

"We're safe for the moment," he said.

But Jack knew better than to believe the danger was over.