“There’s only one full bath in the house. I’ll need to use this bathroom to shower, and my things are in that closet too. Otherwise, this space is yours while we’re here.”
It occurs to me, for the first time, that there’s also only one bedroom in the house, and I don’t remember seeing anything that looked like a pull-out sofa. Maybe in his office. Although I’m not even sure rich people have such things in their homes. I catch myself chewing on the corner of my thumb, a habit I thought I broke years ago. One bed. “Where are you sleeping?”
“Downstairs.”
Downstairs. I feel a twinge of disappointment. Why? So you could argue with him when he said he was sharing the bed with you? I don’t know what I expected. Or what I want, for that matter.
“You can work here, or you’re welcome to use the kitchen table.”
I’m not interested in the kitchen. But the window seat or the porch? That’s a big yes. “I’d like to work on the porch, if that’s not a problem.”
“There’s no table or desk in there.”
“I don’t need one. It’s such a treat to be at the beach—in this house.” With you. I don’t say the last part, because even if I was sure of those feelings, which I’m not, I would never take the risk. A heart is a fragile thing. It can only withstand a certain amount of punishment before it stops working altogether. Mine doesn’t have much life left in it. I need to be careful.
“I’d love to hear the surf while I work,” I admit. “I’m perfectly comfortable on the floor.”
“Whatever you want.” He pauses at the staircase, and when he looks at me, it seems like there’s something more he wants to say. I feel it. But then he blinks a few times, and we’re back to the mundane. “I have a secure laptop for you to use, and a few other things I want to give you. We’re here to work,” he grumbles under his breath. “Don’t forget that.”
I nod, but I’m not sure if he was talking to me, or to himself.
When we get downstairs, Gray’s all business. He goes into the office and returns with a laptop, a fat binder, and some office supplies. “Here’s the briefing book. It will fill in a lot of holes. By the time you’re finished, we’ll be ready for supper, and I’ll answer the hundreds of questions you’ll have while we eat.” He hands me a manila envelope. “Fill this out, too.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the form we use at the club to match people who have similar interests.”
I pull out the paperwork. I’ve never seen this particular form, but I’ve seen one like it. Kinksters fill them out at sex clubs before they play. It can also be used as the basis for a contract in a power exchange dynamic. Kyle and I never had a contract, but I’ve learned a lot about them since he died.
“Are you familiar with this type of questionnaire?”
I glance at the first page, not really seeing any of the individual words, and nod.
“What I want you to do is use the red, yellow, green system. Mark the color next to each one and then tell me if you’ve done it with a yes or no. Then tell me why you’ve marked it red or yellow—don’t bother about green. I don’t need a treatise. A few words should suffice. Ordinarily we’d create our own negotiated terms, but this isn’t…fun and games,” he says, haltingly. “It’s a job for both of us.”
Gray hesitates for a few seconds and his brow furrows before he speaks again. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to respect all your terms,” he pauses, to run his tongue over his bottom lip, “but I’ll make every effort. You have my word.”
I take a deep breath to right myself. This goes against everything I now know about power exchanges and consensual play—but this isn’t play. Still. “If you can’t agree to respect my limits, then why am I bothering to fill this out?”
“Because I don’t want this to be more difficult on you than it needs to be. I’ll do my damnedest to stay within the boundaries you set.” His voice is raw, and his eyes ripe with concern. “And if it can’t be helped, I’ll attempt to mitigate where I can.”
He’s lost some of the color in his cheeks. What have I gotten myself into? “Gray, what’s this about? What exactly is expected of me?”
“It will all make more sense after you read the briefing book. When you’re through, we’ll talk.”
I hold up the questionnaire, and wave it in the air. “Will I be getting one of these from you?”
“If you’d like.” He turns toward the doorway.
“I’d like. I want to have some understanding of your boundaries, too.” At least I think I do.
He nods. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
I need a lot of things. So many things. Answers, chief among them. I guess that’s where you come in, I say to the briefing book. Just don’t tell me a bunch of shit that’s going to give me heartburn—or nightmares.
13
Gray
I find Delilah out on the porch, sitting cross-legged on the sisal rug, her back against a chair. “Crown Prince Ahmad bin Khalid,” she says soberly. “What a monster.”
I nod, and sit on the chair across from her. “Throughout history, the Amadis have proven themselves time and time again to be a brutal regime. But the crown prince makes his ancestors look like saints.”
“Whoever prepared the briefing book did a great job. But I still have a ton of questions.” She points to a yellow legal pad. “I made a list.”
I expected nothing less. “Shoot.”
“This doesn’t seem like a CIA operation—not exactly. It feels more like something the CIA’s Special Activities Center would be involved in.”
Delilah’s smart, and she understands the big players in the world of espionage. There’s no sense in hiding my association from her. I had already decided that it would be a futile exercise. But let’s see where she goes with this. “CIA’s not involved at all.”
“The Bureau,” she says, keen eyes on me, watching for a tell. “The EAD.”
Bingo. That was quicker than I expected. The Elite Activities Division is the FBI’s equivalent of the CIA’s Special Activities Center. Since the terrorist attacks of September 11, they mirror one another. While the CIA still operates only on foreign soil, theoretically, the FBI operates at home and abroad.
Both organizations have an elite paramilitary unit, and a covert political action unit. Delilah had her sights on the CIA’s political action unit, and I’m a member of the FBI’s political action unit. They are the government’s two most secretive weapons to protect national security.
“I’m with the EAD, although no one at the Bureau would ever confirm that.” It’s a big admission, at least to me, but she takes it in stride.
“You’re with the FBI,” she says, carefully. “Kyle was with the Bureau. Did you know him?”
She chews on her bottom lip, maybe hoping I’ll tell her something. It’s only natural that she’d want more information about Kyle’s work—about his death. I wish there was something to tell her. Something good, like he was a hero or a stand-up guy. But I’ve got nothing like that. The truth would only cause her pain, and I’m not going there.