"Ha-ha, true," Martindale agreed. "Now, here we are. I'll leave you in Ms. Casper's hands. Karina, when you're done, pick up the phone here to let security know."

"Yes, Mr. Martindale," I said, wondering if I should curtsy. I didn't. He gave me a little wave good-bye and then left.

The lights were already on full brightness as we stepped into the first gallery.

I took a deep breath, preparing to launch into a speech about the founding of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, but he stopped me before I could start.

"Karina Casper," he said. "May I call you Karina? You can call me Damon instead of Mr. George."

"Um, sure." I tried to guess his age. Thirty, maybe? "Is there something in particular you want to know about the Pre-Raphaelites?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I merely wish to commune with the art." He clucked his tongue and walked down the first row of paintings, the two women trailing behind him like obedient pets.

Given that they reminded me of the people I'd seen and met at that kinky ball, I wondered if they were under an order of silence.

Maybe I was too after that comment about communing with the art. He was clearly as arrogant as they came. I reminded myself that he was a major donor and kissing his ass was my job.

So I followed along like one of his pets. He said nothing until we came to the famous image of Ophelia drowning herself. "Surely you see that this painting is about violence against women," he said. "How dare they show it in public?"

I nearly rose to the bait, except that it was so obvious he was saying something outrageous to get a rise out of me, and I didn't want to give him that satisfaction. "Our mission is to preserve and display the art," I said in my best tour guide voice. "Not to condone any particular interpretation of it. Any work of great art will have multiple interpretations. In fact, I'd say the greater the art, the more interpretations there will be."

He sniggered. "Very politically correct, my dear."

What wouldn't have been politic would be to say what I was really thinking, which is that I didn't give a damn what his opinions were on art. Or anything. Arrogant prick. But I gave him my "waitress" smile and we moved on. He didn't linger over many of the paintings, skimming along until we came to the final gallery.

"Now, here are the really sexy ones," he said, opening his arms wide as if he were going to give the nudes of Andromeda a hug.

I should have known those would be his favorite paintings. Andromeda was the only nude in the whole exhibit. Depicted in three large paintings by Burne-Jones, Andromeda is rescued by Perseus from the sea serpent that is about to eat her. In the first, there's a kind of love-at-first-sight moment, where she's naked against the rocks and he takes off his helmet to look at her. In the second, we see her back turned while Perseus wrestles with the black coils of the sea serpent. In the last, she is clothed and they are bending over a font together so Perseus may show her the head of Medusa in the reflection.

It struck me suddenly that Andromeda's dress in the final painting was strikingly similar to the one worn by the Beggar Maid. I stepped closer to examine it.

"You have it backward, you know," Damon said, stepping close and talking quietly into my ear, the way you would if the gallery were crowded with people. Since it wasn't, I stepped aside, but he kept going. "You read it right to left, but the real story is the other direction."

"What are you talking about?" I frowned, wondering what nonsense he was spouting this time. Was he trying to get a rise out of me again? "It follows the mythical tale."

"Ah, but that's the thing. You're supposed to see it as the great and mighty Perseus is tamed and domesticated by the beautiful girl. The first thing he does? Uncover his head, then cut off the head of a snake, and then in the end show her how safe and tame the snake-head of Medusa is. In other words, he emasculates himself for her-the snake, the head, and the sword all being phallic symbols."

"So? That's still reading it left to right."

"I know. That was the acceptable story to Victorians. But the real story is the other way. It's that he begins tame, fools her into thinking he's safe, and by the end is about to put his helmet on and ravish her."

"That's ridiculous."

"Ancient Greek was read from right to left, not left to right," he said smugly.

I racked my brain, trying to remember everything I knew about the paintings. I was fairly sure that Burne-Jones had painted three or four more of Perseus, and if only I knew the dates I could probably prove him wrong, but since these hadn't figured into my thesis, I didn't know the dates off the top of my head. "How do you know so much about Greek culture anyway?"

He laughed and turned to face me in front of the painting. "Don't you think there's a resemblance?"

The crazy thing is, there was. He could have been Perseus come to life, but with a much more annoying smirk. I still didn't make the connection, though.

"George is anglicized from Georgiades," he said. "So let's just say...I know my Greek."

Fine. "A very interesting theory, Mr. Georgiades."

"Damon, please." His eyebrow arched with mischief, and I knew he was about to say something else designed to get a rise out of me. "I only enjoy formality with those I'm fucking."

I knew it. Well, if he thought he was going to shock me, he was wrong. "Is that why your companions don't speak?" I asked. "And don't have names?"

