The Bondage Club Read online

  Following her down the aisle he took another sip of his coffee, suddenly feeling invigorated by the thrill of the hunt. This was much more fun than the blonde from the previous evening, who had laughed at all of his stupid jokes and practically jumped into his arms when he suggested they go back to her room. When he turned the corner at the end of the aisle where a large medical book publisher had set up shop, he spied the purple and gold banner of MandiRay Books. But what really took Hunter by surprise was the number of people gathered before the purple archways made out of fabric and wire that designated the entrance to the MandiRay Books exhibit.

  A winding line of at least a hundred people, made up of women of all ages, was eagerly waiting before a table set up beneath a canopy of sheer purple fabric coming together to form a crown. Behind the table, and partially blocked by a pile of books, was the top of Smut Slut’s blonde head, or at least he hoped it was her. Slowly approaching the table, Hunter was able to make out the woman’s round face, darkly tinted glasses, and deep red lips.

  “Our writers never pull in these numbers at the Expo,” he mumbled as he took in the long line.

  Deciding that perhaps this would be a good opportunity to do a little research, Hunter went to the end of the line of autograph seekers. He warmly greeted a few women waiting in front of him. They were mostly middle-aged, a little on the plump side, and had large canvas tote bags slung over each shoulder, crammed full of paperback books. Trim, toned, and six-foot-one, Hunter knew he cut an imposing figure, and wasn’t too surprised when one or two of the women directed smiles his way. Taking full advantage of his angular features, deep green eyes, and alluring dimples, he inched closer to the women before him.

  “Do you ladies read a lot from this author?” He nodded to an easel with a poster just ahead of them touting Smut Slut’s appearance.

  Light tittering broke out as the women’s eyes darted to and fro.

  “She’s a rather guilty pleasure,” a redhead next to Hunter confessed. “A friend turned me on to her. Now I can’t get enough.”

  “What do you like about her books?” he persisted, easing in closer to the group.

  “Everything,” the redhead offered. “They’re really good. You kind of get lost in them.”

  “Are there any particular publishers you follow, or is it just the authors?” he went on.

  A round brunette wearing a casual blue cotton dress at the front of the group spoke up. “I like the authors, but I have some friends who follow certain publishing houses that put out a lot of erotica, or romances with erotica in them.”

  “And what is it about these books you ladies find so appealing?”

  The nervous twittering rose to enthusiastic laughter as the women looked from one to the other.

  “The sex of course. Why else would we read it?” the redhead professed. “I mean, honestly, if a book doesn’t have sex in it, what’s the point?”

  “What about the story?” Hunter continued.

  The smallest of the women pulled at the canvas tote bag on her shoulder. “Sure, the story is important. If it’s a badly written book, no amount of sex is gonna help, but when it’s a good story with smokin’ love scenes…yeah, then that’s somethin’ I want to read again and again.”

  As the line moved along, Hunter sipped on his coffee and pumped the women for more information. By the time he had come within ten feet of Smut Slut’s table, he knew the first names of all three women and that they worked at different jobs in the publishing industry.

  Observing as each of the women bellied up to the table and interacted with the leather-clad blonde helped to harden Hunter’s resolve. For years he had wanted to rev up the sex factor in the books published by his company, yet was afraid of introducing too much change and upsetting his father. But with profits beginning to slip and the market getting saturated with self-published books, Hunter reasoned he needed to implement those needed changes sooner than later. The only question was how?

  “So, you came,” Smut Slut declared when he stood before her table. “I’m impressed.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her red lips.

  Hunter set his coffee cup on her table. “I have to admit this has been quite an education, talking to your fans. I believe Donovan Books is missing out on a vital part of the market.”

  “Missing out on a hell of a lot of profit, too.”

  Hunter nodded. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

  Smut Slut pulled a book from the stack next to her. “You should read this.” She slid the book across the table to him. “The best way to learn about a genre is to read the books.”

