Marie Adeline - Secret Shared

They looked at each other as though they had been discussing this exact thing.

“The problem is that you would now need his signature too,” said the auctioneer. “He officially owns that painting.”

“And he was a very keen buyer,” Isabella added, in clipped but perfect English. “I did not realize he was unregistered; otherwise I would not have participated on behalf of Señor Castille.”

“Señor who?”

“Castille,” she said. “Pierre Castille. I assume he is well known in your city since his family owns half of it.”

“A small part of this one too,” chuckled the auctioneer.

Pierre Castille? Of course I knew the name. But I hadn’t recognized his face out of context. There weren’t many photos of him; he was private for someone so wealthy, but if you lived in New Orleans, that name was tantamount to royalty.

Why the hell would Pierre Castille, Pierre the Heir, the Bayou Billionaire, infiltrate a private auction, drop fifteen million dollars on a painting, then try to seduce me on a settee in a theater in Buenos Aires? What had I gotten myself into?

I felt the blood rise to my face. Cassie and Matilda were going to hear about this. Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps stopping at Step Five was appropriate. I asked for directions to the cab stand and made my defeated way outside. I’d conquered enough fears, I thought, glancing down at my bracelet. Even half complete it looked quite pretty as it caught the glare off passing cars in the nighttime.

As I sat in the cab back to the hotel, my heart was still pounding, my skin feeling seared where Pierre Castille had touched me.

THE LAST TIME I was invited to the Mansion I was naked beneath a full-length coat and led upstairs blindfolded, where a sensuous feast (and lover) awaited me. This time was a little different. It was Matilda waiting for me, looking somber on the porch in the middle of a hot August Saturday. I already knew what preoccupied her. After I had gotten off the phone with an angry Dauphine the night before, I’d had a hard time sleeping, so I called Matilda and told her about the auction, and Pierre’s stunt.

“I cannot believe Pierre,” I said, greeting Matilda on the porch. “Dauphine’s shaken.”

“I don’t blame her. In the almost forty years that we’ve been doing this, we’ve had trouble with only one man: Pierre. I should have trusted my instincts when he first joined, but we were all dazzled by his charms.”

“Well, there’s one consolation in all of this: his fifteen million will keep S.E.C.R.E.T. running for a long time,” I said.

“If we keep it.”

I had never questioned whether we’d keep the money. But the way Matilda was talking, giving it back suddenly seemed a possibility.

“Anyway,” she continued, “whether we keep the money is a decision for the whole Committee, not just me. I’m heading to Dauphine’s house now.”

“Should I come? Can we postpone this … session?”

“No. This is a job for the head of the Committee and time is of the essence. I may be able to convince Dauphine to stay in S.E.C.R.E.T., but if not, I hope I can at least convince her to accept our apologies. Meanwhile, you, my dear, have an exciting task at hand that also needs to be completed. Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Has Jesse contacted you?”

“I’m seeing him tonight.” I couldn’t help but beam a little.

Matilda didn’t echo my enthusiasm; instead, her tone shifted back to one of concern.

“After all that’s happened, and how wrong I was about Pierre, I do hope I’m not wrong about Jesse too.”

“I don’t think you are,” I said, wondering why she continued to plant these doubts about him.

I followed her into the Mansion, up the stairs, then down a long, cool corridor, where she stopped in front of a narrow door. She unlocked it. Inside the small room was a single grey club chair facing a wall of glass. Matilda pulled the chair out for me. The room on the other side of the glass was dimly lit but spectacular, with two floor-to-ceiling windows to my right, draped in thick burgundy curtains, cupids carved into the wooden valences. Ancient oil paintings of beautiful women in shoulder-baring gowns hung along the ivory-colored walls. The bed itself was a piece of art, each poster carved to look like a willow trunk, fronds decorating the oak fascia. In the center of the room sat a tufted chair, armless, with gilt legs, the seat and back embroidered with burgundy roses.

I felt more nervous than I had during one of my own fantasies.

“This is the Emperor’s Room,” Matilda said.

“So this is where the training happens?”

“Some of it, yes. You ready?”

I nodded, took a deep breath and gave her my most confident smile. I was about to watch Mark Drury’s first training session with Angela Rejean. He’d passed all the tests, submitted to two prior sessions and aced his interviews. Now, before engaging in a fantasy with Dauphine, he had to pass final muster with Angela.

“It can be emotional to watch former lovers, Cassie. It takes fortitude.”

“I’m fine,” I said, as much for myself as for her. “He’s for S.E.C.R.E.T., for Dauphine. Not for me.”

“Good.”

“Does he know I’m watching?”

“No. He knows someone from S.E.C.R.E.T. is watching, but we never say who. He was quite excited.”

“Does Angela know she’s being watched?”

She gave me a wry smile.

“Cassie, honey, this is her thing. All right then. Enjoy yourself. But study carefully too. We have to evaluate him—look for ways he can improve, to enliven a woman’s fantasy experience. He has to find pleasure in pleasing. And he needs to learn how to make a woman feel completely desired, which is, without a doubt, the greatest aphrodisiac. I’ll funnel any advice to him. Patience keeps coming up as an issue for him. Good luck,” she said with a smile, adding, “you’ve come a long way, Cassie. Call me later. I’ll let you know how it goes with Dauphine.”

“Thank you. Truly. For everything,” I said. “And I hope Dauphine stays. There’s still just so much.”

“I’ll tell her just that.”

