Mastered by the Hired Man Read online

  MASTERED BY THE HIRED MAN

  MELISSA HARLOW

  ISBN 9781615089239

  All rights reserved

  Copyright 2011 Melissa Harlow

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information:

  http://SizzlerEditions.com/Submission

  Sizzler/Submission Bondage

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  PROLOGUE

  Lenore couldn't hear her stepmother's car anymore. The old Impala's rumbling exhaust had faded away outside, until the only sound was the steady ticking of an imposing Grandfather clock in the corner of the room. She sat still on the black leather sofa and waited, looking nervously around the elaborately furnished office. The décor was overwhelmingly masculine, and it would appear that the only thing in James Acheson's life that meant anything to him was his wealth and his racehorses. Everything here looked flashy and expensive, as if this house had been designed purely as a showcase of opulence. Photos of James' horses in the winner's circles were prominently hung on polished mahogany walls. All he needed now was a huge neon sign that said I am rich. I am an important man.

  He might be important, but he was about to learn that it made no difference to her. This was bullshit. This. Being here, all of this. She wasn't a horse and he couldn't buy her.

  She could leave right now, and she knew she probably should. Go and hide in the barn at Mr. Blevens'. Hide in the hayloft, and wait for Miguel, except that Miguel wasn't going to be there anymore. He'd been fired. James Acheson had made sure that Miguel was long gone. She'd been certain once that she loved Miguel, but the more she thought about it now the more she wondered. Love didn't seem real. It was just this ... this thing. This thing that people said they wanted, this thing people endlessly searched for, this thing that people talked about like it was the most important thing on the face of the earth. It seemed more like it was something people made up, like fairy tales, something that sounds pretty and nice, but isn't real, does not exist.

  She nervously pulled at the uncomfortable outfit that she had on. A bit of a tomboy, she loathed dresses; in fact, this was the first one she'd ever really owned. She'd borrowed one to wear to the spring dance at school last year, but it was nowhere near as revealing as the short, tight thing she was now had on. This dress had been sent to her stepmother Alma's house in the mail, and Lenore had been told she must wear it. It had probably been expensive, although there wasn't much fabric to it. Now here she was all dressed up like a little whore for James Acheson's amusement. At least she was sitting; the shoes that had been sent along with the dress had the highest heels she'd ever seen. She'd had a hard time walking in, teetering unsteadily, she was secretly glad Mr. Acheson hadn't seen how clumsy and graceless she was.

  Lenore bit down sharply on her lower lip. Why was she worried about impressing James Acheson? Okay, he did have a nice house here. A gorgeous house actually. Not that it mattered, there wasn't much point in admiring it, she wouldn't be seeing it for very long. Even if she played into this game, it wasn't like she'd ever live here. Lenore had seen how Alma did. The men, the ones she tried to sponge off of, they never stuck around.

  James Acheson strolled casually into the room and sat across from her in a large wingback chair. She could see the way he appraised her, looking her over carefully, and she imagined he was no more through when he inspected a horse, as she half expected him to pry her mouth open and check her teeth.

  "My, you look stunning, so grown up in your pretty new dress. I understand that today is your eighteenth birthday?" he asked, smiling. There was a hint of graciousness in his voice, but his pale blue eyes glittered with pure, unadulterated lust. Plain and simple. He didn't look at her with kindness, or even any apparent appreciation, he almost behaved as if this whole fucked-up situation was a normal, every day occurrence.

  She nodded numbly, sure now that this must be a dream, a horrible dream that she'd wake up from, but then, really, if she was going to wake from a nightmare where would she wake up at? Her stepmother's house? Where the roof leaked and cockroaches crawled along the baseboards? Her entire life was a nightmare; this was just another bad dream in a never-ending series. Reality was the true nightmare, dreams were the only escape.

  "Happy Birthday, my dear Lenore! You do know why you're here, don't you?" he asked. He was so bold; there was no hesitation, no shame.

  She did know why she was here, but pretended otherwise, and shook her head. She wanted to hear it from his own lips, wanted to hear him explain his intentions.

  "This arrangement was made a year ago," he complained, with an impatient sigh. "I'm sure that sometime over the past twelve months that your stepmother explained this to you."

  A surge of anger bubbled inside her and she allowed it to trickle out. "She did!" Lenore finally shouted. "And I hate her, I hate you too!"

  He shrugged. "I'm sure in time that will change, or perhaps very soon you will hate me even more. You look so lovely in that dress, it seems every time I saw you before you were dressed like a boy. No more of that, from now on, no more of those ugly flannel shirts and raggedy jeans. You are a woman now, and you shall dress like one."

  "You're such a pervert," Lenore snapped. "You're nothing but a sick old creep." It wasn't possible that she could hate him more than she did at that moment. She didn't even know why she hated him; she just knew that she did. The way she dressed was a particularly irritating subject. Some of the girls in school told her that Miguel said she looked like a boy too. No matter what she did, it never seemed like Miguel cared for him the way she had for him. Lenore had been sure that once they'd had sex that Miguel would love her just like she loved him, but he hadn't.

