Sylvie sat in the dark staring out the window at the city lights. It was after midnight. How long had she been here? Hours? Thoughts spun wildly in her head, bouncing and crashing in her brain. All her neurons were firing at once, electrical impulses coursing through every muscle, every nerve. Her body trembled as despair consumed her. She was imploding, her world fragmenting, and there was nothing she could do to hold it together. Nothing made sense any more. She fingered the pictures in her lap. She wanted to burn them, turn them to ash. The day her Mom died had been the worst day of her life. But this, this was the second worst. It was her own damn fault. Sometimes curiosity killed the cat!
Finally caught up with work, Sylvie decided to spend some time researching her inscrutable boss. She figured if her technologically challenged relatives, most of whom still used a dial-up connection to surf the web, could unearth information about Connor on the Internet, so could she. That had been a mistake of gargantuan proportions! Connor had steadfastly refused to tell her much about his past, keeping it a well-guarded secret, rebuffing her every time she asked. That alone should have set off warning bells, but it hadn’t. She’d been so naïve! Sylvie had slept in the same bed with the man for nearly two months. She allowed him inside her body! She should at least have some idea what kind of man he was! Sylvie had let her emotions trump her common sense when it came to Connor. Utterly enamored and enthralled with him, she hadn’t dug into his background until today. If he wouldn’t volunteer the information, she’d find out on her own!
She’d always known Connor lived a luxurious, privileged lifestyle, surrounding himself with all the trappings of wealth. How could she not have noticed! The $130,000 Maserati, $120,000 Porsche, and $30,000 Rolex were hard to miss! At the same time, Connor fancied himself a rugged outdoorsman, spending his leisure time hiking, canoeing, camping, hunting, and fishing; even cross-country skiing and snowshoeing in the winter. Though his closets in the city were filled with expensive suits and handmade dress shirts, when he was in Saranac he was a completely different person. At least sartorially. There, Connor dressed like a lumberjack. All he lacked was an ax and a chainsaw! He lived in worn, faded jeans and tee shirts most days and kept his closet filled with plaid, flannel shirts and fleece jackets from Orvis, L.L. Bean, and Eddie Bauer.
The man who resided in the mountains was far removed and far different from the one occupying this Manhattan tower. Connor wasn’t the warm, fuzzy, cuddly type. It just wasn’t in his nature. He was stern and demanding, a cold fish by most people’s standards. But he’d created a warm and inviting atmosphere in his mountain retreat. This place was cold and austere by comparison. She had no idea what the insides of his other homes looked like.
Her sister Sara had mentioned the ones in St. Lucia, France, and Fiji, but Sylvie discovered there were even more. A log manse on a mountain in Telluride, Colorado. A chalet in Switzerland. A townhouse in London. An estate in Beverly Hills. And a villa on the Amalfi Coast in Italy. There was also a summer home in the Hamptons. He’d never mentioned any of those places to her. Was it possible that the multimillion dollar properties just slipped his mind? Not likely. He had a mind like a steel trap. He just didn’t want her to know about them. But why?
Wild scenarios played out in her head, arousing both jealousy and suspicion. Why did he need so many damn houses? He could only live in one at a time! That begged the question: who was living in the others? Sylvie was ensconced in the NYC penthouse and available for wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sex anytime Connor showed up in the city. Were there women with similar arrangements living in the townhouse in London or the villa in France? What about his other homes? Were they inhabited by assistants/mistresses at his beck and call too? Women just like Sylvie, pining and biding their time till they could see him again. Connor was a stickler for honesty. It was number 4 on his rules list. There was to be no lying, cheating, or manipulation in their relationship. And no sins of omission! Connor believed withholding information was akin to lying. By her count, he’d committed nine sins of omission: one for every house he hadn’t told her about. She wondered what else he’d neglected to tell her? Was he breaking rule 7 too? He vowed to be faithful, promising he’d never be with another woman as long as he was with Sylvie. But was he really? Did she trust him? The fact that he hadn’t traveled anywhere without her since she’d started working for him was reassuring…to a point. The rational part of her knew that wealthy people often had several homes scattered around the world: in places they did business, where they summered or vacationed, or as investments. Just because he owned a lot of prime real estate didn’t mean he was cheating on her. Still, she wasn’t convinced.