  Hunter inspected the cover. A woman wearing a red slinky dress was handcuffed to a brass bedpost as the shadow of a man stood before her. On her face was a come-hither smile.

  “The Ties That Bind,” he said, reading the title. “And after I read it, will you be available for questions?”

  “No.” Smut Slut took the book from his hand and opened the cover. “But if you really want an education on erotica, this person can help. Her name is Cary Anderson and she’s one of the best editors I know. All the top erotica authors work with her.” She scribbled something inside the cover. “She also happens to be looking for a job at a publishing house.” She held up the book to him. “Interested?”

  Sporting a dubious frown, Hunter plucked the book from her hand. “If she is as good as you say, then why hasn’t another house like this one,” he waved to the MandiRay Books banner, “snatched her up?”

  Smut Slut shrugged her shoulders. “They tried. But I think Cary isn’t interested in becoming another in a long line of editors at a house that sees her more as a warm body and less like a vital contributor.”

  Hunter lifted the cover of the book and saw Cary Anderson’s name and telephone number written inside. “But how can you be so sure your friend won’t end up being just another ‘warm body’ at my company?”

  Smut Slut’s insidious grin stirred Hunter’s desire. “Because you don’t publish erotica, Mr. Donovan, and Cary would be able to open up a whole new world for you, instead of just blending in with your other editors. Plus, she lives in Atlanta and isn’t interested in relocating. I think you’re just what she needs.”

  Hunter shifted his weight and tilted closer to her table. “And what about you? What do you need, Ms. Slut?”

  She shook her head and sat back in her chair, eyeing his figure. “I bet you’re the kind of man who doesn’t like it when women get clingy. One night, maybe two and you’re done. Relationships are difficult, sometimes even painful for you, probably because you have had such a lousy time with them. Sex is a thrill, conversation is a bore, and you’re getting to a point in your life where women are getting as predictable as the evening news.” She rested her arms on her table, pushing up the cleavage peeking out from her low cut leather dress. “Am I right?”

  Hunter collected his coffee from the table and cleared his throat. “Maybe I’m a really likable guy…merely misunderstood.”

  A light tinkling laugh escaped from her red lips, making Hunter’s insides burn. “Grizzly bears that attack hikers are misunderstood, Mr. Donovan; men not so much. Let’s just say men are sort of an occupational hazard for me. Just because I write what I do, dress to sell it, and speak my mind doesn’t make me interested in a quick roll in the sack with you.”

  Hunter bowed his head. “I stand corrected.”

  She pointed to the book. “Call Cary. I think she’ll be able to do a hell of a lot more for you than I can.”

  He tucked the book under his arm. “We will never know unless we try, Ms. Slut.”

  She waved to the next person in the line behind him. “I already know, Mr. Donovan.” She gave him one last flirty smile. “Enjoy the book.”

  Hunter walked away from her table still grinning like a schoolboy. Why was it the interesting women, filled with the promise of something better, were always unattainable?

  “Probably a lesbian,” Hunter muttered, displeased that his charm h
ad not melted her defenses.

  The buzzing of the cell phone in his jacket pocket pulled his thoughts away from his encounter with Smut Slut. Juggling his cup of coffee and the book under his arm, he retrieved the iPhone. When he spied the text message from his brother, informing him that he was already late for their meeting with an independent bookstore owner, Hunter cursed.

  He scowled as he put the phone back in his jacket pocket. “I should have listened to Mom and become a doctor.”

  Heading toward the front of the convention hall, Hunter took a few more fortifying sips of coffee and pulled out the book from under his arm. Finding a trash can, he dumped the almost empty paper cup and began flipping through the pages of Smut Slut’s novel. As he walked along, he became entranced by the words on the page. Stopping in the middle of an aisle, he read for several minutes as people dodged around him. When his cell phone went off yet again, Hunter didn’t even bother to check who was contacting him. He already knew.

