I Will Not Beg: Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 9 Read online

  Maybe she should see about getting help. There was no question that her unhappy childhood followed by the Defiler had left her with issues. When first in SF, she’d had counseling, but stopped the minute the therapist sounded disapproving of BDSM. Maybe she should try again with a more open-minded therapist.

  Meantime, she’d continue avoiding Doms and Masters. Wasn’t that funny though? Because, after being a slave, she understood them, what they needed, what they liked, and…

  She straightened. Hmm.

  Chatelaines’ new competitor advertised itself as being old-fashioned, like having a ’50s style wife at home. Much like what Chatelaines did, but from what she’d heard, the new company’s attitude was conservative to the point of looking down on anything other than heterosexual, married lifestyles.

  Five of Stan’s and Dixon’s guests had enquired about hiring Chatelaines, possibly because she’d been with Dixon and obviously comfortable with his D/s relationship.

  Working with people in alternative lifestyles wouldn’t bother her staff. She made a point of hiring open-minded people and using open-minded contractors.

  Perhaps, rather than avoiding Doms, she should try luring them in. Not as lovers, but as clients. She felt her heart pick up a beat. This might be the answer to her company thriving, despite the new competition.

  But…Dominants. Oh, God, what good would it do to have a thriving company if the owner died of fear? Could she interact comfortably with Masters like Sir Ethan?

  Despite the ice cream, her mouth went dry.

  Anger rose inside her—at herself. All this anxiety was intolerable. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—live in fear. She’d managed to get past being a slave, become independent, found friends, and made a living. It was time to work on her neurosis about BDSM and Dominants. At the cold chill that ran through her, she pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and huddled under it.

  Stop it, Piper. This was an excellent direction for Chatelaines, no matter how much stress it might cause her personally. She just needed to get comfortable being around Doms. To stop avoiding them. To stop being scared. Because there was nothing to be scared about. Most Doms were nice people.

  Aaaand telling herself that wasn’t helping at all.

  On her last vacation, the woman on the plane next to her had been terrified of flying. Her patronizing husband kept repeating that planes rarely crashed, and she should relax. Like saying it over and over would help?

  Piper half-grinned and started her own reassuring chant: Don’t be scared; most Doms are nice people. Don’t be scared; most Doms are nice people.

  Yeah, no. Didn’t work for her either.

  Chapter Three

  The Yanks had a saying—Thank God it’s Friday—one with which Ethan had to agree. After changing out of his suit into jeans and a soft chamois shirt, Ethan Worthington walked down to the ground floor, to what Simon’s woman had taken to calling his man cave. Xavier’s Abby called it Ethan’s English pub.

  He smiled slightly. The ladies had a point. To the right, the theater section was filled with chocolate leather furniture, the left held a pool table. Stonework arched over the wet bar in the corner. A table and chairs, along with a cozy sitting area, had a view out the door and windows to the patio and small garden area. With the dark wood, leather furnishings, and vintage boxing posters, the big room held the ambiance of his favorite pub back in Oxford.

  He heard a thump and glanced toward the couch. Admittedly, pubs rarely allowed cats. “How are you today, Churchill?”

  The tan feline stalked across the room and strategically positioned himself at Ethan’s feet. Fluffy brown tail wrapped neatly over white-mittened paws, he looked up hopefully. Cheese?

  “Not today, I’m afraid.” Ethan put ice into a glass, pulled out a bottle of The Botanist, poured, and sipped. The complex flavors swept over his tongue. Mint, coriander, apple…more. Nice. The Scots distilled a mean gin.

  A meow caught his attention, and he looked down into blue eyes almost the color of his own. Churchill stood up, expectations plain.

  Chuckling, Ethan set his glass down on the bar. Lifting the portly, eighteen-pound feline required both hands, especially when the cat went limp. The breed was called “ragdoll” for a reason. With the cat against his chest, Ethan picked up his glass and settled into his favorite chair, the one with a view out the window.

  Churchill curled into a comfortable ball on his thighs and gave Ethan’s hand a happy cheek-rub.

