Naughty Baby

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Master In Disguise

I took my sore behind and wounded ass home to an empty apartment, grateful that for once my ne’er-do-well brother Riley was not stuffing his face with junk food on my living room couch. He was nowhere to be found and it took all the decency I could muster not to lock him out by setting the deadbolt. I knew if I did that, he’d only find some way around the complicated locking system that I’d installed to keep the worst of Chicago’s riffraff from getting in. Picking locks was one of my brother’s few claims to fame; I didn’t even want to venture into the murky territory of how he learned his special talents and when he used them—other than to gain access to my apartment when I wasn’t there to let him in.

I made myself a stiff drink, pulled some Chinese takeout from the fridge and popped it in the toaster oven to heat while I puttered around the apartment, mostly picking up after my lazy brother. Quite honestly, I had no desire to sit myself down until the food was ready to eat, even then, I thought I might just lie on the couch and avoid putting too much weight on my hurting ass while I surfed the TV for something to watch.

Just as I was about to arrange myself on the couch, I thought to check my email—as if I actually expected an apology from Tate. None there. I sat back and sighed, feeling defeated. I went on to browse through the rest of my email, and when an email from masterindisguise@writersguild.com appeared in my inbox, I couldn’t stop myself from peeking at the message.

Hey there, naughty baby, I hope you’re still on for dinner tomorrow evening. I’ve booked a table at that little Spanish Bistro I told you about last week. I’m taking you at your word. Answer when you get this. Patrick

Patrick. My most devoted fan.

When I’m not an advertising account exec, I spend my free hours penning kinky erotic stories that I post to a website I began five years ago. It wasn’t much but a simple blog when it started, then two years ago, a good friend of mine who’s a whiz kid at web design took my antiquated site and turned it into a smooth functioning story site where I could invite my fans and fellow writers to post their naughtiest fantasies in story form and comment back and forth. The new site took off faster than I expected, and in its second year, it began paying for itself, as well as giving me a tidy sum to pad my income. Little did I know that it would become my only source of income.

Master In Disguise, Patrick, was one of the first to post his stories to the new site and we’d been regularly corresponding for over a year. Our communications over the previous three months had been strictly off the website and through our private email. From his first story, I could see that Patrick had a real flair for writing, characterization, good plots and blistering hot erotic scenes, which tended toward the kinky side of s****l relationships. My favorite. Every word he wrote I came to savor. Every time I opened one of his stories, I was practically drooling. Over time, my fantasies about this mystery man took some dark but delightful turns. My imagination went wild with the thought of actually meeting him in person, and discovering the ‘Dream Dom’ from my fantasies there to save me from my messed up life.

After a week or so of these silly imaginings, I’d abruptly come to my senses and remind myself that Patrick, if that was really his name, was most likely just a mild mannered college professor with a keen wit and a brilliant pen, capable of sending my crotch into paroxysms of delight with his racy prose. Interesting enough for email, but a face to face relationship with a man I’d likely overlook in a bar or on the street? I doubted a meeting would be a good idea, and I’d been putting off his sporadic invitations for nearly two months. However, it seemed that we’d finally reached the point of no return. The week before, thinking solely about his sizzling story of female surrender to a grim, but sexy mercenary, I sat with my hand between my legs and agreed to our first meeting. One evening, one measly dinner out. What could it hurt? I kept telling myself, once my hand was out of my crotch and I was thinking rationally. If he had any expectations of something more than one casual dinner then I’d lay them to rest right then and there.

Given the miserable state of my life when I received this latest email from Master In Disguise, I was about to make up some excuse, create an emergency—certainly the current state of my life could be called an emergency. No job. My backup funds nearly depleted trying to support myself and Riley. I might manage for a few weeks, but not much longer than that. I had sound reasons for turning the man down this time and I nearly launched in the sordid truth about my lousy day—minus the graphic details of my punishment from LuAnn. But I was simply too tired to spell it out for him in an email. Besides my desk chair was too damn hard to even sit on.

After reading his email for the 7th time, I finally dashed off my reply, I’ll be there…Clarisse, and hit ‘Send’.

To Patrick I was still Clarisse Laurent my on-line penname. Though he’d said he was sharing his given name with me, I was still unable to disclose the fact that I was just plain old Claire Lawrence. Until the following night when we finally met, I nurtured the belief that Patrick was exactly the man I pictured him being, nice but a little nerdy, certainly not my Dream Dom. He’d be as common and easy to know off-line as he was on-line. And that would be perfect. I’d have a sympathetic ear for my sordid tale, a shoulder to cry on. I couldn’t imagine telling any of my friends what happened with Tate and LuAnn, but Patrick who understands my kink? I hardly regretted that rash email after it so swiftly left my outbox.

