The Unveiling

It had been three long months since Savannah's confrontation with her mystery guy and every day that passed she became more and more paranoid. Knowing that any sexual encounter she had could very well be used as future blackmail material, she'd seriously curtailed such activities as best she could. Though she had to concede on one point; her own sex drive was in part to blame for her current predicament. Before, she could embrace every encounter fully and with an open and trusting heart; now, she trusted no one. She especially could not trust herself; more to the point, she could not trust her own judgment. How many of those early encounters had been arranged and directed by Him? How many more since? The thrill of sex was waning, but not the urge; which was a definite problem.

Savannah sat in her lush Boston office, in her plushy desk chair, contemplating the view outside. He was out there somewhere, watching; she could feel him. Every area of her life had been affected by his ultimatum. Personal relationships with family and trusted friends were suffering from the backlash of that one day. She rarely visited her parents now; whereas previously she would make the drive to their Connecticut home at least two times a month. She hadn't been to see them since her return; the shame of her predicament prevented it. Just thinking about how they might react should her lifestyle become public knowledge was enough to make her cringe. It had never been an issue before; she'd kept it completely segregated from her family life.

The rules were simple: Never fuck a friend or business acquaintance of the family's, and never fuck a family member. And she'd stuck by those rules faithfully for the last fifteen years. Now all the success she'd had with her interior design business and the pride with which her parents had watched her evolve, could all be for nothing. In the end, it would be her fault, not His. Her brother Micah, certainly no choir boy if the tabloids were even partially accurate, would still find it difficult to accept her lifestyle choices. Her sisters, as dear as they were to her, were puritans to the soul. But her parents; well, they were traditional in their Catholic faith, something she'd never been, something her parents had been disappointed about; but then, they believed she was a "good" girl so they'd accepted it.

The buzzing of the intercom interrupted her depressing introspection. Thank God.

"Yes, Nat?" she enquired of her assistant. "Mr., er, Smith? is here to see you."

Excitement bubbled in her blood; perhaps the P.I. she'd hired had discovered something?

"Send him in; and Nat, no interruptions." "Yes, ma'am."

Moments later Mr. Smith walked in, appearing very dapper and refined in his navy blue suit, brown leather shoes, and expensive brown briefcase. At first glance one might think Mr. Smith to be unprepossessing and, well, bland. But a keen intelligence lurked in those green eyes, and she'd felt the strength of him during their first handshake. He stood a few inches taller than her when she wore four inch heels. Today, however, she'd chosen to wear flats and he towered over her. She eagerly rose from her chair and gestured to the seat across from her.

Once he was seated she walked briskly to the door of the office and locked it. Quickly she retrieved a small black box from the locked bottom drawer of her desk and opened it. Nestled inside was an unusual apparatus; it looked like a timer, but in reality it was a de-bugger device. On their first meeting Mr. Smith had given the object to her, ensuring that it would counteract most high-tech listening devices on the market. The "most" worried her but she'd happily paid the steep price for the gadget; in cash, of course. Switching the device on produced "white noise"; and whoever might be listening in would hear that something was going on in the room, but it would come out pure static and any recording would be corrupted. She rarely used the device; she didn't want to arouse any suspicions regarding her investigation.

She'd also told Mr. Smith that when entering the building he was to sign in under a fake name, Leon Patterson. Once he'd arrived on her floor he'd tell the guard he was one Michael Rills and was there to speak to the head of accounting. Finally, as a last precaution, he would tell Natalie he was Tobias Smith, a new outsourced buyer for the company. To back that up, they'd filled out a complete resume to be on file. Mr. Smith had also created complete backgrounds for each persona; anyone running a background check would find them legitimate, he assured her. He was very thorough and very good at what he did.

"Please tell me you have good news, Mr. Smith" Savannah pleaded.

"Better than good news, Ms. DuBois; I have excellent news, in fact. Though I would caution that pursuing this matter further could be problematic."

