You'll Answer To Me Read online

  Returning to the valley five years after Warren’s death brought back other memories, wistful ones of her time at Tatum’s estate. Her body instantly reacted with an incessant pounding in her loins and a flutter of desire in her pussy that sent an unwanted surge of sexual need flooding through her. She squirmed a bit in the passenger’s seat, but otherwise ignored the physical arousal and kept her eyes on the narrow, winding road.

  The California countryside was dotted with enormous black oaks, its fields planted with grapes, and berries. Despite her efforts to thwart their influence, the wild scents clinging to the warm air were like a drug bringing her back to the lust of her days with her master and the life he demanded of her then. She never called him master; she called him sir and nothing else. In her mind he was benefactor, lover and sadist, all in equal measure. She defied him often at the start and was punished often for her defiance. Brutally...insanely, she thought at the time, though she hungered for his toughness even now – when she needed his strength, when she felt vulnerable, when her life was about to unravel. She needed his rules and the punishment, having found that navigating the world was so much easier for her then, even if she had little freedom under Warren’s unyielding domination. As the old jalopy rattled down the winding road to the valley with her at Bo’s side in the passenger seat, the fact that for even a moment she wanted that life back stunned her.

  It was just a fleeting thought, an unbidden one, she assured herself. Soon as it landed in her brain, she kicked it out. She already had a life, she reminded herself, her third incarnation, and this trip would be just a brief break from the pleasant existence she now enjoyed. Ah yes, it was pleasant, very pleasant. Nothing like the wild slutty life she enjoyed as Warren’s slut. Maybe too pleasant.

  “Here at last,” Bo announced as the old car finished its trek down the winery road and stopped with a jerk in front of the Spanish style ranch house.

  She looked out the window at the familiar surroundings, thinking it wasn’t but a short while ago that this place, this valley, was the beginning and the end of her world. The sight before her sent memories rushing to the door of her mind, knocking with surprising vigor. But unwilling to be consumed by that daunting force, she beat back feelings of surrender that rose up from her past and threatened to take her for another ride down that rocky path.

  “I’m really here again,” she murmured more to herself than Bo. She tugged on the door handle, and when it opened wide, she climbed out.

  “Must feel strange, huh?” said Bo. Bo was in his forties, maybe, but to Alexa he seemed ageless. Ageless, steady, evenhanded, calm and loyal to a fault. He wasn’t a big man, but was muscled and strong, and he worked hard. He reeked of masculine power, but he had no need to flaunt it, no need to swagger or for false bravado. It wasn’t necessary when he walked about the world completely content with who he was. Though he wasn’t a pretty man, he could be a daunting presence if the need was there. When angry, the world knew it and watched out, though his anger was rare, and rarely was he ruffled. Somehow the package of his attributes made him attractive to Alexa, even handsome in a rugged sort of way. On Saturday nights when he wasn’t working at the winery, he played guitar and sang with a country and blues band at local bars. She eyed him now, recalling the time Warren took her to one of his gigs at a dingy tavern near the coast.

  She looked at Bo smiling from the memory.

