Chapter One

Not an empty bar stool in sight. Suppressing a groan, Andrea Eriksson shifted her weight to the other foot and wiggled her cramped toes. Whatever demon invented stiletto-heeled boots should roast in hell.

Then again, some people would probably think the Tampa BDSM club was hell. A trickle of sweat ran down her back under the biker jacket. It was definitely hot enough for hell.

She should have stayed home, taken a long bubble bath with music, turned on some Enya, and enjoyed her cozy apartment. Her haven, far away from the slums, and rented with her own money.

But no. She wanted to be here at this downtown BDSM club. Kind of. Unfortunately, she'd already walked through the place twice, checking out the possible Doms. Only two had that ultimately confident look of authentic Doms, and both had submissives with them already.

Sipping her Diet Coke, she gazed at the nearby scene where a gray-haired man in a suit stood in front of a slender woman restrained on a St. Andrew's cross. He tapped a cane on his leg, just standing and waiting while his sub quivered in expectation. The sub's eyes never left the Dom.

A tremor ran through Andrea. He controlled the scene, himself, and his sub completely. She wanted to be that sub, to be the one who'd given up control, who trusted someone enough to do that.

“You like the scene?”

Andrea startled, and her drink sloshed over her hand. Shaking her fingers dry, she took a step back from a Dom who'd eyed her earlier. “Uh. Hi. What did you ask?”

“Do you like to be spanked?”

Spanked. Held down. A big hand swatting her bare bottom. A heady anticipation ran up her body, followed by caution. Over the past month, none of the scenes she'd done with Doms had worked out. Please let this guy be better.

A few years younger than she, maybe early twenties, the Dom wore latex jeans and a black T-shirt. He looked confident, but she didn't get any sense of the kind of absolute authority that would demand her submission.

Is it really too much to ask for instant domination?

“Well…” she hedged. If she said yes, and he tried to order her around without being able to pull it off, then she'd end up smarting off and defying him. She knew all too well how embarrassing that got.

“Let's talk a bit.” He grasped her forearm.

She knocked his hand away and winced at his annoyed expression. “Sorry,” she said. “Too much karate when I was young.” Why couldn't she get over these reactions? She wanted to submit, wanted someone to just take her over. The thought made her needy and hot, but this kind of place—filled with guys on the make—brought back too many memories and brought out all her defenses. Papa had trained her too well. Don't let them grab you. Don't let them corner you. The best defense is a good offense.

“No problem. I make a lot of submissives nervous.” His chest puffed out.

Oh, Dios. Stuck on yourself a little?

Ignoring the way the Dom tried to hold her eyes, she glanced around the club. Tampa's Goth contingent was well represented with heavy-handed makeup and bizarrely spiked hair. Piercings and tattoos decorated the most unlikely and intimate places. Ouch. Farther toward the back, people crowded around a flogging scene.

“I'd like to put you on a spanking bench,” he said. “I think you'll get off on it.”

She turned to him, hoping, wanting, to feel a sinking feeling inside, the funny something that made her want to just say yes, and nothing happened. He wasn't the one for her. “Thank you, but no.”

How did anyone ever find a good match in a place like this?

She gave the Dom a polite smile and walked out of the club. Antonio should show soon; she might as well meet him outside.

Pulling her leather jacket closer against the depression creeping through her, she trudged to her van in the nearby parking lot. A stone blocked her path, and she kicked it out of the way with her stupid, painful boots. It just wasn't fair. Other women didn't have so much trouble finding a Dom. And she'd watched some Doms that she'd turned down, and they handled other submissives easily.

Maybe the problem is me.

The moist March air brushed against her face, bringing a tang of the sea with the usual Tampa rush-hour fumes. Pacing back and forth, she watched two women enter the club. A couple holding hands walked out. And finally, Antonio's red Camaro hummed into the parking lot and slid into an empty space. Antonio popped out. “Hey, you. Why aren't you inside?”

A piece of trash caught her eye. She picked the paper up, crumpled it viciously, and threw it in a nearby garbage can. “I didn't find anybody who”— who I would bow my head to—“who I wanted to play with.”

