Apparently, Sam had decided to pursue less neurotic women. She hadn’t seen him since the restaurant. Ignoring the hollow ache in her chest, she said, “I think the painter got bored.”

“That’s excellent news.” Mrs. Ritter handed over selections of music, then frowned at a small group of women near the refreshments table. Their whispering abruptly stopped.

Linda stiffened. More gossip. Normal conversations were a low murmur, like background noise. But when people gossiped, their voices would lower and their glances would hit her like cold ocean spray as they checked to ensure she hadn’t noticed and couldn’t hear.

She didn’t need to hear. One look at the group told her that the two women in their thirties had ruled her a slut. The two older women weren’t judging.

I hate this. Even worse, she couldn’t stop wondering if the obscenities on her house were done by someone she knew.

“The alto section will improve with you here. They’ve needed a stronger lead.” The woman patted her shoulder. “Welcome back.”

As Mrs. Ritter moved away, Linda stared after her. People were certainly unpredictable. She’d thought younger women would be the most accepting—and in her neighborhood they had been—but here, the older women were more open-minded. A couple of them in their sixties had even said their book club’s selection last month was a popular BDSM romance. Go figure.

Really, almost everyone had welcomed her home. Yet somehow the few unfriendly gossips overshadowed the rest. She shook her head ruefully. Years ago she’d discovered Brenna and Charles might forget her compliments, but her critical comments lingered in their minds forever. Apparently, malicious remarks created the same imbalance.

Linda considered the clusters of people. Join one?

No, she’d braved enough for one day. Instead, she raised her voice. “I have to run. I’ll see you all in a couple of days.”

To a murmured chorus of farewells, she headed for her car with a sigh of relief. As she reached the street and her knotted muscles loosened, she glanced back. Normal people. Glasses and gray hair, housewives, secretaries, a lawyer, clerks, two businesswomen. Some retired, three in college. Not a monster among them, even though she often felt like Brenna’s hamster the day Charles’s puppy had cornered it.

Unable to face her too-quiet house, she drove to where the long city dock jutted out into the water. Just before dark, the pier held only an old man fishing. A pelican on a piling watched silently as Linda dropped onto a weathered bench.

The water was dark and calm. A light ocean breeze teased her hair and fluttered her clothing, blowing away the remnants of ugly gossip until she felt clean again. Her hand trembled when she tucked her hair behind her ear. As the days passed, leaving her house grew more difficult—not from fear of being kidnapped, although that hovered in the background—but from being around people. She felt as if everyone was judging her. Getting paranoid much, honey?

But worse—much more terrifying—was that she had started to feel distant, as if she’d raised walls and neglected to build doors in them. It was happening again. Her hands clenched as despair whipped around her like an unstoppable wind. It wasn’t supposed to come back. Dammit, it wasn’t supposed to ever come back.

She wanted that clear, open feeling that came from being with Sam…because he knew how to hurt her.

Whoever heard of craving a sensation rather than something like, say, chocolate or pizza? Of course, guys often complained if they didn’t—how did one put it?—get their ashes hauled regularly. Marathoners got cranky if they were injured, saying things like I need to run.

I need pain. She shuddered. No no no.

A gull swooped past, its beady black eyes assessing her for potential food. “Not this time.” Then again, in her pocket, she had a cookie from the refreshment table at practice. “Well, okay.” She tossed a chunk onto the dock.

The gull landed with a light thump and waddled to the goodie. Suddenly, three more of the noisy birds appeared.

“Good grief.” She tossed each a tidbit and scowled when the smallest gull was shoved aside. Bullies abounded, didn’t they? Her next toss went directly under the little guy.

Birds and their pecking orders. Humans did the same thing. She sighed. Boy, did they. Okay. Time to think. Logically.

Basically, she had two, somewhat intertwined, problems going on.

The first was that her recent notoriety—being a slave—affected how she fit into life in Foggy Shores. That might eventually resolve, since hopefully, as the townspeople’s memories faded, so would the gossip.

“Do I want to wait that long?”

