The Auction by Tiffany Reisz
3
Irina kissed him goodbye and left the bedroom. Daniel finished dressing. When he stepped into the hall, he found Kingsley lounging in an armchair, smoking. He blew a smoke ring and pushed two fingers through the hole. Very subtle.
Daniel crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Last I remember, you were trying to quit.”
“I am trying. Just not very hard.” Kingsley stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. “Did you enjoy your lunch?”
Daniel glared at Kingsley as he slowly rose from the chair. “She’s a dominatrix.”
“So? I like all the dominants on my payroll to bottom every now and then,” Kingsley said. “It’s good for them. Humbling. Especially when I’m doing the humbling.”
Kingsley waved his hand, and Daniel followed him downstairs.
“You used to be a pro dom,” Daniel reminded him.
Kingsley raised his eyebrow at him as they reached the landing. “Daniel, I can’t imagine what you’re implying.”
“Monsieur,” came a sharp but sweet voice from the bottom of the steps. Anya again. Kingsley walked down the steps to the foyer, where Anya met him with a sheaf of messages. To Kingsley, Anya gave a curtsy. To Daniel, a look of pure loathing. Daniel hated knowing the girl was both virginal and off-limits. Every time she looked at him like that, he mentally put another handprint on her ass.
Kingsley dismissed her in French. To him, she gave another curtsy. To Daniel, another look of pure loathing. She flounced off again, the skirt of her sailor dress flying up as she twirled away.
“I know what you’re thinking…” Kingsley sang as he glanced through his messages.
“No, you don’t.”
“You want to make our little sailor girl walk your plank.”
Daniel smiled. “Okay, maybe you do know what I’m thinking. I guess I’m on her eternal shit list for being Canadian. Who hates Canadians anyway? We’re nice. We’re legally required to be nice.” He watched as she disappeared down the long hallway.
“She doesn’t hate you because you’re Canadian. She hates you because you dress for shit.”
Daniel looked down at his clothes. “I was in a Peruvian airport yesterday. Was I supposed to wear a tux?”
Kingsley tossed the messages onto a table and gave him a long look. “You’re not in Peru anymore, my friend. I’ll call my tailor. You go see him tomorrow.”
Daniel exhaled heavily. None of his old clothes fit very well anymore. Although he’d always been in good shape, a year of climbing mountains had broadened his shoulders and shrunk his waistline. And Kingsley did have the best tailor in town.
“I hadn’t planned on a long stay in the city,” Daniel reminded him. He had his country house to check on, too. Not that he particularly relished going back there. Too many memories waited for him—memories of the last year with Maggie as he watched her die, three years of hell after she’d gone, and one week of bliss when Eleanor came to him.
“Change your plans. At least stay in town through the auction. It’s in two weeks.”
“Why?” Daniel asked. He had no intention whatsoever of bidding on Anya. Not even to terrify her with the very idea of giving up her virginity to a poorly-dressed English-speaking Canadian.
Kingsley slapped him on the arm, and then took a cigarette case out of his jacket pocket and shook one out. “Because you’re in it, mon ami.”
“I’m what?”
“You think there’s such a thing as a free lunch?” Kingsley asked as he put the cigarette between his lips.
Daniel pulled it out and tossed it over his shoulder. “If Irina wanted to be paid, I’d pay her.”
“I’m not charging for her services. Call it...wear and tear on the bed. You can pay your bill by being in my auction.”
“No, thank you.”
“Too late. My secretary has already added your name to the program.”
“I am not—”
“You are, or I’m telling,” Kingsley taunted. Daniel had never punched a Frenchman in the face before, never wanted to. Then again, he’d never fucked a dominatrix before either, so today might be a day of many firsts.
“You said yourself he’s a pacifist. What’s he going to do? Pray for me to get struck by lightning?”
“He’ll keep you from ever seeing her again.”
That hit. That hit hard. It hit hard because Daniel believed it.
“Not even talk to her? Really? He’s that possessive? That controlling?”
“He’ll state the facts—you can’t talk to her, and she can’t talk to you. The end. Fin.”