“Fussy, fussy.” He frowned at her. A streetlight flickered indecisively, highlighting his face like a strobe. “Poor chiquita. Why aren't you into an easier kink, maybe ménages or public sex?”

“Darned if I know.” The night air had chilled, and Andrea hugged herself. “Why aren't you all dominant so I wouldn't have to jump through hoops to meet someone? And you might be straight too. Straight would be good.”

She leaned beside him on the car, her arm brushing his companionably. Her best friend since she could remember. At five, they'd gone on crusades with sticks as their swords, and a battered tricycle from a dumpster as their horse. At fifteen, when he came out, she had wiped the pavement with anyone who gave him grief. After he finished college, he'd moved here from Miami, becoming an unofficial member of her huge family.

“I am who I am.” He grinned and tugged one of her curls. “But I still have trouble believing you're submissive. You've never let anyone boss you around. Are you sure?”

“'Fraid so.” After reading a romance with BDSM in it, she'd talked a boyfriend into trying it. “Submitting is different in”—her face heated—“in…with sex. Going to bed with most guys is as exciting as making love with—well, a brother or something. Blah, you know? Remember when you realized you were gay? You said, 'This is why nothing worked for me before. I need this.' Well, that's what it was like for me with BDSM. When someone tells me to do something and can make it stick, I go all melty inside.”

He snorted. “And if they don't make it stick, you probably take them apart, Rambolita.”

“I just—”I just want to meet the right man, one who can give me that shiver deep down inside. How can I ever fall in love with someone who doesn't make me feel that? “I… Well, it doesn't matter, does it? I've tried everything—clubs and groups, and haven't found anyone. Not even close.”

“Oh, don't give up yet.” Antonio lit a cigarette and studied the glowing end for a second. “On that list of clubs you made, you eliminated one. The private club outside of town.”

“The Shadowlands, where the membership fee would require an entire year's salary and my firstborn child? I can't do that.” The momentary hope died.

“Maybe you can.”

“Earth to Antonio… I own a cleaning business, not a Fortune 500 company.”

“I'm not senile.” He drew on his cigarette before explaining. “A guy there owes me a favor.”

“Really?” A private club. More experienced people, more protection. She stared at Antonio.

He stared back, lifting his eyebrows.

Dios, she hated needing others to have to help her, even Antonio. “He'd overlook a membership fee?”

Antonio tossed the cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “Not exactly. The guy is in charge of the trainees, and they don't pay the fees. I'll try to have him to take you as one.” He frowned at her. “But being a trainee might be a hell of a lot more intense than you want.”

It meant she would really be under orders and not able to pick and choose. Her mouth went dry, but her chin went up. “Do it.”

Chapter Two

In the middle of setting up the bar, Cullen looked up at the sound of the clubroom door opening. Right on time. Two points for her, he thought sourly.

Annoyance burned in his gut at Antonio calling in his favor in this manner. True, the reporter had provided enough information to nail the arsonist Cullen had investigated, and they'd put the bastard behind bars, but he didn't like his job as an arson investigator touching the Shadowlands.

Or someone screwing with the trainee program. Normally he and Z selected trainees from long-standing members of the club, submissives who wanted to immerse themselves deeper into the lifestyle as well as meet unattached Doms. Newbies didn't get chosen.

Z hadn't been pleased. Understatement. He'd been fucking pissed off.

That left Cullen's ass hanging out now. So this friend of Antonio's better be the best trainee he'd ever seen—and fit well into the Shadowlands—or she'd better cry off quickly. I know which I'd prefer. In fact, he might just help her along a bit. With a little work on his part, she might decide the club didn't suit her.

The woman stepped into the clubroom and stopped, probably letting her eyes adjust to the dim, candlelike light cast by the wrought-iron sconces. After a second, she strode forward.

Tall, muscular woman. She reminded him of a pain-slut sub he'd partied with; the memory wasn't a fond one. He leaned an arm on his bartop and watched her approach. Tight latex pants—very nice over those long legs. Light brown hair coiled tightly on top of her head in a don't-touch-me style. Subtle makeup. Only a small crucifix for jewelry. The calf-high stiletto boots shouted “Domme,” as did the long-sleeved biker jacket. Arrogant posture, chin up.