  She'd tried more than once. The first time it hurt, the second time it was okay, but the last time had been a disaster. Miguel hadn't even cared that they weren't alone. She thought that if she didn't tell him no, if she still let him do all the things he wanted to her even though his friend and his cousin were there, well, she thought that it would show him just how much she loved him. Later, Miguel's friend Rico told everyone that she was a slut.

  James sighed. "Your stepmother is the one who's sick. She's let drugs cloud her judgment for far too long. I just happen to be a man who's been smitten with her lovely stepdaughter. I am a man who's accustomed to getting what he wants and who can afford the very best."

  She watched as he casually took a cigar out of a wooden humidor on the table beside him. "You're lucky, Lenore. If it wasn't for me who knows where you'd be right now?"

  "You paid her to bring me here, didn't you?" Lenore accused. Her stepmother had been telling her for months how lucky Lenore was that James Acheson wanted her, and what a wonderful life Lenore could have here on this ranch with him if she played her cards right. Her stepmother was obviously jealous, and Lenore had never quite understood why. It had to be the money. Maybe Alma thought that this should be her life, that Alma could live here in this pretty house with James Acheson. Well, Alma could have him, because he certainly didn't interest Lenore!

  He nodded. "I did pay her – only because it was for the best. Only to save you from becoming like Alma, to keep you from becoming what she's become."

  "I won't ever be like Alma," Lenore said bitterly. "I don't want to be here, Mr. Acheson." She took a deep breath. "I don't want to be here, and I don't want to sleep with you. Your money doesn't change that and it never will."

  "You're free to leave. I'm not sure where you have in mind to go to, but you are in no way a prisoner here. Alma was your legal guardian, but since you are eighteen she now has no further obligation to you. Quite honestly, I think she would have abandoned you years ago, had it not
been so very lucrative for her to keep you."

  "What do you mean it was lucrative for her to keep me?"

  "I paid her to care for you, after your father died. I sent her a check each month. You didn't know?"

  Her jaw went slack for a moment, but she managed to quickly compose herself and shake her head. It had been obvious for years that Alma didn't care about her, so why should she be surprised?

  Still, it was painful to face the reality that since her father died that no one had cared for her – no one had loved her or wanted her ... except possibly for Mr. James Acheson, who she suddenly looked at with renewed interest. Why had he paid Alma for so many years?

  "Of course, Alma squandered a lot of the money. Didn't give you the life you deserved, but now you are here. I can care for you properly, see to it that your needs are met. I'm aware of how you grew up. The poverty, it sickens me, it really does. Your life doesn't have to be that way any more. This isn't about money, Lenore: it's about love. I love you, and that is what I am offering you. Should you choose to stay here, and agree to marry me, things in your life will be very different."

  Marry him? Love? Was he kidding? She was still thinking about those remarks, and she began wondering how bad staying here would really be, trying to think where else she could go, when he spoke again.

  "Of course, I have strict rules that you will be required to obey should you stay here."

  Rules. She rolled her eyes. "Oh, rules ... yes, of course you do," she said sarcastically.

  "We'll go over them later," he said. "Unless," he added, gesturing towards the door, "You're planning on leaving now?"

  "What do you think I'm going to walk?" Lenore laughed. "In these shoes?" She wasn't sure what kind of game he was playing, but he had to be bluffing.

  "I'm simply telling you that you are either going to go, or you are going to stay. There's no 'maybe' – no 'for a while'. You either go now, or you will stay."

  It was now apparent that he wasn't bluffing.

  "I don't get to think it over?"

  He smiled. "I'm sure you already have. You wouldn't be here – dressed in the clothing I provided, if you hadn't already considered it. Oh, I'm sure you thought you'd come here and pretend that you were going to stay, maybe even try and steal something before you run off..." He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you are still thinking that. Let me assure you, it would not be a wise decision."

  Lenore scowled at him. "I'm not a thief."

  "Nor a virgin, so I don't imagine that you'll be terribly shocked at the services that I will require of you as my wife."

  "What a romantic thing to say. Services..." she said, without bothering to try and hide her disgust.

  He smiled. "I wasn't aware that you wanted romance. Based on the things I've heard about you, I hadn't thought you were the type of woman who wanted flowers and poetry."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I understand that you were caught with some boys this past summer."

  She glared at him, unsure what to say. It seemed that he was angry that she hadn't came here a virgin, and that mattered very little to her. She had no intention of sharing any intimacy with him.

  "Not just one, but three," he continued calmly. "Sounds like you're already a lot like your stepmother."

  "I'm not."

  "I don't know, Alma tells me you are already quite the slut."

  The remark angered her, but strangely, it also hurt to hear him say that out loud, and to think that he thought of her in that way. "Alma doesn't have a lot of room to talk, now does she?"

  "Tell me about them," Mr. Acheson said, lighting the cigar.

  "About who?"

  "Those boys you were with."

  Lenore stared at him, narrowing her eyes. "It's really none of your business."

  "It most certainly is. I live in this town, and I'm a highly respected man. I'd like to know about my future wife's sexual history."

