A Promise of Passion Page 3

  “You think not? You want to behave like a jealous, spoiled, brat, then you will be treated as one.”

  Dropping beside her on the couch, Dominic grabbed her by the back of the neck, jerked her across his lap, pulled up her dress, and began swatting her upturned bottom.

  “You stop this, you hear me, stop this now,” she wailed.

  “No, you deserve a spanking. You’ve been provoking me and causing all kinds of difficulties between us, and it must stop. Do you understand?”

  “You’re a brute!”

  “Wrong answer,” he growled, and yanking down her knickers, he began slapping her naked bottom with fast, hard smacks. “You tell me when you’ve decided you’re going to behave,” he barked, continuing to rain his palm upon her wriggling behind.

  “Okay,” she finally howled. “I’m sorry, I’ll behave, I’ll be good.”

  He paused, rubbing her scorched skin, and lifting his gaze he stared across at the Ambassador. Lukas was standing alongside his desk, mesmerized by what he was watching.

  “You know I’m only spanking you because I love you,” Dominic said tenderly. “I won’t let you carry on as you have. You needed this, didn’t you? Tell me the truth.”

  “Uh-huh,” she whimpered.

  “Let’s make that, yes, Sir,” he decreed, his hand roaming over her burnt skin.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s better, now crawl off my lap and kneel up on the couch.”

  As she clambered off him, he positioned her as he wished, making sure her knees were apart, her elbows were resting on the back of the sofa, and her back was arched, leaving her bottom provocatively posed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been punished,” she bleated.

  “Good, that’s exactly how you should feel, and if you pull any more of your nonsense I will punish you again.”

  “Ooh, Sir.”

  “Now, about your pussy,” he continued, ignoring her whining protest. “You’ve been denying me my husbandly rights. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “I was beginning to think you no longer desired me, but clearly you do, I can see how wet you are,” he remarked, running his fingers across her glossy slit. “You want me right now, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir,” she groaned, wriggling against his hand.

  Slipping his fingers into her hot, wet depths, he began to finger her, simultaneous rubbing his thumb across her clit. She moaned and squirmed, chasing her moment, but as her gasps accelerated, and her moaning grew louder, he withdrew his hand.

  “Sir,” she begged, “please don’t stop.”

  “I shall take you to bed now, and tease you for a while. When I think you’ve learned your lesson, when you’re truly repentant, maybe, and I do mean, maybe, I will let you have your orgasm.”

  “Please let me come, I need to,” she begged, wriggling her reddened bottom at him.

  “You heard what I said. Now thank me for taking control of this dreadful situation and making it right.”

  “Thank you, Sir, for correcting me, and making me see things right,” she whimpered.

  “Stay there,” he ordered, then leaning down, he whispered in her ear, “and when I get you home you will be greatly rewarded for this.”

  Dominic looked across at the Ambassador. The man had moved closer to them, and was perched on the edge of the desk; his brow was furrowed, but he was smiling, and the light from the flickering fire caught a telltale glint in his eyes.

  In that memorable moment, Dominic had seen the portrait he would paint.

  As he had promised, back at her flat, Dominic had brought Peggy to a mind-numbing climax, then held her in his arms until he felt it was time to leave.

  “Are you sure we have no future?” she’d asked wistfully.

  “Peggy, you know I care for you very much, but…”

  “You’re not in, what was it you said?”

  “Crazy in love,” he replied softly. “For one to marry, one must be crazy in love, and you are not crazy in love with me either,” he murmured. “You may be crazy in love with what I do, but not with me.”

  “You’re right,” she smiled, “but the craving I have for this, for what we do…”

  “I know, and one day you will have both. The man and his methods, crazy in love with them both.”

  While Dominic had been rewarding Peggy, Lukas had paced in his study, running the scene repeatedly in his mind, completely captivated by what he’d witnessed. He was determined his wife would come home to a man with renewed vigor, and a strong will to make things right between them.