Resigned that I would be meeting him the following night, I downed my stiff drink, pulled dinner from the toaster oven and settled myself as comfortably on the couch as I could. That’s exactly where I remained until it was time to go to bed.

***

The little Spanish bistro seemed quaint and unassuming at first glance. The storefront restaurant was one of a half dozen small businesses along the busy downtown thoroughfare. It shared a doorway with an old jewelry store that looked as though it should have gone out of business in the 50s and had somehow managed to linger on, its aging proprietor hunched over his gems like a nearsighted miser. Glancing at the grimy window I wondered if anyone ever walked through that door.

Patrick’s bistro created an entirely different impression, especially once I stepped through the front door and the fragrant aromas of spicy food practically knocked me off my feet. As I breathed in, the rich perfumes seem to move through my body in a pleasurable wave—my first happy breath since the day before and the sudden demise of my career. I stood in the entry waiting for the host to seat me and gazed around the room seeing not more than a dozen tables scattered through the dining area. The air glowed with a warm light. The linens were white. The goblets fine crystal. And while the glassware tickled musically and china plates clattered above the common noises of the restaurant, the strains of Spanish guitar music could be heard filtering into the air with a melody that seemed to open my senses as much as the smell of the food. I’d given little thought to romance or s*x prior to this meeting—I suppose I was still too stunned from the events of the day before. For just an instant as I stood waiting to be seated, an intensely erotic feeling swept through me. That was quickly followed by a moment of utter panic, which I immediately squashed. Just one measly dinner, Claire!

Peering more closely into the dining room, I could see that most of the tables were occupied, but there was none with just a single man. My heart lurched anxiously. I was at least twenty minutes late. Had he already left?

“Are you dining alone tonight, miss, or meeting someone?” a pleasant, dark-haired gentleman greeted me with a warm smile.

Flustered, I stumbled over the, “I-uh, am meeting someone,” and followed it with an unnecessarily bashful grin. He looked as though he needed more information. “I’m Clarisse Laurent…looking for Patrick?” How silly, I didn’t even know his last name.

The host’s eyes sparked as if he knew exactly who I wanted, then he led me between the tables to one near the back of the restaurant where, as I approached, I could see a man seated with his back to me. The high-back chair had nearly hidden him from view when I made my first perusal of the dining room.

“Mr. Helms,” the host addressed the man, then gave me a perfunctory nod as he motioned me toward the table and then backed away.

With a youthful spring to his movements, the seated gentleman pulled out of his chair, turned toward me and held out his hand. He was dressed in a finely tailored suit, in fact, everything from the shoes to the cufflinks to the tie reeked of money.

“Patrick Helms,” he announced—as if it weren’t perfectly obvious who he was the instant I saw him.

Caught staring into his deep blue eyes, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I could barely think beyond my moment of panic. Not once in nearly two years had we even broached the subject of exchanging pictures, so I had only a vague impression of what Patrick might look like. Nothing had been mentioned about his wavy blond hair, the high cheekbones, the square-cut jaw, or the magnetic charisma he exuded in his flashy smile. Not once had he suggested to me that I might recognize him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Damn if that gorgeous smile just didn’t quit.

“You—you could have told me…”

Figuring that I wasn’t up to the perfunctory handshake greeting, he lowered his hand and escorted me to the seat opposite his. Too weak to protest, I sat, still in shock, still trying to wrap my mind around the truth about Mr. Master In Disguise.

“Told you…what exactly?” he asked as he settled back into his chair.

“I’ve been corresponding with you for almost two years, and you never thought to mention that you’re a celebrity as popular as the fiction you write?” My surging anger surprised me, although the feeling seemed completely justified.

“You weren’t ready to know until now,” he said, ignoring my obvious distress.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I blurted out. I didn’t mean to be ungracious, but the Patrick Helms was the last person I thought I’d be meeting in that Spanish bistro. If I’d known I certainly would have done more than toss on a pair of slacks and an old sweater I rarely wore out.

“You look terrific, by the way, as pretty as I expected.”

“Thank you.” The blush was burning my cheeks before I finished saying thank you. “But do you think a compliment is going to get me beyond my shock?”

“Would it have been better if you’d known who I was ahead of time? I doubt it.” He peered at me, his expression almost whimsical. I wanted to be infuriated by his nonchalance but for some reason, maybe all that infectious charm, my anger was quickly lost in the sea of my wildly divergent emotions.

“You’re surprised, that’s obvious. Nervous…” he checked the gold watch around his wrist, “probably why you were twenty-five minutes late, and just guessing here, I’d say you look as though you’ve had a rough week. It stands to reason that you might be a little annoyed to have me showing up here as your date…”

“You hit the nail on the head there, buddy.” My sardonic reply earned me a gentle laugh.

Then he leaned in earnestly, capturing my left hand in his as it rested on the table. He held on tightly, refusing to let me pull it away.