  “Yep. It’s about as strange as my strange life,” Alexa replied to him in a lazy drawl. Though she’d been born into an aristocratic British family, the slight Southern accent had been an affectation she adopted when she arrived in the United States, and on recommendation from Strickland, who said she’d blend in better and not call attention to herself if she spoke with some sort of American twang. Being a musician gave her a good ear for language, and the charming inflections of speech associated with the Southern United States seemed like the easiest, safest accent to adopt. The strategy worked. Not once since she planted her feet on American soil had anyone questioned her nationality, or suggested that behind her sassy accent was the stilted formality of the King’s English. Only Warren Tatum and Bo knew that she’d grown up speaking any differently than she did now. Over time, the heavy Southern accent disappeared, allowing peculiar inflections common in her California locale to creep into her speech. In ten years she’d pretty much assimilated herself into the culture. It was a comfortable fit, far more suitable to her personality than stuffy old England. Anymore, she rarely thought about her past, and only then in wistful moments that she quickly shoved from her mind. Even during the worst of her trials under Tatum’s rule she rarely thought of England with any desire to return. Escape the valley and Tatum’s erratic behavior – she thought about that a good deal. However, she recalled that her one attempt to slip through his grasp earned her a week in Tatum’s version of solitary confinement, along with a grueling punishment regimen that diminished her desire to flee. The leather belt wasn’t so bad, but the shed was retched. She’d been half-way up the hill when Bo came flying after her. Once he dragged her back and had her cowering at Warren’s feet, she was quickly stripped of her clothes and whipped on the spot, right in front of Trenton Perks and his bitchy wife, Colleen. The pair were pretty shocked, but she could see the gleam in both their eyes as they watched her ass turn crimson and listened to her angry wails – despite her attempts to suppress them. She was locked in a small shed, aptly named the hothouse. Bo had started to protest Warren’s decision to put her there, but after Warren assured him that he could check on her anytime, Bo pushed her in and locked the door. She remembered the disgusted look in Bo’s eye, would never forget the scowl, and would long remember what he told her. “You just don’t get it, do you, Alexa?”

  Get what? she wanted to explode on him, but he only shook his head as if he were disappointed in her, and closed the door. What he meant in all that still eluded her.

  Her time with Tatum was definitely bizarre. The sex could be stellar at times, the wild girl was quick to remind her. But the rest? These were twisted memories she would just as soon forget. She thought herself fortunate to be free of Warren Tatum much sooner than was planned – although he’d left a mark on her that would never go away. And Bo? For all the comfort she received from him, what soothed her through the worst times, his behavior and the cryptic things he said would haunt her forever. She shuddered now wondering why she’d let him bring her back.

  ***

  Assuming that her visit to the winery was a casual affair, Alexa had dressed that morning in a pair of tan shorts, a blousy blue tank top and a pair of flip-flops. Her wavy hair was considerably lighter than its naturally dark brown. At Strickland’s insistence, it had been dyed a horrible white blonde even before she left England. By the time she arrived in California, the roots were starting to show, and as her hair grew out, the contrasting dark and light clashed so badly that it took little effort to convince Warren that she needed a regular box of hair color to keep her tresses looking decent. From then on, he supplied the appropriate box of color every four weeks. After he died and she left the valley, her one splurge was having her hair professionally colored and highlighted in keeping with the current styles. She’d learned to fit in; quite an accomplishment for a woman who grew up in far different circumstances, and had spent her last five years under the dominance of a highly controlling man.

  As Alexa studied the exterior of the stucco dwelling, its red tile roof, long veranda and heavily laden arbors, no one would have guessed that she began her life across a distant ocean. On the contrary, she was Alexa Dupree from Alabama, and not a soul refuted her claims. She might have been wise to be more sedate in her behavior, but whether she was Alexa Dupree from Alabama or Rebecca Wittendon from London, nestled within the modest young prodigy she was raised to be was a sassy, often rebellious spirit that she refused to alter, at least not without a great deal of outside force.

  As Alexa studied the house, Bo studied her. She was not so different from the woman h
e’d driven to the Coast almost six years before. She could feel him eyeing her with some interest, but she made no mention of that observation, though she wondered what he thought of her now.

  She lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. “Hasn’t changed much, has it?”

  “A little more dust inside and a bit overgrown out, I suppose.”

  Alexa peered closely at the bougainvillea; its papery fuchsia blossoms literally covered the long arbor of trellises leading to the front door. It was cool and dark beneath the colorful overhang and she recalled that it was a spot she particularly loved.

  “’Fraid the house doesn’t get used much anymore,” Bo went on. “The winery operation is still going strong, at least making bucks enough to keep the company afloat and the shareholders happy. We just don’t see that crowd much anymore; a couple years ago they moved the board meeting back East. Occasionally someone stops in, but we pretty much handle things ourselves without a lot of oversight.” He paused to kick at the sandy dirt with the toe of his boot as if he was trying to fill in a hole in the drive. “Until now,” he added, under his breath.