She shut off the light and left, closing the door behind her. I was alone in my little dark room, unsure of what to do. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, waiting for the session to begin on the other side of the one-way glass.

A few moments later, Angela emerged from an ivory door flush with the wall in the Emperor’s Room. Her normally straightened hair was arranged in a relaxed, sassy Afro, and she was wearing a white, wraparound dress, cut low, the material thin, almost translucent, her dark nipples alert. She wore six-inch pumps that set off her brown muscled calves to perfection. She ignored the glass, which would look like a mirror on her side of the room. She walked over to the marble mantel of the fireplace and leaned on it provocatively. There was a lot you could envy about Angela, but her calm, cool demeanor was at the top of my list just then.

From a door to the left, off the same hallway I had just navigated with Matilda, Mark slowly emerged, wearing a grin that only grew bigger when he took in his next “trainer.” He looked so cute and clean in his chambray shirt tucked into baggy cords, his hair damp. I could almost smell his green apple shampoo.

“Holy mother of mercy,” he muttered, at which point I realized I’d not only be seeing everything, but hearing everything through speakers.

“Okay, first thing: don’t smile at me so much,” Angela said to him. “You want our girl to feel you’re happy to see her, but enthuse less, smolder more.”

“Got it,” he said, literally wiping the smile off his face with a sweep of his hand.

I laughed. I mean, it was funny—he was funny. But Angela was not amused.

“Take a seat.”

Mark fell into the tufted chair like an obedient boy, which sent Angela’s fist to her hip. Oh, please don’t blow this, I thought. If you blow this, no Jesse for me.

“Yes, ma’am,” he added.

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” Angela scolded. “That is not going to turn any woman on.”

“Sorry.”

He examined the room, his eyes stopping on the mirror for a second. Angela followed his gaze. They were both looking directly at me. No! I sank in the chair, my hand to my throat, which was now closing in some kind of terror-induced anaphylactic shock. Angela snapped her fingers to bring his attention back to her. Whew. They can’t see you! They cannot see you, Cassie! I reminded myself. Exhale.

She strutted up to him, stood close enough to almost touch his knees with hers.

“Remember, we only pair you with women who want what you want, who crave what you crave, who want to do what you want to do, or who want to try what you want to try.”

He put one hand to the muscles in his neck to give himself a stretchy massage. Wow, he was nervous too.

“So, Mark … how shall we play today?”

How shall we play today? That was sexy. I tucked that phrase away. He looked down at her white pumps, regarding them thoughtfully. I followed his eyes as they made their slow way up her long legs.

“I’ll play however you want to play.”

That’s my boy! I wanted to yell. You can do this, Mark. Angela moved her hand across the front of her dress.

“Why don’t you take your clothes off, Mark?”

“I can get into that.”

He stood, a full six inches shorter than her, to strip.

“You’re a goddess,” he said, kicking his shoes off, looking up into her face looming over him, her breasts level with his eyes. “I don’t care if I’m not supposed to say that. It’s what you are.”

She cupped his chin, but instead of kissing him, she let go and turned to make her way to an ornately carved writing desk. She opened a drawer and took out of it something that looked like a tangle of rope. The only way to describe how she moved was feline. She was a woman who loved being in her body and she was used to being watched. He couldn’t tear his eyes off her. Nor could I. She stood behind the desk now, watching as he ripped off his clothes, pants first.

“Mark, Mark, Mark. You’re stripping like a frat boy. Put your clothes back on and start again, honey.”

He did as he was told. Once dressed, he started again, this time removing his belt more slowly.

“Now you’re a Chippendales dancer? Not sexy.”

“Fuck,” Mark said, clearly pissed at himself.

“Start with your shirt. Just use one hand to undo the buttons. Try that. Look at me the whole time.”

He did, and it was much better. She held the rope in her hands.

“Now the cords,” she said, as he casually undid his belt, leaving it in the loops, and dropped his pants and boxers to the ground.

He lightly kicked them aside. He was clearly ready, but she didn’t draw attention to that fact. She pushed him back into the chair and dangledtwo ropes in front of his face.

“You should be naked too,” he said, nervous laughter escaping.

“I don’t like that word,” she said.

“Naked?”

“No. Should. It’s not popular around here.”

She moved behind him, firmly tying his wrists to the chair. Then she came around the front of him and nudged his thighs open. Keeping her eyes on him, she untied the side knot of her dress. She opened it up to him like an envelope. She had nothing on underneath.

“Let me put it another way,” he said, taking in the whole of her body. “It would be great if you were naked all the time. For the good of mankind.”

She flung her dress off her and stood in front of him, wearing nothing but her white pumps. I watched him taking her in. Then with one hand she squeezed a breast, while her other traveled all over her torso. I was spellbound, feeling her arousal as she gave herself a stir with her own middle finger.

“You’re hard, aren’t you? What are we going to do about that?”

“Holy shit!” he murmured, throwing his head back, his eyes riveted to her hands, her fingers. He wanted to touch her, to reach out to her, but he couldn’t. Even I felt his frustration, his arousal arousing me. I had never felt that before; I hadn’t seen much pornography and I was no voyeur. But this … this was intense. And hot. I sank a little lower in my club chair, slack with desire.

Both feet still in heels, she straddled his legs, leaned over and put her hands on his shoulders, her full breasts touching his chest as she bent to kiss him. She started slowly, languidly, arching her taut body, her ass high in the air. She moved her lips down his neck, stopping every once in a while to gaze into his eyes, to gauge his reaction. He was desperate.