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“Everything you want, nothing you don’t.”
Right. Good to be reminded. I felt calmer again. Then we got as far as the change room area and I suddenly stopped moving, my feet welded to the painted concrete. “Wait!”
“Courage, Dauphine,” he said, his hand gently nudging my back.
“No. I need my purse.”
He exhaled.
“Where is it?”
“Under the counter,” I said, tilting my chin to indicate. “Thank you.”
I was struck by the oddity of the picture—this tall, masculine image of justice returning with my coral leather hobo bag.
The air in the alley was cool, the night still. He locked the front and back doors of my store and then ducked me into the back seat of his dark vehicle, hand on my head, and tucked my purse in next to me.
“Thank you kindly. You’re a gentleman.”
“No. I’m a mean police officer.”
“Right,” I said. “I understand.”
He has a role to play—let him, Dauphine. Trust and control.
When he settled into the driver’s seat and took off, a tiny panic set in. I knew this man wasn’t going to hurt me, or book me, or keep me someplace I didn’t want to be, but I did not like being a passenger, let alone being caged in like this. Yet hadn’t I also been afraid to let that beautiful man float me on my back in the Abita River? I was so scared when we turned off the Covington Highway that day, but so happy afterwards. That day still played out in my mind, like a bonus track. I tried to relax into my seat, but I found myself alternating between fear and excitement, which only increased my arousal. I started to understand the appeal of restraints.
It took only a few turns through the darkened streets of the Garden District for us to arrive at our destination: the Mansion. The gates opened and swallowed up the car. My heart quickened; so far I had only been to the Coach House. Then my heart sank as we slowly passed the side entrance, heading over a slight crest to what looked like a large garage next to the kidney-shaped pool, sparkling under the dark sky.
“No Mansion?”
“No more questions.”
A garage door slowly opened and my policeman inched the car into a spot between two other vehicles, both fancy and expensive, though I couldn’t have named them if the officer had put a gun to my head. He shut the engine off, exited the car and opened my back door.
“Step outside the vehicle, Miss Mason.”
I propelled myself to my feet, wrists still cuffed. He sidestepped me to close the car door, and then pressed me up against his side. I could feel him hard against my hip.
“You’re turning me into a bad cop, Miss Mason,” he said, leaning in for a firm, insistent kiss.
I opened my mouth to his just as he pulled away.
“Are you ready for your interrogation?”
I nodded. Okay. This will work. He guided me by the arm through a door in the garage, we entered a small, warm office. There were two steel chairs facing each other on a thick carpet, a table to the side. The windows were covered with blackout curtains. The whole room was lit with one dim overhead bulb. He pulled out a chair for me and I sat. He took the chair opposite me, so our knees almost touched.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I looked around the bare, still room. Not exactly the scene of high romance, but somehow it felt charged with sex.
“Ready when you are,” I said, leaning back in my chair, my hands shackled behind me.
“You’re being impudent.”
“Authority brings that out in me.” It was true. I decided if he wanted me to surrender, he’d have to make me.
“Stand up, please. I want to see if you’re wearing a wire.”