Food finished, one by one, the gulls took to the sky, leaving only the sounds of water lapping at the pilings and the laughter of children playing on the beach. She’d been happy in this town. Her marriage had been a good one for the most part. When Frederick had died so unexpectedly in a car crash, the townspeople had been her support. Had helped her start her business. Here was where she’d raised Brenna and Charles.

She stared down at her hands. But now… The last of her close friends had moved away two years ago. Stupid mobile society. Her children had gone off to college. She had fewer ties; she could leave. Her home no longer felt like a refuge—she still saw the ugly words as if they’d never been scrubbed away. Her house would easily sell.

But my store? She loved her little beach store, loved being a businesswoman, loved supporting her fellow craftsmen. She didn’t want to move her business. Her mouth tightened. And she darn well wasn’t going to flee as if she’d done something wrong.

So the answer to problem number one? She’d wait it out.

She scrubbed the toe of her canvas shoe on the rough wood, realizing her second problem affected the first and vice versa. Gossip wouldn’t be so unnerving if she was comfortable with herself.

Face it, she wasn’t. At all. She closed her eyes and asked the question she’d been avoiding. Did needing to be hurt mean she was mentally unstable?

I don’t know. She grimaced. It’d be easier to judge if she had more experience. But she’d been a virgin when she married Frederick, and she’d had very few lovers. Before Sam, she’d only mentioned her desires to three men—Dwayne, Frederick, and Lee. They’d all behaved as if she had a problem.

Then again, they were all…conservative…men. Should she use their opinions to measure herself? Perhaps not. She gave an unhappy laugh. Why hadn’t she spent her time in that one BDSM club talking to people? Finding out what was normal, if there was such a thing.

As unhappiness welled up inside her, she blinked back tears. Why was it all so hard?

But her solution—ignoring her “problem”—wasn’t working. At all. Somehow she had to find a way to come to terms with herself. I need help. Advice. The tears spilled over. I need a hug so, so much.

And with that, she had the answer. On her cell phone, she punched in a number. “Kim? Can I talk to you about something?”

* * *

Filled with the scent of pizza, garlic, and olive oil, the small Italian restaurant was warm and cozy against the chill night. A cold front was moving in, temperatures were dropping, possibly down to freezing. Orange groves were on alert.

Linda followed Kim toward a small corner booth with only one occupant, a redhead with a vivid blue streak in her hair. She wore a blue, three-quarter-sleeved shirt to match and had blue-flowered wrist tattoos. Not a stodgy person, at least.

Kim motioned to her. “This is Gabi.”

Linda smiled politely. Apparently the woman had volunteered to work with the FBI as a decoy in the Shadowlands. Successfully, since she’d been kidnapped by the Harvest Association. A snort threatened to escape. Maybe this isn’t the right person to talk to me about insanity.

Gabi grinned. “Hi, Linda.”

That voice. Mingled with memories of sobbing women, gentle orders from nurses in scrubs, and beeping medical machines was this lovely voice. “You were at the hospital.” All the rescued slaves from the auction had been taken to one hospital for healing and counseling. Gabi had been with the counselors.

“I’m a victim specialist with the FBI and very happy to stay that way.” Gabi gave a mock shiver. “Fieldwork is totally not my thing.”

“But you did it for me, and I’ll never forget it.” Kim glanced at a single glass on the table. “Did you order?”

“You bet. Two large. One all meat, one pepperoni and black olive. There’ll be plenty to take home.”

“Good job. Raoul loves pizza. Linda, sit. I’ll get us some drinks.” She glanced at Gabi’s drink, then at Linda. “Root beer, right?”

“Right.” As Kim headed away, Linda slid into the other side of the booth, feeling less uncomfortable than she’d expected.

“I hear you have some questions and want to talk a bit.”

Where to start? “Kim said you live with a Dom? You’re submissive?”

“That’s right. Marcus is one of the Masters of the Shadowlands. He used to handle the trainees there, which is how we met.”

At the easy agreement, Linda released the breath she’d been holding. Obviously, she wouldn’t shock this woman. Maybe. “I’m submissive too.” She forced out the next words. “And a masochist.” As she stared at the wavering wood of the booth, the buzzing in her ears blotted out the hum of conversation. She felt her hand being taken.

“Breathe, sweetie, before you pass out.”