Ice Queen

As thirty minutes ticked away, the anxiety returned. A nagging feeling of apprehension that made her wonder again how she'd reached the logical and seemingly well-thought-out decision that she could have this discussion with Tyler Winterman in any capacity that was safe. She shouldn't have entertained it at all, except she had no choice. There were things in her life she knew she needed in order to keep other things under control. Fate recently had determined that Tyler was the key to one of them. Not so much him as his cooperation at the very least.

She bid Chloe and Gen good night, locked the rear service entrance and then stepped back out into the tearoom. Chloe had locked the front door and dimmed the lights to evening security mode, just enough light that the passing patrol car could see into her downtown shop. It surprised her that her hostess had done that with Tyler still in the room. Then she saw, with a mental note to slap Chloe in the morning, a small trio of candles burning in the center of his table. It set an atmosphere she did not wish to cultivate.

Marguerite picked up a douser on the side table and gestured courteously to him to stay seated as she approached. Laying it over each candle, she felt him watching her movements. It put the room in even dimmer light but she knew every inch of her own place, though it seemed different with his presence.

"I'd like to have our talk in the private tearoom, if you don't mind. That way, no one's confused about whether we're closed for the day or not, and we won't be interrupted."

"Should I bring my cup?"

"No. Just leave it there. Chloe is still new to judging customer tastes. That's one of our stronger black teas. I think I have something more to your liking." She laid the douser on the tablecloth, keeping her eyes on it. "It's a small matter, but earlier I didn't give you permission to touch me. I'd prefer you not to do so." He was a Dom with a very cool temperament. She knew he'd understand and not create a row, though she questioned the wisdom of making an issue of it, based on what she was intending to ask him.

"Not comfortable being around men who aren't on their knees?" Tyler had no problem with woman Dominants, so she assumed the question to be based on curiosity. It didn't make his exceptional intuition any less irritating.

"Not used to it, certainly."

He rose, and she'd misjudged how close she was standing to him. She made herself wait a second before she stepped back, wanting it clear she was doing it to give him room to follow her around the table, not because being confronted by his height and broad shoulders at less than a foot distance washed her with a disturbing heat.

She turned on her heel, ostensibly to lead him to the private room but also to avoid prolonging the face-to-face proximity with nothing between them. When she reached the brocade curtain that separated the private tea area from the main floor, he was close enough behind her that his long arm drew the fabric back for her. His fingertips grazed the small of her back, the contact just light enough not to be a blatant disregard of her request. What was it Lao Tse said? Energy was in the space between things. The light touch made her decide that such energy could become compressed into a flash of heat upon impact, shuddering up one's spine.

Tyler noted the shiver that rippled through her. He knew Marguerite did not welcome touch. Even her submissives were allowed very little liberty in that area. She touched them; they did not touch her. On infrequent occasions she allowed a slave to service her orally, and the undulations of her body while he did so were as sensual and controlled as a swan on a lake. She appeared to draw pleasure from it but Tyler sensed that the pleasure for her was in the choreography, the emotional reaction of her sub when she granted him the pleasure of her most intimate taste. He knew there were those who thought she climaxed during those sessions. He had his doubts about that.

But he didn't read rejection in her shiver now, simply surprise at being touched at all, and uncertainty in how to react consciously. Her body did it for her, instinct filling in the void, and that reaction made his own body respond.

She stepped away, reluctantly drawing his attention away from the slim and statuesque line of her back and shoulders to his new surroundings.

The room had a pleasing simplicity. One large original watercolor of a blue heron graced the wall behind the round table. The table was draped in a gray damask which dropped the proper twelve inches on all sides, revealing teak legs shaped like the elongated heads of Chinese dragons. A rock fountain grouped with several bamboo plants and a palm in the corner gave the impression of a tropical forest. And behind Marguerite was a picture window overlooking a tiny courtyard with a statuary garden.

The room spoke of confidences, seclusion and sanctuary. She'd obviously desired all three for this meeting, intriguing him. The table settings emphasized a ritual of civility. Personal control.

"What type of flavor do you think I prefer?" She cocked her head. "The subtle, the delicately made. You're the type of person who wants the mystery inside the flower bud."

