First Connection

  First Connection

  Abby Gordon

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Sneak peek at The Submissive’s Touch

  Sneak peek at Fall of Adonis

  First time ever! Sneak peek at Thawing the Master’s Heart

  Prologue Thawing the Master’s Heart

  Chapter One Thawing the Master’s Heart

  Copyright 2019 by Abby Gordon

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author. All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, or particular businesses, are entirely coincidental. All military operations depicted or described are entirely the author’s imagination.

  Cover art by Angela Anderson

  Created with Vellum

  1

  London

  Early December 2000

  Glancing about the parlor, Diana bit her lip to keep her scathing thoughts to herself. All we need are the hoopskirts and corsets to be Alcott’s Little Women. Or the high-waisted Empire dresses to be Austen’s Bennett sisters. Instead of being in the 1800s, we are four intelligent, well-bred women in the 21st century. Yet we act and are treated in our own home as those sisters might have been. Except the March girls could marry where they wanted and have careers of a fashion.

  Her eyes darted from her book to where her sisters dutifully followed the schedule laid down by their father. Before dinner they were to embroider, sip tea and quietly discuss approved subjects.

  “Diana, put the book down,” hissed Margaret.

  In response, the younger sister turned the page and shifted so more light from the lamp on the Chippendale end table fell on the book. The older of the two tensed, glancing worriedly at the door of the parlor.

  “Diana, please,” whispered Anne, the youngest sister sitting to her left. “Father’s been very stressed lately about business.”

  “I know,” Diana finally replied, her eyes not lifting from the words. She hid her surprise that Anne dared bring up an unapproved topic. The Willoughby sisters were absolutely not to discuss business or politics. So she did both. “The American election and the sudden drop in stocks and interest rates has everyone feeling uncertain.” Another page turned and she shook her head. “Still, even if Father’s stock takes a hit, he can turn it to his advantage by buying stock at the cheaper price and gaining more control.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked a bewildered Sarah.

  With a sigh, Diana finally lowered the book and studied the pair as they sat side-by-side on the settee across from her. Margaret was ten years older than her own nearly twenty-one and Sarah seven. Next to her, Anne, four years younger, shifted nervously, the gold thread of her needlework flashing in the fire.

  “Honestly,” Diana frowned. “Haven’t you paid any attention at all?”

  “Diana, enough is enough,” Margaret said firmly, reasserting her position as the oldest. “Put the book down before—”

  The door opened and three men strode into the room. The first man was Lord Charles Willoughy, second son of the Marquis of Lindston. Still tall and fit in his early sixties, he was brilliant and forward-looking with business, and, to Diana’s mind, two centuries behind in gender relations. A step behind him was Arthur Davis, Margaret’s husband and first vice president of Willoughby Technologies, and finally Richard Andrews, Sarah’s husband and WT’s second vice president. Both men were in their late thirties and cut from the same mindset as their father-in-law.

  “Ah, my girls,” Lord Willoughby enthused in a patronizing tone, spreading his hands wide. The smile on his face faded when he saw the book in Diana’s hand. “Diana, reading is not on your schedule at this time. You are supposed to be focusing on ladylike pursuits like your sisters are.”

  “The book was more fascinating,” Diana replied, telling herself she would not be afraid of her father.

  Behind Willoughby, Arthur and Richard shook their heads, sad, mocking expressions on their faces. Her sisters bowed their heads while Anne edged away. Lord Willoughby strode to stand in front of her, reaching down and grabbing her chin. Forced to meet his glare, Diana refused to complain about how his grip hurt.

  “I’ve had enough of your refusal to behave appropriately,” he told her. “This weekend, you will accept Phillip Jackson-Morris’s proposal and the wedding will be in May.”

  Even as her sisters clapped their hands in excited approval, Diana gasped. “What? Father, you can’t be serious,” she exclaimed. “The man is twenty years older than me. He’s lived with Davina Westrick for seven years. They have two children, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Exactly,” Willoughby nodded, a cold smile on his face. Diana felt a chill race up and down her spine. “You will marry in May, and within a year’s time, you will deliver his third son.” He glanced at his other three daughters, who quickly ducked their heads. “Even if none of your mothers were capable of having sons, your older sisters have done their duty.”

  “They have done their duty?” Diana burst out, standing so suddenly she forced her father to step hastily out of her path. “Father, in your very Henry the Eighth quest for a son, you have ignored the basic biological fact that it is the man’s sperm that determines the gender of the child. Not the woman’s egg. Therefore, the fact that there are four Willoughby daughters is on you. Not our mothers.” She ignored how Margaret and Sarah gasped that she brought up such an indelicate matter as human biology. “And I will not marry Phillip.”

  “You will,” he stated firmly.

  “Never,” she growled back.

  His pale blue eyes, inherited only by Anne, narrowed and froze into chips of ice.

