Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(3)

“You never did tell me what happened.” Damn psychologist waited silently.

His tricks didn’t work on her. “No, I didn’t, did I?”

He huffed an easy laugh. “All right, Anne.” In the dim light of the wall sconces, his lean face showed only mild concern. “If your lack of interest in the available submissives isn’t due to your breakup, then have your interests changed?”

Changed. She rather despised that word. “Of course not.” Her eyes closed again. “The puppies just don’t seem particularly satisfying.” And some of them wanted more than she wanted to give.

“I see. Perhaps a different type of submissive might suit you better.”

Doubtful. She glanced at her watch. “I didn’t see you earlier. Did you just get here?”

“I’m running late, yes. Jessica worked overtime and was overtired when she arrived home.”

Oh, not good. Z’s wife was very, very pregnant. “Is she having problems?”

“She’s fine. I gave her a backrub and tucked her in.” He shook his head. “She’s the only person I know who finds enjoyment in IRS forms.”

Relieved, Anne relaxed. “Well, she is an accountant.” And due to deliver sometime in the next couple of weeks. Sooner would be good since Anne had picked a March date and “girl” in the Shadowlands’ betting pool.

“Indeed. A less dangerous job than some…like picking up bail fugitives.” He regarded her. “Ben said you were hurting.”

“Not so much at the moment.” Probably because she’d downed two pain pills an hour earlier. She lifted her glass and drained it. “Does your guard dog report everything?”

He tilted his head. “Actually, he acted more like your guard dog. He was worried about you, Anne.”

“Oh.” Why that should stop her brain for a second, she didn’t know. Then again, her brain wasn’t processing well. And the glass she held seemed exceedingly heavy.

Z rose and plucked it from her fingers.

“Hey.”

To her surprise, he sat down beside her on the couch and tilted her head. “Look at me, please.”

The command—that of a Dom—held a punch she could resist fairly easily. But his politeness? She couldn’t ever be rude to him. She met his gaze.

He studied her for a minute. “What did you take?”

“You’re such a psychologist. I took a couple of pain pills. After I finished monitoring.”

“Anne, I never doubted otherwise.” His easy agreement let her relax. “However, you’re in no shape to drive home.”

“Not your decision.” Planning to push his hand away, she lifted her arm…and felt as if she was moving through Jell-O. “Oh hell. I hate when you’re right.”

“It does get annoying, doesn’t it?”

“Would you have someone call a taxi, please?”

“No. But I will have someone drive you home…and escort you safely into your house.”

She eyed him. “Jessica has to put up with your overprotectiveness. I don’t.”

“Actually”—he turned her head to one side and examined the graze on her cheekbone— “this time you do.”





Ben Haugen had been to Anne’s house before when he chauffeured her and her friends to a bachelorette party last winter. It was on the barrier island of Clearwater Beach and down a quiet cul-de-sac.

As Ben walked around his car, he could see past Anne’s cottage-style house to the ocean beyond. How could she afford a beach house on a bounty hunter’s salary?

When he opened the passenger door, the interior light showed she was still asleep in the tipped-back seat. She’d miscalculated the effect of alcohol on pain pills, Z had said. Ben had made that mistake a time or two.

Her dark brown hair, which she’d worn braided back in a severe style, had come undone. The loose tendrils softened her aristocratic face. She wasn’t a small woman—maybe five-eight—but beautifully formed, with small breasts and a tight, rounded ass. A darkening bruise marred the sculpted beauty of her right cheekbone.

God f*cking dammit, he’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

“Mistress Anne.” He unfastened her seatbelt. Hell, she wasn’t budging. With a grunt of exasperation, he checked the purse that Z had retrieved from her locker. Her house keys were clipped to the strap. “I hope you don’t have a dog, woman, or you’ll have a real bouncy ride.” He set the purse in her lap and plucked her off the seat.

She was heavier than he expected. Undoubtedly had more muscles than the last woman he’d lifted. He kicked the car door shut and carried her up to the cottage.

After unlocking the door, he opened it cautiously. No dog. Anne snoozed against his shoulder as he walked through the foyer, took a guess, and headed up the stairs. An opened door revealed the master bedroom—or would that be called the mistress bedroom? Using his elbow, he flipped on the light switch.

A chandelier came to life revealing icy blue walls. A glass-fronted fireplace with an ornate mirror over the mantel. A canopied bed with a ruffled floral bedspread. A white couch with fancy legs in front of a wall of windows. All blue and white, like an airy summer garden, it was the most feminine room he’d ever seen.