"I can still appreciate the different nuances of the stronger flavors." He studied the orchid in the center of the table. "With the very delicate, you sculpt something down to such a whisper of form, there's nothing else it can be. It's in strength you find surprises, variation."

Marguerite realized he was too good at discerning her own interests, the philosophies in which she'd immersed her life. And he was far too intelligent for her peace of mind.

She changed the direction briskly. "Well, all that said, this is a second flush Darjeeling. It might remind you of a muscatel wine."

"It might be worth the cost, then. I could buy a box of a hundred tea bags at the grocery store for the price you charge for a cup of it." She winced. "Barbarian. Darjeeling is the high end of teas. It's produced in India, in the foothills of the Himalayans."

"Have you been there?"

She nodded. "You can see Mount Everest in the distance on a clear day. There's a misty climate there. For tea, the perfect composition of soil, air and rainfall. The first flush, the first harvest, of this particular tea is very expensive. They usually serve it at an invitation-only tasting with a great deal of fanfare." Certain that the information was similar to what she gave her clientele when they asked such questions, he wondered that any of them could get past the distraction of the woman to focus on the words. She was different from any Domme he knew, and now that he was seeing her in her world which was anything but mundane, she intrigued him even more.

Her shop was in a downtown neighborhood where people hung out in the quieter side streets. Cars navigated around them, the people acting as if the vehicles were in their front yards, which seemed almost true. It was a poor area of mostly black faces but there was a sense of community. He'd done enough background research on her to know that Marguerite's shop in the elegant old house had been well received and her location did not seem to dismay her upscale client base. She'd bought the block of six lots, chosen one of the hundred-year-old structures as her teahouse and torn down the other run-down edifices, one of which had been used as a crack house. When he'd driven up to the teahouse, he'd noted that on two of the lots she'd created a park with swing sets, a sandbox, comfortable benches, gazing pool and a privacy hedge. On the opposite side of the business was a lush garden with walking paths that looked as if it was maintained by one of the local landscaping companies. He'd surmised that the tall privacy fence directly behind the house gave her a backyard of her own, which included this private courtyard he saw now.

From what he'd seen when he came in, the play park and the path garden were apparently open to the neighborhood children and their parents, anyone seeking a moment of peace and beauty. But two adamant rules were printed on colorful, tasteful signs at the multiple entrances to them. No alcohol or drugs were allowed on her property.

His gaze shifted to the Japanese scroll to the left of the doorway. "What does that say?"

She went to the side table where there was a stovetop and a kettle steaming and checked the temperature reading. "'God is in the silence. God is in the empty space.'

Please sit down." She glanced at him. "Southern male etiquette has been acknowledged and is appreciated. But it's easier to prepare the tea for you if you're sitting, since this is a smaller area and you're not a slight man. Either chair is fine." It had been set for two people with woven bamboo placemats, napkins neatly arranged and fanned in pewter rings, silver spoons and saucers with a red and gold oriental design. Rather than facing over the expanse of the table, the two cup settings were next to one another, a more intimate arrangement that surprised him. A small round cake was in the middle of the table, a sharp-bladed short knife waiting for precise cuts of the dessert.

"You prepared for me." He realized it with a pang of chagrin. "I apologize for coming so early. You're right. It was rude."

She inclined her head but he sensed no censure to the gesture. The Ice Queen was what they called her at The Zone. But as he took a seat to watch her, ice was not what came to mind. She could not be described. Like the most perfect piece of art, a person had to stand in the same room, breathe in what she was, be this close to touching her.

In the club, she wore the clothes of a Mistress. Not always what one would expect but garments that clearly underscored her ability to command obedience from any sub whose path she chose to cross. But here in the real world, she wore beautifully tailored dark slacks and a blue silk blouse. No jewelry, not even her ears pierced. No rings.

The feature that struck most men first about Marguerite was her hair. So pale as to be almost the color of moonlight, and eyes that were such a light blue that he was reminded of the shifting images one could almost glimpse in a spring's clear waters.

Pale skin. Tall and elegant, never the slightest slouch to suggest she had any self-consciousness about her height.

She affected him in a way he had great difficulty in describing, a way that he knew would cause his few close friends within the BDSM community to doubt his sanity.