Sylvie knew Connor had a talent for making money. Lots and lots and lots of money! He was on the list of the 100 wealthiest people in the world. She’d known he was a billionaire, but not 20 times over. That kind of wealth was obscene! No wonder he was so insufferably arrogant. It was easy to lose your moral compass when you could just about buy and sell everything and everyone on the planet. It made you feel in complete control, invincible, almost godlike. But money can’t buy you everything. It can’t buy you peace of mind. Right now there was a killer running loose who was proving that Connor was neither invincible nor in control.
Sylvie was well aware that Connor was incredibly intelligent, aggravatingly pompous and overbearing, fiercely competitive, and aggressive to the point of being belligerent and combative. Connor was a predator with the instincts of a shark. If he smelled blood in the water, or sensed weakness of any kind, he moved in for the kill. He was ruthless when it came to business. But she hadn’t realized how much until she saw the newspaper articles on the web talking about the hostile corporate takeovers he’d orchestrated. How he’d gobbled up company after company for his own ends. His ‘take no prisoners’ style of expanding into markets had forced numerous, smaller, companies out of business; resulting in thousands of workers being laid off. These weren’t isolated instances either. It was a pattern of behavior she found reprehensible. It was morally wrong on so many levels to make money on the misfortune of others. She had never thought of Connor as greedy or coldhearted. But the facts were the facts. It seemed she didn’t know him well at all.
At first, Sylvie felt guilty snooping into his life. It was what cyber-stalkers did. Anonymous trolls with no lives of their own, who spend their time picking through someone else’s; scouring the web for factoids; seeking out gossip and innuendo; searching for any hint of scandal or wrongdoing in their quest to unearth secrets with which to feed their obsession. Sylvie would hate it if someone did it to her. But they wouldn’t have to. Sylvie wasn’t hiding anything. She’d told Connor everything about herself, while he’d told her nothing in return. He didn’t want to talk about his past. When she asked about his childhood, his family, old girlfriends, or his businesses, he’d either abruptly change the subject or ignore the question completely. If she pressed him, he’d get surly and uncommunicative.
She’d been surprised to learn that Connor was considered a preeminent philanthropist, donating millions every year to charities and good works around the globe. She’d seen the awards on display in both houses, but she hadn’t realized the extent of his philanthropy before. He sat on the board of numerous national and international charitable organizations and foundations. And the Byron and Elizabeth Hudson Foundation, which he’d named for his late parents, currently funded clean water and anti-hunger projects throughout the third world. OK, so he wasn’t a complete jerk! If he’d sell those other frigging houses he’d have even more money to give to charity. Then he’d be even less of a jerk…at least in her book. To the poor bastards he’d laid off, however, he’d still be a greedy heartless prick!
She was shocked when she did a Google search of his name. There were 28 pages devoted just to him! When she clicked on ‘images of Connor Hudson’ she couldn’t believe her eyes. There were hundreds of pictures of him. Connor dressed in tuxes. Exiting and entering limousines. Escorting some of the most beautiful women on the planet. He’d been photographed in castles, on yachts, and under swaying palms in exotic locales. There were pictures of him at fancy benefits, movie premieres, book launches, at parties, and out on the town.
Sylvie set to work trying to identify the various women in the photos. There was the expected assortment of drop-dead gorgeous actresses and models, wealthy heiresses and even European nobility. Some she recognized from TV, movies, magazines, or the tabloids. She nearly gagged when she saw all the pictures of Seanna, Caris, Deidre, and Bethany hanging on him at various events. Like bitches in heat! She was surprised at the number of times he’d gone out with each of them. She gave him credit for better taste. Sure they were pretty…but Christ! There had to be 50 pictures of Seanna alone, always dressed to the nines, posing for the paparazzi with him. Sylvie couldn’t stand her, but had to admit she was one foxy lady. She looked right at home in the spotlight. It was like she was born to it: so poised and self-confident. Sylvie found 30 of Deidre and him. The first one taken in 2009. And there were maybe 15 to 20 each of Caris and Bethany acting as his arm candy. They were newcomers. The earliest photos of them were taken in 2010. From the number of pictures floating around in cyberspace, you’d think that Connor was a movie or rock superstar, or a freewheeling society gadabout, rather than someone who prefers to avoid the spotlight. For the most part, when Connor went out, he appeared to stick with his own kind, socializing with the rich and famous, the moneyed classes.
