said he could think of no one better to bring the theatre to life again. Was he wrong? He told me you were an actress. He must have thought you would enjoy—”
“Of course I would enjoy it,” she said through a constricted throat. Isabel swallowed thickly and tried to get a hold of herself. The perfect theatre was magnificent—she felt as if she stood in the middle of a priceless jewel. But it was Margaret’s admission that Lord Delraven himself had suggested this treat especially for her that had truly left her speechless.
“Why…why didn’t he make this generous offer in person?” she asked in a thin voice.
“Lord Delraven?” Margaret clarified as she walked toward her. “Oh, he’s very busy. He has a vast number of business and personal concerns.”
“Oh yes, I see.”
She couldn’t quite put her finger on how Margaret’s words made her feel. Or she could, but the hurt that swept through her at that moment made no sense whatsoever, so Isabel chose to interpret the emotion as bewilderment.
Why should she care if the man who was holding her prisoner refused to offer the magnificent gift personally?
But even to herself, her disregard sounded hollow. She did care that Delraven kept his distance from her.
After they’d toured the small theatre, they’d had lunch poolside surrounded by exotic palms and colorful flowers. The ceiling of the pool was made of hazed glass. Once again, Isabel doubted that she was underground. She would have guessed that above the glass was a pale blue sky with puffy white clouds that occasionally sailed across the radiant orb of the sun.
She’d seen no one all day save Margaret, but again, Isabel had the impression of being observed—not by malicious eyes, but watchful, intense ones. Once, she’d seen a large shape rush through the shadows of the thick foliage surrounding the pool, and amazed herself further by suppressing the exclamation and questions that sprang to her tongue.
Later that afternoon Isabel paused and examined herself in her suite’s bathroom mirror. She’d taken off her cover-up and wore only gold hoops in her ears, a new pair of gloves—these made of a gold, thin synthetic that hugged her hands tightly—and a darling scrap of an emerald green bikini that was offered to her by a straight-faced Margaret that morning. Isabel surprised herself by putting it and the accompanying silk cover-up on without comment.
Why shouldn’t she dress as decadently as she chose? This was all just a great cosmic joke…a dream.
Wasn’t it?
Those clouds seemingly floating across a brilliant sun earlier while they were poolside and supposedly hundreds of feet belowground seemed just as unlikely as Isabel Lanscourt agreeing to wear this revealing bikini.
Her fingers trailed along her neck. She checked for the tenth time that day, but no—there was nothing visible that could explain the slight soreness she felt there.
Her pussy ached too, but in a pleasant, arousing sort of way. Or at least it was pleasant when she didn’t let herself think on the “whys” of the soreness too greatly.
She showered, washed her hair and dried off with the thick, absorbent towels provided for her—these were made of some synthetic that did not disrupt her consciousness with unwelcome, bombarding sensations. Instead, only a few whispery images struck her mind’s eye of some sort of chugging machinery, and then quickly, a hint of a bored, blonde female who smoked unfiltered Benny Hennies maneuvering fabric beneath a bobbing needle. The weak perceptions vanished as quickly as they’d come, as they often did when her fingers and palms touched new synthetics.
She walked into the closet naked.
Margaret had laid out two dozen different gloves for her on a long shelf in the closet. On a whim, she chose a pair of tight, black, wrist-length gloves with a metallic sheen. When she glanced into her empty suite and saw that Margaret had started a fire, she dressed in a light, amber silk
“Of course I would enjoy it,” she said through a constricted throat. Isabel swallowed thickly and tried to get a hold of herself. The perfect theatre was magnificent—she felt as if she stood in the middle of a priceless jewel. But it was Margaret’s admission that Lord Delraven himself had suggested this treat especially for her that had truly left her speechless.
“Why…why didn’t he make this generous offer in person?” she asked in a thin voice.
“Lord Delraven?” Margaret clarified as she walked toward her. “Oh, he’s very busy. He has a vast number of business and personal concerns.”
“Oh yes, I see.”
She couldn’t quite put her finger on how Margaret’s words made her feel. Or she could, but the hurt that swept through her at that moment made no sense whatsoever, so Isabel chose to interpret the emotion as bewilderment.
Why should she care if the man who was holding her prisoner refused to offer the magnificent gift personally?
But even to herself, her disregard sounded hollow. She did care that Delraven kept his distance from her.
After they’d toured the small theatre, they’d had lunch poolside surrounded by exotic palms and colorful flowers. The ceiling of the pool was made of hazed glass. Once again, Isabel doubted that she was underground. She would have guessed that above the glass was a pale blue sky with puffy white clouds that occasionally sailed across the radiant orb of the sun.
She’d seen no one all day save Margaret, but again, Isabel had the impression of being observed—not by malicious eyes, but watchful, intense ones. Once, she’d seen a large shape rush through the shadows of the thick foliage surrounding the pool, and amazed herself further by suppressing the exclamation and questions that sprang to her tongue.
Later that afternoon Isabel paused and examined herself in her suite’s bathroom mirror. She’d taken off her cover-up and wore only gold hoops in her ears, a new pair of gloves—these made of a gold, thin synthetic that hugged her hands tightly—and a darling scrap of an emerald green bikini that was offered to her by a straight-faced Margaret that morning. Isabel surprised herself by putting it and the accompanying silk cover-up on without comment.
Why shouldn’t she dress as decadently as she chose? This was all just a great cosmic joke…a dream.
Wasn’t it?
Those clouds seemingly floating across a brilliant sun earlier while they were poolside and supposedly hundreds of feet belowground seemed just as unlikely as Isabel Lanscourt agreeing to wear this revealing bikini.
Her fingers trailed along her neck. She checked for the tenth time that day, but no—there was nothing visible that could explain the slight soreness she felt there.
Her pussy ached too, but in a pleasant, arousing sort of way. Or at least it was pleasant when she didn’t let herself think on the “whys” of the soreness too greatly.
She showered, washed her hair and dried off with the thick, absorbent towels provided for her—these were made of some synthetic that did not disrupt her consciousness with unwelcome, bombarding sensations. Instead, only a few whispery images struck her mind’s eye of some sort of chugging machinery, and then quickly, a hint of a bored, blonde female who smoked unfiltered Benny Hennies maneuvering fabric beneath a bobbing needle. The weak perceptions vanished as quickly as they’d come, as they often did when her fingers and palms touched new synthetics.
She walked into the closet naked.
Margaret had laid out two dozen different gloves for her on a long shelf in the closet. On a whim, she chose a pair of tight, black, wrist-length gloves with a metallic sheen. When she glanced into her empty suite and saw that Margaret had started a fire, she dressed in a light, amber silk
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