But his little sub would have disappeared from his life. He knew that. And when he'd taken her under his command, he'd become obligated to more than fairness. If he could accomplish nothing with her problems, then he'd step away. But she'd given him her trust and more. He snorted at the masculine satisfaction welling inside him. Her first orgasm in twelve years—or maybe even longer? She had said twelve years for sex, not for a climax.

In the master bath, the jets shut off.

As Alex buttoned his shirt, Mac walked out, flushed pink and swathed in one of the oversize terry-cloth robes he kept at the beach house. Her scent—vanilla, citrus, and woman—drifted to him, and he hooked an arm around her waist, ignoring her squeak.

“You smell edible, little sub,” he murmured. Wishing he could toss her on the bed and bury his face between her legs, he settled for shoving her robe off her shoulder and nuzzling the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Moist skin, soft. He bit down on the muscle there, and he felt a quiver run through her. When he slid his hand inside the robe, her nipples were already bunching.

With a sigh of regret, he smiled into her outraged yet already aroused gaze. “Your outfit is on the bed. Wear it all—and nothing else, pet. I'll see you downstairs.”

After savoring one last caress of the tiny peaked nipples, he released her. He'd kept his touch casual all week; her break was over. By the time he finished tonight, he intended to see those peaks swollen to twice the size, dark red, and rigid.

* * *

Dressed as ordered, Mac walked into the living room and stopped to survey the situation. Alex was building a fire in the fireplace across the room. Just behind him on the couch, Zachary, a gray-haired rancher, sat with his red-haired sub in his lap.

Over by the wall of windows, Peter, a lean blond lawyer, and his sub, Hope, watched the last remnants of pink disappear from Mount Rainier. Mac vaguely remembered meeting the two at the club. Short and round, with freckles and an infectious giggle, Hope seemed far too cute for her serious Dom.

Mac was the only sub dressed in a costume. Four years of college, vet school, interning—all those years and here she was, attired in a fancy and very revealing maid's outfit. Go figure.

Halfway across the room to the others, she stopped. Why am I doing this anyway? Frowning, she walked up to Alex. “Could I speak with you for a moment?” She added a reluctant “Sir” when his eyebrows rose.

“Excuse us,” he said to the others before walking with her out onto the deck.

Mac leaned over the railing and looked down. The beach below had an eerie gleam from the moon rising in the east, and the water glimmered as small waves rolled onto the sand.

“Did you have a question for me, little vet?” Alex set a warm hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.

“Yes. Obviously Cynthia isn't a problem for you any longer, so why am I still pretending to be your submissive?”

Silence.

The pause worried her. Darkness shadowed Alex's face, and she couldn't read his expression. “You have two parts to your question, MacKensie,” he said finally. “First, we are not yet finished with Cynthia. I can promise you that.” His voice had a grim quality that made her shiver.

His voice deepened. “Second.” He tangled his hand in her loose hair and pulled her head back, putting her fully in the light streaming from the glass door. “Are you really pretending, little one? When I do this”—he took a step forward, pressing his body against hers, immobilizing her against the railing, and holding her hair so she was forced to stare up at him—“are you insulted and annoyed? Or does something in you shiver?”

With his body against hers, he couldn't help but feel the tremor that ran through her. Still holding her hair captive, he took her lips roughly, demanding and possessive.

The heat sweeping through her body turned to fire when his hand captured her breast. Too many sensations hit her at once: his mouth possessing hers, his powerful body trapping her, his hand on her breast, the thumb scraping over her tightening nipple. By the time he pulled back, she'd been thoroughly kissed. And thoroughly aroused.

He studied her face before stepping back and letting her free. “Our bargain stands. You may go back in.” He motioned politely to the door.

Her legs unsteady, she reentered the room. Damn. Her face heated as she realized how she must look: tousled and turned on. God knew, she felt turned on, and wasn't that a strange sensation?

A rap on the front door interrupted her thoughts. Were they expecting more people? “I'll get this one, pet,” Alex said, patting her bottom on the way past.

When he opened the door, Mac backed up a step, her breath catching in her throat. Steel, the Dom who'd attacked her, stood there with a big black bag slung over his shoulder and wearing battered leathers that left his chest completely bare.