Sylvie’s research led her to question some things she knew about the murders. She’d found pictures of Seanna with Connor and his friends taken in 2007, before Marisol’s death. Seanna was British and didn’t come to the States until 2003, three years after Connor’s parents died in the fire. The cops were of the opinion that his parents were the killer’s first victims. But what if they weren’t? What if the arson in 2000 and the subsequent murders weren’t related? What if the killings actually started with Marisol in 2008? The cops seemed convinced the killer was a man. But why? It could just as easily be a woman. Marisol’s rape could have been staged to confound and mislead the police. They’d found no forensic evidence, no DNA, at the scene. Who’s to say she wasn’t raped with an object? Just to make the police think it was a man. Hadn’t she seen that on an episode of CSI or Law and Order Special Victims Unit? Murdering women Connor was romantically involved with seemed like the work of a jealous rival. Something a woman would do! Seanna might be a miserable bitch, but was she really capable of murder? It was a big step to go from ‘cunt’ to ‘killer.’
The other thing Sylvie found puzzling was that Seanna and Deidre hadn’t been targeted by the killer. Neither had Caris or Bethany for that matter. Connor had dated and bedded them all at one time or another. Why hadn’t the murderer gone after them as well? It seemed odd that the killer would focus only on women Connor was romantically involved with, but hadn’t known very long, while bypassing those he’d been seeing and sleeping with for years. The only way it made sense was if the killer knew that Seanna and her cohorts meant nothing to Connor…other than a convenient place to park his prick when nothing better was available. That would mean the killer was someone who knew Connor well, someone close to him.
Just as Ernestine Shaw had done, Sylvie managed to track down pictures of every one of Connor’s deceased girlfriends. And the newspaper articles about their murders. They were all comely blondes, except for Marisol. She was tall and dark, with a long, thick mane of wavy black hair and a curvaceous figure. Marisol was, in a word…stunning. Hands down, she was the most beautiful woman Sylvie had ever seen…anywhere. The camera loved her!
Marisol wasn’t anything like what Sylvie had imagined. She’d assumed Marisol was a bimbo like Seanna and the others: trading on her looks, a parasite that lived off the generosity of wealthy men. Nothing could be further from the truth. She was one of the top real estate agents in the city the year she died. A millionaire in her own right. Marisol was not the shy and retiring type. She was ambitious, aggressive, and ruthless when it came to outwitting and vanquishing her competitors. Sylvie found several articles written about her meteoric rise to the top of the cutthroat Manhattan high-end real estate market. No small feat for a girl in her early twenties. A term frequently used to describe her was ‘driven.’ Many of the stories were anything but flattering. They inferred that Marisol’s success had been achieved by climbing over her co-workers and crushing her rivals. She was described as a hard-headed ball-buster: demanding, overbearing, cold, and calculating. Hardly qualities that would attract someone like Connor…a dominant! He liked feminine, submissive, dependent women who wouldn’t dare challenge his authority. That didn’t describe Marisol. Just by the way she stood, staring into the lens of the camera, you could sense she had the bearing of a woman used to getting her own way, who was comfortable in her own skin. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and determination. Her smile was serene yet smug.
What really bothered Sylvie was the way Connor looked in the photos: like the cat that ate the canary! He was holding Marisol like they were joined at the hip in every single picture. She noticed that his fingers were splayed in each photo: covering and caressing her shoulder, or her trim waist and belly, or the curve of her hip. It was a gesture both intimate and possessive. His stance and body language gave the appearance of authority and control. His look was self-satisfied and superior, cocky and proud. It was as though he were showing this gorgeous creature off to the rabble, and warning them…look but don’t touch! That she was his and his alone.
Sylvie had stared at the pictures and cried. Marisol was a knockout! The kind of woman who stopped traffic. Who everyone turned to look at when she entered a room. The center of attention wherever she went. How could Sylvie compete with that? If Sylvie felt inadequate before, after seeing pictures of Marisol, she felt downright hideous. Her self-confidence was taking a hell of a beating. It was at an all-time low.
