Page 146 of Deep Cover

There was Dr. Andrew, though I didn't know if that was first or last name. He was fifty, apparently, with a girl, Cecile, who was in her late twenties and had been with her owner for ten years.

There was another couple coming, he said, though they hadn't actually confirmed. He went on to tell me about the importance of the men – in medicine, in law, in insurance – and the beauty and submission of their wives and slaves.

I listened. I responded.

I dreaded.

Day of the party, I woke so sick with cramps and headache I thought I'd have to beg Cole, on bended knee if necessary, not to put me through it. But an Imodium and some Ibuprofen later and he'd proved to me it was nerves.

I felt better physically, anyway.

First thing in the morning I couldn't run and once the drugs took effect, Cole wouldn't let me run. He seemed amused at my growing fear.

He posted a schedule for me to follow, for when each part of my preparation was to be finished: the shower, the make up, the hair-styling, dressed and walking on those stilts. This time it was all up to me and it was hard not to go ahead of schedule for some of the things I needed to do. I wasn't great at getting my curls to do anything but cut short or into a ponytail.

But everything came together before I would have expected it and I was waiting for Cole in the ice blue dress with the panels for a skirt and a non-see-through top. Wearing shoes I'd practiced in but could still barely walk in.

I definitely wouldn't be threatening to run away tonight.

I was still burning to ask what he meant by orgy. I wasn't required to sleep with Cole St. Martin – ‘required’ a word that made me grimace. I could still walk out if I had to, I told myself again and again - I didn't believe it. When he came to get me I was standing in place, swaying a little from the four inch heels but otherwise put together as requested, my hair up in a complicated style and a few curls here and there free and framing my face. The spaghetti straps of the dress showed off the muscle I'd put on and the silky dress showed off my nipples, but I was clothed even if I had no underwear. It was enough.

"You look beautiful," Cole told me, took my arm and started us toward the door in a stop and start rhythm that made me immediately think about Stacey's wedding. He stopped before we reached the door and asked, "What number are you up to?"

As if he didn't remember. "Eight, sir," I told him and he smiled like the cat with cream on its whiskers and walked us to the elegant living room.

I hadn't anticipated being hostess but I also hadn't expected to be late. Everyone was already there and Cole walked me to the center of the living room and took my fingertips in his hand, spinning me for everyone to see. The dress flared out around me and I resolved to move with less speed.

I looked to see what Cole wanted me to do.

"Sit down," he said, and indicated a place on the couch. I was uncomfortably nestled between two of his male guests. There were only three other couples, which was more than enough. The spot he indicated, I was at least pleased to see, was between what must be Dr. Andrew and Claude, because Vincent was across from me.

Cecile knelt by the feet of her husband, the mysteriously named Dr. Andrew, who paid as much attention to her as he might to an end table. For her part, the woman didn't seem unhappy about it. She was going on thirty, not there yet, and kneeling in place didn't bother her. She wore a red sheath dress that complemented her very blond hair and green eyes. Not that we saw much of them, as she kept her gaze downward.

As for Dr. Andrew, I heard him talking about the price of gold, the price of whisky, the price of a trip to the Caribbean, and a few other things that made me wonder if he truly was rich. Or maybe that was just how the rich stayed rich, the same way Cole insisted a CEO stayed CEO by being hands on.

I had to stop thinking of him as Cole. I risked a glance at him. He was involved in discussing something about politics with Claude and didn't notice. An electric tingle moved through me at the sight of him. He was in black tie tonight, his blond hair brushed straight back, his smile much in evidence. His suit was, of course, tailored especially for him, but even so it was amazing how it disguised all the muscle I knew was there.

I swallowed and looked down again.

The main house wasn't somewhere I spent much time. It was like visiting relatives who make you nervous, those relatives who never accept you as you are.

My mother and sisters, maybe.

The living room was luxurious, with suede couches and glass coffee tables. Tonight things had been rearranged so all the furniture – couches and easy chairs for the men, hardback wooden chairs for the ladies when they weren't kneeling – made a sort of courtyard in the middle, all of it covered in sheets.

That didn't give me a good feeling.

Around the edges of the furniture and in between the pieces, there were tables laden with food from Mexican to Chinese, and a few French offerings by way of ham and cheese croissants. The Mexican looked authentic, decorated with salsas and jalapeno peppers, red and green and lovely. The French offerings included wines and baguettes and cheeses.

It truly was amazing. I might have liked it if I had been a guest.

No one had told us we couldn't talk. My place at the center of two men had rapidly changed to sitting on a hardwood chair next to Chloe, which actually suited me better. Chloe was every bit as lovely as Cole had said, with pale everything – pale blond hair, pale blue eyes, such white skin. I couldn't guess where she was from or what her ancestry was, but probably one of those Nordic countries. She had a ready smile and her owner didn't seem to care if we talked so we did, in small bursts of quiet words, so that no one would object and we wouldn't get so involved in the conversation that we forgot ourselves.

Chloe had a degree in art history and two children. I longed to ask how she carried on the dynamic of their clearly BDSM relationship but common sense got the better of me every time I started to.

She meanwhile asked me what I did and I shared that I was a police officer from Washington State. I didn't tell her about being undercover and whatever she determined for herself, I let her. She was more interested in how I knew Mr. St. Martin and I told her that a mutual friend who preferred to remain nameless (and location-less, I thought to myself) had introduced us.

It was as close as I could come to not telling her about the drugs but at the same time not lying, and when she asked me about it, I admitted there was a contract between us. The conversation between us ebbed and flowed, a little about daily life which for her was normal and for me was anything but. We were discussing favorite horror novels (The Shining for me and The Haunting of Hill House for her) when I realized Cole had come over and was standing directly in front of me, his hand out to help me to my feet.

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