  “I anticipated your stubbornness,” he replied coldly, then glanced at the other three sisters. “Girls, go pack Diana’s cases. Her flight leaves in three hours. She’s going to spend the holidays with my sister Eleanor in New York City. She will not be returning until she mends her ways and adopts a more appropriate manner toward her father.”

  For a moment, no one moved. They could only stare at him. Finally, Diana shook her head. “Father, you can’t banish me from England,” she whispered.

  “I’ve spoken with Walter and Eleanor. Upon your arrival, he will take your passport and all your cash and credit cards. The story will be that you had a sudden whim to see my dear sister and a longing to experience a bit of American society before your marriage.”

  The last two words snapped strength back into her. “You can banish me to Pluto,” she vowed. “But I will never marry Phillip.”

  “Girls, go. Quickly now. And take this recalcitrant child with you.” He flicked his hand with distaste in her direction.

  “Yes, Father,” the three murmured, hastily standing and putting their embroidery in the baskets at their feet.

  Catching Diana’s arms, they hustled her past Arthur and Richard and out of the room.

  Three hours later, still reeling slightly from shock, Diana Rose Willoughby found herself on a flight to New York. She flew first class, of course, as no matter how irritated he was with her, Lord Willoughby wasn’t going to risk his daughter being seen in economy. Certainly wouldn’t do for someone to wonder about that.

  “Can I get you anything, miss?” an attendant asked.

  “A blanket and a cup of tea, please,” she replied.
“I’m rather chilled.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  Wrapped up in two blankets and sipping the tea, Diana waited for the rest of the passengers to board. How can he do this to me? Why does no one stand up to him or break away from his control? With a sigh, she let her head rest on the seat and watched without really seeing the carts and small trucks trundling about the tarmac. Because he controls the money. Because of his carefully constructed image of a doting, benevolent father. Because we all know that if we actually rebelled and told people what he was truly like, he’d say we’d gone mental as our mothers supposedly did, that we were being “difficult,” or that we’d fallen in with the wrong crowd and were doing drugs or something. And no one would believe us.

  Relieved that the seat beside her remained unoccupied, she returned the porcelain cup to the attendant as the captain began the preflight announcements. Diana was lost in her own thoughts as the engines revved and the plane taxied along the runway.

  I just graduated university. How can he treat me as if I’m a child of five? All that work for nothing. How could I have been so stupid as to think that by graduating first I could get his approval? He doesn’t see me as someone with a brain of my own. He sees me, all of us girls, as a way to expand his business, his legacy, his image. Margaret and Sarah might have submitted to him, and then to their husbands, but I will not. If I can find a way to break free of him, then maybe Anne can be free as well. Or at least have a choice.

  The plane picked up speed, then the thrust pressed her briefly against the cushion as they left the earth. At the feel of the leather wallet snugged at the small of her back, she smiled. She’d taken one small step to freedom as soon as she’d gone beyond her father’s watchful sight. No one could follow her beyond security at the check-in gate. So, she’d gone to a bank within the duty-free zone, cashed a check for as much as they allowed, and taken it all in American dollars. She’d proceeded through the shopping area, getting cash advances on all her credit cards plus cashing a couple more checks. And then she’d bought a security pouch that belted under her clothes. In the ladies’ room, she’d put nearly $50,000 in the wallet, along with the Swiss driver’s license she had laughingly gotten just that spring. Under her tunic, she had strapped the wallet with the cash and license. She might lose her passport, and the pounds her father had counted out with a smirk, but she would still have identification and some funds if she needed them.

  And Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Walter? Will they really follow his irrational demands? She closed her eyes, unwilling to see her reflection in the oval window. They will do whatever Father tells them to. Uncle Walter’s business is tied tightly to Father’s so no help there. And the twins? I haven’t seen them in five years. Would they help me? Or will they be more like my sisters—tattling and snitching?

  Diana’s only hope was finding an American who didn’t give a toss about her father or her aunt and uncle, but she had a feeling that she was very much jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

  2

  Accepting the flute of champagne offered on a silver platter as soon as he entered the ballroom, Thomas David Brown V, last of one branch of the family who traced their lineage to the Pilgrims, glanced around. Fuck me. Same boring party with the same boring people talking about the same boring things they did last night. Sipping the chilled bubbly, he continued a path along the outside of the dance area. A number of couples were already on the floor, moving to the music. The event had started over an hour ago, something his hostess had lightly scolded upon his arrival, mentioning his grandfather’s punctuality. Ignoring the cold shoulder she gave him, David mentally shrugged. He really didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about him.

  Two heads gleaming gold in the side-lights caught his attention and he sighed a bit in relief. Grant and Bronson Franklin were in attendance. Thank God. His pace quickened in their direction. Bron caught sight of him through the small groups talking and murmured to Grant. The elder cousin turned, raising his glass for David to join them. Nodding at the people he passed, David sidestepped their attempts to pull him into conversations.

  “Thank God, you two are here. I might survive this thing after all,” he greeted them, stopping at Grant’s right. “Although, I’m surprised Bron doesn’t have his nose in a law book.”