Sylvie kept reminding herself that she had no reason to dislike or obsess about the woman. They were not competing for Connor’s affection. Marisol couldn’t…she was dead! Yet she still held sway over him. Sylvie had read the announcement of their engagement in the Times. The bride-to-be looked radiant in the picture that accompanied it. Unfortunately, her happiness was short-lived. Less than a month later, she was dead. She’d read accounts of the murder in various newspapers and watched archived clips from the nightly news. They all called the killing horrific and savage. But words paled in comparison to the truth. According to the investigators, Marisol had been butchered. She was repeatedly raped and tortured; then stabbed numerous times, her body mutilated. She’d read the obituaries and seen pictures of Connor taken outside the church where the funeral service was held. He looked devastated, absolutely heartbroken.
Connor had told her that he’d never loved anyone. That he was incapable of that emotion. He was lying…to Sylvie; but most of all, he was lying to himself. Marisol, she suspected, was the love of his life. There was no room left in his heart for Sylvie. As hard as it was to face, that was the truth of the matter.
Something about the pictures seemed familiar. At first she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Then it dawned on her. It was the beauty mark on the left side of Marisol’s upper lip! Sam, the heroine in Connor’s book, had one exactly like it. The more she looked at the pictures, the more Sylvie realized that Connor had based Sam’s appearance on Marisol. In the book, Samantha was an innocent, demure little thing who fell under the spell of Elias, the dominant hero of the story. The first book had been erotic, but not really kinky; the second book, however, was another story. The sex in that book was darker and fixated on bondage and discipline. Sam sported blindfolds and slave or spiked dog collars; was suspended from hooks hanging down from the ceiling; and flogged while tied down on a punishment bench. She was violated by dildos and wore remote control vibrators and a variety of plugs that kept her both exceedingly aroused and in agonizing discomfort. When she was editing the book Sylvie had to keep reminding herself that the sex being described was consensual. Sometimes it was so intense that she couldn’t help thinking the fictional Samantha was not only the victim of a rapist/murderer, but a sadistic lover as well.
Sylvie spent an hour searching through the books for physical descriptions of the characters. When she was finished she was convinced that the Sam character was based on Marisol and Elias on Connor. It was becoming clear to her that the book was the story of their love affair. It had completely escaped her until today that Elias was Connor. He had the same dark, curly hair; brown eyes; tall, well-muscled body; wealth; and predilection for dominance. She hadn’t put two and two together until she’d seen the images of Marisol.
She’d shuddered at the thought that Connor and Elias were one and the same. Elias was cruel and sadistic at times. He enjoyed punishing and humiliating Sam, bending her to his will, subjugating her completely. In the book Elias is totally obsessed with Sam. His love so fierce and all-consuming, it’s smothering. Pathologically jealous, he can’t bear to have Sam out of his sight and keeps her isolated under the guise of protecting her. Determined to control and possess her, he obsesses over every aspect of her life. Sylvie found it frightening to think the darkness in Elias was a reflection of Connor’s deepest desires. More frightening still was the knowledge that the object of those desires, the woman he loved so passionately, was someone else…Marisol.
Perhaps it was because, like Sam in the story, Marisol willingly submitted to the indignities and humiliations Connor forced her to endure. All the sick horrible things he’d written about and done to her in the book. A true submissive, Marisol accepted her master’s dominance without complaint or hesitation. Unlike Sylvie who had problems accepting the dom/sub lifestyle and all it entailed. She didn’t like being punished. She couldn’t get her head around the idea that any woman could enjoy being treated like that. If the scenes in the book were a true reflection of what Connor and Marisol’s life together had been like, it was a wonder the woman wanted to marry him at all. Who’d want to spend her life in the company of a man who clamped her nipples and used a switch on her breasts? Who’d beat her with straps not because she’d committed an offense, but simply because he enjoyed seeing her writhing and screaming in pain? Who bound her body in ropes? Who gagged and blindfolded her; and shoved things, big painful things, up her and in her? Who humiliated her for his gratification? Unless, of course, she was as sick and depraved in her sexual appetites as he was.