He saw her standing frozen in the center of the room. “Relax, girl. I'm not here for you.” He glanced at Alex. “Definitely a pretty sub.”

“I think so.” Alex raised his voice to the other guests. “This is Steel, who will handle the evening's punishment.”

As he and Steel moved into the living room, Mac retreated, trying to find an unobtrusive spot to hide.

“Sit here with me.” Curled in one corner of the couch by the windows, Hope patted the cushion beside her.

Mac glanced around. Over by the fireplace, Peter and Zachary shook hands with Steel, while Tess sat nearby listening.

“Thanks.” Mac dropped down on the couch beside Hope. “I-I don't know why that man is here. Alex didn't even know him until…” How could she ever explain what had happened in the club?

“Until he attacked you. Peter told me. He said all the Doms are furious about it, and that's why that guy is here.”

“I don't understand.”

Another knock on the door. Alex strode across the room to answer it.

Mac shook her head, a little dismayed. “Alex called this a really little party, just you guys and—” Her mouth dropped open when Cynthia walked in, hands cuffed in front of her. A man in a black silk suit followed. Probably a few years older than Alex, his black hair was shorter, and gray flecked his neatly trimmed mustache.

“My God, that's Drake,” Hope whispered.

The man named Drake removed the long coat draped over Cynthia's shoulders. He tossed it over the table by the front door and pointed to an empty corner. Eyes down, the tall brunette walked over and knelt, facing the wall.

He and Alex talked for a moment, and then they both crossed the room toward Mac.

When Hope slid off the couch onto her knees, Mac gave her a puzzled look but did the same. Don't look at strange Doms. Mac remembered that rule, so she kept her gaze firmly on the floor. A pair of dress shoes and black trousers stepped into her narrow focus. Alex wore boots. This must be Drake, standing over her.

He'd brought Cynthia. Why? And why did everyone—including Alex—look so grim?

“Hope, return to your master.” Drake's voice was as deep as Alex's, but with a faint European accent and as smooth as cream. Yet the smoothness was like a film of snow over a mountain range, barely covering the power.

Hope scrambled to her feet and escaped, for escape was totally what it looked like.

“Permission?” Drake said.

“Granted.” Alex's voice. Mac's hands fisted at her sides. Cynthia, Steel, and Drake, who frightened sweet Hope. What was going on?

“MacKensie.” That ever-so-suave voice gave the end of her name a slight fillip. “Eyes on me.”

She looked up. Drake held his hand out to her. After a second, she let him pull her to her feet. He stood a couple of inches taller than Alex, and with a man on each side of her, she felt far too much like a bug about to be squashed.

“My name is Drake.” His eyes were as black as his hair. She wanted to step back, but he still had her hand. She glanced at Alex helplessly.

He stepped to her side as if hearing her plea for rescue. “Shhh, little cat. Drake isn't here to upset you.” He scooped her up in his arms, pulling her away from Drake, and sat down on the couch. “So stop upsetting her, you intimidating bastard,” he said.

Rather than striking Alex dead somehow—she didn't know how, but he looked like he could—Drake gave a deep laugh and took the other end of the couch. Her sigh of relief faded when he held his hand out to her again. He waited, palm up in a silent demand, until she'd given him hers. But Alex held her now, and somehow that made everything better.

Drake's hand was warm and dry, firm, with oddly placed calluses. “MacKensie, I own Chains.” He glanced at Alex with a glimmer of a smile. “A few friends invested, but the ultimate authority is mine. You were victimized in my club. Although I can't remove the memory, I must try to make it right.”

He nodded toward Cynthia, who still knelt in the corner. “After the barmaid identified her, a friend in the police force matched her fingerprints to the ones on the note. I wanted to turn her over to the police, but…” He sighed and rubbed his chin.

MacKensie tried to pull her hand away. Obviously the rich, beautiful Cynthia had either cried or bought him off or—

“The club operates under very stringent rules of privacy,” Drake said, interrupting her unspoken tirade. “To convict her would require a trial and witnesses. You would have to take the stand.”

Mac's mouth dropped open. “Me?” She hadn't thought it through at all.

Drake tilted his head. “Alex said you're starting a career here. He doubted you'd want to be identified as having visited a BDSM club, let alone having had an altercation like this one.”