  With some additional advice from Dominic, including some links to a few internet sites, Lukas had acted decisively the moment his wife had returned, and Kirsten had responded exactly as Dominic had predicted.

  Over the months that followed, Dominic spent many hours at the Embassy, and as he brought the Ambassador’s portrait to life, he continued to coach him, resulting in a close, trusting friendship.

  The guests in the reception room staring at the Ambassador’s portrait, could never have guessed the truth behind the enigmatic look that Dominic had captured, but Vivien had not been able to take her eyes off the intriguing artist, and when Dominic and Lukas shared a knowing wink, she was the only one in the room who caught it.

  What was that about, Mr. Dubois? What is it I see lurking behind those amazing eyes of yours?

  A guest standing behind them tapped Robson on the shoulder.

  “What an extraordinary expression on the Ambassador’s face,” he remarked.

  “Isn’t it?” Robson agreed, turning as he spoke.

  At that precise moment Dominic lifted his eyes, and moving across the room they fell upon hers. She felt the warmth move across her face, and when he broke into a half-smile and winked, she felt something she’d only ever read about; a bevy of butterflies spring to life in her stomach.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The morning Vivien McKay was born, though her mother didn’t know the infant she was holding would one day rise to great heights, she thought her the most gorgeous baby she’d ever seen, and named her after the famous star of Gone With The Wind, Vivien Leigh.

  The lovely baby girl grew up to have eyes grayish-blue, gently sloped with a catlike accent, her hair appeared to have been kissed by the sun, and her skin was flawless. She’d been blessed with not just a memorable face, but a tall, willowy elegance, and in her junior year of high school, she had been approached on the street by a local talent agent.

  Catalogue work for the town’s only department store soon followed, and it was discovered that the camera loved her. The talent agent contacted a friend who worked for International Models, Inc, a topflight New York agency. Ben Marshall, the powerhouse behind the agency, took one look at her picture and saw Vivien’s potential. She was flown to the Big Apple where she was groomed and trained, and by age twenty, she was traversing the globe earning a six-figure income.

  Vivien loved the glitz and glamor, the cameras, the lights and the traveling, but even as her career had soared, she had never imagined she would be courted by anyone as important or as wealthy as Viscount Robson Parker-Jones.

  When Robson had first seen Vivien McKay, he’d been sitting in the lounge of a private airfield about to fly to Madrid. Though her hair was in a pony tail, and very little makeup graced her face, her exotic beauty took his breath away. He learned who she was from the manager of the lounge, and determined to find out as much as he could about the stunning model, he hired a private investigator.

  A comprehensive dossier revealed Vivien had a squeaky clean reputation, was rarely seen at nightclubs, and by all accounts led an exemplary life. Robson had the investigator keep tabs on her until she was in London, then put in a call to her agent, Ben Marshall.

  “Mr. Marshall, this is Viscount Parker-Jones. I would very much like to contact one of your models, Vivien McKay. I can assure you I have only the most honorable of
intentions, and would be happy to fly her to London from wherever she may be, to join me for dinner at The Savoy.”

  Over his thirty-plus years managing models, Ben had received many such calls, but none delivered with such aplomb, and none from such a distinguished gentleman.

  “As fortunes would have it,” Ben replied, gathering his wits, “Vivien is in London at the moment working on a new campaign for Revlon. If you give me your contact information, I’ll see what I can do.”

  It was a few nights later that Robson met Vivien at the critically acclaimed restaurant, agreeing to her request that she provide her own way there. Having experienced several dates with boring celebrities she had learned not to rely on their transportation.

  He was purposely early, and when he saw her walk through the doors, wearing an elegant, emerald green cocktail dress, her stunning features highlighted with just the right amount of makeup, and her hair swept from her face, accentuating the upward lift of her almond-shaped eyes, he thought her absolutely exquisite.