When he looked at her, he knew he was meant to understand the secret to her soul in a way he suspected no man ever had.

When he decided to come to this meeting, he'd made a conscious decision to start down that path, and not stop until he reached the nexus of her.

"Your place reminds me of the Victorian solarium, run by the acknowledged society queen. A place for ladies to talk politics, religion, home. But not really a male sanctum."

She glanced toward him. "Do you know in Morocco it's the man's job to pour the tea in households, and he holds the pot high above the cup as he pours, to create a frothy top to the tea? I think it's welcoming to either gender. Men just don't tend to take advantage of the environment. But Chloe agrees with you. She thinks we need to do something to attract more eligible males."

"Well, I suppose you could have ladies drinking tea naked. That table of elderly matriarchs had promise. I'll bet they were wearing some pretty sexy lingerie beneath their fancy dresses."

Her lips tightened in an almost smile but then she drew it back into herself. He nodded toward a box on a shelf to the left of the stovetop where it could not be adversely impacted by the steam. "What's in that?" She took it down, the gracious hostess, bringing it to the table so he could see it better. The box looked to be carved out of ivory.

"This is orchid tea," she explained, lifting the lid of the tea caddy and showing the foil-lined interior. He bent forward and examined the dark rolled leaves interspersed with the pale twists of the orchid blossoms. She raised a silver scoop shaped like a scalloped shell. "Centuries ago, when tea buyers were testing different teas, the supplier would leave a scalloped shell on the top of the container as a scoop so the buyer could smell and handle the tea." She scooped some of the infusion up in a simple movement, and extended it to him. "I'll serve you the Darjeeling tonight but see what you think of this."

Her hands had the long-fingered grace of meadow grasses stroking the flank of a passing deer. Tyler reached out, took the spoon from her so he could gently encircle her wrist and turn her palm upward. Tapping the spoon's contents into her hand, he lifted her palm closer to his nose, his lips mere inches from the pulse he felt racing beneath his grip, making him want to tighten it. He didn't. He inhaled, smelled a woman who wore no perfumes but the fragrances of her cafe. The tea's fragrance was soft, tantalizing and soothing at once, the energy of life married to its tranquility, balancing the drinker in a like fashion, he suspected.

"Much better," he agreed. "I find that much more to my liking." He let her go slowly, his touch whispering across her skin.

She remained motionless, staring at him, the hand in the air where he left it, cupped around the spilled tea.

One thing Marguerite knew about Tyler. He did not idly flirt. If he reached out, touched or caressed a woman, whether it be with his fingers, his voice, or the powerful regard of his gaze, it was because he had his sights firmly set on acquisition. It was possible he was merely enjoying the sexual chemistry that a man and a woman could have in their current setting, an acknowledgement that their common tie was in fact their sexual pursuits but this felt far more...personal.

She turned away at last, feeling his regard as she measured out the proper amount of tea and dropped it into the first teapot, a simple white bone china piece she used for steeping before pouring the mixture into the final tea container. With a quick glance at the kettle temperature again, she lifted it to pour the heated spring water on top of the tea leaves in the pot.

"Isn't it supposed to be boiling?"

"Not for a green tea. Just below boiling is more suitable."

"Does it matter?"

She finished the pour, set the kettle aside, and covered the steeping pot. "It matters.

It all matters with tea. The amount of moments you steep it may be personal preference but the container, the water you use, the color of the teacups, it's all important. Tea is a touchstone, a way for my clients to reclaim their balance. I try to give them that."

"Do I look unbalanced?"

He looked as though he wouldn't show a line of hull in a full course gale. Instead of answering, she picked up the tea strainer.

"Sounds like you've studied this from the Zen perspective." Tyler's attention drifted back over to the single orchid on the table. It sat in a small clay container lined with smooth stones carefully arranged on the surface, wet with a shallow amount of water. He noted that the gray glaze of the pottery shone softly in the muted light from walls sconces on either side of the heron.

"Yes. And there are Taoist principles involved as well. Even when the leaves are picked and rolled, every degree of breakage creates a change in flavor, in pleasure received."

