Little Savage Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Little Savage

  By Lizbeth Dusseau

  ISBN 13: 978-1-936173-50-1

  ISBN 10: 1-936173-50-6

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright 2010, All rights reserved

  Chapter One

  Visitors

  She would always take his breath away; something fiercely animal, wild and untamed about her forced him to squelch his rising libido. That kind of instant chemical reaction could be dangerous, especially in this situation. The statuesque female stood on his doorstep dressed in a navy, custom cut business suit, snug-fitting and slim to match the curves of her womanly shape, even if she looked more like a Sunday school teacher than the Michelle Monroe he knew. No high necked blouse and knee-length skirt could hide what smoldered behind the pearls, the white clutch purse, the demure make-up—a trace of blush, rosy lips, sensible mascara to accentuate her eyes. When she bowed her head, she looked like the personification of womanly modesty and good manners. What kind of farce was this?

  If it weren’t for the subtle glint in her eye and the shrewd half-smile, he’d be left to wonder if she had actually changed since they were last together two years before.

  Daniel wanted to laugh.

  “You coming in, or should we do this on the porch?”

  As she stepped through the doorway of his old Georgetown house, he could see her tremble and her lips part. He sensed her racing heart, her anxious breath. She could barely meet his eyes with hers and was tempted to study his friend, Marcus, who stood nearby just to observe. Neither man provided any comfort in their cool expressions; their hardened eyes were keenly studying her. The air crackled. Nerves were drawn to the bitter edge. Under the bright spotlight of their concentrated efforts, what poise she displayed on his doorstep turned brittle and began to crack at the seams. With it, her carefully fabricated façade began to splinter.

  Daniel’s front door slammed behind her and she jumped.

  “Daniel, really,” she rushed in. “I just need a moment of your time—”

  “On your knees, whore!” he cut her off with his curt command splitting the air.

  She gazed at him dazed, shaken, hesitating a moment too long.

  “I said, on your knees, whore.” He came at her like a beast, eyes flashing as he smacked her cheek with the palm of his hand. She reeled back, defenseless, confused. Off balance, she teetered in her high heels then collapsed to the marble floor, on her knees, at his feet. She looked up, praying for mercy.

  But there was none from the man hovering above her, angry and bullish. And no explanation.

  “Strip, slut!”

  She blanched in horror, anxiously gazing upward from one man to the other, from the man in the business suit to the Texas mercenary Daniel Broc who she’d come to see. Once her eyes caught Daniel’s, they wouldn’t waver. The rugged face, the square cut jaw, the cool blue eyes would always hold her enthralled. The man was a rock. A force of nature. A cowboy, a maverick—muscled body, barrel-chested, fit, hard-boiled and as cynical as the life he led. He would have been better suited to an earlier century when men were men and women knew their place…that sort of thing.

  Seeing little response from the terrified woman, he snatched a four-foot whip from the hall table and snapped it against her nyloned thigh. She flinched, but panic struck, she didn’t budge until he snapped the whip against her arm, then her thigh and back and forth, until she began to back further away with each strike. “Strip, slut!” Her clothes protected her from the pain that would have seared the flesh had he hit bare skin, but nothing could protect her from the furious emotion that fueled the man’s attack.

  She tried the buttons on her coat but her fingers refused to work. “Daniel, please!”

  The whip lashed out again and she backed up another six inches. “Please, nothing, bitch. I said strip!” He delivered the message for the third time with another slash across her thighs—still sufficiently protected by her slim skirt.

  He glared at her, she glared at him. “Stop with the fucking whip and I’ll do what you want,” she finally lashed back. The fury in her rose like a storm down a riverbed.

  “And you stop with the fucking theatrics. And don’t go telling me you’re in pain, I know better, you smart-mouthed masochist. Strip down now on your own or I’ll string you up and lash you till your clothes are nothing but shreds.”

  Her dazed mind tried to make sense of the assault, but time warped in a curious loop; she was back in the sand, the desert, amongst the terrorists and thieves who stole her life for three years. She stared into the eyes of the man responsible for that grueling ordeal and suddenly her hands flew to her jacket, then the blouse, removing them both, then they continued their struggling effort to remove her skirt, her bra, her panties and pantyhose as he drove her back to the far end of the hallway, the whip cutting and slashing every bit of bare flesh she uncovered until her body was streaked with red. Cornered, there was no retreat left, no way to stave off the flailing weapon that struck her thighs and ass, even her breasts when she jerked enough to expose them. She fought him all the way in a yanking, tugging, groaning battle. Finally crouched in the corner with her back to the man and his snapping whip, she took a steady rain of blows across her shoulders, jerking as she did before, though not as violently. As the whip raised welt after welt on her flawless flesh something in her spirit eased. Letting go the need to fight the man her body wilted. Something bigger than pain and horror took charge, and so surrendered, for nearly a minute she succumbed to the blows and welcomed each one as if they could drive away whatever demon was clinging to her soul.