  “Sorry, Church, it’s been a busy week.” A busy month, actually. The tech arena was in a time of flux with some areas stagnating, and others with, to date, unproven inventions. As owner and CEO of the Worthington Tech Group, he held the reins in a variety of companies—too many companies, he sometimes thought—although diversification helped with overall stability. He loved what he did. Guiding new technology and making a profit even while doing things right—ethically, environmentally, and productively—was an exhilarating challenge.

  Under his hand, Churchill purred away. Unlike other cats Ethan had owned, Church didn’t hold a grudge. And, thank God, the feline was more even-tempered than the prime minister he’d been named for. Maybe because he was afraid of being tossed out to starve on the streets. Again.

  Years ago, after purchasing the Russian Hill house, Ethan had found Churchill in the tiny garden area, half-starved, flea-infested, with matted fur and a raging abscessed tooth. The vet suspected the owner hadn’t wanted to deal with illness and simply tossed the cat out.

  Being lovers, not fighters, ragdoll cats didn’t survive long on the streets.

  Ragdolls were also incredibly sociable. “Sorry that I’ve been away so much. You’re missing Angel, aren’t you?”

  Churchill heaved a small sigh and did a few pushy-paw movements as if in agreement.

  Picking up his glass, Ethan swirled the liquid and listened to the silence in the house. Yesterday, Malik had been discharged, and Angel was finally home with her Master.

  As Ethan set his glass down, he noticed Angel’s duty list on the end table. Malik had written out what he hoped Ethan would do for her each evening: assign her a journal subject, ask questions about it, and administer a spanking. Assign cooking or cleaning—although Ethan hadn’t bothered since she’d been so exhausted each night. Instead, he’d picked out light-hearted movies and, remembering times at Malik’s home, had her settle on a cushion at his feet. She’d needed the sense of being under control, something she’d lost with Malik in hospital.

  They’d managed well enough.

  Taking another sip of his drink, Ethan stroked Churchill. Although the house felt uncommonly lonely now, Ethan didn’t particularly want a slave, and Angel wasn’t what he looked for in a submissive.

  Not that he was looking. Not now, probably not ever.

  How many times could a man be burned before he stepped away from the flame? After Nicola’s treachery and death, he hadn’t dated for a couple of years. After that, his attempted relationships had taught him that wealth attracted far too many women who didn’t care who he was as long as he had money. There were days he felt like a fox running from a pack of hunting hounds.

  Didn’t that sound bloody egotistical? He was simply tired of being fawned over.

  That brought to mind a woman who hadn’t wanted to win him over—the little black-haired beauty who’d tried to protect Angel at the party.

  He grinned. “You should have met her, Church. Although I don’t usually go for cute or feisty.”

  Piper had been intriguing. And oddly familiar. Had he met her before?

  No, he would have remembered that thick shoulder-length, black hair. The perfect bow curve of her upper lip. The musical sound of her laughter.

  He’d never met her before.

  Since he’d never seen her at Dark Haven, he doubted he’d ever see her again.

  A pity that.

  Chapter Four

  With an adorable black cockapoo named Blackie trailing after her, Piper strolled th
rough Abby and Xavier’s home, giving it the white-glove treatment. The cleaning crew had finished the second cleaning. The landscapers had now had over a week to work on the grounds.

  Initial shakedown complete, it was her turn. The assigned chatelaine would normally have been with her, but Ivy was on bereavement leave.

  “The sink in the guest bathroom has a slow drip,” Piper said into her phone. Awesome devices, smartphones. Dictating sure beat taking notes on a clipboard, especially since her handwriting was almost illegible.

  “Get the maintenance guy to change out the hallway light to something brighter.”

  “Make sure the cleaning crew works on the blinds next time. They’re still dirty.”

  The sound of a door startled her, and she turned.

  As Abby entered from the garage, Piper winced. The owner was home early.

  “Hi, Piper. I wondered whose car that was. I didn’t know you’d be here.” As Blackie yipped and enthusiastically spun in my-owner-is-home circles, Abby bent to pet him.