"You could say the same about a cherished submissive." Her nod appeared to acknowledge appreciation of his insight. He was beginning to be fascinated with her economy of movement to convey a wealth of response. Or, he mused, she could be conveying very little. The potency of her slightest movement allowed the one in her presence to conjure all manner of meaning into it.

Raising the white teapot in one hand, a matching porcelain strainer in the other, she began to pour the tea into the teapot he assumed they were going to be using, a Chinese porcelain with a bright design of green leaves, red blossoms, and gold work.

"May I pour you a cup?"

She could do anything she wanted for him, Tyler acknowledged dryly to himself, though he gave her a simple nod. He noted the lack of teacups on the table at the same moment she turned back to the side table, bent and opened what appeared to be a dish warmer from the waft of warm air that drifted from it. She brought two teacups of a matching design and poured.

"Keeping the cups warm also affects the flavor?" Her lashes flickered. "Yes."

"You know," he observed, "the perception of D/s is that every interaction is rigidly controlled by either the Dom's Will, or rules both parties have set up. Or even the rules of the environment, like The Zone." He watched her sit in the chair next to him, adjust it out so she was facing him. She picked up her cup, examined the bright red contents, then raised it to her nose, inhaling. He watched with interest as the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. That she was listening to him, he had no doubt. He could count on one hand the times he'd actually seen Marguerite meet another person's eyes for more than a second at a time, if at all, but she still managed to convey her absolute attention. As if she was meditating on the words as they were spoken. It made it easy to pause and collect one's thoughts, for he'd never known her to interrupt someone before they were finished. It was as if she was tuning into something that wasn't the speaker's voice but the place the words came from, knowing when the thought was complete, the well empty.

"But that's just the perception, the rules of engagement. Inside those boundaries, there are no boundaries. A simple sexual encounter can become a much deeper, more meaningful interaction, going in ways neither sub nor Dom expects."

"It's similar," she said, picking up on the direction of his thoughts as if she were inside his mind. "With tea, it's the preparation, the selection that centers the mind, the spirit, opens the tea drinker to a much wider experience once you sit down in the embrace of those preparations."

"What is it you like about that photo, the one with the women walking with the baskets on their heads?"

His abrupt change of topic didn't appear to surprise her. "It captures a moment, a single expression of the complexity of their lives." He thought about how she'd prepared the tea, the simple sensuality of it, and thought about the beauty of this single moment, its complexity.

"It makes sense now," he mused. "I've seen you spend an hour prepping a sub mentally. Your audience is riveted all that time, not a shift among them, a cough, a murmured comment. It's a miracle to watch." He raised his cup. "So. To the preparation of tea."

She touched the edge of her cup to his, and then they drank for a moment in silence.

"I invited you here to talk about the mentoring requirement at The Zone." He nodded. "I figured as much." At her startled look, he explained. "Not many people know it, and I'd appreciate keeping it that way, but I'm a thirty percent owner of the club."

That seemed to give her pause. "Did you help create The Zone?"

"No. But a couple years ago, when they wanted the major renovations they're working on now, they needed more capital. It's a good investment."

"But you're more than just an investor, if you know about my mentoring requirement."

"I choose investments carefully, and I monitor them. It's one of my conditions for turning over my money. It came up because it was a management oversight, and they wanted me to be aware of it. It's not a grand concern, obviously, because you're an accomplished Mistress, always very careful to protect your subs and play within the rules of The Zone."

"Despite that, I'm required to endure a checklist of submissive experiences and a mentoring period under another Dominant."

He met her gaze. "It's policy for all Masters and Mistresses. It was supposed to have happened during your first ninety days at the club. When you came in, you didn't list whether you were coming in as a sub or Dom, and it didn't get flagged in the computer when your preference became obvious. It wasn't your oversight," he added. "I spoke to Perry Stevens, the club manager, and the other owners. We agreed the Dom mentoring is pointless. You've proven yourself enough in that area to satisfy policy. We just need you to do the submissive training."

"Well." She put her cup down. "Knowing that you're part of the operating decisions makes this easier than I anticipated."

"Less to explain, certainly." He leaned back in the chair, stretched one long leg out so it was parallel to the outside of her chair.