He placed his briefcase on the desk and opened the combination lock. He retrieved file upon file, stacking them neatly on the mahogany surface. Clicking the case shut and placing it on the floor at his feet, he then took the eyeglasses from his shirt pocket and precisely fit them on his nose. If Savannah weren't so impatient to find out what Mr. Smith had discovered she might find the little ritual amusing.

She eyed the stack of files with a hum of excitement coursing her spine, and some trepidation as well; Mr. Smith's warning echoed in her head. Her fingers itched to pick the top file and greedily read the contents but she resisted the urge. She redirected her gaze to Mr. Smith with an inquiring look.

"Well, Mr. Smith, do tell." "Ahem; of course."

He opened the first file and began reading.

"His name is Simon Kourt, age 37; born in Stockholm to Neil and Amanda Kourt; has dual citizenship, his mother is American, Boston born and bred. Neil Kourt is an international financier with interests in hotels and media. Simon Kourt runs the Kourt Internationals hotel chain and SNA Kourt Media. No siblings."

Mr. Smith paused; letting the small bomb he'd dropped impact in the silence of the room. Simon Kourt was the king of media in the states, though he kept a very low profile. Savannah couldn't recall seeing any pictures of the mogul in any newspaper article or on any television broadcast. His family were worth billions and it was only natural that security surround the Kourt family would be tight. She shakily reached for the water bottle on her desk and stood to walk by the bank of windows.

"Go on" she directed him, her tone losing its early buoyancy.

"Right. The information was difficult to obtain, but I'd determined early on that the only way Mr. Kourt could be so elusive is if he had a lot of money and power, so naturally I started researching local companies that were on the global markets. It was very tedious, I assure you Ms. DuBois. I also scoured the tabloids and respectable print media; recent and not so recent. I found nothing at first. Luckily, when I was just about to give up, I ran across an old Swedish newspaper clipping of the senior Kourt when he was a younger man; the resemblance between he and the description you gave to me of your, er, friend, was quite startling. Not identical, of course, but very close to. It should be noted, your Mr. Kourt is an only child."

Savannah's mind raced with possibilities; explanations for why he'd seduced her into this unlikely scenario, and refused to ex-close any personal information regarding himself and his family. Perhaps, like her, he wished to avoid publicly embarrassing his family; but if that were the case, why blackmail her? Surely he couldn't believe she'd expose the information she'd gleaned about his personal life to the world; it could destroy them both. No matter which way she turned it around in her mind, it didn't make sense.

Early on she'd found a joy and relief in their encounters; here was someone who understood her needs, her desires, and wouldn't judge her for them. She could be herself without moral recriminations; she could truly embrace who she was when she was with him. A true equal, on so many levels. But this; this was scary. He had so much power. In comparison her design firm, though growing by leaps and bounds of late, was no match against such a juggernaut.

Her frustration erupted, and Savannah found her self face-to-face with Mr. Smith, her hands clenched tightly on his pristine collar.

"Have you found where he's headquartered? What friends does he have? Does he have his own family? Does it mention, anywhere in that damned report, that he might have an Achilles heel, Mr. Smith?"

"Uhm, er...Ms. DuBois, you're understandably, ehm, overwrought. But could you uh...?"

His voice trailed off into silence as Savannah just glared down at him. Mr. Smith seriously thought, for just a moment, that she might wring his neck. Since the true object of her frustration was not handy, perhaps she thought he would do as a substitute. Perhaps he should have asked for a retainer fee. Or hazard pay. Finally she let him loose and Mr. Smith released a sigh of relief. He carefully adjusted his collar, his glasses that had become askew on his face and re-crossed his legs.

Savannah carefully sat back down behind the desk, clasped her hands tightly in front of her on the mahogany surface and cleared her throat.

"I apologize, Mr. Smith. You are, I know, only the messenger. My actions were uncalled for."

Savannah gave him a sickly smile and gestured for him to continue.

