The Connoisseur Ch. 10

10. Pursuit

I'd told Sarah I hoped I'd see her around the bookshop. My next step was to ensure that it happened. As frequently as possible. Money was no issue, especially considering the price she'd bring. Besides, expenses would be passed along to the eventual buyer, who undoubtedly would not even blink at the sum. I bought the shop, and, for good measure, the building in which it was located.

The trap set, I continued to bait it.

Jane arranged for Sarah to receive a surprise severance cheque from her previous employer. Enough to carry her for a month or two, with a little extra she could spend on herself. Jane and I both knew where our Sarah would come to spend it.

The bell above the heavy oaken door rang. Sarah entered, her eyes half closed, breathing deeply, drinking in the musky scent of dust, leather, and old paper, smiling like tired Odysseus, home at last. I was seated behind the old desk, with its antique brass cash register, reading a vintage copy of Mallory's Le Morte de Arthur. I smiled and lifted my fingers in a friendly wave.

Sarah raised her lovely eyebrows inquisitively. "I didn't expect to see you... well, not there, anyway."

I shrugged. "The previous owner was threatening to close. As I think I mentioned, I'd like to see places like this remain open. So I bought it. Besides, it seemed more convenient to buy all these lovely books all at once, rather than one or two at a time. Don't you think?"

Sarah beamed. "Only if you don't mind parting with one or two. Now and then."

"Only if I know they're getting a good home."

"Of course!" She bounced away, into the shelves to shop.

Now, to see if she'd find the bait I'd left, just for her.

I'd created a book, one I knew would appeal specifically to her. I'd written the story myself, with a character I knew Sarah would relate to only too well. It was, after all, based solely upon her, the secret her I'd read about in her hacked diary, thanks to my partner's devious diligence.

The story, called simply La Belle, was a retelling of Beauty and the Beast, albeit one with a decidedly erotic, if romantic, flavor. In this story, Beauty wasn't merely a captive, she was a slave, one who slowly came to accept, and then to relish in, her bonds, and the kiss of her Master's whip. Slowly, she came to crave her master's cock moving inside her naked and nubile body, and more slowly still she came to love and worship him in her captivity.

I'd commissioned illustrations, in the Rackham watercolor style, no less, at the same time romantic and wickedly erotic. The Beauty captured therein even bore a subtle resemblance to my Sarah--large-breasted, dark-haired, blue-eyed. It was printed on a vintage palimpsest and bound in old leather, so that it seemed antique. The leather was smooth and supple to the touch, and the scent was deliciously intoxicating. I left the volume where she'd be sure to find it.

I'd placed a series of hidden cameras throughout the shop. My iPad, hidden in a book cover-like case, contained a monitor app. I set down the Mallory and picked it up. Now, I could watch Sarah discretely as she browsed, while pretending to read my book. Hers was the story that engrossed me.

It took her an agonizingly long time to find her way the mythology and folklore section. She started with classics and fiction, and then science fiction and fantasy, and finally poetry. Apparently, she'd been saving her favorite for last. When she finally made it to that section, her eyes widened when her glance landed on the gilded volume that, she was quite sure, hadn't been there before. She touched the cover carefully, caressing the spine like a lover's face, exploring the textures of the leather with the feather touch of her fingertips. I saw her lips move as she spoke the title aloud, softly, to herself. Moth to the flame, moth to the flame.

She pulled it slowly from the shelf, smiling to herself when she saw that she had, in fact, discovered a new take on the Beauty and the Beast motif, one she'd never heard of. Cradling the book, she settled down on the floor, cross-legged, to open the pages. She read for a few moments, and then I saw her eyes grow wide as she realized this was not a version of the story she'd find in the children's section.

She flipped through the pages more rapidly, though still quite carefully, pausing to take in the brilliant illustrations, reading passages that seemed especially promising. I saw her shift uneasily as her cheeks flushed deeply. Her breathing was faster, deeper. Any connoisseur of beautiful women will know the signs.

My Sarah was aroused.

Nearly an hour passed before she brought the book to me at last. She set it carefully on the counter. She didn't meet my gaze. "Mr. Corwin, can you tell me how much this book is, please?"

I looked down and feigned surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that book to reach the shelves. I'm afraid it's not for sale. Even if it was, well, I'm not sure it's a price you would pay."

She deflated.

"Are you sure?" she asked hopefully. "I -- I'd really like to read it."

I smiled. "Now it's my turn to ask. Are you sure? It's not the Disney version, I assure you. Or even the Couteau."

Sarah blushed. She could not meet my gaze. I think, perhaps, she'd hoped that I didn't know what the book contained.

"It's something I'd acquired for my... private collection. I am a collector, you know."

She didn't answer.

I folded my hands under my chin thoughtfully for a long moment. When I spoke at last, I said, "If you just want to read it, take it. Call it a loan. Bring it back when you've finished. If you don't like it, leave it here, and take another book instead. If you like it, well, maybe we can... talk. Maybe we can work out another little barter. Is that acceptable?"

