Her expression eased. “Yes. Thank you for letting me use it.”

So that wasn’t it. Well, unless she was running an e-mail banking scam and asking recipients to send her a few thousand to save her baby from starving, he didn’t need to be involved. Neither he nor Galen restricted a submissive’s communications—and he wanted her to keep in touch with her friends. “How good are you with construction?”

“Well, not too bad with basic skills, but I can’t read a diagram and make it come out right.”

He smiled and tugged her hair. “Top of your class and you don’t do diagrams?”

“Hey, flow charts are one thing, spatial skills another. I can get lost in a cornfield.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “Bet they don’t let you into Fed school if that happens.”

“Nope. Takes all the fun out of a car chase if you get turned around.” He held his hand out, pleased she didn’t hesitate before putting her hand in his.

As he pulled her to her feet, her eyes held curiosity with just a touch of trepidation. Good. She was the type of submissive who would do better if kept on her toes. But he needed to be sure she knew she was valued.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“We’d planned to use the cabana for guests, but we’re going to convert it into a dungeon instead.”

“It will make an awesome dungeon. And be a lot nicer than those typical fake stone wall ones. What can I do to help?”

He gave her a slow smile. “I thought I’d take you on as a carpenter’s apprentice…so to speak.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Every schoolgirl should learn a trade to fall back on.” Teacher-schoolgirl had been listed as one of her favorite role-plays, and he had a fondness for that kind of power exchange. He looked her up and down. “I left a pair of overalls for you on my bed. Schoolgirl socks and tennis shoes. Braids.”

Her eyes lit up. When she was happy, she almost sparkled.

He added, “Meet me in ten minutes in the cabana.”

“Yes, Sir!”

SHE’D WORRIED THAT he’d make her wear ugly farmer’s overalls. She grinned at what he’d left on his bed. Yes, the material was denim with a bib front and shoulder straps. But without a T-shirt, the bib barely covered her nipples. Lacing on each side of the waist made it formfitting. And rather than long pants legs, the bottom was a skirt. The hem ended just short of her butt. She put on knee-high socks and denim sneakers. Her hair hung in two long braids. No makeup. Just to be contrary, she pulled on a pair of bright pink panties.

Whoever thought one of the stern Feds could be into role-playing? A check in the mirror showed her grin. Poor guy. He’d never seen her playing schoolgirl, or he’d know better.

She paused on the stairs as she remembered Vance’s really big, really strong hand slapping her bottom. That had hurt.

She huffed in exasperation at her worries. He wouldn’t do a true punishment for a role-play. The only reason to play schoolgirl was to be able to be sassy. Maybe that’s why she enjoyed it so much.

She frowned. If she enjoyed it so much, why hadn’t she been like that at home? Or had she been? In kindergarten, she’d lectured her mother about throwing away recyclable glass. And hanging out of the hayloft, she’d teased her brother, knowing he was afraid of climbing the ladder to enact retribution. And informing her father at supper that companies headed by women made more money. Sally grinned, remembering the appalled look on her father’s face. How old had she been that time? Nine?

Her smile faded. That was before he’d started to hate her. After her mother’s death, his disapproval—and occasional backhand—eventually silenced her complaints, her requests…her voice.

Being mouthy was something she’d lost when her mother died, and only regained once away and in college.

The humid lake air wrapped around her as she walked out the back door and down the narrow dirt path to the cabana. Out on the lake, two bright orange kayaks left trails of miniwaves behind them. In the rough vegetation on the lakeshore, an alligator lifted its head to check her out before returning to drowsing. She shuddered. No one thought twice about jumping into a lake in Iowa, but here? Not a chance.

In the cabana, Vance stood in the center of the room, tapping a yardstick on his palm and surveying the potential construction site. The ancient white T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders was so thin she could see his shoulder muscles bunch as he turned.

“There you are,” he said.

She held still while he prowled a circle around her.

“Very nice.”