  She giggled, unable to stop it from bubbling out, and didn't fail to notice the way her laughter caused his eyes to glaze with anger.

  "I'm not your future wife. I would never marry you," she said, still smiling, wearing it like a mask. "Even if I stayed here, even if I had nothing in this world – I'd never marry you."

  "Tell me about them!" he demanded, with no softness or amusement in his voice. He was suddenly a very frightening man.

  She sighed, trying to mask the twinge of fear she felt at his anger. "What do you want to know?"

  "What were they? I already know – but I want you to tell me."

  "What were they?" she repeated, trying to grasp what he was getting at. "I don't know. Miguel was a groomer. He took care of one of Mr. Blevens' horses. I'm not sure what..."

  "That's not what I meant," he interrupted. "They were Mexican, all three of them? Nothing but hired help."

  "Why does that matter? Do you think you're better than them because you have money?"

  "You don't think you're better than that? Screwing around with boys who are nothings, who have no prospects for a better life, no future! Do you like Mexicans?"

  "Of course! They're gorgeous," she gushed theatrically. She did like them, but James' obvious disdain encouraged her to be overly dramatic. "I love dark skin, dark eyes, black hair." She eyed his pale skin, blue eyes, and his dirty, blonde hair, that was graying at the temples. "They are exactly the kind of men I like," she said flippantly, intentionally trying to insult him. It was easier to insult him than to admit the truth. She had wasted herself on Miguel. He hadn't really cared for her; he'd only been interested in sex.

  "I don't like Mexicans," he said coldly.

  "Don't sleep with any then," she said sarcastically.

  "Did you have all three at once?" he asked, with the same sarcasm in his tone.

  Fuck him! Here he was, just a creepy old man who wanted to screw her! He was at least fifteen years her senior. Maybe it would make him feel better if he thought of her as a whore. The only one she'd had sex with that night was Miguel. Miguel's friend had wanted a turn, and truthfully, she probably would have let him, because Miguel didn't care and she was drunk, but the police came and found them parked in the car before it had gone any further. Miguel's little cousin was there too, but he was young, way too young. He'd only watched. She couldn't even remember the boy's name.

  "How much did you pay my step-monster to bring me here?" she asked suddenly.

  For the first time since she'd met him she thought she saw care and compassion flicker in his eyes.

  "I won't answer that."

  "Why?"

  "Because it doesn't matter, and it would only hurt you to know. You might think I'm a hateful bastard, but I would never try to intentionally hurt you. Suffice it to say that any sum of money compared to the lovely young lady you are would be paltry as far as I'm concerned." He put on a big fake-looking smile.

  "Such a beautiful name, for a beautiful woman. Lenore," he added.

  "My father named me. I was named after my mother, my real mother, not Alma. My mother was named after a poem or something," she said. "When I was born she named me Helen. After she was gone daddy changed my name to my mother's ... Lenore."

  "Your father was a good man. He worked for me for many years. I'm afraid that I was the reason he quit. His life went downhill after that, I don't think he was able to find another job that paid as well as he'd had here, but his pride prevented him from returning." He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. "Oh, Lenore, your mother was an angel. So precious, so beautiful ... and you look exactly like her."

  "You knew her?" she asked in disbelief. Lenore had heard so many stories throughout her life about her real mother that she was never sure what to believe. In all honesty she wasn't really sure if the woman was alive or dead.

  "Yes, I knew her. It seems your Grandfather had a slight obsession with Poe, and was a huge fan of 'The Raven'. He was the one who insisted on the name Lenore."

  "Poe?" she asked.

  "Ah, maybe you are a wo
man who longs for roses and poems ... Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore!" James Acheson said softly.

  A chill shot up her back, she'd never heard anyone speak with such passion in their voice before and it suddenly became completely clear to her. James Acheson had been in love with her mother. In love with her ... in a way that Lenore hoped Miguel would feel for her ... in a way that no one had ever felt for her.

  "Do you know it?" he asked, opening his eyes.

  Lenore shook her head. "Know what?"

  "Edgar Allan Poe. 'The Raven'?" he seemed surprised. "You never read it? Not even in school?"

  "No."

  "Well, for the sake of your mother we'll have to make sure that you learn it."

  "I don't need to learn anything for the sake of my mother. I've never even met her. My father finally told me that she left us," Lenore said quietly. When I was really little I thought she was dead, because that's what my father and Alma told me, but right before he died, Daddy told me the truth. I think it was the truth ... did she just ... just leave?"

  "She left you and your father – twice," James said with a sigh. "First for me ... and then she ran off with another man," James said. He frowned. "One of Henry Blevens' Mexican hired men. A horse groomer, like that boy, Miguel, was." He sighed. "It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore – Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore'."

  He swallowed hard. "And that's when I shall see your beautiful mother again. Nevermore."

  "Do you know the whole poem?" Lenore asked. "What did you say it was called? 'The Raven'?"

  "You've much to learn, don't you? I guess I forget that you are so young, that you've done so little in your short life. I can be a patient man – but ... for you, I will try to be even more patient ... I'll teach you things you need to know, my sweet Lenore. Do you like it here? This can be your home as well as mine."