  “I don’t get paid enough to put up with your shit, Chris,” he softly vented as his long legs carried him along the busy aisle of the convention center and on to his next appointment.

  Chapter 2

  Hunter gazed out his third-story, arched window atop the offices of Donovan Books and yearned to escape to the small park across the street from his Georgian revival, red-bricked townhouse. The quaint park—whose name had always eluded Hunter—provided a needed sanctuary for the other businesses operating along his quiet street in the historic Fairlie-Poplar district of downtown Atlanta. As the cascading morning sun filtered down, Hunter yearned to spend a few moments luxuriating on the park’s green grass before the weight of his duties at Donovan Books took precedence. Thoroughly disheartened by thoughts of another day reading other people’s novels, Hunter turned from the window and sighed as his eyes gleaned the pile of manuscripts, invoices, legal contracts, and yellow message slips of paper that covered his oak desk. This wasn’t what he had envisioned for himself after hitting forty. He had hoped to be firmly entrenched in his writing career, and spending his time polishing his manuscripts instead of hawking everyone else’s.

  Along the worn bamboo paneling on the walls were selected framed covers of the more successful books that had been published under his ten year tenure as head of Donovan Books. The assorted titles were mostly romances; a few belonged to their former author, Monique Delome, but others were revered literary fiction novels that had won awards and gained Donovan Books a fair amount of prestige. In the far corner, stacked in a bookcase, was his father’s collection of Alexander the Great statues that could not be thrown away on pain of death. Scattered about the two office chairs in front of his desk were more manuscripts waiting for his approval. The dingy yellow linoleum floor was worn, and desperately needed to be replaced. He had often vowed to renovate the office space, hoping to get inspired by a new look, but work had somehow managed to postpone the best of his intentions.

  To the side of the desk, he glimpsed the book Smut Slut had given him in Los Angeles. He had read the book on and off in between meetings with his brother and other clients throughout that day. By the time he had finished the sexually compelling and well-written novel, Hunter was convinced that he had to bring Donovan Books into the twenty-first century, even without his father’s approval. He had plotted ever since leaving Los Angeles to begin taking erotica manuscripts for possible publication, but he still did not know enough about the genre. Donovan Books needed someone well-versed in the virtual minefield of erotica fiction. That was when he decided to contact Cary Anderson.

  Soon after arriving home from Los Angeles, he had called the editor, left a voice mail about the possibility of her working for Donovan Books, and asked her to get in touch. That had been three days ago, and the woman had never returned his call. Hunter was beginning to feel as if his plan to expand Donovan Books would die before it even got off the ground. He needed to find someone who could help him launch an erotica line without alerting his father and competing book publishers to his plans.

  “Mr. Hunter?” A sweet-sounding voice came over the phone speaker, intruding into his thoughts.

  Hunter hit the intercom button. “Yes, Julia,” he said to the office receptionist on the first floor.

  “I have a Ms. Cary Anderson here to see you.”

  Hunter stood back from his desk, amazed by the uncanny coincidence. That is really creepy. He eagerly pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Julia, send her up, will you?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Hunter.”

  Hunter went to one of the chairs in front of his desk and quickly began removing the manuscripts he had piled there. Racing to clear some of the clutter from his desk, he had just about enough time to run his hand through his curly hair and brush out the wrinkles in his white, button-down shirt when a shadow crossed his open office door.

  Very petite, maybe five-foot-one, with a head of thick brown hair that was cut in a bob and sat just below her curved chin, Cary Anderson looked nothing like an expert in erotica. Big, chocolate brown eyes were seductively innocent, and peered out from her round face, reminding Hunter of a kindergarten teacher or librarian. Pink cheekbones flattered her creamy white skin, and a pair of full, heart-shaped, pink lips added to the sweet, doll-like image she presented. But the sudden thump the woman created in his gut was completely unexpected. It was almost as if he had been punched by some unseen hand.