When he ran his hand under her skirt, she shoved him away. “Sir! What are you doing?”

“Apprentices in our company don’t wear underwear. It’s a danger in a work environment.” His voice was stern, his eyes dancing. “Gets caught on things.” He hooked a finger in the waistband and yanked her panties down. “Remove them.”

She huffed and slithered out of the panties without exposing anything. “Fine.” And added in a mutter, “I don’t think I’m going to like this job.”

“Truly a shame that your uncle indentured you to us for the next five years.”

Christ in gator-land, but that was a terrifying thought.

“Of course, he might not have done that if you’d been a good girl.” Vance swatted her butt with the yardstick he held. Thank God the skirt cushioned the blow—not enough. She was still tender.

“I am a good girl,” she told him, hands on her hips, scowling. “You’ll see.” Or if you hit my ass again, maybe I’ll kick a paint can over. “What should I call you?”

“Boss will do just fine.” He handed her a paintbrush. “You can paint the trim.”

He’d chosen a nice beige for the baseboards, and the walls would be a dark but rich cocoa. Much like the Feds’ personalities. She concentrated on painting quietly. He’d put country-western on the player, and oddly enough, the work was more soothing than she’d thought. It was rewarding to take something ugly and make it beautiful.

After a bit, she realized he was standing over her, checking her work. The light-filled room brightened his beautiful eyes, showing the paler blue rays in the iris. She’d always loved blue eyes.

His hand stroked down her hair. “Very nice work, Miss Hart. You can take a break now. Lid on the paint. Brush in a Baggie.”

After setting things to rights, she walked over to where he sat on one of the twin beds, looking at a catalog.

He patted beside him. “Sit here.”

She dropped down and checked out what he was looking at. A BDSM equipment catalog. “Whoa. That’s very cool. I’ve never seen one.”

“Z lent it to us. Says this company is known for building both solid and comfortable.” He turned the page and tapped a picture of a St. Andrew’s cross. It was padded with leather. Gleaming eyebolts studded the ends of the arms. “You like crosses?”

She shrugged. “What’s not to like?”

“How about this?” He opened the page to a vacuum bed with a pump to pull the air out of a latex bag, letting the submissive breath through a tube.

A shudder ran through her. “Never. Not for me. Ever.” Just the thought of being enclosed—almost mummified—like that could give her nightmares.

He nodded and opened the page to a bunch of bondage tables. “We’ll probably get one of these.”

One had the prettiest strapping system that— She realized he was studying her. “Uh. Right. Every dungeon should have one.”

His lips quirked before he turned the page again. “Or at least a spanking horse.”

God, those had to be her favorite. Like a hybridization between a picnic table and a sawhorse on steroids. Somehow being strapped into that doggy position was just too darned exciting.

He ran a finger down her cheek. “Definitely one of those.” He set the magazine to one side. “I was looking through your history in the Masters’ files. You got your bachelor’s, worked a bit in a software company, before going to grad school for your Master’s degrees. No marriage or engagements in all that time?”

She shook her head. And maybe now she knew why. She hadn’t trusted anyone enough to lower her defenses. “What about you, Sir? Engaged? Married?” She gave him a slow smile. “The trainees don’t have files on the Masters to check.”

“There’s a mercy.” His mouth tightened. “I was married—and divorced—in college.”

“Is that the wife who lied all the time?” Sally hated that he’d once compared her to some scumbag of a wife. He’d been so angry at the thought of being lied to.

“I did tell you that, didn’t I?” Leaning back against the wooden headboard, he studied her. “And you? Are you a liar, Sally?”

Her chin came up. “No.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

Frigging A. “Okay, so faking orgasms was kind of a lie. And I guess if I say, ‘I’m fine,’ even though I’m not, it’s kind of a lie too. But…” She bit her lip.

His eyes were starting to chill, and he crossed his arms over his chest. How could he look so relaxed and so threatening at the same time? “But?”