"And possibly less of a problem for both of us." She tented her fingers over the top of her cup, and he watched the steam warm her skin, create moisture. "Tyler, we're both well-known Dominants at The Zone. As you said, I've never had a single rule infraction or complaint from anyone I've handled. I obviously know how to care for a submissive. I've been going to The Zone nearly two years. Is it possible that whatever box on my record that needs to be checked can be checked, and we can call this done?" The glance flicked up again, the pale blue eyes holding his for three blinks. Then her gaze shifted to the window, contemplating the view, waiting for his response.

Tyler thought the matter through from several angles. There was no one more accomplished than Marguerite at bringing a sub pleasure, and yet he'd never seen her dig into the "why" of a submissive's desire to submit, as if that was something private she did not feel she had a right to know. It had to be a precise art akin to surgery, managing to navigate a person's psyche to the point she could leave untouched that deep emotional core, so closely integrated with a sub's response. And perhaps she chose to leave it untouched because a Mistress could not touch the emotional core of a submissive without impacting her own psyche.

"You've disappointed me, Marguerite."

Marguerite stiffened. "I'm not seeking your approval, Tyler. If I've offended you, I apologize. I'll simply withdraw my membership from The Zone and go where they'll accept my current level of expertise without challenge."

"Is that what you think the sub session requirement is about? Confirming your expertise?" His brows rose. "This mentoring requirement is more than about understanding how to safely treat a submissive, Marguerite. Oh, that's the liability matter, and I don't mean that in the legal sense. The Zone takes its responsibility to keep everyone safe very seriously. But by walking in a submissive's shoes, you're able to understand some of the emotional transitions that occur." He nodded to the table, gestured around them. "You take such care to prepare for something as simple as a meeting with a casual acquaintance. I thought that you'd appreciate the opportunity to see more deeply into a submissive's heart, so that your future sessions as a Dominant could try out even more extensive territory."

"Maybe you think about me too much."

Tell me about it. One of Tyler's closest friends and a Mistress at The Zone, Violet Siemanski, now Violet Nighthorse since she'd ensnared and married Mac a couple years ago, had told him as much. Often.

"What I think is that leaving The Zone wouldn't be as easy for you as you're making it sound. It meant enough to you that you called this meeting between us, took the time to offer me your gracious hospitality." He fingered the cup, looked at the orchid sitting in its carefully placed isolation on the table, nothing to disturb a contemplation of its solitary beauty. His gaze shifted, and he wondered if she was aware of the same effect she had, her body straight and outlined only by the monochrome gray wall, her features pure and elegant.

"You take tremendous care in all that you do. I look around and see this beautiful tearoom, all these details, everything paradoxically invested to create one special, incredible moment, not just for the guest but for the proprietress feeding off that moment. That one amazing moment where everything is clear, fine, everything gone but the purity of the soul. Wouldn't you like to see it through a sub's eyes, just once?" She smoothed the tablecloth, moved the teapot. "I'm where I want to be on that, Tyler."

"If the issue is you don't want to risk emotional exposure, that's normal. Most Doms are apprehensive about this part of the requirement but I can tell you from experience you come out on the other side of it more enlightened and a better Mistress.

And we set the rules up front. What you can handle, what you can't." I can't handle any of it. She forced herself not to move the teapot again. Instead, retrieving her cup, she took a sip and closed her eyes to absorb the taste. Waited until the sensation reached her toes to raise her lashes again and respond.

"That may be true but this isn't something I'm willing to do, Tyler. There are clubs that don't have this requirement."

He nodded. "But I've always felt that one of the strongest qualities of The Zone is that it's not about tricking. If that's all you're looking for, the one-night stand thrill, then The Zone isn't the right home for you."

"Tricking. That was a low shot." She cut him a glance beneath her lashes.

"So is asking me to lie for you, and expecting I would do it. But while we're on it, what do you call taking a different partner each week, not committing or emotionally investing yourself?"

"I call it none of your business. This isn't about how you can play with my mind.

Curb your Dom's natural tendency to expose my vulnerabilities, or it will end here with a cup of tea, and a very expensive bill for it."

"Cost doesn't concern me." He took a sip, mirroring her. "Especially when it's worth the price. I believe your private Japanese tea ceremony is your most expensive service."

