The Siren
“Why, Zachary,” she said, chuckling to herself, “yes, I think I will regard sex.”
The email dragged on for two pages and detailed every reason why she needed to cut out the majority of her sex scenes. She stopped reading after the fifth use of the word gratuitous.
You’re no fun, she wrote Zach back. Can’t I just keep three of my scenes?
Zach was obviously still at his computer. He quickly replied with one word.
No.
Two? she wrote back.
No.
Nora was about to fall out of her chair laughing. She could imagine his stern but strikingly handsome visage right now, his brow furrowing deeper with each annoying little email from her.
One? I promise I’ll make it good. Please? I’ll buy you a puppy.
I’m allergic to dogs, he replied.
Nora bit her lip as the wheels in her head turned.
Let’s play a game, she wrote back. I’ll give you fifty extra pages this week if you let me keep three of my scenes—heavily edited, of course.
She held her breath as she waited for his reply. An email finally popped up in her in-box.
Fine. But any sex on the page must serve both the plot and the character development. Now stop playing and start writing. You’ve got five weeks left and over four hundred pages to rewrite.
I’m keeping the puppy, she wrote back. She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t reply.
Nora was rereading Zach’s most recent note on her new chapters when her hotline rang. She heard its Klaxon ringtone in her office all the way from the kitchen. Rolling her eyes, she stood up and headed in that direction in no particular hurry. When she got there, she found Wesley standing by the counter with the phone in his hand. He looked oddly tired and grim. He handed it to her without a word and walked past her. “King, I swear I’m going to beat the shit out of you if you don’t stop calling me.”
“Now you’re flirting, ma chérie.”
Nora ground her teeth together and took a deep breath. Was there any man in the world more infuriating than Kingsley Edge? Søren, she remembered. Only Søren.
“I am not flirting. I am working.” She said the words slowly as if she were speaking to a child. “I have another job, recall?”
“I try everything I can to forget your other job, maîtresse. Your other job costs me money.”
“Well, it makes me money.”
“And that helps me how?”
“Kingsley, tell me what you want and then leave me alone. My editor is making me rewrite my entire book.”
“The Nora Sutherlin taking orders from a man. I thought those days were long over.”
Nora clenched her jaw. She would not let him goad her into a fight today.
“I’m une petite peu busy, monsieur.”
“Never too busy for a client. For this client in particular.”
Nora leaned her head against the cold metal of the refrigerator. Most of her clients were on her time; she saw them at her leisure. Just part of the mystique of being a Dominatrix. But there were a handful of clients not even she felt comfortable keeping waiting. She guessed it was Jake Sizemore, CEO of some company that made something that kept the world going. King never let her turn Sizemore down when he came to town.
“Fine. What do I need to know?”
“Just wear your finest and be there in an hour. C’est ça.”
Nora scribbled the time and place down in her datebook. She’d been trying so hard not to take any jobs while working with Zach. Zach had all the signs of someone going through a fairly serious depression. She knew depression well, knew it was anger turned inward. That much depression signaled an impressive cache of anger lurking under that ridiculously handsome exterior. Her gorgeous blue-eyed editor already oozed disapproval of her at every turn. She could only imagine how bad his reaction would be if he found out that writing wasn’t her only job. For over a year now she’d dreamed of quitting the game altogether, but without a signed contract from Royal, she was scared to give up her day job.
“I’m getting a little sick of this, you know, King?”
“You say that and yet I hear la petite morte under your breath. You know you love this job.”
“I love the money. That’s it.”
“You love him, chérie.”
Nora closed her eyes and swallowed the growl in the back of her throat.
“He has nothing to do with this.” Nora refused to get into a discussion of Søren with Kingsley. Kingsley reported to Søren.
“Ma petite,” he chided. “You do this for his attention. C’est vrai, oui?”
“That’s like saying criminals commit crimes to get the cops’ attention.”
She heard Kingsley’s soft, heady laugh.
“Exactement. One hour, maîtresse.”
Nora hung up and went to her bedroom. The house was too quiet. She couldn’t hear Wesley anywhere. Usually at this time of day he was working on his homework and listening to music. Or if homework was light that night, he’d be playing his guitar and singing softly to himself. She remembered the first time she’d caught him playing and singing. She’d told him he sounded a little like the nineties band Nelson. He’d said, “Who’s he?” and Nora had thrown a book at him.
She dressed in her black leather skirt with the back slit and her black-and-red brocade bustier. She found her black gauntlets and pulled them on. They laced up her arms and she had a horrible time tightening the laces and tying them off on her own. She went to find Wesley. He hated that she worked as a professional Dominatrix, but he tolerated it more or less. Before he’d moved in over a year ago she’d explained what she did, what she was. He’d been shocked. He didn’t even know such things existed. He was relieved, however, when she explained she was in no way a prostitute and that she never had sex with clients—not the male clients anyway. They weren’t even allowed to kiss her except on the toe of her boot. No, she was no prostitute, she explained. She was, if anything, a kind of massage therapist who simply inflicted pain instead of pleasure. Despite his shock, Wesley moved in anyway. She’d been so impressed by how well he took it, she’d even told him about Søren.