My heart lurches and my gaze jerks from one of the first journal entries Rebecca ever penned — at least, that I have in my possession, to the doorway where Mark stands. Dressed in a pinstriped black suit, his sculpted body and broad shoulders consume the archway, just as he consumes the air around me. It is Friday evening and the first time I’ve seen him since he’d left town. I suspect my reaction to seeing him is vastly more potent for a variety of reasons. Chris’s silence. Ella’s continued lack of communication. Even Ava from the coffee shop, who teased me with gallery gossip, has been MIA. I’m swimming with sharks alone, which brings me back to my reaction to Mark’s sudden appearance, the ultimate shark.

I’m more certain than ever that Mark is the man in the journals. The evidence is overwhelming. The roses, and their connection to Mark’s art collection. His dominant personality, and the money Rebecca infers her lover possesses in many of her writings. ‘Master’ has to be Mark and it is all I can do not to blush as I remember the intimate acts I’ve read with him as her Master.

No. It’s not knowing this man is ‘Master’ that rattles me. It’s how well I relate to what Rebecca responded to in him. Her need to hand over everything to someone else, including her pleasure, and yes, her pain. To trust that much.

“Your silence is making me nervous, Ms. McMillan,” Mark chides and his voice deepens with demand. “Are you ready for tonight?”

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize I’ve simply been gaping at him, “Yes, is the right answer, correct?” I inquire, unable to keep the apprehension from my voice, so no doubt, it shows on my face. I am beyond nervous about the tasting, and fearful I will look foolish to the experts I will be interacting with.

“Yes is the right answer, Ms. McMillan, especially since the tasting begins in one hour.”

I wet my lips and his gaze follows the action, and unlike when Chris had done so, when I’d felt warm all over, Mark’s attention is unsettling. “Yes then.”

“You aren’t convincing me.”

Flattening my hands on my desk, I will myself to stand up for what I believe in, to claim control of me, and not give it to him. I am not Rebecca. “Mark,” I begin, and his brow quirks with irritation, and forces me to quickly amended my choice of address. “Sorry. Mr. Compton. I have to be honest with you. I don’t like to pretend to be an expert when I’m not. And I’m not.” He has to recognize this. The man has haunted me with emails, phone calls, and computer testing for days on end, but he says nothing in reply. “I worry I could lose credibility when it comes to what I do know, which is art.”

He studies me with an inscrutable mask on his too-handsome face, his jaw set in a hard line. I cannot read him and time stretches eternally until finally he speaks. “Do you want me to let you in on a little secret, Ms. McMillan?”

The word ‘secret’ conjures many things where Mark is concerned, but at this particular moment I cannot escape the thought of him spanking Rebecca in the storage room and clamping her nipples. Of him punishing her, of him wanting to punish me. I see myself in Rebecca’s role, pressed against the wall, him against me, and it’s not the first time. It’s illogical because I don’t want Mark, but I am spinning out of control, spiraling into some deep, dark cavern of something I don’t understand.

“What secret?” I finally manage.

The sharpening of his gaze tells me he hasn’t missed the far too drawn out pause before my question, or the telling rasp to my voice. He is pleased with my reaction and realization slaps me in the face. The journal is lying open on the desk. How did I not think of the possibility he might recognize it as Rebecca’s, that he might know I’m reading about her, with him? I think…I think he does know. I think he wants me to know.

“Ready for the secret, Sara?”

Sara. He called me Sara. Instinctively, I know this indicates no shift in our relationship. This is his way of telling me he can call me whatever he likes, while I must call him by his formal surname. He is reminding me he is the boss, and I am subservient to him.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat, and nod. “Yes,” I manage and despite the one word reply, I feel empowered with my voice. At least, he has not rendered me mute. I am not this man’s to control. But your dreams of working in this industry are, my subconscious reminds me, and resentment burns in me at the truth inside the unwelcome thought.

“I never expected you to be ready to talk to experts tonight like you are one yourself,” Mark announces.

I blink in confusion. “I don’t understand. You said I had to study and be ready for tonight.”

“I challenged you to see what you are made of. If you hadn’t given me a valiant effort to rise to said challenge, why should I consider you for more than a mere sales rep?”

Chris’s reaction to Mark’s dangling carrot, aka opportunity at Riptide, slides into my mind. Is Mark really planning to help me do more than local sales, or is he simply manipulating me? Is he...playing with my dreams? Or has Chris simply planted the idea in my head and I’m making myself crazy because of him?

“You’ve done well this week,” he continues. “Tonight you have my permission to confess your lack of knowledge to my customers. Simply allow them to teach you. They’ll be eating out of your pretty little palm, and you’ll, without question, please me with your stellar sales.”

I can barely believe he’s telling me to do exactly what Chris suggested days before. My emotions twist in knots. I’m not sure how to react and I respond on auto-pilot, a soldier trying to please her new captain. “I’ll…do my very best.”

Satisfaction slides over his features. “I cannot wait, Ms. McMillan, to see what you are truly capable of.” His lips twitch. “I have a feeling we’ll be discussing your reward for a night well done, tomorrow.”

“And if I fail?” I ask. “Will I be punished?” I have no idea where my boldness has come from, but the question is out without me thinking.

His eyes narrow on me. “Do you want to be punished?” His tone is low, gravely, and rather than him being angry at the question, I read a sexual undercurrent in his reply. Or maybe I’m suffering delusions born of a combination of Chris’s warnings and my obsession with the journals.

“No,” I answer, and this time there is no hesitation in my response. “I do not wish to be punished.”

“Then continue to please me, Sara,” he comments softly, and there is a hint of both satisfaction and reprimand in his tone. I can see this moment foreshadowing another, where he will say ‘you were warned’. You know I have to punish you.

