Gena Showalter - The Pleasure Slave

Wind howled in swirling procession, thrashing and clawing throughout the spacious chamber, whipping the white gossamer cloth over the windows and rattling the very foundation of the floor. Energy erupted and glowed all around, striking like bolts and war spears. A rumbling boom echoed in her ears. She raised her arms higher.

"Into a trinket box you shall rest, answering each summons as it suits best. This I bind, this I speak, your will matters none. So said, let it be known. So said, let it be done."

One moment Tristan stood before her a strong, virile man, the next he was gone. Only the small jewel-encrusted box she'd thrown rested on the floor. Grinning slowly, she hopped from the bed, bent down and clasped the box in her hands. A wave of giddiness swept through her. Tristan now belonged to her—only to her. And over the next thousand years or so, she would enjoy letting him make up for his behavior today. He would learn well his mistake in refusing a priestess of the Druinn.

Sante Fe, New Mexico

Ways Of The Pleasure Slave

The Slightest Whim Of Your Master Is Your Highest Law

The blare of a horn sounded. Again. Julia Anderson gripped the wheel of her sedan and glanced down at her speedometer. Six miles per hour over the speed limit. The driver behind her found this completely unacceptable and honked yet again, a demand that she get out of the way or hit the gas.

The morning sun had yet to make an appearance, but the waning moon and towering streetlights revealed two open, easily accessible lanes. There was no reason to ride her tail like this.

Still the honking persisted for another mile.

By that time, Julia's nerves were frazzled and her foot was shaking on the gas pedal. She rolled her shoulders and drew in a deep breath, but neither action managed to relax her. She cranked up the volume on La Bohème .

That didn't help, either.

I'm a calm, rational woman , she reminded herself. I will not become unnerved by a little honking .

Honk. Honk. Hoooonk.

Her teeth gnashed together. She didn't have a temper; she really didn't. Not usually anyway. But right now she wanted to slam on her brakes and give that driver a crash-test-dummy demonstration. Instead, she allowed her car to gradually slow.

"What do you think of that, Speedy?" she asked smugly.

Apparently, he didn't like it. His little Mustang finally whipped into another lane, accelerating quickly. When their cars aligned, he rolled down his window and began shouting and waving his fist. The moment she recognized him, Julia forgot she believed in thinking before acting. She forgot that she preferred to act rationally in all situations.

She gave him the bird.

That's right. She held up one hand and extended her middle finger. In a hiss of fury, the red sports car roared away.

Shock was still coursing through her when she reached her destination. She, a woman who prided herself on her calm, rational behavior, had just flipped off her biggest competitor.

And it had felt good. So deliciously good.

Chuckling, she parked her car. Her amusement faded, however, when she saw that there was one other car in the lot—a red Mustang.

A groan worked its way past her throat as she gathered her purse and stepped into the frigid Sante Fe morning. A strong wind immediately blustered by, making her shiver. She tugged the lapels of her coat tighter and hurried toward the only building in sight.

The Mustang's owner was waiting near the metal doors. When he spotted her, he glared at her through small, dark eyes. Hostility radiated from him.

She came to an abrupt stop and watched him warily. At five foot six or seven, he wasn't much taller than she. His thin cap of hair gleamed with a thick film of mousse, and a round belly protruded over the elastic waist of his wrinkled pants.

The same wild impulse that had hit her in the car hit her now. He's going down , she decided, squaring her shoulders. And I'll be the one to give him the final push . He must have sensed her determination to outmaneuver him, because he placed one foot in front of the other and crouched down ever so slightly. The classic fighting stance.

This meant war.

She stiffened her resolve, refusing to run back to the safety of her car. She stared at him through slitted eyes, not willing to look away or even blink. To do so showed weakness, and the desire to win this battle had suddenly grown to unimaginable proportions. While he was closer to the door, she was a good twenty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter.

He didn't stand a chance.

Suddenly a click reverberated through the cover of silence.

The Kreager Flea Market had just opened to dealers.

Jumping into action, Julia pushed and elbowed her way past the man. She glided through the double doors a split second before he did. Yes! Victory. Smiling with pride, she grabbed a basket and began her treasure hunt.

Antiques . Ah, that one word had the power to send ribbons of delight down her spine. Over the years she'd been called many things. Garage-sale junky. Thrift-store devotee. Auction-house addict. She had accumulated so much stuff she'd had two options: buy an antique store to sell her wares or become buried alive in her collection.

She'd chosen to set up her own shop.

Julia's Treasures opened the day of her twenty-third birthday and had flourished in the two years since. It was her pride and joy, a place where she found success and happiness. Unlike the rest of your life , a hidden corner of her mind supplied.

"Hey," she said, then pressed her lips together. I'm happy with the rest of my life . So what that she had plain brown hair, nondescript green eyes, and a short, rounded body that failed to gain admiration. So what that she had no fashion sense and didn't know how to attract a man. "I'm happy," she repeated firmly.

As she wandered through the market, her old, ratty sneakers squeaked, drawing the attention of several sellers intent on luring her over. Knowing exactly what she wanted to buy—and what she didn't—she ignored them. She bypassed a table of porcelain dolls and didn't look twice at the stand laden with Depression Era glass.

In the back, next to a slightly worn cherry vanity, she spotted an old corncob pipe. She studied the aged wood from every angle, then lifted it to her nose and sniffed. The faint scent of tobacco drifted to bier nostrils. She grinned, the perfect customer in mind.

Elated, she carefully placed the pipe in her basket. Next she examined a colorful blown-glass carousel, but decided to forgo purchasing such an expensive item when she didn't have a buyer already lined up. The rest of the items on the table received a cursory perusal before one object in particular drew and held her gaze. She set aside a collage of plastic flowers and stared down at what looked to be an old square jewelry box.

The sides were chipped, and the outer layer, which at one time had probably been a glossy ivory, was now a dull yellow-brown. There were several holes where colored glass, or maybe even precious gems, once resided. Overall an extremely ugly piece, yet something about it called to her. Biting her lower lip, she ran her fingertips over the surface. Unexpectedly, the cool exterior sent a shaft of warm, inviting heat up her arm. Tingles raced down her back, making her shiver. Intrigued, she tried to raise the lid, but the stubborn thing refused to budge.

That didn't dissuade her. She wanted this box. Badly. "See something you like, lass?" asked a voice with a slight Scottish accent. Julia glanced up. A man who appeared to be in his early sixties with a beaked nose and eyes that drooped low on his cheekbones regarded her expectantly. Those eyes, she thought… they were as fathomless and blue as an ocean, and she would swear they saw into her soul. She shook off her unease. Not wanting him to know just how much she desired the item, she schooled her features to show mild curiosity, nothing more. "How much for the jewelry box?" she asked.