Cherise Sinclair - The Dom's Dungeon

When she eased the thick gauze dressing off his back, she frowned. “How in the world did you get a cut like this?”

“I had an altercation at the airport. He had a knife.”

Life returned to her face as she cleaned the wound with efficient, easy movements. She obviously didn't have a problem with blood or with touching a man in a nonsexual way. She glanced at him in the mirror, a trace of humor in her eyes. “Since you're still breathing, I assume you won?”

Alex grinned. “I'm not sure I'd call it a win. Although he's behind bars, I missed my flight. My luggage is on the plane. I couldn't book another flight for two days.” He shook his head, ignoring the pain as she worked on his back. “There didn't seem to be any point to going to my conference.”

“Well, that explains why you came back.” She applied antibacterial ointment to the stitches and re-covered the wound with gauze. “I sure wasn't expecting anyone to walk in.” This time when her eyes met his in the mirror, her face turned a pretty pink.

He watched and saw her fingers tremble as she applied tape to the gauze. Her gaze followed the line of his shoulder, paused on his bicep—she was seeing him as a man, not a patient. Her color deepened. Arousal.Aversion . The little sub had conflicts.

With an audible breath, she stepped back. “All done. Keep it dry and have someone put a clean dressing on it tomorrow.”

When he turned and leaned against the sink counter, her gaze dipped to his bare chest. He stood close enough that he could see the tiny pulse in her neck grow more rapid. “Thank you, little vet,” he murmured. “You have gentle hands.”

“You're welcome.”

When he brushed his fingers along the delicate line of her jaw, she stiffened, obviously fighting not to step back. And yet her pupils dilated slightly. Fear and desire, like an abused puppy that wanted to be petted yet cannot trust.

“Let me put on a clean shirt, and I'll meet you in the family room.”

She backed up a step, gave him a nod, and headed for the door. In the stiffness of her spine and the ungraceful movement of her legs, he could see the control she exerted not to flee, like a little cat pretending not to notice a Great Dane in the next yard.

She was smart. Sweet. Terrified.

And not his problem, dammit.

Upstairs, he picked up a T-shirt, winced at the thought of pulling it over his head, and then chose a casual button-down instead. Odd how MacKensie's references all praised her character, dedication, and skill. Nothing had hinted at her being the type of person to break into a room. And when she'd apologized, he'd seen not only embarrassment but shame.

But if she were so innocent, how had she managed to get the door open?

He frowned and leaned against the dresser. Interesting conundrums. What did a Dom owe to a sub not under his command? She obviously didn't want to stay here, and problems or not, her choices were her own.

But what about Exchanges? He needed to notify them about her behavior. And he had a certain responsibility to the animals and veterinarians in this community. Could she be trusted?

Yet he'd completely destroy her career if he voiced those questions. Dammit, he didn't know enough to—

His cell phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. He flipped it open. “What?”

“Oh, Alex, you sound so angry.” Cynthia's rich voice poured out like syrup.

The day just got better and better. He should have checked the number. “Cynthia, we're done. Stop calling me. I won't see you or talk to you.”

She laughed lightly. “You're my master, so I'll obey and get off the phone now. But I know you'll see me again. You aren't with anyone else, and I know you never go long without a woman. There's something between us, Alex, and I'll wait for you. I'll wait just as long as it takes.”

He heard the sound of a kiss, pulled the phone away, and cursed. This was worse than he'd thought.

Hell. He could denounce her in public and humiliate her. He sighed. He not only couldn't do that to a woman, but Cynthia happened to like being humiliated.

“ You aren't with anyone else .” He could fix that at least. Pick up a sub from the club and—he grimaced—probably end up with another problem. Here he'd thought Cynthia a good choice since, with her wealth, his money wouldn't be a draw.

As he tucked his shirt into his pants and the movement pulled at the tape on his back, he stilled, remembering the little submissive who had applied the dressing. Maybe one simple solution would solve all his problems.

Mac waited by the door of the family room, relieved when she heard Fontaine's footsteps approaching. It had taken him long enough.

He nodded to her as he entered the room. After crossing to the tiny bar, he poured a glass of wine and then tilted his head, asking silently if she wanted some.

She shook her head. This was no social occasion.

He picked up his glass and moved over to flip a switch on the fireplace. Flames sprouted under the logs, then caught, and within a minute a fire blazed, giving off both heat and a false sense of comfort.

Why was he bothering with all this?

He took a seat in one of the dark leather chairs. Leaning back to watch her with an unreadable gaze, he held his glass of red wine in one big hand, his lean fingers gentle on the delicate crystal.

Mac frowned. Those hands on her body hadn't been gentle at all. Time to get this over with and get out of here. She held her head high and marched forward. “Mr. Fontaine,” she said in a cold voice, stopping in the middle of the room.

His lips quirked. “'Alex' will do for now.”

For now? What did that mean? “Once again, I'm sorry for my actions. The room upstairs is clean, and I'll just get out of your life now.” The thought sent anxiety like ice trickling down her spine.

“Sit down.”

“Listen, I—”

He pointed to the chair across from him.

She walked to the chair, a little startled at her compliance. Her usual reaction to an order was defiance, not obedience. When her tender butt made contact with the cushion, she sucked in a breath. A glint of amusement appeared in his eyes. If she could have laid hands on anything throwable, she'd have heaved it at him. “What do you want to talk about?”

His fingers rubbed his lips as he studied her, in no hurry to answer her question. In fact, he appeared totally at ease in this awkward situation.

Another reason to hate him. She might be a confident vet, but in social situations she bumbled around like a badly trained puppy. Turning her gaze away, she held her clammy hands out to the fire and then realized how badly her fingers shook. New plan: fold hands in lap, lean back in chair, meet the man's eyes, and be polite. Piece of cake.

“The information from Exchanges stated you wanted to trade places to save money while you job hunt,” he said finally. “I have the impression that leaving my home might prove more than just an inconvenience for you.”

Her breath caught at the accurate blow. She laced her fingers together. “That's not your problem,” she said stiffly. But God help her, it was hers. All those interviews that she'd set up. Several clinics still needed to call her with dates and times. “If someone calls… Um… Tomorrow I will call and give you a number… Could you please…” Her voice trailed off. How could she ask him for anything?

“I could, perhaps, be persuaded to let you stay here with me,” he said softly.

Her eyes closed as nausea whirled inside her. For a moment, one horrible moment, she actually considered giving in to his pressure tactics. Tacky motel rooms and dark alleys.Being used.

She rose. “Forget it. I'm not a prostitute.” Never, ever again.