Harper Cameron peered carefully out of the door at the top of the steps of the federal courthouse before cautiously exiting the building. Dusk had fallen, and it was dark and rather foreboding out on the steps. She had not wanted to leave the building until all of the reporters and television cameras were gone. They had finally given up on getting a statement from her, no doubt thinking she had left through one of the underground exits used to transport prisoners in and out of the courthouse.
It had been the last day of an exhausting and complex antitrust trial. She had won a decision for Court Industries against the federal prosecutors seeking to divest her client of a good portion of their pharmaceutical holdings, including patents on several promising new medications which were still in the development and testing phases.
When she saw the black stretch limousine pull up to the curb and a uniformed chauffeur exit the car, she put her handbag over her shoulder and started down the steps with her briefcase in her hand. The chauffeur opened the door and patiently waited as Harper came down the stairs. She glanced inside the car before she gracefully slid in and turned to face the other occupant in the backseat.
“Well, Mr. Court, another victory for the good guys against the forces of a too-controlling government seeking to infringe on free enterprise.”
“Indeed, Ms. Cameron. Good job.” Morgan Court turned toward her and took off his dark-framed glasses with clear lenses which served to camouflage the burning gaze of his enigmatic coal-black eyes. It always amazed Harper that the mere removal of Morgan’s glasses could change his entire look from nondescript to striking. His wavy black hair fell to the collar of the black cashmere overcoat he wore over a black double-breasted Armani suit. “Can I pour you a glass of champagne? Or do you want to wait until we’re on board to have our first toast?”
Harper smiled at him. “I think I’ll wait until we’re on board the Golden Dolphin.” They were boarding the ship early in order to avoid the scrutiny of the press. Any statements regarding the trial could be left in the capable hands of her firm’s partners and their public relations firm. For some reason the press had fixed its eye on her and had pursued her relentlessly during the entire trial. They had made it more about what she would wear to court each day than what she had to say in court, which annoyed her to no end. The other hot topic in the trash press was whether her client, Morgan Court, was present and accounted for. Harper knew she would be a virtual prisoner in her Upper Eastside brownstone town house for the entire weekend if she returned there. Her bags had been delivered to the ship early that morning. Morgan’s friend, Jamie Devereau who owned the luxury yacht on which they would cruise the New England coast and St. Lawrence River inland to Montréal and back again, had done them the favor of allowing early boarding so that they could take advantage of the ship’s excellent security team before departure.
Harper laughed to herself. Morgan Court, when he was not shielding his attributes, was truly one good-looking man. He was sleekly tall and muscular with wide shoulders and long legs. She also knew that he was one of the wealthiest men in New York, if not the entire country, although the facts about the extent of his net worth were zealously protected and not generally known. It was rumored that his fortune was in the top one hundred, but he never made the list because he carefully guarded his personal and financial profiles, avoiding interviews and photo ops like the plague. As one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, he was pursued by the legitimate press as well as the paparazzi at every opportunity. She also knew that he was a master of disguise and well able to come and go as he chose. She had seen him enter the courthouse and sit in the back row wearing an old trench coat and worn-down sneakers. Only his piercing black eyes would have given him away to a more astute observer.
Harper had accepted Morgan’s “no-strings-attached” offer of a BDSM cruise to Canada aboard the Golden Dolphin, a three-hundred foot, extremely luxurious mega yacht. She desperately needed a break. Harper and Morgan had originally met at the secret and very luxurious BDSM club known as Le Club Eastside-Manhattan. Although they were both members and she had seen Morgan Court at the club, they had never engaged in a scene together. He was a Dom who always wore a mask, and she was a Domme who never had sex with her subs.
* * * *
Morgan Court had been waiting for an opportunity to get to know Harper Cameron. “Know” as in the biblical sense. When he had spotted the beautiful, black-haired, blue-eyed Domme at Le Club Eastside a year and a half before, he had been disappointed that she was not a sub. But the more he watched her—and watch her very carefully he did—the more sure he was that he could get her to bottom for him. He could see the dark undercurrents in Harper’s eyes. He didn’t know why they were there.
When he had learned that she was a senior litigation associate with a very prestigious Wall Street law firm where his company was a client, he had made sure the assignment for the upcoming antitrust trial went her way. He had checked out her qualifications carefully before he had put the very complicated trial in her extremely capable hands, and he hadn’t been disappointed in her performance. Her listing in Martindale Hubble, the directory of attorneys and law firms, had told him she was thirty-five and had done both her undergraduate work and attended law school at Fordham University. He now hoped his fantasies of convincing her to bottom for him would materialize and that he would not be disappointed in her performance as his sub. She had no idea what was in store for her, but he was sure he could bring her around.