Sylvie had read about hard and soft limits in books and on the web. Everything he’d written about in the books was a hard limit to her. Hell would freeze over before she’d let him put a collar or use clamps on her; or parade her around on a leash. The same went for his toys, dildos, and plugs. And all his various ‘implements of correction’: the straps, paddles, canes, and other things he wanted to beat her ass with. The hairbrush was plenty bad enough! Connor could go pound salt if he thought he’d gag, blindfold, and restrain her so he could force her to do any of that shit. She loved the man, but he was a sick puppy, fucked up as hell! She couldn’t be what he wanted. Loving him was like a slippery slope and the path ahead was treacherous. If she lost her footing he’d drag her into the darkness with him, into a world she wanted no part of.
In the book Sam had a safe word, so Marisol must have had one too. But Connor was adamant that Sylvie not have one. He said she didn’t need one. That she should trust him. That he’d never push her past her physical or emotional limit. He wanted to torture her…but only a little. Well, that certainly set her mind at ease! Not! She’d read the book and seen how harsh and intense, how brutal the punishments could get. Sylvie wasn’t going to go there! Not ever! She would never allow herself to be put in a position like that, to be completely at his mercy.
There were things in the book that both troubled her and piqued her curiosity. The Elias character was a freak who loved to take pictures of his victim. Had Connor taken pictures of Marisol? If so, where was he hiding them? The only photos she’d ever seen at the other house were of his male friends, taken on their hunting and fishing trips. There’d been no pictures of his parents or of any of his lady friends. Sylvie reasoned that since he’d lived in the city at the time of Marisol’s death there might be some pictures here. She decided to look for them.
She pretty much ransacked every room in the apartment, riffling through drawers and closets, looking in cupboards and under beds. She found pictures of his parents in a desk drawer in the library. They were arranged in two leather albums put together and annotated by his Aunt Lettie. She’d inscribed a note inside the cover, telling him she knew all his family photos and memorabilia had been lost in the fire and that she hoped the photos and things she’d collected for him would bring back fond memories and help him remember happy times spent with his parents. There were snapshots she’d taken of her brother and his family over the years. Childhood pictures of Connor’s father and his grandparents. Newspaper clippings of his parents’ engagement and wedding announcements and their wedding photos. There were baby pictures of Connor as well as his birth announcement and invitations to his baptism, birthday parties, and high school graduation. Every school photo they’d ever sent her. Vacation postcards they’d sent, Christmas cards, clippings from society pages of various New York City and Long Island newspapers, and several articles about his father that appeared in alumni, trade, and local magazines. Sylvie didn’t know them, but she cried as she leafed through the pages. This was all that remained of his once happy family. Sylvie had suffered the loss of her mother and the pain and sorrow had been almost unbearable. Her mother had endured a long, slow death from cancer. Sylvie knew the end was coming and had time to prepare. If anyone can ever really be prepared for such a thing. But poor Connor! She couldn’t imagine how terrible it must have been for him to lose both parents at once and in such a sudden and horrible way. It wasn’t just his family that was taken from him, but his home too: burned to the ground. It’s not easy to recover from that kind of trauma. Connor was a tall, lean, good-looking kid. His appearance hadn’t changed much, but there was something different about him now. In the pictures he was always grinning from ear to ear, his eyes shining brightly. He looked happy and well-adjusted, normal, wholesome even. Sadly, Connor wasn’t like that anymore. His better angels had disappeared and his darker angels held sway. He was neither wholesome nor normal anymore. She couldn’t understand why he’d left such a treasure behind. Keeping it here, in a place he rarely visited, instead of at the mountain house where he could see it all the time. But perhaps that was his intent. There wasn’t a picture of his parents at the other house. She would have remembered if there had been. There wasn’t a picture of Marisol either. Maybe this was how he dealt with loss; the death of those near and dear to him. He locked them away so he wouldn’t have to think about them; so he wouldn’t have to remember.