Daniel already regretted coming back here. The sex had been good, the kink even better, but it was a trap, and he’d stepped right into it.
“Why do you even want me in your stupid auction?”
“You’re fresh meat. All us other dominants are old news.” Kingsley turned and sat on the sofa in the music room and finally lit his smoke with the flick of a silver lighter. “The girls are already mad about you. You’re rich, good-looking, you’ll make me a lot of money. I mean, you’ll make our charity a lot of money. And maybe the other dominant we had dropped out, and we can’t find a replacement on short notice.”
“Ah, so you don’t want me. You need me.”
“It’s tradition.” Kingsley shrugged. “And perhaps you’ll meet someone and stop obsessing over a girl you can’t have.”
“I’m not obsessing.”
Kingsley exhaled and stood up again. Daniel tensed as Kingsley came to him. He had a feline sort of slink, like a big cat about to spring for the kill. The kill or the kiss. One never knew with the King of the Underground.
“Where did you go after she left you? Hmm?” Kingsley narrowed his eyes, brought the cigarette to his lips.
“Tierra del Fuego.”
“And why did you go there?”
“She and I joked about it.”
“You went to the bottom of the world, as close as you can get to Ant-fucking-arctica without going to Ant-fucking-arctica just to send her a postcard as a joke.”
“I also wanted to see the condors.”
“You need a new girl to obsess over. One who isn’t taken. You’ll meet lots of them at the auction. Either do it or don’t, but if you don’t, well…”
“If I don’t, I’ll never see her again.”
“Irina’s right. You are a smart man.” Kingsley tapped his temple. “Très intelligent.”
Daniel wasn’t about to be railroaded, not by a man dressed for a Regency romance novel cover. “I’ll be in your stupid auction, but I want to see her. Soon. Just to talk.”
Kingsley tick-tocked his head side to side as if considering Daniel’s terms. “Fine. I’ll arrange it. The auction is in two weeks. In the meantime, get some decent clothes. Please. For my sake and Anya’s. And anyone with eyes. We can’t have you in the auction looking like that.”
He slapped Daniel on the arm and slinked away.
Daniel exhaled heavily. “I never should have left Tierra del Fuego.”
* * *
The next morning,Daniel woke up sore all over. Not from the sex, though he was certain Irina would be a little sore today. Not from old age—he was in the best shape of his life after spending a year climbing mountains. No, he was sore because he’d slept on the couch.
Nice couch, as couches go. Everything was nice in the apartment. On the twenty-sixth floor of the most exclusive high rise in Lenox Hill, the apartment was the finest money could buy: three elegant bedrooms, ten-foot ceilings, hand-crafted molding, built-in cabinets and bookcases, marble countertops, the works. Eleanor might also call his place swanky.
Swanky as it was, Daniel didn’t feel at home here anymore. Too big. Too much. Too empty. The air was stale and smelled of disinfectant, the housekeeper having overdone it in preparation for his arrival. It smelled more like a hospital than a home.
Hence the couch. It might not make a good bed, but no one would say it didn’t come with a great view.
Daniel rolled over and stared out the floor-to-ceiling window.
The sun was rising high over the East River, and the city was starting to steam.
Hot town, summer in the city… Maggie would always sing that on sizzling July days like this one was going to be. He hated that song, and she loved it. Now he’d kill to hear her sing it again.
It felt like another life, a past life, when he and Maggie had lived here together as Master and slave, and also as husband and wife. They’d spent most of their married life here. Maggie worked in Manhattan until she got sick and they moved out to the Big House, as she called their country house in rural New Hampshire. She wanted to die hearing birds singing, she’d said, not sirens. And she had. Four years ago and this was his first time back in New York. It was too big without her. Even the beds were too big without her.
Daniel closed his eyes, turned over, trying to make himself comfortable enough on the couch to go back to sleep.
No luck. Daniel’s phone beeped. What the hell? He’d been back in the city one day, had gotten his new phone yesterday afternoon. How did anyone have the number? He grabbed his cell off the coffee table. Kingsley. Did Daniel want to know how he got the number?
Signore Vitale will see you in an hour. Don’t be late.
