The Virgin - Tiffany Reisz

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don’t mean to be. I never mean to hurt anybody,” she said. “But I do.”

      They’d been joking the way strangers packed into a crowded elevator or jostled about on an airplane joked. But what she’d said was too true and too somber, and he gave her a look of curiosity and compassion.

      “A little girl like you couldn’t hurt a fly,” he said kindly.

      Elle looked up and took a breath. If he only knew.

      “I could hurt a fly,” she whispered.

      After six hours and two bus changes, she finally arrived in New Hampshire. She wasn’t done with her journey yet. At the station she followed a young woman to a parking lot and offered her a hundred dollars to drive her forty miles. The woman seemed skeptical at first, but Elle held up the money. That did the trick.

      Elle sat in the backseat of the beat-up Ford Thunderbird. The front seat was taken up by a child’s car seat, and Elle was happy to sit in the back and not look at it. She thought about asking the woman where the kid was, but she didn’t want to talk, especially about children. She apologized for her lack of conversation. Still recovering from car sickness, Elle said. The woman turned on the radio to cover the silence, and Elle kept her eyes closed all the way there.

      A little after one in the afternoon, she arrived at her destination. Elle almost wept with relief at the sight of the long curving driveway she remembered so well, the columns, the stairs, the rows of windows in this old Colonial mansion.

      The woman seemed stunned that this house, this mansion, was her destination.

      “Old friend,” Elle said by way of explanation. “I hope.”

      She paid the woman her one hundred dollars from the cash in her duffel bag. Five thousand dollars wouldn’t last very long, but a deal was a deal.

      The relief Elle felt faded as she walked up the long, curving cobblestone driveway to the house. Her back spasmed with every few steps and the heavy duffel bag dug into her shoulder. The blazing sun followed her every step. She took off the Mets cap and ran her hands through her sweat-drenched hair. As she walked, she wondered...would he take her in? Would he help her? She’d broken his heart, yes, but she’d also helped him when he needed her most.

      Elle rang the doorbell and waited.

      As rich as he was, no one would have begrudged him a housekeeper or a butler. But it was the master of the house who opened the door. His blue eyes widened as he looked at her and took in her paleness, her exhaustion and her fear.

      “Oh my God...Eleanor. What did he do to you?” he asked.

      Elle almost laughed. If she’d had the energy, she would have.

      “Don’t ask, Daniel,” she said as she walked past him into the house. “Just don’t ask.”

       4

      DANIEL GAVE HER tea and put her in the downstairs guest room. The entire time she was in his presence she stared at the gold band on his left hand.

      “Where are Anya and the baby?” Elle asked. She hadn’t seen either when Daniel brought her into the house.

      “Upstairs in the nursery. Marius has the flu. We’re taking shifts. She’s on the day shift. I take the night shift so she can sleep.” He smiled and she saw the contentment on his handsome face.

      “God, you’re so married.”

      “I am. Again,” he said and smiled.

      “Enjoying it? Being married again? Being a dad?” Elle asked as she pulled the blanket to her stomach.

      “You show up on my doorstep with no warning and nothing but a bag and the clothes on your back and you want to talk about me right now?” Daniel pulled a chair up to the bed. It was barely two o’clock in the afternoon, but Daniel had seen right away that all she needed right now was rest. “Eleanor, please—”

      “Elle,” she said.

      “What?”

      “I told him the day I met him that I went by Elle. Not Eleanor. My whole life my mom called me Elle or Ellie. That’s who I am. But he called me Eleanor anyway. He calls me Eleanor. I prefer Elle.”

      Daniel looked at her, rubbed his hands together.

      “Elle,” he said. “Please tell me what’s happening. Can you do that for me?”

      “You don’t want to know.” She tried to smile. She hoped he appreciated the effort that took her.

      Daniel met her eyes, and she held the gaze. Back when he was a regular player in Kingsley’s world, his blue-eyed Dominant glare was the stuff of legend. His late wife, Maggie, had even named it—The Ouch, she called it with equal parts fear and affection. When he gave her that look she knew she’d be saying “ouch” the next day, maybe the next week. But it wasn’t the infamous Ouch he gave her now. Instead, he looked at her steadily with curiosity and compassion. And pity.

      She hated pity.

      “I’m fine,” she said. “I needed to get away for a few days.”

      “You didn’t come here because you needed to get away for a few days. You go to the Hamptons to get away for a few days.”

      “You go to the Hamptons to get away for a few days because you’re rich. Normal people do not go to the Hamptons.”

      “Elle.” Daniel met her eyes. “You’re the most famous submissive in the entire city of New York. You’re owned by a Catholic priest, and you’re sleeping with the King of the Underground. You are not normal people.”

      “I am now,” she said. “Trying to be anyway.”

      “How did you get here?”

      “Kingsley’s driver dropped me off.”

      “Kingsley drives a beat-up Ford Thunderbird now?”

      If she had had the strength to give Daniel The Ouch, she would have.

      “I have security cameras,” he said. “I saw someone drop you off. It wasn’t King.”

      “No, it wasn’t.”

      “Does King know where you are?”

      She shook her head.

      “Tell me what happened.”

      “You don’t want to know,” she repeated. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m here, okay?”

      “I think I do want to know. Remember, I’ve known Søren for years. Not only do I know him, I like him. We’re friends. If I can know him and still like him, I think I can handle anything you tell me.”

      “Maybe you can handle hearing it. I don’t know if I can handle saying it.”

      Daniel moved from his chair to the bed. She tensed immediately and he seemed to sense it.

      “I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want me to,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

      “You’re married, you have a kid and I’m—” she paused to find a suitable lie and decided on a half-truth instead “—not feeling well.”

      He reached his hand out but didn’t touch her with it, only waited. Slowly Elle leaned forward the three necessary inches and rested her face against the palm of his hand.

      “You don’t have a fever,” he said.

      “No.”

      “I don’t see any bruises on your arms or your neck.”

      “Søren didn’t beat me up or rape me,” she said, annoyed that he would even think something like that had happened.

      Daniel nodded.

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