Her gaze flicked back to Sam. He’d dressed up—for him—in black jeans, black boots, a silver-buckled belt, and a burgundy western shirt with black snap pockets and piping. With his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he looked like a man enjoying his coffee after a good meal. His muscled frame, hard face, and dangerous presence won interested looks from every woman in the place. Including her.

She wrenched her gaze away, managing to focus on Lee until she heard an odd rhythmic sound. What was that?

Idly watching a waiter clearing a nearby table, Sam was smacking the end of his linen napkin across his palm. Slap, slap, slap. It seemed an innocuous habit, as another man might tap his foot or play with his mustache; only this sounded and looked far too much like what he’d done to her in the dungeon. Or the bedroom.

Shifting, Linda licked lips that had gone dry, and the movement drew his attention. When his steady blue eyes met hers, she was suddenly, completely aroused.

A crease appeared in his cheek, and then he rose and walked out of the restaurant with the powerful saunter that was his alone.

“Linda?” Lee turned to follow her gaze. “What are you looking at?”

Chapter Eight

In the center of an empty corral, Sam helicoptered the bullwhip over his head and reversed. A crack split the air. Not bad. Never letting the whip settle, he threw again and again, working into a good rhythm.

After warming up, he moved to the target area. He’d needed something to take his mind off the redhead, and nothing required concentration like whip cracking. He had the scars to prove it.

Today he had spaghetti noodles to destroy. Poles to wrap and pull.

Eventually, as a treat to himself, he targeted cans of soda. The trick was to strike evenly enough to split the can in half. He hit the first can, and the spray fountained up. The bottom half of the can remained on the table, still filled with liquid.

“Show-off.” The voice broke into his concentration.

With an amused snort, Sam stopped. Coiling the whip, he walked to where Nolan stood with his forearms resting on the top of the fence. “What’s up?”

“Came to tell you we’re done for the day.”

Sam studied the beginnings of his new stable. The construction crew had accomplished a fair amount over the past week. “Getting there.”

“Should have been built a decade ago. That old one’s a fire trap.”

“Wasn’t needed before.” Couldn’t do it until his divorce. He could hardly subject construction workers to his wife’s hysterics or the way she’d have hit them up for drug money.

Like she’d tried to shake him down for money yesterday. His mouth twisted with the foul taste that speaking to her left behind. He needed to warn Nicole that her mother was back in Tampa. “But breeding mares expect some amenities.”

“Right.” Nolan looked around. “Place looks good.”

“Better.” After the farm was safe from Nancy’s destructive tantrums, he’d made much-needed improvements.

“Heard you did a scene with your buddy from the auction. You seeing her?”

Damn gossipy submissives. “No. She wants to be normal. Normal women don’t hang out with sadists.”

“From what Cullen said, she’s as much a masochist as you are a sadist.”

“Not if she can help it.”

Nolan gave him a glance. “But she can’t. Any more than Beth could help being submissive, and she sure as hell tried.”

Sam nodded agreement. But people weren’t logical.

At least Linda had forgiven him. And she had his phone number. Pushing her further would definitely be stalking. But, goddammit, not seeing her was like losing a wisdom tooth and constantly checking the empty socket. “Ball’s in her corner.” For now.

* * *

“I see I’ve got some practicing to do,” Linda said. Standing on the front lawn of the church in the early evening sunlight, she smiled at the gray-haired director of the choir.

“You’ll catch up quickly.” Mrs. Ritter riffled through a sheaf of sheet music. “It’s good to have you back.”

“I missed singing.” And practice had been wonderful. But now, as the choir members mingled outside the church, her anxiety was creeping back.

“I saw the paper with the picture of your house,” Mrs. Ritter said. “Has the creep been back?”

“No, thank goodness.” Not for two weeks now—since the first night Sam had spent in her house, leaving his big truck parked at the curb. Perhaps the spray painter had seen Sam and decided to pursue less perilous canvases.

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.