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“No. I’m a mean police officer.”
“Right,” I said. “I understand.”
He has a role to play—let him, Dauphine. Trust and control.
When he settled into the driver’s seat and took off, a tiny panic set in. I knew this man wasn’t going
to hurt me, or book me, or keep me someplace I didn’t want to be, but I did not like being a passenger,
let alone being caged in like this. Yet hadn’t I also been afraid to let that beautiful man float me on my
back in the Abita River? I was so scared when we turned off the Covington Highway that day, but so
happy afterwards. That day still played out in my mind, like a bonus track. I tried to relax into my
seat, but I found myself alternating between fear and excitement, which only increased my arousal. I
started to understand the appeal of restraints.
It took only a few turns through the darkened streets of the Garden District for us to arrive at our
destination: the Mansion. The gates opened and swallowed up the car. My heart quickened; so far I
had only been to the Coach House. Then my heart sank as we slowly passed the side entrance,
heading over a slight crest to what looked like a large garage next to the kidney-shaped pool,
sparkling under the dark sky.
“No Mansion?”
“No more questions.”
A garage door slowly opened and my policeman inched the car into a spot between two other
vehicles, both fancy and expensive, though I couldn’t have named them if the officer had put a gun to
my head. He shut the engine off, exited the car and opened my back door.
“Step outside the vehicle, Miss Mason.”
I propelled myself to my feet, wrists still cuffed. He sidestepped me to close the car door, and then
pressed me up against his side. I could feel him hard against my hip.
“You’re turning me into a bad cop, Miss Mason,” he said, leaning in for a firm, insistent kiss.
I opened my mouth to his just as he pulled away.
“Are you ready for your interrogation?”
I nodded. Okay. This will work. He guided me by the arm through a door in the garage, we entered
a small, warm office. There were two steel chairs facing each other on a thick carpet, a table to the
side. The windows were covered with blackout curtains. The whole room was lit with one dim
overhead bulb. He pulled out a chair for me and I sat. He took the chair opposite me, so our knees
almost touched.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I looked around the bare, still room. Not exactly the scene of high romance, but somehow it felt
charged with sex.
“Ready when you are,” I said, leaning back in my chair, my hands shackled behind me.
“You’re being impudent.”
“Authority brings that out in me.” It was true. I decided if he wanted me to surrender, he’d have to
make me.
“Stand up, please. I want to see if you’re wearing a wire.”
“A what?” I asked, laughing.
“Stand up and let me unbutton that dress.”
He threw his cap onto the table beside us and rolled up his sleeves. I stood in front of him, chin
jutting out. His big hands went to my top button. One after the other, he released them, leaving my
dress gaping. Oh dear, my underwear did not match my bra. Why was that suddenly so tragic? It was