Daniel didn’t reply, although he knew he would go. He’d hardly call Kingsley a friend these days, but they had history. Good history. It was Maggie who’d introduced him to Kingsley and his circle of deviants. The world above knew her as a high-powered attorney. The Underground knew her as one of their pre-eminent submissives. Daniel had had no dominant training at all when they started sleeping together. He’d just known what worked for him…and Maggie on her knees in front of him worked. All the rest of the tricks of the trade, Kingsley had taught him. Kingsley had been a part of their life during their happiest years together. And when she got sick, he was still there, unlike so many people who backed away, as if cancer were contagious.
The day the doctors had told them the verdict—“Two months at home, maybe six months if you stay in the hospital...”—had been the worst day of his life. Even worse than the day she died. He’d never forget those beautiful, tired, gray eyes of Maggie’s turning to him and saying, “I’d trade a lifetime in a hospital bed for one night with you in our bed.” It had killed him to let her give up the fight. But he’d honored her choice and only let himself cry when she wouldn’t see.
So two months it was, then. He’d promised her he’d give her the best two months of her life. Anything she wanted—they could go anywhere, do anything…any wild fantasy she could come up with, he’d make it happen. One night after he’d made love to her—carefully so he wouldn’t hurt her, she’d whispered a request in his ear.
“Would you let me call Kingsley?”
For his wife, a month, maybe two, from death, he would have called in the entire US Naval Fleet to service her if that’s what she wanted.
“No,” he’d told Maggie. “But I’ll call him for you.”
Daniel called Kingsley. And Kingsley did what he always did—he came. Daniel had worried Kingsley would shrink from Maggie when he saw her. Cancer had ravaged his beautiful wife. Turned her into a waif of ninety-five pounds with hair only just beginning to grow back after one month without chemotherapy. Kingsley hadn’t even blinked. He’d been his usual charming, seductive self. And that night at the Big House in their bedroom, Kingsley had done a few things to Maggie that impressed even Daniel.
Kingsley treated Maggie like the most erotic, alluring woman on the face of the earth. Because of that kindness, that night when Kingsley gave Maggie a vacation from her cancer, Daniel would do almost anything for him.
Including, apparently, being in this goddamn auction of his. And going to his goddamn tailor. And staying in the goddamn city for two more weeks, this city that felt both crowded and empty.
Groaning, Daniel swiped at his face and dragged himself off the couch. He dressed—jeans, of course, and a t-shirt, mostly clean, and headed out. First stop, his old barbershop. An hour later, he looked much more like himself. Maggie used to say he looked like a spy in a bad disguise, like a secret assassin doing a poor job of pretending to be a tourist. Especially with his dark blond hair in a sleek crew cut, dark suit and aviator sunglasses. He’d kiss her when she said things like that, then say, The name’s Bondage. James Bondage.
She’d laugh every time, even though it wasn’t that funny. God, he missed being married.
But he felt better, seeing his old self in the mirror again. Next stop—Kingsley’s tailor. Kingsley wasn’t somebody who could just pick up an Armani suit at an upscale shop in Manhattan and have it fitted. No, Kingsley had to do things his own way—in this case, that meant having an ancient Italian in a three-story walk-up in Greenwich Village hand-sew his custom-made suits.
Signore Vitale greeted Daniel with a few more cheek kisses than was entirely necessary. But Daniel didn’t protest. Octogenarian Signore Vitale was adorable, a little elf of a man. Daniel waited in the center of the room in front of a three-way mirror. Somewhere Signore Vitale had a real shop with racks of clothes. But only his most special clients received an invite to his workroom.
“I get my assistant. She has better eyes for the measuring. I’ll leave you in her hands.” Signore Vitale disappeared behind a curtain, and a woman came out a few minutes later. She wore a 1940s era gray wool suit with flesh-colored stockings and her red hair in a neat knot at the nape of her neck. Daniel barely recognized her at first, as she wore prim reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Then she spoke.
“Oh…it’s you,” Anya said, crossing her arms.
“What do you know,” Daniel said. “Celine Dion has a day job.”
