Freeing Rowan (Masters Club 3)

“Yes,” Rowan said, ignoring the nervous butterflies doing battle in her belly. “My name is Rowan Georgiou. My, uh, representative arranged a small showing for me during the Sanchez exhibit?”

She’d meant to say it with authority, but it came out more as a question. Which, in fact, it was, seeing as she didn’t really know anything beyond that, and that the split was in favor of the gallery.

The woman’s face creased into a genuine smile. “What a pleasure to meet you. I’m Clarise, the gallery assistant at this location.” She extended a perfectly manicured hand.

Rowan took it, keenly aware of her own still-ragged, unvarnished nails.

“I had no idea you were so young,” Clarise continued. “We’ve got your pieces in the back. I especially love the one titled Homeless. I have to say, when I heard about your concept of skies as portraits, I didn’t get it. But seeing your work, I totally do now. Who knew a sky could capture such despair? I get tears in my eyes every time I look at it.”

“Oh!” Rowan exclaimed, thrilled to her bones at the unexpected praise, her cheeks flushing hot with both pleasure and embarrassment. “Thank you so much.”

“Opening night is sold out,” Clarise continued animatedly. “I have some ideas about how we might hang your work to best effect, even in the tiny space they’ve allotted you. If you have time, I’d love to show you.”

She spoke in a chirpy way that reminded Rowan of a bright little bird, despite the young woman’s elegant bearing and clothing. “And I’ve been holding your complimentary tickets for you. Let me just go get them. Then I’ll take you back.”

As Clarise clicked away on those very high heels, an unmistakable deep, sexy voice purred from behind Rowan, “I thought I might find you here, my darling girl.”

Ice water rushed through Rowan’s veins, freezing her in place. For a terrifying moment, she was back at his Scarsdale home, caught misbehaving and soon to pay the price.

Finally remembering how to breathe, she drew in a lungful of air and let it out slowly. Girding herself, she turned toward the man who had controlled her every move for the past three months. He looked gorgeous as always, his dark, wavy hair falling rakishly over one eye, his teeth gleaming white against the ironic curve of his smile. His elegant summer suit was cut perfectly along the lines of his tall, lean form. He was regarding her with a bemused expression.

“Hello, John,” she said, pleased that her voice, while not exactly assertive, at least hadn’t quavered. Nor had she burst into tears or fallen to her knees.

He drew his brows together, narrowing his beautiful eyes, no doubt affronted by her deliberate use of his first name without the attached honorific he’d always demanded.

But, after a beat, he just smiled. “I’ve missed you, darling girl. My car is outside. Come home with me and we’ll start fresh. I realize I’ve been selfish, expecting you to share me with another slave when you’re not yet even fully trained. We’ll take a step back, Rowan. We’ll go at your pace.”

He moved closer, reaching out a hand.

Rowan took a reflexive step back. As she did, his eyes widened.

“Your collar,” he said through suddenly clenched teeth, a flash of anger sparking in his eyes. “Where is your collar, slave girl?”

Flustered but determined to stand her ground, Rowan started to reply, “I—”

But at that moment Clarise reappeared, an envelope in her hand. Taking in John, she said, “Good morning.” Then, no doubt recognizing the handsome art dealer who’d brokered Rowan’s part in the show, she flashed a brilliant smile at John. “Oh! Nice to see you again. Rowan and I have just met.”

John moved closer to Rowan, a bland smile now on his handsome face. “Nice to see you, too, Clarise. Rowan was eager to come see the gallery. We’d love to stay awhile and chat, but unfortunately, my car is double parked outside and we have an engagement we mustn’t miss.”

He placed his hand on the back of Rowan’s neck and squeezed. “Isn’t that right, Rowan?”

Clarise frowned, looking from John to Rowan and then back to John. “But I thought…” She trailed off, something in John’s face no doubt cowing her into silence while Rowan stood numbly by, desperately trying to rally.

He brought up his other hand, using it to propel Rowan toward the door. His touch sent another ripple of raw fear through Rowan’s core. This could not be happening.

“Don’t forget your tickets for opening night, Rowan,” Clarise called.

The young woman’s chirpy voice and the use of Rowan’s name somehow recalled Rowan back to herself. All at once, she twisted away from John.

Heart pounding, she said in a voice that sounded falsely bright but absolutely determined, “Sorry, John, but we must have got our wires crossed somehow. You go on to your appointment. Clarise and I have business to attend to.”