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“Miss Mason, I have a patrol car parked out back.”
“For what?”
“To save you the embarrassment of taking you into my custody on the street. But if you don’t shut
—”
“You want me to shut up? Well, I won’t. I think it’s unfair that—”
“Miss Mason, what I was going to say is if you don’t shut the front door, lock it, then accept the
Step, I won’t be able to … arrest you.”
With that, he moved towards me, dangling the handcuffs he had loosened from his belt. His smile
took on a playful wickedness.
“Don’t make me use these. Unless you want me to.”
“I … I … You’re from … They sent you?”
My anger subsided, replaced with embarrassment, then curiosity, then arousal.
“What’ll it be, Miss Mason?”
“Are you a real cop?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. This was getting interesting.
“I don’t have to answer that.”
He was standing close enough to me that I could smell his peppermint gum.
I lifted my wrists in front of me. “Well, I guess it’s time, then,” I said. “I accept the Step.”
If a cop could be balletic, that is the word I’d use to describe how he deftly turned me around,
secured my arms behind my back and locked my wrists together in his snug cuffs. He put his mouth
next to my ear.
“Where are the store keys?” he whispered.
A hot shiver snaked down my back. So this is what it felt like to be restrained. Frankly, it was not
only one of my fears, it was also one of my darkest fantasies. I was beginning to see a pattern. First,
conquering the water, now this.
“Aren’t we staying here?”
“’Fraid not, ma’am. I’m taking you down to the station.”
I looked at my plain cotton housedress, perfect for errands and cleaning but not for seduction. Not
looking my best prior to having sex? Also a fear. Damn them.
“Am I … dressed for the station?”
“You’ll be the best-dressed, or undressed, one there.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Everything you want, nothing you don’t.”
Right. Good to be reminded. I felt calmer again. Then we got as far as the change room area and I
suddenly stopped moving, my feet welded to the painted concrete. “Wait!”
“Courage, Dauphine,” he said, his hand gently nudging my back.
“No. I need my purse.”
He exhaled.
“Where is it?”
“Under the counter,” I said, tilting my chin to indicate. “Thank you.”
I was struck by the oddity of the picture—this tall, masculine image of justice returning with my
coral leather hobo bag.
The air in the alley was cool, the night still. He locked the front and back doors of my store and
then ducked me into the back seat of his dark vehicle, hand on my head, and tucked my purse in next to
me.
“Thank you kindly. You’re a gentleman.”