His grin widened with delight. "You're very perceptive, Karina! I wouldn't have guessed you for the type, but then...people never do. I suppose you went through the whole slap and tickle nightclub scene in New York?"

"No," I said coldly. "Not really."

"Hmm." He merely gave me a nod and then turned back to the painting behind him.

He snapped his fingers, and the two women fell into a sudden embrace, kissing each other. I took a step back.

"You're welcome to stay and watch, Karina, but if it's too much for you, all I ask for is, oh, about seven minutes of privacy."

"Are you kidding me? I can't leave you alone with these paintings!" That was a much more shocking idea than that he had two sex slaves following him around. Oh. It dawned on me then that he'd brought them to the gallery specifically to get off. No wonder he paid a huge sum to have a private, after-hours viewing of the art.

"Even if I promise we won't touch them?" At the word touch, he rubbed the length of his cock through his trousers.

I wasn't about to let that distract me. "I'm sorry, Mr. George, but I don't know you well enough to trust your promise. Just because you're rich doesn't mean you're honorable."

He bowed his head. "All too true. I suppose you'll have to stay, then." Before I could argue further, he snapped his fingers again and said, "Present."

The two women disengaged instantly and struck poses with almost military precision, feet apart, hands behind their backs, thrusting their chests forward. Damon circled them, examining their bodies first with his eyes, then running his hands over the breasts of one, feeling the hardness of her nipples where they stood out against her blouse. He then ran his hand down the other one's mound and hiked up her skirt. From where I was standing behind them I couldn't quite see, but I was betting she had no panties on. She made a sound as-I guessed-he put his finger inside her.

"So ripe, so ready," he murmured, as he lifted his hand to her face. She licked his finger.

He stood facing me then, one hand up the skirt of each woman. They struggled to stay silent as he played with their privates. I remembered struggling like that, trying to hide the fact that James was getting me off under a restaurant table. Damon's grin was wicked, his eyes locked on me as he tormented and pleasured the two women. I couldn't help but try to guess what he was doing. When one of them stifled a yelp, had he pinched her clit? Put a second finger into her? When the other bent her knees to steady herself and caught her breath, was she close to coming? I could hear the wet sucking sound of one of his hands penetrating her over and over.

I tried not to move, but I wanted to press my own legs together and tamp down the arousal I was feeling at the sight.

Both women were barely staying balanced on their high heels as they shook with desire. I wondered if he was going to get them off right there in front of me.

No, he was crueler than that. He cleared his throat, pulled his hands free, and held them out for the women to lick clean. As their tongues went to work, he said, "We have scandalized Karina enough. I'll finish with you two in the car. To the ladies' washroom with you now. Neaten up, and no touching each other."

He snapped his fingers again, and the two flushed, panting women straightened up, neatened their clothes, and then sauntered off toward the restroom, one of them smirking with glee.

Damon turned to me. "You look much more intrigued than scandalized, actually, Karina."

I tried to arrange a properly offended look on my face, but failed.

"Were you aroused by what you saw? Or by the idea of it?" he asked.

I was aroused by the memory of James touching me that way, I thought. That was all. "Mr. George," I said. "What are you getting at?"

He grinned. "So formal. I told you I only like to be formal with those I'm fucking. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were flirting with me."

He was infuriating. I was about to tell him to fuck off when he reached into his jacket. He pulled out a business card from the inner pocket, but that wasn't all. With the card was a red satin glove.

I stared at it. The Crimson Glove Society? Was that what Renault had called the secret group of rich kinksters James was part of? James had told me they had started in the UK. Damon tucked the glove away and handed me the card.

All that was printed on it was a phone number. Dej vu. It was exactly like the card James had given me once with his own number on the back.

I held the card between two fingers and sneered. "And I suppose you expect me to call you when I can't stand it anymore and need Daddy to come spank me?"

"Oh no, Karina. That's not my number. That's a much more intriguing proposition."

I looked at him skeptically.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged, as if trying to take his arrogance down a notch. "It's a private club here in London. I'm a recruiter of sorts."

"You recruit new members?"

He huffed a little laugh. "Not members. S-type trainees."

"S-types?"

"Slaves, servants, submissives," he said with a small smile. "There's a training program. The two women with me? They're trainees, nearly ready to graduate into full service at the club."

My mind raced. It was one more lead, one more thing that could take me to James. That night after he'd kicked me out, who did he turn to? Lucinda? Some other acquaintance at the party? And if he was here in England, which seemed certain to me, whether he was looking for a new Cinderella or trying to forget the old one, wouldn't the Crimson Glove Society be where he'd go?

I took a deep breath. "Are you inviting me to...to become a trainee?"