She looked up at me through her lashes, and the gesture captivated me again. Ah, those lovely eyes! "Another hour? Another coffee?"

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "This may require dinner. If you like the book, that is. If you don't, just slip it in the mail slot by the door. It's large enough for parcels. Do that, and we'll never speak of it again. Agreed?"

Sarah left with the book. Bolted might be a better word. I did not worry about her dropping the book in the parcel slot.

I sighed that night as I closed the store and turned the heavy brass key in the old lock. I loved the old, oaken door, but I had to admit, it was a pain to lock. It was cold that night, so I pulled my black woolen great coat more tightly about me. I sighed again, but allowed myself a hint of a smile. I knew she'd be back. Maybe not tomorrow, or even the day after.

But soon. You can sort of feel these things.

And I'd be ready.

I'd have a few surprises waiting for her, my lovely one, my submissive Sarah. Books, with that delicious musty smell of old paper and ink that I knew she loved. And a few other things, too. Leather bindings.

Soon. But in the mean time, I could only wait. And miss her.

I was a little late one morning, precisely one week later. It's so hard to get moving on cold, December mornings, when one so loves to savor morning coffee and one's papers....

When I finally arrived, she was there, Sarah, waiting for me, standing nervously by the still-locked door, shifting from one foot to the other, as though she couldn't quite make up her mind whether to stay or bolt. I wasn't worried, though. If it had taken her this long to work up her courage, she would see it through. I knew the fire in her eyes well enough to know that.

She had the book with her.

I felt just a hint of a smile cross my face as I quickened my step. The morning seemed suddenly brighter, and rich with possibility, with dreams as they cross from sleep to the realm of newborn reality, with wishes as they come true, surrounded by golden light. It was going to be a grand day. After all, once my Beauty was inside, in my realm, I fully intended to lock the door firmly behind us.

She wouldn't bolt again, not this time.

I opened the door, and she followed me inside. I closed the door behind us. I heard her swallow when I turned the lock again and lowered the shade.

She looked at me from beneath a coy, arched eyebrow. "Aren't you going to open?"

I smiled gently. "Not today. Today's a private showing. For a collector. Someone who appreciates... fine bindings."

She laughed. I adored her laugh. It wasn't a girlish giggle, it was mature and knowing, throaty, wise, even, yet vulnerable. "I see. So I'm a collector, am I?"

"No," I told her. "I am. I thought I'd told you that."

She smiled, and bowed her head, looking at me through her lashes again. "You collect fine bindings?"

I shook my head, gently. "Bindings are only meant to hold treasures."

"Stories?"

"Secrets. Mysteries."

"And which am I, then?"

"Oh, all of them, I think. And more."

She laughed again. "I think we've danced enough."

"Sir," I corrected her sternly. But with a smile to show I wasn't angry. I wanted to see how far this would go.

"Sir," she said. She smiled. "Like in the book. But you knew that. Didn't you?" I nodded. She looked away again. She couldn't meet my gaze. "Is there someplace we can sit and talk? Maybe back to the Copper Kettle. God, I'd kill for a coffee."

I smiled at her. "Really? I thought you wanted to be inside. To talk about that book."

She swallowed. "Sorry. Uh, Sir. To be honest, I'm stalling a little. I'm not the type for butterflies in the stomach. But--"

"And coffee seems like a safe ritual, doesn't it?"

She met my gaze for a moment. "It's spooky how well you seem to know me."

"Connections are like that. But speaking of rituals, do you recall what the Beast said when the Beauty crossed his threshold?"

"Are you a beast, then?"

"You are certainly a beauty, Sarah. So I speak as he did. Kneel."

Her eyebrows arched again, like twin halves of a drawbridge. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, my Beauty."

To be honest, I was amazed at how calm my own voice sounded. After all, I'd waited for this moment. But a strange sort of peace fell over me. The calm that comes from longing at last fulfilled, of knowing one is finally where one is meant to be. "Kneel. I don't like to repeat myself."

She swallowed again. "Here? The window...."

I didn't bother to answer her. I knew my eyes would say far more than words. I watched her, letting my gaze fall on her with the weight and intensity of a caress. She opened her mouth, and for a moment I thought she would speak. Then, after a long second, she obeyed. Subtly, gracefully, like a dancer, she fell to her knees. Her legs were open just a bit, to the limits of her tight skirt. She held her back straight, pulling her white peasant blouse taut across her proud and lovely breasts. I didn't even have to tell her to clasp her hands behind her back.

"Your posture is excellent," I teased her.

"Back straight. Sir."

"You are a treasure." Truly, her beauty overwhelmed me. For a moment, I found myself at a loss for words. She'd taken my breath away. She was like a dream, like an angel. A goddess.

One I was determined to see in chains.

"I'd like to take you to dinner. Tonight."

She looked up and me, surprised. "Tonight? I thought--"

"Give me your address. Be ready precisely at seven."

"I haven't agreed to go. Not yet."

"Sarah, I didn't ask you."