"It's only offered to the guests I choose. It's a privilege."

"A privilege that must be paid for."

Her blue eyes were frost. "Yes. As all privileges are."

"A good Dom doesn't ever play with his sub's mind. But he does seek out the vulnerabilities."

"You're casting stones in a glass house, Tyler. You take students, not lovers. You teach them everything about being a sub, and then let them go."

"You don't know anything about what goes on emotionally between me and those women." He kept his tone mild, though he felt the surge of temper, and acknowledged the effectiveness of her strike. She handled herself well when cornered. "While I have them, they're mine."

"My experience is no less emotionally intense for being more brief."

"What is it they can give you in that brief time?" He asked it, genuinely curious.

"Enough."

"You don't achieve the bond you think you do. If you truly reached it, your sub wouldn't let you go."

She blinked at him. Once, twice, three times. Slow, deliberate movements that reminded him of a cobra's regard when rising out of a snake charmer's basket. "Would you like to know the history of this tea caddy?"

"Pardon me?"

"A brief subject change. You'll note it's made of ivory."

"I noticed that," he acknowledged, watching her closely. Something had shifted between them, and he was not certain where the tide of the conversation was going.

"It's over a hundred years old," she said. She stared at him another silent moment, then continued. "I keep it to remind me that beauty and cruelty often go hand in hand.

Even with the knowledge that it was taken from a creature whose wisdom is far more ancient than ours, I feel pleasure in its beauty. The duality of human nature. We're savage artists."

She lifted her cup, held it poised just beneath her lips.

"You know how people pretend things aren't awful that really are?" She took a sip, and Tyler marked how steady the motion was. Almost uncanny in the preciseness with which she took it to her lips, put it down on the saucer again. "Like going for an annual physical. We all pretend it's something civilized. We joke with the nurse or doctor but the stark reality is that we go to a room with no windows, and we strip off our clothes for strangers. We lie on a table with our legs in the air or bent over a table so they can shove things into our most intimate areas." The cup went up again, then down. Tyler's gaze followed it, noted how her hand lay next to it, perfectly still, her manicured nails gleaming in the light so her fingers reminded him of polished silver at a table setting.

"Our fear of some awful disease drives us to that untenable situation."

"Sounds more like our fear of being vulnerable." Tyler leaned forward, clasped his hand over hers on the table and deliberately slid her teacup and saucer away from her, to his side.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a point about the nature of a submissive. You were saying?" She stared at him, those pale blue eyes so focused in their frost he expected to feel a sheen of ice form across his face. "Give me back my cup. Please." She issued the courtesy like a threat.

"No. Tell me what your point was."

She sat back in her chair, a pose of ease but every movement was calculated as she removed her hand from beneath his and laid it in her lap with the other hand atop it, those nails curved into a loose claw.

"We go around in our SUVs, pay our taxes, mow our lawns. But underneath every person's veneer lies the Trail of Tears, the Holocaust, the atom bomb, the massacre of Christians in the Sudan. Lurking in the shadows of our darkest motivations is the eighty-year-old homeless woman raped by bored teenagers, the child who huddles alone, afraid of attracting attention. The baby who gives up crying because no one ever comes. Then there are the animals who suffer in labs from our fear of death, who are hunted for sport and captured for amusement as if we have the right to confine life just because we're bigger and stronger. All the while the land is raped and poisoned by our greed and selfishness. Every event in our lives is a chance for the civilized to be stripped away, exposing the darkest side of who we are. Our veneer is our only hope of maintaining the illusion that we can be something better." Tyler noted she now had one hand gripping the other tightly, nails digging into her flesh. "My point..." she said quietly.

Her leg uncrossed, a simple, pleasurable act to watch. A blink too late, he recognized the diatribe and sexual tease for the distractions they were. Surging forward, she clasped the handle of the cake knife in her hand, flipped her grip on it and planted the blade in the narrow space between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand resting on the table. She sunk it clean and deep, cutting through tablecloth and solidly into the wood itself so the knife stood on its own, the blade quivering.

Tyler maintained his stillness, even as every muscle tensed in readiness. He'd been in circumstances before where his life depended on razor-sharp intuition, on knowing exactly how to react. Even so, he felt the fury simmer in him at the challenge he would have met equally if he sat across from a man.