  Bo hadn’t been any more interested in talking than Alexa had been on the drive from the coast. They’d spent most of the trip in silence. Now he was filled with idle chitchat – in the hopes of settling her nerves, perhaps. When she lived here, he’d often been the comforting sanity she needed when Tatum’s fierce demands rattled her nerves. She needed his calm now for different reasons.

  Alexa nodded in response to his chatter then slowly made her way to the massive front doors.

  She was glad that he came for her; she wasn’t certain she would have come on her own steam; there were too many unhappy memories to cloud out the good ones. Despite their warm to sometimes steamy relationship during her five years at the winery, Bo hadn’t been reason enough for her to stay once she was no longer tethered by contract to Warren Tatum. In fact, he’d been the one to see that she settled elsewhere, free from nosy shareholders or Warren’s shady friends who might have tried acquiring the pretty blonde for themselves.

  Her hand was on the door latch about to push the door wide open when she suddenly made an about face. “I’m doing the right thing seeing him?” she asked Bo.

  He shrugged. “You didn’t have to respond to the invitation,” he replied. “Heck. You can leave now, if you want. I don’t care.”

  She thought a moment then laughed. “That’s silly,” she finally intoned. Turning back to the door, she remained determined to set aside the creepy feelings that arose as soon as Bo’s old Ford began its descent into the valley. She needed to press on and put this day behind her.

  ***

  A boy grows tall and muscled in the years between fourteen and twenty. Displaying the cocky confidence of youth she’d seen emerging in his preteen years, Luke Tatum was now a handsome young man, appearing greatly matured since she’d seen him at his father’s funeral. He was dressed in dark worn jeans, a black t-shirt, and boots, like a kid she might meet on the street in any town, most anywhere on the planet. She was warmed seeing the boyish glimmer in his eyes, and the playful smirk reminded her of the nine-year-old she first met eleven years ago. But there was something more about Luke, something reminiscent of his father that made her take a step back as soon as she entered the room and their eyes met.

  “Hey, nanny.” He was eager to see her, and greeted her with a smile as charming as the ones that made her smile years before. He strode forward and hugged her as he might have then, though without the affection she remembered. Was that really so odd? They were strangers to each other now, which was why she thought their meeting after all these years was an unnecessary step back to the past, one that would serve no useful purpose. And yet she’d come. Curiosity perhaps.

  As she pulled from his arms, she stared into his eyes. “Oh my, Luke, you have changed,” she remarked, slightly awed. She was still cautious with her feelings. Any real admiration would have to wait until she understood this Luke Tatum better. She could hardly know his thoughts, who he was, or why he’d asked for this meeting with a degree of urgency that made her act quickly on his invitation.

  She was clearly unnerved by the boy when she hadn’t expected to be, but then, it might well have been her surroundings that ramped up her nerves, that twisted her thoughts in a knot and caused her stomach to nearly vomit up the contents of her lunch. Determined not to crack under the weight of old emotions, she stood her ground and kept smiling, maintaining a casual pleasant air about her.

  “It looks the same, doesn’t it?” she said of the familiar surroundings.

  “Like stepping back in time,” he agreed, as the two simultaneously surveyed the room.

  The space was large and filled with an array of heavy Spanish furniture that gave the room a cluttered look. Two brown leather sofas were placed on either side of the large fireplace, between them a hefty oak coffee table. On one end of the long room was a second sitting area with two chairs and several tables arranged before tall windows that looked out on the gardens and the winery operation beyond. On the other end of the room, near the double entry doors was a space that served as Warren Tatum’s office. His desk was large, the centerpiece of the area, made of oak and finely carved, the top currently empty with the exception of a small desk lamp – the kind with the green glass shade that one often sees at old library tables. Behind the desk was a three-foot high bookcase, and beside it was another, smaller sitting area with a leather chair and loveseat angled toward the TV. French doors at that end of the room opened at the front of the house, onto a small garden surrounded by a short stucco wall. Brightly colored fuchsias hung from an overhead trellis, as did a variety of warm weather plants that turned the garden into a lush and private oasis. The trickling water in the stone fountain had always calmed her.