  “Mr. Donovan? I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.” She had a lilting voice that complimented her tiny figure.

  Hunter went to the door, his hand outstretched. “Not at all, Ms. Anderson. I’m very glad you’re here.”

  She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. Hunter instantly liked the feel of her hand in his; the softness of her skin and the warmth of her touch were strangely familiar.

  “After hearing your message the other day, I thought I should meet you in person, and not have this discussion over the phone. If this isn’t a good time, I could come back later when—”

  “No,” Hunter stopped her. “I was hoping to hear from you, but this is even better. I prefer meeting people face-to-face.” He stood back from the doorway. “Please come in and have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” She walked inside.

  Hunter became distracted by how she moved. The feminine, yellow clingy sheath dress she had on offered a tantalizing glimpse of her slim figure. Despite her small stature, she had a confident grace that almost commanded attention, as if she were royalty making an appearance among the common folk.

  “Ah, yes,” he voiced, reining in his increasingly lurid thoughts. “When you didn’t call me back, I began to think you weren’t interested in my offer.”

  “Actually, Mr. Donovan, I’ve been thinking about your offer quite a bit; and that’s one of the reasons I stopped by.”

  Hunter was spellbound by the way she glided to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Please call me, Hunter, Ms. Anderson.” He quietly shut his office door.

  “And I’m, Cary.”

  “Cary. Is that short for something?”

  She shook her head, making her thick hair bounce about her face. “No, just plain Cary.”

  Hunter had a seat behind his desk and felt a tweak of embarrassment when his old chair squeaked with protest. “So, Cary, how do you feel about becoming part of the team at Donovan Books?”

  “You cut right to the chase, Hunter, I like that.” She placed her straw-colored purse in her lap and took a few seconds before she spoke. “I appreciate that you want your company to keep up with the changing desires of readers. I’m also flattered that you want me to be a part of that change as an editor for your erotica line.” She paused and Hunter held his breath.

  “But…,” he inserted, anticipating this was not all going to be good.

  “But what you’re asking could take a long time, and I don’t think I’m willing to commit long-term to any position. I do very well as a freelance editor.”

  “What if I offered you the posit
ion short-term…say one year? Enough to help me get my new erotica line started.” He rested his elbows on his desk. “You could teach me what you know, help launch our first few books, and after that you could go back to your editing job.”

  “But what you describe goes beyond the job description of an editor. I can oversee the manuscripts, help build a brand for you in the erotica market, but you still have the marketing to bloggers, readers, and reviewers to do. How do you propose to get the word out about your books once you have published them?”

  He motioned to her. “I had hoped you would help me with that, too. I got the impression from your client, Ms. Smut Slut, that you were very knowledgeable about the market, but you seem awfully young to be so well-informed.”

  The left corner of her mouth inched upward in a slight smile. “I am well-informed, Hunter, and I’m not that young. I’m thirty-one, and I’ve spent years setting up contacts in the industry.”

  “I know. I made a few phone calls to some editors I’ve worked with in the past. You come highly recommended.”

  “I have to admit I, too, did some research on Donovan Books. You’ve never delved into this aspect of the industry, and from what I can gather you need someone to build your brand from the ground up.” The other corner of her mouth rose ever so slightly. “What you’re describing, Hunter, is more like a division head who can take over the day-to-day running of your erotica line, and not just an editor.”

  Hunter momentarily scrutinized her brown eyes, attempting to uncover her intentions. “And you think you would be better as a division head rather than a chief editor for my erotica division?”

  “I know what will make it work, but in order to build the successful line you want, I need more autonomy…and more money.”

  Hunter sat back in his chair with a slight thud. Checkmate. “So this comes down to money for you; is that it, Cary?”

  Her smile remained intact. “If I’m going to spend day and night building a brand for you while neglecting my clients, losing money I could be making editing their manuscripts, then I want to make sure I’m compensated accordingly, and that I’m protected in case you feel you don’t need me one day.”