Sylvie continued the search. She’d already checked Connor’s room twice over before she found it. Hidden away, in the side wall of his closet, was a door of sorts. It looked like the other walls, except there was no baseboard. Sylvie didn’t notice it at first. It had no knob or handle to indicate what it was. She would never have found it if she hadn’t braced herself against it to shove his suits out of the way so she could examine the back wall. She felt it move behind her. It took her a minute to figure out that it was a pocket door. Pressing her hands against it she slid it back to reveal another closet. It took her a while to find the light switch. When she flipped the switch she was shocked at the scene that greeted her. She’d found Marisol in all her glory! There were enormous photo studies of her: some in stark black and white, others in color, all framed like priceless works of art. Marisol, her head bowed in submission, blindfolded, naked, and on her knees. Images of Marisol tied up with yards and yards of thick, black rope. Trussed up like a turkey, her limbs completely immobile. There were two particularly disturbing shots that showed the woman suspended from some gleaming metal contraption. One was the front view and showed her nipples clamped and welts rising across her breasts and belly. And the other, the back view, displaying her tortured behind covered with a myriad of crisscrossing welts and dark bruises. They were supposed to be artistic renderings. In both pictures the photographer had taken care to depict his subject in light and shadows, making her appear both beautiful and wretched at the same time. Ethereal yet earthy. All Sylvie saw was degradation and humiliation. By the look of the heavy, carved wooden frames and the expensive matting, Sylvie was sure they were once openly displayed. As were most of the others. Why would Connor want people to see Marisol like this? So they could leer at her? Make lewd comments? Sylvie thought it was despicable! The framed portraits were bad, but the snapshots she found in a photo box and on three thumb drives were worse. There were pictures of Marisol tied to wooden crosses, benches, and beds. Her ass scarlet red and covered with raised welts and angry bruises. Pictures of her suspended, legs splayed wide, on a sex swing, being violated by a variety of items. She was chained and hooded; her body contorted into painful, humiliating positions, her genitalia on constant display. The worst was yet to come. There were still pictures of Connor and Marisol naked in bed, making love. From the angle it appeared that the camera had been positioned above them near the ceiling. There were also two VHS tapes, but she had no idea what was on them. It was probably just as well.
Marisol wasn’t the only one. There were pictures of other girls too. She recognized one as Tara Taylor, the second woman murdered. It was clear he’d been doing this a very long time. Evidently there’d been many women willing and eager to be his submissive sex slaves. What surprised her was the absence of any photos of Seanna and her three friends, the bimbos. Either BDSM wasn’t their thing or they were smart enough not to let him take photographs. She looked at every picture, wondering how these women could allow themselves to be degraded in this way. She certainly couldn’t.
The last thumb drive was filled with pictures and short videos of Marisol and Connor with their clothes on, acting normal. One of the videos stopped her dead in her tracks. It was taken at Christmas. Connor was making a big production of opening one of his brightly wrapped presents. Sylvie was appalled when she saw the contents. It was the antique wooden hairbrush! The very same one he used to paddle Sylvie with! It’d been a gift from Marisol! That sick son of a bitch! How could he?
Sylvie stared out over the city, tears seeping from her eyes, wondering how much longer things could continue this way. How could she love a man like Connor? There was something seriously wrong with him! There had to be. Normal people don’t beat people like he did Marisol. They don’t get turned on by inflicting pain on others. She kept telling herself that none of what she’d discovered today mattered. That Marisol and the other women were part of his past. Not his present! Sylvie couldn’t condemn him for things he did six or seven years ago or even five months ago. He hadn’t even known her then. But still….
Sylvie was frightened. She had no idea what Connor was capable of. She’d read about dominants in books and on the web. But nothing had prepared her for this. Connor seemed to believe such behavior was acceptable. Sylvie thought it perverse. She had to keep reminding herself that he’d never done any of those horrible things to her; nor even suggested it. And he’d never once taken intimate pictures of her. Not that she would have allowed it. Maybe he could control his urges…at least the worst of them. She hoped that was true.
Sometimes Sylvie wished she’d never set eyes on the bastard…never fallen in love with him…never slept with him. She’d wanted Connor and she got him. Now, she was stuck with him! Be careful what you wish for Sylvie! Things don’t always work out as planned. If only she could go back in time; turn back the clock; and turn down the frigging job! But in life, there are no do-overs. She had to find a way to deal with it. Love sucked!