"No need for apologies, Ms. DuBois; I understand completely."

And indeed he did understand her torment. He'd helped many clients who'd been targeted with blackmail threats before, but this case was unique. He could find no justification for Mr. Kourt's actions, except for maybe a sick thrill. Truly the man had to be insane to wish any harm to come to Ms. DuBois; especially emotional harm. Professionally Ms. DuBois was exceptional; on a personal level he found her quite stimulating, and would not hesitate to fuck her thoroughly, should she ask. He was quite too shy and reserved to make the moves on such an exceptional woman, of course; she was out of his league. Morosely he contemplated his perfectly pinned tie before continuing.

"Once I knew his identity, it became much easier to track his movements and discover where he spends most of his time. The bulk of his energy is currently focused on new acquisitions in New Orleans; aaahhh, yes, see here."

He handed Savannah a file and resumed his tale.

"Mr. Kourt very recently purchased two restaurants and three nightclubs in the Bourbon Street area. They were severely damaged during Katrina and require a great influx of cash to make them profitable again. What is curious to me is the second club he purchased; it's not your traditional night club."

Savannah looked up, questioning him with a curious, "Strip-club?"

"No, not really; it's a mix of styles; part burlesque with a bit in the way of the old prohibition joints back in the 20s thrown in. He seems very intent on getting that one up and running; construction is non-stop around the clock."

Renewed excitement lit up her countenance; this could be something she could use. Somehow...

"Anything else, Mr. Smith?"

"Yes, indeed, Ms. DuBois; there is something else. Mr. Kourt has a son."

Savannah parroted the words back at him; "A son?"

"Micah Bartholomew Kourt, age 10. He didn't know he had a son until the boy was almost 7; the mother died in a car crash and in her will gave custody of Micah to Simon. Mr. Kourt had DNA tests ordered, of course, but her claim proved to be legitimate. Since then he's been a doting father, and seems determined to keep his existence a secret from the world."

"Yes, he would, of course. Micah's his blood; he'd want to protect his son from the pitfalls of being in the public eye."

Savannah ruminated on this piece of information but decided in the end she could not use it to her advantage. The child was completely innocent; she could no more harm Micah Kourt than she could her own family. She would not go down that dark road. All she wanted was a way to level the playing field and meet Simon on equitable terms. There was really no need for him to continue with these games. They both knew her sex drive was powerful, and they'd both benefited from it. Was it too much to ask that he respect her boundaries and thereby allow her a true sense of security? She would have been more than happy to continue with their sexual riposte, if he hadn't turned it into something dirty and demeaning. Before, she'd only wanted to learn something about him; a name, for God's sake! He already knew so much about her life, her family; everything. But the question that nagged at her mind now begged for an answer. What had motivated him to continuously manipulate the events in her life and the people around her?

"St. Louis."

"Pardon me?" Savannah was startled out of her reverie.

"St. Louis; it's the cradle of his empire. It's where he is most of the time, when he's not off gobbling up more properties and businesses." Mr. Smith beamed at her.

"Mr. Smith, you are brilliant. I could kiss you!"

So saying she put words into action and lifted him out of his chair, planting a big smack on his startled mouth. Savannah felt Mr. Smith quiver, then heard him groan.

"Well, now you've done it" was all he could say.

He sat back down in his chair, dragging him with her. His mouth attacked hers expertly; his tongue invaded ruthlessly past her teeth and engaged her tongue in a duel. Caught unawares by this turn of events, she could only moan helplessly as he stirred her to life. Eagerly she met his tongue and squirmed in his lap. Oh, yeah.

It was only when she was kneeling on the floor before him, his cock in her mouth, that she remembered she'd left the blinds open. Then she mentally shrugged; let Simon Kourt videotape this; it would be nothing new. And she would get great satisfaction; not only from this sexual frenzy, but in knowing where his hiding hole was; and that soon, very soon, she, Savannah DuBois, would be free from the tentacles he'd wrapped around her life.