Cherise Sinclair - Club Shadowlands

Masters of the Shadowlands 1

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This book is fiction, not reality and, as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.

You, my darlings, live in the real world and I want you to take a little more time. Good Doms don't grow on trees and there's some strange people out there. So while you're looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.

When you find him, realize he can't read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you're going to have to open up and talk to him. And you listen to him, in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. Okay, he may try to push your boundaries a little he's a Dom, after all but you have your safeword. You will have a safeword, am I clear? Use protection. Have a back-up person. Communicate.

Remember: safe, sane and consensual.

Know that I'm hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close. Let me know how you're doing. I worry, you know.

Meantime, come and hang-out with my people in Club Shadowlands.

Cherise

cherisesinclair@sbcglobal.net

Jessica Randall scrambled out of the water-filled ditch, her heart hammering. Frigid rain slashed through the dark night, drenching her face and clothing. Gasping for breath, she knelt in the mud, surprised to have made it to the bank in one piece. She glanced over her shoulder and shuddered. Alligators loved to hang out in Florida ditches. A few moments more and she could have been She stifled the thought with a shudder.

Hands shaking, she scrubbed the water off her face and pushed to her feet.

As her fear diminished, she peered through the darkness and could barely see her car. Poor little Taurus, nose down with water roiling around the hood.

Ill be back for you. Dont worry, she promised, feeling like she was abandoning her baby.

Once on the narrow country road, she pushed her tangled hair out of her face and looked each way. Darkness and darkness. Dammit, why couldnt she have an accident right in someones front yard? But no, the nearest house was probably the one shed passed about a mile back. She headed that way, stopping to glare at the pool of water where her car had aquaplaned right off the road. The armadillo, of course, was long gone. At least she hadnt hit it.

Head lowered, she trudged down the blacktop toward the house, getting wetter and wetter. Hopefully she wouldnt trip on something in the darkness. Breaking her leg would be the final straw in a day that had been a disaster from start to finish.

Number one mistake: meeting at a halfway point for their first date when the man lived miles and miles outside of Tampa.

He sure hadnt been worth the trip. Shed have found more excitement auditing business accounts. Then again, he hadnt appeared all that impressed with her either. She grimaced. Shed recognized the look in his eyes, the one that said he really wanted tall and slim, an Angelina Jolie type woman, no matter that her posted picture portrayed her quite accurately: a pint-size Marilyn Monroe.

So far, shed have to say finding a guy through the Internet rated right up there with back-country shortcuts, her second mistake of the day.

Aunt Eunice always swore things happened in threes. So would braking for an armadillo be considered her third mistake, or was there another disaster lurking in her near future?

She shivered as the wind howled through the palmettos and plastered her drenched clothing against her chilled body. Couldnt stop now. Doggedly, she set one foot in front of the other, her waterlogged shoes squishing with every step.

An eternity later, she spotted a glimmer of light. Relief rushed through her when she reached a driveway studded with hanging lights. Surely whoever lived here would let her wait out the storm. She walked through the ornate iron gates, up the palm-lined drive past landscaped lawns, until finally she reached a three-story stone mansion. Black wrought iron lanterns illumined the entry.

Nice place, she muttered. And a little intimidating. She glanced down at herself to check the damage. Mud and rain streaked her tailored slacks and white button-down shirt, hardly a suitable image for a conservative accountant. She looked more like something even a cat would refuse to drag in.

Shivering hard, she brushed at the dirt and grimaced as it only streaked worse. She stared up at the huge oak doors guarding the entrance. A small doorbell in the shape of a dragon glowed on the side panel, and she pushed it.

Seconds later, the doors opened. A man, oversized and ugly as a battle-scarred Rottweiler, looked down at her. Im sorry, miss, youre too late. The doors are locked.

What the heck did that mean?

P-please, she said, stuttering with the cold. My cars in a ditch, and Im soaked, and I need a place to dry out and call for help. But did she really want to go inside with this scary-looking guy? Then she shivered so hard her teeth clattered together, and her mind was made up. Can I come in? Please?

He scowled at her, his big-boned face brutish in the yellow entry light. Ill have to ask Master Z. Wait here. And the bastard shut the door, leaving her in the cold and dark.

Jessica wrapped her arms around herself, standing miserably, and finally the door opened again. Again the brute. Okay, come on in.

Relief brought tears to her eyes. Thank you, oh, thank you. Stepping around him before he could change his mind, she barreled into a small entry room and slammed into a solid body. Oomph, she huffed.

Firm hands gripped her shoulders. She shook her wet hair out of her eyes and looked up. And up. The guy was big, a good six feet, his shoulders wide enough to block the room beyond.

He chuckled, his hands gentling their grasp on her arms. Shes freezing, Ben. Molly left some clothing in the blue room; send one of the subs.

Okay, boss. The brute Ben disappeared.

What is your name? Her new hosts voice was deep, dark as the night outside.

Jessica. She stepped back from his grip to get a better look at her savior. Smooth black hair, silvering at the temples, just touching his collar. Dark gray eyes with laugh lines at the corners. A lean, hard face with the shadow of a beard adding a hint of roughness. He wore tailored black slacks and a black silk shirt that outlined hard muscles underneath. If Ben was a Rottweiler, this guy was a jaguar, sleek and deadly.

Im sorry to have bothered - she started.