"Do you want my violence, Marguerite? Am I that much of a threat to you?" She stared at him a long moment, her delicate nostrils flaring, her face inches from his. "My point - " she repeated in measured tones, though he almost felt the vibration from her body, an overwhelming tension she was not permitting to become trembling,

" - is that savagery is our true nature, Tyler. Like this cake knife, created for such a lovely purpose, to share an elegant dessert. It's a killing instrument, able to be something else only until someone's veneer cracks." Leaving the knife, she found her teacup without looking for it, tenting her fingers over it like a spider. "Don't fuck with mine." Deliberately, Tyler pulled his hand free of the restriction of the knife. Covering her tense hand on the teacup, he pushed it, with her hand still atop, back to her side of the table, easing her back to her chair.

She resisted each inch. Not a fight, but enough so that he had to exert pressure.

Their eyes remained locked together until she reached the point where she would need to slide her hips, and then suddenly she gave way, gracefully easing back from his touch. Settling into the chair as if he had simply held it out for her as was her due. It was impressive, but he was logging other signals. The pounding pulse in her throat, the intensity of her gaze. The fact that she, who had so many carefully cherished items in her shop, had so brutally and quickly destroyed the top of a valuable antique table.

"Marguerite." He rose, removing the knife. Holding her gaze, he lifted one of her hands and laid the handle of the knife in her palm, closing her fingers over it. "I'll take you through the sub requirement if you choose to accept me. But I won't lie for you.

You decide what's more important. Your veneer, or what The Zone provides for you.

You're not a coward. Don't act like one."

She didn't look at him. Merely sat motionless and focused on the scene outside the picture window. The gathering night, a bird taking her last sip of water from the lap of a stone Indian goddess. The light flutter of the leaves of a silver green eucalyptus tree from an unseen breeze.

Marguerite didn't have to look at Tyler to feel his movements, the impact of his expression. She'd faced dangerous situations before but suddenly antagonizing him seemed one of her more foolish calculated risks. Perhaps because she'd not calculated at all, simply reacted. Compelled past control, which had never before been a problem for her.

He released her, moved past her chair. Leaving. She watched the bird move to the ground to scavenge what could be found there. She tried hard to concentrate on that, the mental reminder to replenish the feeder, instead of trying to see Tyler's reflection in the glass, ashamedly hungry to see his form.

She was successful enough that she jumped, unprepared when his hands came down on her shoulders. The fingers of his right hand curled in her braid, digging in so the tension tilted her head to the right and exposed her neck to the heat of his mouth closing over her jugular.

The power of the sensation exploded in her body with the violence of a grenade. It was something she'd never felt before. A man's touch, uninvited and overpowering, had never felt like this. Never something she thought she'd welcome.

He'd chosen a method of retaliation to her mad act which simply swept the floor and the walls away, leaving just the magic of his lips on her skin.

Suckling her, he scored her with his teeth. Muscles were drawing taut low in her belly, and she felt the amazing sensation of wetness on her thighs. Cupping the silk-clad curves of her shoulders in his large hands, he tightened his grip as his fervor increased, his lips moving up her throat to her jawline. She found herself leaning to the right and back, almost cradled in the curve of his right arm. Overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events, she couldn't grasp why she was allowing this or what was happening to her. Only when he moved from the line of her jaw to the corner of her mouth did fear and sanity return.

"No...no." She struggled to get the words past her lips. Turning to press her head against her shoulder, it put her forehead against the heat of his hand, his hard knuckles.

He stopped, his lips at her ear, his breath caressing her. His left hand dropped down to where she clasped the knife in two tight fists. She hadn't realized she'd brought her hands together in such a manner. When he closed his palm over the pointed end and bore down, she jerked as the blade punctured his flesh. He turned his palm up so she could see the blood well up from the Venus mound. It trickled along the life line as he tilted his palm and guided the slow, thin flow of blood down to his index finger. She inhaled sharply as he traced the line of her neck with the warm wetness.

"I'm not afraid to bleed for you, Marguerite." His voice was a rough whisper against her ear. "I'll tell The Zone you're thinking it over. Don't disappoint me. Or yourself."