The Bound Heart by Elsa Holland Page B

spring of 1887. They’d all sat under the Cherry blossoms. Sake, beer, bento boxes and cherry blossom petals in the rice.
    Geisha had attended at Sensei’s invitation. Women wrapped in layers of exquisite fabric, twirling translucent oriental parasols in reds and pinks, the light flickering through the trees. No amount of books, photo plates of Japan and Sensei’s stories had prepared him for the reality of the culture. He was baptized into a culture so ancient, so controlled and yet in many ways so liberated, a part of him had found its home, its source.
    Sato had thrown a rope over a low hung branch and proceeded to suspend one of the geisha. She was terrified and it simply acted to fuel Sato on. The afternoon ended with Sensei stepping in and cutting the girl down, rope burns to her arms, legs, and neck.
    Sato was recklessly inventive; and the chances he took when they worked were spectacular, and when they didn’t, he left a wake of girls with damaged skin in the best cases and lasting numbness in the worst.
    Jamie slipped the invitation back in its envelope.
    This shouldn’t even be an issue. If it weren’t for the Collector’s contract and their conditional transfer of it to him as Sensei’s heir and lineage holder, he would simply refuse to deal with Sato altogether.
    Unfortunately the morbid fact about human nature was that Sato’s dramatic disregard and overconfidence garnered him many admirers and loyal followers, even here in London.
    Jamie picked up his chop sticks and began to eat.
    The grilled fish in caramelized soy sauce melted on his tongue. It was followed by the clean plump flavor of koshi-higari rice. Then a sip of miso soup, a soft flavor with its wakame seaweed and small tofu squares.
    He didn’t have to meet Blackburn to know what was coming.
    Sato wanted money. In addition, despite almost being removed from Kobayashi-sensei’s lineage, Sato wanted recognition in the circles that counted.
    No resolution would come at Blackburn’s, but the rules of engagement would be set.
    Whatever unfolded, the annual Paris rope competition was now going to have another layer, a rope off between him and Sato for the Collector’s contract.
    Rope offs weren’t new. Rope men competed against each other for performance contracts. Gentleman clubs, back tents at the circus, private shows, and royal court after dark parties.
    The loss of The Collectors’ contract would mean he’d have to work very hard to manage the house and dependents he’d inherited. Once The Collectors deemed you unfit or surpassable, they did not easily look back at you again as a group. Individual collectors may still be interested; however, the orders would be fickle making funds very unpredictable.
    Jamie needed to set aside more time working with Madeline to get her ready. Find that special connection he needed because he’d have to present something special to go up against Sato.

CHAPTER SIX
    It was mid-week before Olive had an excuse to head back to Mr. Edwards… to Jamie. An atypical delivery was needed and she made sure she was the one to take it.
    She stood at the workshop door, The gloom of the stairwell around her as her heart hammered like one of the book chisels she could hear inside. She knocked.
    “Holla.” It wasn’t him. It was Mr. Johns; he liked to use foreign words.
    Inside, she scanned the room. “Delivery, sir.”
    “Ah, Olive. Yes right over here.” Mr. Johns motioned to the counter.
    Mr. Edwards… Jamie was not there.
    She was thinking of him as Jamie after that afternoon. The kiss, the intimate touches between her legs, and then the pictures. Since then, her hands in private acts of pleasure were always his; it didn’t feel wrong to think of him like that. They’d kissed. They’d started, so what if it was her fingers that did the rest.
    Next time it wouldn’t be.
    Next time she was determined it would be his fingers and more.
    Olive laid out the order for Mr. Johns, checking the room again. Tables,