  When he stopped, she took a deep breath, but it wasn’t time enough to recover before he delivered his next command.

  “On your knees, Monroe. On your hands and knees.”

  With no fight left, no will at all, she untangled herself from the corner and struggled to assume the position he demanded. Her pantyhose were bunched around her ankles, snarled inside her shoes, and she twisted around to remove them.

  “Leave them be,” he snapped. “Just crawl.”

  She gazed up, meeting his hard-edged eyes and fearsome scowl. She felt him claw his way inside her, with his invisible hand grabbing her sex and shaking it. A man in control was her aphrodisiac and her cunt exploded in spasms just knowing how he viewed her lowly crawl.

  In small steps she made the awkward journey across his marble floor to the living room, to the comfort of the rug between the facing sofas and the bright rays of sunlight streaming through the front windows. The two men followed her in, Daniel snapping the whip against her ass from time to time to keep her moving, his companion along for the ride. Daniel whipped her till she reached the center of the room where the hot sun burned a hole in the ancient carpet.

  “On your feet!” He ripped off the crisp command and her battle began anew.

  With the tangle of shoes and pantyhose frustrating her attempts to rise, he barked, “Leave them on!” then watched as she made the awkward struggle to steady herself in the four inch heels. She looked as bungling and ineffective as she must have felt. A woman known for ‘keeping it together’ under extreme circumstances struggling with the simple act of staying upright; this was the woman he wanted to see. “And you think you couldn’t do that?” he sneered. “No fe
male is better at this game than you, Monroe. You think I’d forget that?” He chuckled to himself as he coolly paced before her. The hot ire in him had eased.

  She shook her head, and whispered a faint, “No, sir.”

  “What was that? I didn’t hear.” Just showing off now for Marcus, who’d plopped himself in a nearby chair and sat back to watch, his glee-filled expression plainly evident.

  “Yes, sir,” she spoke louder this time.

  “Hands behind you. At your waist. Stick out those pretty tits; I want a good look at those stripes.”

  With her hands behind her, her heaving breasts stuck out proudly from her chest, high and firm, her nipples pink and forming purplish buds at the very tips. Her lush body invited the eye to move downward from those perfect breasts to the trim waist and flat belly and the lovely curve of her hips.

  “How humiliating for you.” Smiling, Daniel stopped his pacing directly in front of her.

  She bit her lip then took a breath. Worry creased her brow, while a layer of sweat from the blazing sun made her body glow. The cruel sun beat on her as hard as the man’s callous eyes. For a moment, one would think he despised her when the opposite was actually true.

  Daniel turned to his friend as if he needed advice. “You think they’re sufficiently marked?” This, too, was just for show.

  “Her husband going to care if they’re welted?” the man answered back.

  Daniel answered the question looking directly at his naked victim. “He’d be disappointed if they weren’t.”

  Hearing his reply, her dreamy eyes shot open then her face went pale as if someone had sucked the life from her body.

  He laughed in her face. “You think he doesn’t know about this, Monroe?”

  Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She could barely shake her head.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  Still not a word. Whatever peaceful interlude the whipping provided seemed to have vanished.

  Daniel watched her, his mood darkening, growing anxious and edgy as he mulled the speech he was determined to deliver. Whipping a slut was easy; giving her hell for bad behavior was quite another matter, especially since she was another man’s wife. If she were his, she’d be crawling the floor of his dungeon, eating bugs for a week to pay for this last stupid stunt. But that was not an option here.

  “Shall I repeat what Steven told me?”

  She found her voice with this one, “Oh, no, please,” she adamantly shook her head.

  “And you think I’d follow your advice?” he chortled. “I have a feeling that your mild-mannered Steven Vandenberg can hit the roof as well as any man when his wife deliberately puts her life, and his, at risk.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Oh, but you did!” He moved in so far that he was practically stepping on her feet, stepping on that bunched up nylon pantyhose. She couldn’t have backed up without falling. He grabbed her by the throat and squeezed firmly. “Do know what it feels like to have the life squeezed from your body? What it feels like to have a barrel of a gun pressed to your temple? The trigger pulled? How about being stabbed? You know the danger, Monroe. You’ve seen it. You’ve been its victim and still you want to dredge up an old and very public career because you can find nothing else to do? What a foolish broad you are.”

  His eyes were no longer remote, not so cool, so hard, so unmoving. What emanated from them was hot and passionate and filled with concern; his emotions washing over her like a tsunami. She struggled to remain on her feet, even with his hand at her throat. She was starting to swoon and he shook her.

  “Stay with me, Shelly! I’m not choking you. You can breathe. And you can listen until I finish. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” came her weak reply.

  “There is…no…more…public Michelle Monroe or Vandenberg or Michelle anything-you-want-to-call-her. That woman no longer exists. I thought the point was made two years ago.” He paused a moment to catch his breath. “But you get lax, you get casual, you get sloppy. You start letting yourself believe you’re safe, that the underworld we both championed many moons ago won’t grab you back. Your name surfaces again and you can count your remaining days of freedom on one hand. The agents are out there. What they wouldn’t give to snatch back a trained whore. Especially you! Especially you! They tried to do it once before and almost won. You want to tempt them again? Do you? Is that it? You want to die?”