  A lump formed in her throat as memories came rushing back. She stamped them out, only to have them revive when she focused on something new. The closed cabinets on either side of the French doors had once held an array of tools, toys and various devices used for the punishment of an unruly female – and occasionally for her pleasure. When she had been in this house, she had been that unruly female. She shuddered to think that the implements of her torture might still be contained inside the cabinets, although just as quickly, she recalled that just before she made her hasty exit from the valley, she and Bo had removed all traces of the disciplinary and sexual practices that had taken place in that room. This included clearing out the toys, tools and other hellish devices that once filled those cabinets. What still remained from that time was the box-like cabinet that sat tucked in a corner between the desk and doors to the private garden. The padlock on the cabinet was still in place.

  He said he’d destroy it, she thought silently. The fact that the cabinet still sat where it had always been was an act of betrayal she would find difficult forgiving. Had Bo lied…or simply forgotten? Maybe he thought it no longer mattered. As she rapidly leafed through the possibilities, vivid scenes from her past assailed her. Her gut wrenched miserably, and for a moment, she had a strong urge to turn tail and run.

  Suddenly, she snapped back to the present and brushed her apprehensions aside. Running off now was as silly as leaving before she even entered the house. In the time that it had taken for her to adjust to the familiar surroundings and decide not to flee, Luke returned to his desk.

  Chapter Two

  “So, nanny, how have you been?” Luke opened the conversation with a broad smile. “Or maybe I should call you Lexy now, huh?” His father never let him get casual with his nanny – a matter of discipline Warren had said. She’d always been Miss Alexa, or simply nanny if they were just playing around.

  While waiting for her answer, Luke plopped into Warren’s creaky desk chair and swiveled back and forth before he put his feet up on the desk and sighed big, waiting for her answer.

  “I-I suppose you can call me whatever. We have no rules to follow now. Lexy is fine and so i
s nanny.”

  “Ah, you were always so amenable, so kind.” For a moment he seemed locked in his own memories, although the excursion was brief. “You’re what? A housekeeper now?”

  “Sort of. I do whatever Nan needs me to do. It’s easy enough,” she replied. “Keeps me fed.”

  “And pretty as you’ve ever been.” His eyes lit with a playfully evil glint, which was amusing at first then strangely unsettling.

  She suppressed the urge to blush, feeling unsure if she welcomed the flirtatious behavior from the boy who had once been in her care. Sensing her distrust, Luke asked, “The compliment makes you uncomfortable?”

  “Not exactly. I’m just not sure why you’d want to see me now.”

  “And why not see the woman who made my life bearable in this godforsaken place?”

  “Godforsaken place? Some would call it paradise.”

  “Yeah, well,” he answered like a bored teenager. “Not much of a nightlife.”

  “I suppose if it’s a nightlife you want, you couldn’t do any better than San Francisco.”

  “But that is a world away from here, isn’t it?” His tone was a bit brusque – much like his father’s.

  She didn’t reply.

  “Well, since you’re not big on small talk, let’s get down to the business of why you’re here. I’m sure you’d like to know. But maybe something to drink first. Wine? Or maybe you’d prefer milk and cookies?”

  The reference to milk and cookies seemed odd but Luke smiled broadly as though it was just a happy reference to his childhood.

  She smiled back. “Um, really, I don’t need anything.”

  “Ah then, wine it is!” he exclaimed, moving right past her objections. He popped up from the desk, retreated to the sitting area on the far side of the room, and opened Warren’s wine bar, still fully stocked, as if it hadn’t changed since she filled it last. He pulled out two squat glasses, pulled the cork from a bottle of Shiraz and filled both glasses half full. He swirled the maroon-colored wine before his nostrils, drinking in the aromas before he took a sip. Apparently satisfied with the vintage, he strode to her side with both glasses in hand, handed her one and returned to the desk with the other.