  “I’m sorry. We like to check things out in person after the first week, but I’m done, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Abby eyed the phone in her hand. “You’re calling the cleaning service to yell at them?”

  “No. They did fairly well.” Piper showed the display of her phone. “I’m just making notes on anything the landscaping or cleaning crews might do better.”

  “Notes? Can I see?”

  Piper smiled. During the initial interview, she’d learned the professor was brilliant—and curious about everything. “Sure. Here.”

  Taking the phone, Abby glanced through the list. “Wow. I never noticed half these things, and the rest, I admit, I just didn’t bother to tell the services about.”

  “I’ve learned we women often feel too awkward or even guilty about asking for what is our due.”

  Abby’s mouth curved in a rueful grin. “It’s embarrassing that I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

  “I know, right? But a chatelaine doesn’t have that psychological hang-up when defending the client.”

  “That’s a very interesting observation.”

  “Being picky is part of the job,” Piper said. “Ensuring there aren’t any annoyances, no matter how small, in a client’s life. Heaven knows there are enough things to irritate a person outside of the home.”

  “There’s a truth.” Abby smiled. “Is it permissible to offer a chatelaine a glass of wine? I’d love to ask you some questions about how you got into the business.”

  Piper hesitated. Wine with a client was undoubtedly against proper business protocol. Then again, guys were always having alcoholic good-old-boy lunches, right?

  “It’s a beautiful day. We can go outside and sit on the patio,” Abby coaxed.

  The mid-June weather was gorgeous. How could she resist? “I’d love a glass of wine.”

  One glass of wine led to two along with nibbling on cheese and crackers. Abby was appallingly easy to talk with, and it was fun to hear about how in love she was with her husband, Xavier. Every time Abby talked about him, she practically glowed.

  “But you grew up in Kansas? How did you end up here in San Francisco? Did a company move you here?”

  Piper thought of the long drive. Arriving destitute, living in the SF shelter. Finding Stella’s Employment. “A bad relationship convinced me to get far, far away from Kansas.”

  “One of those, hmm? I know how a bad relationship can mess up a person’s life.” Her tone wasn’t…exactly…bitter. “Dixon says you’re an amazing boss, by the way.”

  “He’s an amazing employee. Everyone from clients to staff loves him.” Was there anyone who could think of Dixon and not smile? “When the apartment across from his came up for rent, he got the manager to give me first shot at it.” In San Francisco, people fought over rentals like seagulls spotting a tasty tidbit on the beach.

  Abby grinned. “Dixon has a way about him.”

  “I so owe him for the apartment. It’s like living in the heart of San Francisco.” Although Abby’s Tiburon place had amazing views of Angel Island and San Francisco across the way, living in the bustling city center suited Piper right down to the ground.

  “That makes sense.” Abby picked up a slice of Gouda. “You seem like a people person. Being around your friends would be important.”

  “It is.” Feeling a twang of unhappiness, Piper ran her finger through the dampness on the table. Despite having wonderful friends, she had no one who knew about her past as a slave. It was too humiliating, and unless a person was submissive, she wouldn’t understand the compulsion to serve. To give a Master…everything.

  At the silence, she looked up to see Abby studying her.

  Before the woman could speak, footsteps sounded, and a tall man stepped out onto the patio.

  It was Sir Ethan from Stan and Dix’s party. The Master-class hardass.

  Piper froze, even as excitement fizzed in her blood. She’d dreamed of his hard handsome face, of the dark stubble-beard along his jawline—and dammit, he was even more devastating than in her dreams.

  His perfectly tailored, elegant suit showed off his broad shoulders as he walked out onto the patio. He set a bottle of wine and two glasses on their table. “Ladies.”

  “Ethan. How nice to see you.” Abby rose to greet him, and he bent to kiss her cheek.

  Remembering how she’d made a total idiot of herself at the party, Piper could feel her face grow hot.

  How quickly could she get out of here?

  “Blackie cornered Xavier to administer the proper amount of petting, so I’ve been sent out with the wine.” The man’s English-accented, sonorous voice smoothed Piper’s flaring nerves like a gentle stroke—and she resented that even more.