  As he had walked her through the famous, sophisticated dining room, heads had turned, and as they’d shared the meal and chatted, he believed she would make an excellent wife, and her natural warmth told him she would be a loving, caring mother.

  While it was expected that his spouse would be a woman with blue-blood running through her veins, Robson had two, very important criteria; she had to be a stunning beauty, and possess an inherent need to be controlled. He had dated the women in his immediate sphere, but had found them to be spoiled, entitled and opinionated. Being a commoner, Vivien was overwhelmed by his lifestyle and his heritage, and after a short time, she was surrendering to his wishes without debate or complaint.

  Robson’s noble lineage was a mystery to her. The Earls, Dukes, Lords and Ladies that were his cousins, aunts and uncles, were a bizarre jigsaw puzzle of personalities that had made her head spin when he’d attempted to explain it all. Great portraits of his many illustrious ancestors hung on the walls of his home, and as he’d walked her past the many magnificent paintings, relating who they were and how they were connected to him, he’d seen her confusion. Squeezing her hand he’d kissed her cheek and smiled at her.

  “It doesn’t matter, my beauty. It will become clear over time.”

  Robson had been relentless in his pursuit, charming her with endless evenings at the finest restaurants in Europe, weekends away at sophisticated resorts, and gifts of jewelry that made her eyes sparkle almost as much as the precious stones themselves. On the day she’d accepted his proposal, offered to her on bended knee in the luxurious lounge of his grand home, he’d taken her hand and led her up the stairs to a bedroom next to his. Opening the double doors she’d found herself in an exquisitely decorated suite, and a custom closet encompassing four separate dressing areas, offering a full wardrobe for each of the seasons.

  “Robson, what have you done? I already have so many clothes-”

  “These clothes,” he’d interrupted, “are clothes I have carefully selected over the last few weeks, just for you. These garments are quite lovely on their hangers, but you, my beauty, will make them come alive.”

  He never relented in his constant attention, but in an odd dichotomy, his kisses had been chaste, he treated her with a reverent respect, and though she had been more than willing to slip with him between the sheets, it wasn’t until the ring was on her finger that he’d led her sweetly into his bed chamber.

  Gently he had removed her clothes, kissed her softly, and laying her on the smooth cotton sheets, he had admired her body as he’d slowly undressed.

  “You are a gorgeous creature,” he’d crooned, finally stretching out next to her.

  Dropping his lips on her neck, he had kissed and nipped, then rolling her on to her side, he had slid into her from behind, instructing her to masturbate as he stroked. Dutifully she had laid her fingers upon her sex and toyed with her clit, rubbing urgently until she was gasping with her pending release. He had pumped as she had cried out her joy, and moments later he’d climaxed with a single, deep groan.

  “Aren’t you lovely?” he’d whispered, holding her in his arms.

  It certainly hadn’t been fireworks and thunderbolts, but she hadn’t been surprised by his lack of fervent passion. His lovemaking had fit the tender manner with which he’d wooed her, and as the weeks went by she came to enjoy their soft, gentle coupling.

  The separate bedrooms, however, she did not find quite so palatable. Though based in Manhattan, she had leased a flat in Chelsea not far from his home, and Robson had suggested she retain it until their wedding was behind them.

  “Appearances,” he’d said simply, and given his noble standing she’d accepted his decision, but his explanation for the separate bedrooms she had a difficult time understanding.

  “It’s just how the aristocracy does things,” he’d insisted. “I will spend many hours in your bed, and you in mine, but traditions are important.”

  “Why can’t we just have them for appearances sake?” she’d argued. “Who would even know if I’ve slept in my bed?”

  “My goodness, the staff!” he’d exclaimed, apparently shocked at the question.

  “Who cares what the staff thinks?” she’d pressed, wide-eyed at the notion.

  “Please just accept it’s how things are done,” he’d insisted. “That’s an end to it, Vivien, and if you wish to live in my world there are certain conventions which must be maintained.”