He shoves off the doorjamb he’s been leaning against. “In case you’ve not been informed, as a precaution, limo and cab service will be provided for my staff and guests this evening. You’ll need to leave your car key in the front desk.”

“But how will I get my car tomorrow?”

“You can expense a cab.” His silver eyes darken to a deep gray. “It’s a small price to pay for safety. I take care of those under my protection, Ms. McMillan.”

He leaves without another word.

***

Forty-five minutes later I am on the main floor of the gallery worrying over the exact alignment of napkins and forks on one of several tables set up in front of a large oval window overlooking the courtyard. The lighting above my head is dim, the music non-existent until the doors open, when a violinist will perform.

Nearby, Mary, the main salesperson for the gallery, and the one person who hasn’t been overly friendly to me from the staff, as well as several of the interns, are chatting amongst themselves. They don’t appear nervous, or to possess the same desire as I do to stay busy. My nerves are jangling louder than one of the San Francisco trolley bells. Even without the pressure of being a wine expert, at least tonight, I’ve read between the lines with Mark. I’m living one big test I can’t afford to fail. I glance at the girls again, all in sparkly cocktail numbers that make my basic black skirt and light blue silk blouse look out of place.

“You look like you’re about to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Ralph appears by my side and I finish placing a final fork, and turn to find his black bow tie from earlier in the day has been replaced with a red one.

“Compliments always help soothe my nerves,” I say sardonically, but then I love the man’s wit and honesty. “I thought you stayed behind your desk?”

“If the bossman wants to fill me with expensive drink and pay for my ride home, who am I to argue? You’ll learn to love these events. A little alcohol and people open their wallets and it puts the ’Beast’ in a good mood.” He studies me intently. “Now. Talk to me. What’s got you so worked up?”

I straighten his bow tie purposely. “It appears I didn’t get the memo on the spiffy evening dress code.”

His gaze flicks several feet away to where Mary is in animated conversation with Mark, before returning his attention to me. “She’s in charge of preparing the staff since Rebecca disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” I ask, alarmed.

“Mary thought Rebecca leaving was her chance to grab the bossman’s attention and it’s been a big fail for her.” He shrugs. “She’s bitter and doesn’t want competition.” He points at me. “That’s you, honey.”

“Are you saying she has a crush on Mark or she wants the top spot at the gallery?”

“She has a crush on him, his money, and the job. Mark barely gives her the time of day while Rebecca was a star who helped him with Riptide.”

Disappointment tightens my chest. No matter how I frame my duties, I am simply a fill-in for the summer. “Why Rebecca and not Mary for Riptide?” Why me and not Mary? “I get the impression Mary does well on the sales floor.”

“Sales people are a dime-a-dozen, easily replaced by a herd of interns dying to be in this business, and willing to work for pennies. Mary fits that bill in Mark’s eyes.” He presses a finger to his chin and considers me. “You though, are different. Mark sees something in you.” His lips twist. “Mary knows it, too. I do believe she’s ready to stomp on you like a cigarette.”

My eyes go wide. “Stomp on me like a cigarette?” I ask, concerned for myself, but more so for Rebecca.

He rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re melodramatic today?”

“No,” I say, but then I’ve never been living someone else’s life. “Has anyone ever told you you’re melodramatic?”

He winks. “All the time and to put your mind at ease. The harshest thing Mary has in her is messing with your understanding of the evening’s dress code. At heart, she’s nothing more than a submissive little pet.”

“And what am I?” I ask, thinking a pet seems right up Mark’s alley. A submissive pet, at that.

“A daring, gorgeous butterfly,” he comments, fluttering his fingers in the air.

“I’m no butterfly,” I say, laughing at his silly imitation. “And since when are butterflies daring?”

A waiter walks by with a tray of wine on a direct path to a line of servers who are waiting by the door in preparation for opening, and Ralph grabs two glasses from him. “Since you,” he replies and thrusts a drink into my hand. “Gulp that down. You’re wound too tight tonight. You need to ease up.”

My skin prickles with awareness and my gaze shoots to Mark, and I am instantly far more deer-in-headlights than daring butterfly. He eyes the glass I’m holding with an arched brow, before his mouth quirks at the corners, and he nods his approval. His approval. I have pleased him. I will not be punished. I am appalled this is the direction my thoughts have gone, and at the certainty I feel that he knows my reaction, and enjoys this control over me.

Ralph whistles low. “You have that man by the balls like very few do, honey.”

I blanch. “That’s crazy. I do not have him by his…no. I-“

“Doors are opening!” Amanda calls out to the room from the hostess desk. I down my wine and shove my empty glass at Ralph.

An hour later, I am standing with a sixty-something gentlemen whose resume includes being the ex-CEO of a rather large bank, chatting with him about the Ricardo Alvarez show, which he’d also attended. The room is swimming with at least fifty people, among them waiters who are wading through the pool of fancy dresses, expensive suits, and big pocketbooks, with selections of wine. I’ve sold two pricy paintings, neither of which were Chris’s, most likely because I’m avoiding his display for reasons I’m trying not to think about.

I’m also buzzing from several wine samples I’ve consumed, which has made me form a new respect for Mark’s insistence everyone leave their keys in the desk up front.

“So dear,” Mr. Rider, the ex-CEO continues, “I’m interested in an Alvarez painting, but I’m not certain I see the exact piece I want here on the showroom floor. Is there a way to arrange a private viewing of his more precious pieces?”

“I most certainly will see what I can arrange,” I assure him, thought I have no clue what I can, or cannot, do. “I’m sure you know the gallery’s resources are many.”

“And you, Ms. McMillan, certainly are their newest asset.” He retrieves a business card from his pocket. “Call me Monday, my dear.”

I beam at his departing form, and with the prospect of viewing Alvarez’s private collection, along with him.

“I take it your smile means that went well?”