  “No matter what Xavier thinks, Blackie is the boss in our household,” Abby said. “Piper, let me introduce Sir Ethan Worthington.”

  Piper pulled in a breath. Looked up. When the Dom’s piercing blue eyes met hers, the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

  Then she frowned. Had Abby just introduced the man with his lifestyle title? Did that mean Abby was submissive? Then again, the way authority just poured from Sir Ethan, maybe Abby couldn’t help herself.

  “Ethan, this is Piper Delaney,” Abby finished.

  The Dom held out his hand. “We spoke briefly at Stan’s party. It’s good to see you again, Ms. Delaney.”

  Apparently, he wasn’t going to say anything about her rudeness or about Angel. Relieved beyond measure, Piper took his hand. It was warm, the palm callused, his grip firm, but not overpowering. The way he studied her as he held her hand sent a wicked lick of heat through her body.

  “Mr. Worthington,” she said, keeping her voice level. Even if he was polite, she wasn’t going to call him Sir. Or lie and say it was good to see him.

  But would it be a lie?

  “Just Ethan, please.” Releasing her hand, he refilled her and Abby’s glasses before pouring wine in the two he’d brought out.

  When he sat at Piper’s right, she rose, trying to make her escape look casual and not a rout. “Abby, I’m running late. I need to be going.”

  Her escape was stalled when another man walked out onto the patio. He was, maybe, six-four and a couple of inches taller than Ethan. The black eyes and a hint of reddish complexion spoke of Native American ancestry, although his features were a striking mix of ethnicities. Spotting his long black braid, Piper recognized Ethan’s friend from the party.

  Could this get any more awkward?

  He bent to kiss his wife, fingers under her chin, tilting her head up, taking his time. Anyone with eyes to see could tell the man was as much a Dominant as Sir Ethan.

  Piper’s stomach tightened. Only two—there were only two Masters here. She shouldn’t feel as if she was surrounded.

  Straightening, the man turned to Piper. His head tilted. “You were at Stan and Dixon’s party. It’s good to see you again.”

  Thank God, he didn’t say, e
ven though you were very rude. But the amusement in his eyes was clear.

  “I told you I met her at the party.” Abby looked between her husband and Piper. “Piper, this is my husband, Xavier, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. Xavier, this is Piper Delaney of Chatelaines.”

  His smile changed his entire face from dangerous to compellingly attractive. “It’s a pleasure, Piper. I wish I’d known about your services years ago.” After shaking hands with her, he glanced at the other man who had risen when Piper stood. “Ethan, Piper owns the company I was telling you about. The one that oversees a household and eliminates problems before they even register as a blip.”

  “Excellent.” Ethan’s tanned face, dark beard, and white flashing smile made her toes curl. Dammit, she was not attracted to him.

  “Ms. Delaney, Xavier has told me that I need you.”

  I need you. The sentiment every slave longed to hear, and when spoken in his strong, resonant voice, the words packed a potent punch.

  But she wasn’t a slave any longer or even a submissive. No way, no how. Despite the delight shimmering through her.

  Get a grip, Piper. He was interested in her company’s services, not in hers. Certainly not in her as a slave. The man already had a slave.

  Attraction or not, he scared her. Lord, marketing to people in the BDSM lifestyle was a crazy goal. Fate had been eavesdropping, hadn’t it? Filling her request before she’d a chance to reconsider.

  She was going to put on pointy boots and kick fate into next week.

  With an effort, she tore her gaze from the English Dom and smiled at Xavier. “Being recommended is a wonderful compliment. Thank you.”

  He nodded, sipping his wine.

  Ignoring the flutters in her stomach, she forced herself to pull a card from her vest pocket. Only a fool turned down a possible client, whether he was a Master or not. She set her card on the table. “The website has information about our services, pricing, and any other details you might need. If you—”

  He picked up the card and gave her an easy smile. “I looked Chatelaines up a couple of days ago. Let’s make an appointment.”