  In his third year of law school and vying for the top spot in his class, Bron chuckled and jerked a thumb at his cousin. “Grant threatened to burn the case study if I brought it.”

  “Score one for Grant,” David chuckled, gaze scanning the crowd. “Why the hell are we at another damn one of these things? It’s the same people we saw last night—”

  “Three nights ago,” Grant corrected with a drawl. “But yeah, pretty much the same crowd. All of them discussing the ruling by the Supreme Court.”

  “Some are drowning their sorrows. Again,” Bron quipped. “While others are toasting.”

  “I don’t care who is president,” David muttered. “The uncertainty wasn’t good for business.” Unfortunately, the timing had been horrible; he was trying to assert his authority and control over the board of his family’s company and a dozen men nearly as far gone as his unlamented grandfather had been, questioning his every move.

  “I hear you on that,” agreed Grant. The second oldest of his generation in the Franklin family, he had only one mission in life: prove himself worthy of running the family corporation to his grandfather and uncles. Grant had always wanted to oversee everything. “Things are settling down despite the media mania.”

  Bron’s gaze was caught by their grandmother’s imperious gesture. “We’re being summoned,” he told Grant, tilting his chin across the ballroom.

  Nodding, Grant glanced at David. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  “Of course. Please tell your grandmother ‘Merry Christmas’ for me.”

  “Of course,” Bron drawled, lips twitching in humor. “I’m sure she wishes the same for you.”

  David laughed. Henrietta Franklin was much more likely to wish him to purgatory than a Merry Christmas after ignoring her hints, then refusing to date or marry her oldest granddaughter, Giselle. David had absolutely no intention of entering into a serious relationship with any woman. And he was immune to the importuning and machinations of anyone’s grandparent. He’d managed to sidestep every effort by his own.

  Society remained puzzled by his behavior since his grandfather’s heart attack and death weeks earlier, the afternoon of the election. He didn’t give a shit. The old man had been a tyrant, driving his wife to suicide, his son to drink and eventual death, and would have succeeded with David if Grant hadn’t introduced him to the Shadows.

  Thinking of the Shadows calmed him down enough to smile at a couple walking by. The Shadows had been founded by the O’Grady family in 1870. Originally advertised as a “gentlemen’s club,” it morphed into a speakeasy under the guise of a hotel during Prohibition and then one of the most exclusive night clubs in the city or wherever else around the world the family decided to open one. The Shadows was actually a sex club. A haven where men and women could explore all aspects of their sexuality without fear of judgment or reprisal. There were limits, of course—no permanent physical harm was allowed—although David had heard during the 1960s even that line had been crossed a few times. But for the most part, the members abided by the rules.

  His sophomore year of college, under extreme pressure from his grandfather after his father’s liver had finally given out, David had been well on his way to following his paternal footsteps. Grant, two years older, had called, telling him to meet him at the Shadows. Paddy O’Grady and his son Liam, just a year older than David, had interviewed him for nearly two hours before finally explaining what was beyond the pub he had seen on entering they were in. Beyond the thick oak doors and the public realm, a sexual heaven hid. At least for David. Easily designating him a sexual dominant, the O’Gradys had taken him through a series of rigorous lessons on how to treat a submissive,
emphasizing the responsibility of the Dom to ensure the submissive’s well-being. Of maintaining control at all times. And always, absolutely, honoring the use of the safeword to end a scene.

  Discovering his sexual needs had been a godsend. Control in one area of his life had given him confidence to resist his grandfather’s whims. He’d turned that control to other areas of his life, refocusing on his studies and nearly finishing at the top of his class. He’d then joined the family firm, taking the office next to his grandfather’s that had been emptied since his father’s health had declined ten years earlier. In and out of board meetings, he stood up to his grandfather. Perversely, that had earned him Thomas Brown the Fourth’s grudging respect. Granted, that hadn’t been much to begin with, but it had been enough that the company board had noticed and responded accordingly.

  Perversely, the more David had stood up to him the more Thomas Brown had treated him with respect.

  Suddenly, something Liam had said to him after that first meeting came to mind. As they shook hands, the other man had stared at him, frowned, and then whispered, “The dark rose will need your protection. Bring it within your fortress without delay or you will lose it.”

  “Oh, David, there you are,” a feminine voice called.

  A tall, willowy blonde, Sheila Jefferson, caught his arm, pressing her barely there but fully on display breasts against his bicep. Behind her stood her two usual companions: Stella Williams and Meghan Daniels.

  “Sheila,” David smiled slightly. He’d danced with her at one of the other boring holiday fetes. He’d also taken her home, getting rough in the sex. Given the gleam in her eyes, she’d enjoyed it. That or, the more likely, she would put up with anything to get his ring on her finger. Like that will ever happen to any woman. Damn. I need to visit the Shadows. I can’t risk that again. “You are looking very,” he let his eyes drift over the deep V cut of her bodice then back up to her waiting expression, “enticing this evening.”