I’m managing it with the skills you taught me.”
“To work for me, which ultimately is for you—not for someone else.”
“Dad, please. You know Dana Compton matters to me and that she has cancer. Would you really want me to desert her now?”
He huffs out a breath. “I selfishly want to say ‘yes,’ and if this gets worse, I might just go run that place myself to get you out of there, or send one of your brothers.”
He’s not joking. What was I thinking, when I considered having him provide my security? He’d go nuts if he knew about the hooded man or Mark’s desire for vengeance. “I’m fine,” I say firmly. “This is not some mom-and-pop shop. This is the largest auction house in the world, with world-class security, and I’m gaining invaluable experience here.”
He sighs. “At least while you’re there, your liking for artistic men can be fed with ones who pay their own bills.”
I groan. “Not that again.”
“I can’t take another wannabe starving artist or, Lord forbid, another wannabe rock star, like that Jake fellow you wouldn’t let go of in college.”
“If you continue, I might have a seizure from the repeating conversation my brain can’t take.” My phone sounds again, and the receptionist says, “Mr. Prescot is pulling up to the building now, per the security staff.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll come and get him.”
“Prescot,” my father says. “As in Larry Prescot?”
“The one and only. And he’s no happier about this situation than you are—so let me go prove that I learned from the best, as in you, and save his business. I meant it when I said I was getting invaluable experience here.”
“A far cry from tattooed rock stars, my dear. I owe Dana Compton more than a few favors, starting with this one. Tell Prescot you’re my daughter.”
“You know I don’t like to name-drop.”
“Trust me, baby. Tell him. And call me when you get home tonight.”
“It’ll be late.”
“Text me if I don’t answer, so I know you’re safe.”
“I will,” I promise. “And can you tell the rest of the clan I’m okay? Scottie already tried to call. I’m sure Daniel will be next.”
“I’ll tell them I talked to you. Whether you’re truly okay is up for debate.”
“I am.”
We’ve just said our good-byes when my cell phone buzzes with a message from Mark. Dinner tonight. Eight o’clock at my parents’ house.
I stare at the message. He acted like I didn’t belong at the hospital this morning, and he’s given me no update on his mother. Now he’s demanded, not asked, that I be at dinner. There are so many things I want to reply with—but I want to see Dana. That’s all that matters. I type Okay.
Okay? he replies.
Grimacing, I don’t even try to hold my fingers in check. Sorry, sir. Yes, sir, Mr. Compton, sir.
He doesn’t reply. Perhaps what I see as being a smartass again, he perceives as a real concession. My mind goes back to the restaurant bathroom he’s so focused on and I squeeze my eyes shut, replaying his hands on my waist as he sets me on the counter and spreads my legs before ripping off my panties, teasing me with his fingers but not his tongue. And oh, how I wanted his tongue. He’d made me choose between his fingers, his tongue, or his cock. When I’d chosen his tongue, he’d ordered me to tell him to “lick me.” Then it had been, “Lick me, please.” Then, “Please lick my pussy, Mr. Compton.” I’d tried to resist and failed. I’d said the words, and he rewarded me with an orgasm, leaving me with a satisfied smile on his face and my panties in his pocket.
Something my father often says comes back to me: People who are being manipulated rarely know it until it’s too late. What if Mark’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine is all a plan to get me where he wants me, tied to a bedpost? I glance down at my reply.
Sorry, sir. Yes, sir, Mr. Compton, sir.
What if that kind of submissive answer is exactly what he wants
“To work for me, which ultimately is for you—not for someone else.”
“Dad, please. You know Dana Compton matters to me and that she has cancer. Would you really want me to desert her now?”
He huffs out a breath. “I selfishly want to say ‘yes,’ and if this gets worse, I might just go run that place myself to get you out of there, or send one of your brothers.”
He’s not joking. What was I thinking, when I considered having him provide my security? He’d go nuts if he knew about the hooded man or Mark’s desire for vengeance. “I’m fine,” I say firmly. “This is not some mom-and-pop shop. This is the largest auction house in the world, with world-class security, and I’m gaining invaluable experience here.”
He sighs. “At least while you’re there, your liking for artistic men can be fed with ones who pay their own bills.”
I groan. “Not that again.”
“I can’t take another wannabe starving artist or, Lord forbid, another wannabe rock star, like that Jake fellow you wouldn’t let go of in college.”
“If you continue, I might have a seizure from the repeating conversation my brain can’t take.” My phone sounds again, and the receptionist says, “Mr. Prescot is pulling up to the building now, per the security staff.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll come and get him.”
“Prescot,” my father says. “As in Larry Prescot?”
“The one and only. And he’s no happier about this situation than you are—so let me go prove that I learned from the best, as in you, and save his business. I meant it when I said I was getting invaluable experience here.”
“A far cry from tattooed rock stars, my dear. I owe Dana Compton more than a few favors, starting with this one. Tell Prescot you’re my daughter.”
“You know I don’t like to name-drop.”
“Trust me, baby. Tell him. And call me when you get home tonight.”
“It’ll be late.”
“Text me if I don’t answer, so I know you’re safe.”
“I will,” I promise. “And can you tell the rest of the clan I’m okay? Scottie already tried to call. I’m sure Daniel will be next.”
“I’ll tell them I talked to you. Whether you’re truly okay is up for debate.”
“I am.”
We’ve just said our good-byes when my cell phone buzzes with a message from Mark. Dinner tonight. Eight o’clock at my parents’ house.
I stare at the message. He acted like I didn’t belong at the hospital this morning, and he’s given me no update on his mother. Now he’s demanded, not asked, that I be at dinner. There are so many things I want to reply with—but I want to see Dana. That’s all that matters. I type Okay.
Okay? he replies.
Grimacing, I don’t even try to hold my fingers in check. Sorry, sir. Yes, sir, Mr. Compton, sir.
He doesn’t reply. Perhaps what I see as being a smartass again, he perceives as a real concession. My mind goes back to the restaurant bathroom he’s so focused on and I squeeze my eyes shut, replaying his hands on my waist as he sets me on the counter and spreads my legs before ripping off my panties, teasing me with his fingers but not his tongue. And oh, how I wanted his tongue. He’d made me choose between his fingers, his tongue, or his cock. When I’d chosen his tongue, he’d ordered me to tell him to “lick me.” Then it had been, “Lick me, please.” Then, “Please lick my pussy, Mr. Compton.” I’d tried to resist and failed. I’d said the words, and he rewarded me with an orgasm, leaving me with a satisfied smile on his face and my panties in his pocket.
Something my father often says comes back to me: People who are being manipulated rarely know it until it’s too late. What if Mark’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine is all a plan to get me where he wants me, tied to a bedpost? I glance down at my reply.
Sorry, sir. Yes, sir, Mr. Compton, sir.
What if that kind of submissive answer is exactly what he wants
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