  Resigning herself to the decree, she soon learned how he ‘maintained the convention.‘

  She would wait in bed, he would knock gently on her door, and after they’d had their gentle tumble between the sheets, he would hold her until he thought she’d drifted off, then quietly depart. She found it odd, so researched the practice on the internet, and though she did find it was a centuries-old custom, she made a promise to herself that once they were husband and wife she would work to change it.

  They had fallen into an easy, comfortable routine. Several nights a week she would be collected from her flat, and they would attend a function, or he would take her to dinner. Returning to the mansion they would separate into their respective bedrooms, and some nights he would knock on her door, other nights he did not.

  She became accustomed to his ways, and convinced herself that being the wife of Viscount Parker-Jones would be a fulfilling and marvelous life. She was looking forward to settling into her wifely duties, becoming a mother in the not-too-distant future, and she told herself that she’d been fortunate to find not just a Viscount, but a kind, gentle man.

  Driving home from the Embassy, however, as the car moved through the London streets made shiny from the rain, she felt an odd stirring in her soul; Dominic’s intense brown eyes, and thick, sexy voice were haunting her. As she and Robson walked into the house and through the expansive foyer, she took hold of Robson’s arm, leaning her head on his shoulder.

  “Robson,” she whispered, as they headed up the stairs.

  “Yes, what it is?”

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Anything,” he smiled.

  “Please will you stay with me tonight? I need you.”

  “I’ll stay longer than usual.”

  “Until dawn?”

  “We’ll see,” he sighed.

  “I need you to. I don’t know why, but I need you to,” she repeated as he stopped at her door.

  “I’ll be back momentarily,” he breathed, kissing her forehead.

  As she watched him amble to his room, she felt a prickling at the back of her neck; it was subtle, but it was there. Something had changed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dominic Dubois stepped from the shower, and donning the thick, terry cotton robe, he walked through the bedroom, pulled back the drapes, and stared out his window. He’d been a guest at the Ambassador’s home for several days, and gazing at the rain illuminated by the street lamps, he leaned his forehead against the cold glass.

  These are the tears of your f
uture, Vivien McKay. Marry that man and you will cry copious tears, tears like these that fall from the heavens. There will be buckets of tears dropping from your infinite gray eyes.

  Shaking his head and allowing the curtain to fall, he moved around the room, and unable to relax he pulled his sketch pad from his packed suitcase. Settling into a chair, his pencil moved across the thick, textured paper, and he watched Vivien’s face take form.

  Though one of the most sought-after artists in Europe, Dominic was not a wealthy man, turning down more commissions than he accepted. He certainly wasn’t struggling, but his riches were kept in check by his discriminating nature. The more work he declined, the more in demand he became, and the more he could charge, which compensated somewhat for his picky proclivity. As a consequence his notoriety had grown, and so had the standing of those who requested his services.

  His clients included the Royal houses of Europe, the celebrated of Hollywood, and Leaders of State. He would spend time learning about each of them before accepting a commission, and anyone involved in unkind or cruel acts would receive a gracious but firm refusal.

  He insisted on hours of conversation before the work could begin, and during such times he learned much about the lives of not just his subjects, but those in his subject’s immediate, and not so immediate circle. Discretion was his middle name, and he never betrayed a confidence, but as the years had flowed, his knowledge about Europe’s elite became far greater than he would ever have liked; his need to know had exceeded his appetite.

  What he knew about Viscount Robson Parker-Jones was decidedly disturbing.

  It was not the Viscount’s invitation that had compelled Dominic to accept the initial meeting, it was the prospect of painting Vivien McKay. For years he had admired her serene persona on billboards, magazine covers, and in television commercials. From all accounts she was a humble, sweet, caring young woman, and he’d heard not a bad word about her. How she’d ended up engaged to Viscount Parker-Jones bewildered him, and when he received word that the Viscount wanted him to paint Vivien’s portrait, his heart had beat a little faster.