The Bound Heart by Elsa Holland Page A

history of rope, to Shintoism and Shiatsu. What he wanted to branch out to, what he was developing had more to do with art. Of form over role or function. Of rope as the medium that he used on the canvas of skin, the shape of his model.
    “Have you been working on anything?”
    Tension tightened his back.
    He hadn’t, not outside of easy commissions.
    “You know I will continue Sensei’s work. I hold his lineage, I believe in what we have done and developed over the years. And, I need to grow. I am not content to simply follow.”
    What lay at the heart of this constant push from Okazaki was that he wasn’t ready to start again.
    The last few months he’d simply worked the erotic postcards with Madeline. And despite Okazaki’s disapproval, it was work. Madeline was an old lover; they’d long lost the awkwardness in the intimacies of the work, and apart from an occasional transgression, they went their own ways with no expectations.
    Madeline was set finding on a powerful patron; she wanted to do more work with him and catch the eye of The Collectors. That was the only reason, apart from some ready cash, that she still did the postcards with him.
    Olive’s shaky breaths flashed through his mind. The way her eyelids got heavy as he tied the ribbon around her leg. He shifted on the cushion.
    “You need more than a good model. You need a great model. How can you expect to grow, if you don’t have the right girl?” Okazaki said.
    “Madeline is perfectly capable.”
    And, she was. The trouble was she didn’t move him, didn’t make him slip into the place he needed to be in to make the rope sing. She didn’t drive him to find new ties, new expressions.
    He needed a muse.
    The soft-sense memory of Olive, her breasts cupped in his hand, the tight cord of communication between them caused his fingers to curl into his palm.
    She made him think of all kinds of things.
    Mentally he closed a door on the direction of his thoughts.
    His world was not for her. Women who walking into his world were already seasoned in the world of sex and desire. They were already working those currents of need that people hungered for. Very few people stepped up to work in the areas of Erotic art without that natural drive.
    He knew where Olive lived. Her world would have placed sex work at her door many a time. If not that, using her appeal to draw men who’d get her a better life, like Madeline. It was abundantly clear Olive hadn’t taken up either option.
    He’d let her go. It was the best direction for both of them.
    “Madeline is a washing line. You can hang the rope on her, nothing more.”
    “Now you are being unkind. She is well respected in our circles; she has won many benefactors over the years.”
    Okazaki stayed silent, she’d made her point, and there was truth in it.
    She slipped her hand inside her kimono, brought out an envelope, and placed it on the table. Then she picked up the tray, and in that ethereal Japanese way, went from kneeling to standing in a smooth straight rise.
    “I will run the bath.” She left.
    Jamie picked up the envelope as she slid the sliding door to the rest of the house closed.
    The wax seal told him whom it was from.
    Blackburn.
    A powerful self-made man climbing the ranks of The Collectors and pushing higher still.
    Tearing it open, a simple white card embossed with the letter B slid out.
    Regarding a Mr. Sato:
    He has submitted a request to enter the competition in Paris.
    He claims he is also a long-time pupil of Mr. Kobayashi’s and seeks an opportunity not only to compete in the Paris competition, but also to win Kobayashi’s remaining contract with The Collectors. The current value standing at 20,000 pounds.
    I have been asked to present an informal opportunity for you and Mr. Sato to meet and perhaps, come to an understanding.
    An invitation to a gathering is enclosed. Your attendance is expected.
    Blackburn

    The muscles in his jaw tightened, Sato.
    He’d met Sato in Yokohama in the