  Her taut emotions suddenly snapped and she practically wailed: “No, I don’t want to die!”

  His grip on her throat eased but he did not let go. For the next sixty seconds, they remained an immovable one soul; Daniel Broc with his hand at the woman’s throat and she with her will thoroughly conquered.

  “Then you understand my message?”

  She nodded through her tears. A merciful sun sank lower in the sky so she was no longer standing in the center of a beam of dust-filled light, no longer scorched by the penetrating fire.

  He let go his hand and stepped back. The tension in his body eased some, but he still regarded her carefully—as if one false move, one questionable inflection, one tiny glint of defiance in her eyes, would find her smashed against the wall with his hand at her throat again.

  “And what’s my message?” he asked.

  She took a breath. “I sit tight. I stay put. I play the good little housewife to Steven and pretend I have no mind.”

  His eyes flared. “How about you try that again? Real fast unless you’d like me to tell Steven that you’re obstinate and unrepentant.”

  “No, no! I got the message, Daniel,” she sighed, looking as if she was about to go limp. “I’m sorry. Sorry for wanting something I can’t have. It makes me crazy sometimes. But I won’t do it again. No more documentaries. I promise.”

  “What else?” He waited for more.

  She sighed impatiently. “I won’t make phone calls, no courting my old friends. I won’t test the waters. I won’t even think about picking up a camera.”

  “And…?”

  “And what?”

  “Keep talking.”

  She flashed him an annoyed glance then immediately softened.

  “My life is in danger. No matter what I do or how many years pass, that is not going to change.”

  “And…?”

  She really hated this, and she sighed heavily again. “I have to be vigilant every day of my life.”

  “And especially when you’re in the city, any city. This one. New York. London. LA. Take your pick.”

  She gulped back the last of her dreams one more time, squashing them down to that subterranean place of unfulfilled glory where worn out aspirations reside waiting for a fresh burst of desire to spark them back to life. There could be no fresh burst of desire for Michelle Monroe. But as much as the woman needed to hear this message loud and clear, Daniel winced seeing the defeat in her eyes and knowing the part he played in redefining the woman’s life. He would never confess to her the role she’d played in redefining his own life, but he was certain she understood that as clearly as he did.

  “Your life isn’t over, sweetheart. But you need to accept the rules you live by. You need to take the danger and the adrenalin rush to a safe venue. Take it home and be crazy. Have some nasty sex. Let Steven beat you to a pulp, like he ever could. And do that every day if you need it. Be at peace, sweetheart. Go about your life. Write your books, be the reclusive documentarian no one sees and enjoy a long and blissful life. You think you can do that?”

  “I think I have to.”

  Maybe for the first time since he snatched her from the Orient Express seven years before, he saw what he hoped to see in her expression. Her being softened. Her lips trembled and her eyes were wet with tears, but maybe this time she got it. Had the message finally sunk in? Or would he get another anxious call from her husband in another two years?

  He laid his hand against her cheek more tenderly than she deserved, but he couldn’t help himself. Still his message would not waver. “You get tha
t now,” he said, speaking to her sternly, “you go and sin no more, or,” and his eyes flashed again, “I’ll see that you’re bound and locked in my basement until you can prove you can be trusted.”

  “Yes, Daniel. I’m sorry I forced this.”

  “You should be sorry, Shelly,” he said, sounding more sad than angry now. “But if it’s any comfort to you, I live with the same fears dogging me every day. It’s not a safe world for either one of us. I just know how to protect myself. You don’t.” He gave her seductive body one last admiring glance. “Now get dressed. I have things to do.”

  He let her free to grab her clothes from the hallway floor and dress in the downstairs bath. When he met her in the foyer fifteen minutes later he saw a line of tears making a slow journey down her cheeks; the soft, acquiescent woman was still plainly evident. To see her as he loved her most would have wrenched the gut of most men. Daniel felt the painful stab, but for only as long as it took him to beat it back. He stepped in, putting his arm around her waist and led her to the door.

  “Behave yourself, Monroe. Maybe if you really need to see me you can invite me to the beach house for dinner and we can engage in something normal.”

  This made her laugh. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

  “Is that really so funny?”

  “Kind of. But it’s not a bad idea.”

  “Aw, go back to Steven.” He gave her a brusque kiss on the mouth and let her go. She was out the door and down the steps, quickly moving along the sidewalk to the nearby Metro station and nearly out of sight by the time he returned to the living room.

  Marcus Rathburn sat in an easy chair thumbing absently through a hunting magazine and immediately looked up when Daniel entered.

  “Didn’t you want to fuck her…?” he asked.

  “I did. I always want to fuck that bitch… but she’s not mine to fuck anymore.”