He seemed very serious now, very sober and unlike the cocky playboy he had been. "I am inviting you to entertain the idea. If you'd like to talk with these two about their experiences, I'll give them permission to. If you are interested after that, I will sponsor you for training."

"And if I call this number and say, 'Damon sent me,' what happens?"

"You'll be interviewed and auditioned. There are no guarantees you'd be accepted, of course, but I am intrigued. Intrigued enough that I would also consider training you personally to prep you for the audition..." A hint of that cocksure tone crept back into his voice. "If you were interested."

The sound of two pairs of high heels clicking reached my ears. His companions were returning.

"I'm really not interested in you personally, Damon," I said, "but I am intrigued by the club."

"Good. Did you want to talk to them?" He gestured to the women.

"That seems like a good idea."

"If you're free now, I think you should go for coffee."

"Right now? I thought you were about to, um..."

He laughed. "I know what you thought. You thought if I couldn't fuck them right here in the gallery, I was going to do it the second we got into the limo. It's tempting, of course. But part of being a handler is not giving in to temptation. Or, at least, knowing when to. I see a much greater opportunity in front of me here, to bring you into our midst."

"Oh?"

"And then maybe in the future I'll get to fuck all three of you here in the gallery and in the back of the car. Who knows?" The mischievous grin was back. "I am willing to raise the stakes on my bet."

Part of me was saying "no way, buddy," but the offer was intriguing as a way to search for James...And maybe it was time to find out if what I was craving in James's absence was really James, or just the sexual domination he'd addicted me to. "All right, fine. The girls and I will have coffee, and you should go have a cold shower or whatever it is you do."

He laughed a delighted laugh. "Excellent. Call the guard to lock up and we'll get out of here."

The two women were named Nadia and Juniper, who told me to call her Juney. I would have bet money on them being Scandinavian fashion models or something, but once they started talking, they magically transformed into hardworking women from Manchester. Damon ensconced us in a booth at the very back of a dimly lit cafe and then left us alone.

"He's trying to recruit you. Exciting!" Juney enthused.

"Is it? I mean, tell me about this training program. How long have you been doing it?"

"About six months for me. Nadia, you?"

"Around eight," the brunette said. "That doesn't count the first three months with Damon, though."

"So you took him up on the-how did he put it-personal training offer first?" I asked.

"Well, more like we had a wild fling for three months, at the end of which he foisted me onto the club," she said with a chuckle. "Being with him for three months was fun. Training for the club is more exciting, though."

"Is it? What sorts of things do you have to do?"

"Well, it starts with basic stuff like waitressing at the club itself," Nadia said.

"I should be able to breeze through that..."

"Some trainees provide specialty services, like massage or barbering."

Juney slapped her lightly on the shoulder. "She doesn't want to hear about the boring stuff. She wants to hear about the S-E-X." She leaned forward and cradled her coffee mug. "The sex is amayyyyyy-zing."

"Okay, that's what I'm trying to figure out though." I leaned forward myself. "Are you getting paid for this? Is it...prostitution?"

They both laughed like I was being ridiculous. "The whole point is that we aren't paid," Juney said, "because if we were, it would be. We're doing it because it's exciting and fun and a fantastic way to meet ridiculously rich men."

"And women," Nadia added. "Maybe once upon a time the club members were gentlemen, but these days, it's equal opportunity for tops and trainees. We're the eye candy at the club and the practice dummies for tops in training, too. Kinky rich people need play partners who aren't always other kinky rich people, or it gets complicated."

"But then sometimes you want it to get complicated," Juney said. "I know I'm kinky as fuck, but I've had it with the dumb-ass doms at the nightclubs. They don't know how to treat a submissive right. And the online dating thing? Ugh. They look real kinky online, but then you meet them and it's the same old thing. They want to spank you a couple of times and then: 'Hey dearie, make me a sandwich so I can watch Manchester United on the telly.'"

"Wait, so, you won't make your boyfriend a sandwich, but you don't mind waitressing for rich people?"

Juney rolled her eyes. "It's not the same. Nadi, you explain it."

Nadia cleared her throat and took a sip of her tea. "Training has some specific steps. You have to learn general service, a specialty skill, and show progress in sexual uses. But there are rules."

"I assume everyone's sworn to secrecy?"

"Naturally. What I mean is there are rules regarding what they can and can't do to trainees." Nadia glanced around before continuing. "Some are obvious. I mean, they can't hurt you or make any permanent marks, for example."

"The big one, though, is you get to pick something you won't do," Juney said, eyes alight. "So, you know, if you're afraid of fire you could say no fire play."