Rules of Engagement Read online

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Rules of Engagement: Copyright © 2018 by Lily White

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or electronic form or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  A romantic suspense by Lily White

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  Other Books by Lily White

  Her Master’s Courtesan

  (Book 1 of the Masters Series)

  (Available on Smashwords and www.lilywhitebooks.com)

  Her Master’s Teacher

  (Book 2 of the Masters Series)

  Her Master’s Christmas

  (Novella in the Masters Series)

  Her Master’s Redemption

  (Book 3 of the Masters Series)

  Target This

  Hard Roads

  Asylum

  Four Crows

  Illusions of Evil (Illusions Duet, Book One)

  Fear the Wicked (Illusions Duet, Book Two)

  The Director (A Dark Exclusive

  only available on Smashwords

  and www.lilywhitebooks.com)

  PROLOGUE

  Three inch high heels were not invented by a woman.

  During the day, they are an acceptable fashion choice, designed to enhance height, stature, posture and the shapeliness of the female leg. At five foot four, I need them in my workplace - only because they give me some sense of power within a dingy office overshadowed by a man who is fiercely aggressive without the need of shouting or whispered threats.

  Five months ago, I’d been a shadow of who I am now. I was unemployed, hated my life, hated that I had no money to my name. I’d made decisions that ultimately changed me, entered a dangerous game of sexual fantasy from which there may have been no escape.

  Although, at this point, I’m not sure I want to escape. Who I’d been in the past would beg you not to judge her for her choices, but the person I am now doesn’t care what you think.

  I was a girl once frightened by life itself, now a woman who managed to find strength within shadow.

  Every day, I come to work. I walk with a sway to my hip, fully understanding that the dancing hem of my skirt catches his eye, drawing that gaze up the backs of my thighs and over my round bottom that is a gift of genetics more than a feature developed through working out or plastic surgery.

  Just once, I wish he would lose control as his eyes study the way my body moves. Just once I wish he would shove me inside some unoccupied space and flip my skirt up to my waist as his eyes follow the line of my legs.

  Most women would scream at such a moment, but I would let him touch me. Only because he is real. Only because there is no telling how long the man behind the ceaseless messages would have remained hidden behind his mask.

  I am stuck between fantasy and reality - between a man I know hates me, and another who swore to make me his.

  Ruby red, my Italian leather heels aren’t enough to attract the heavy hand I crave in the office where I work. They linger on the floor where I’ve kicked them off at my desk, waiting for me to slip them back on when the sun sets below the horizon and the moon shoots into the sky to take its seat.

  Walking out of my building, I feel the moonlight bathe my skin, feel it explore my body with wicked fixation, feel the cool breeze of its breath caress the places beneath my skirt that are hidden beneath the sway.

  Moisture clings to my body, my legs like ice as they move over those same red heels down busy sidewalks now abandoned by the businessman and women for their warm houses and home cooked meals.

  Always the last person out, I have nobody at home waiting, and only a few friends.

  All I have is a computer and a name that, when spoken, is a rush of heightened breath and illicit dreams.

  He was my constant companion. A faceless presence that was hidden and demanding, a body I imagined was hard and warm. He was a stranger and a warning, a game I never imagined would follow me so long.

  The idea had been fun at first, the messages, the emails, the strangers watching and reading along. And for months I’d grown as a woman while I waited for the day the warning was no longer just a threat written in words.

  All I could do was wait. The choice of when he’d find me was his alone.

  So while I balance on three inch heels, and while the only sound I can hear is the click of them against dirty concrete, I turn a corner down a particularly dark street in route to my car.

  A blue, once reliable sedan sits waiting, the paint peeling and the tires bald. It’s parked by the side of the road in the only space I could find in the busy morning traffic. I’d stayed up late and slept in. My boss hadn’t been pleased I was tardy.

  I should have known it would happen on the night I wore these red heels. Should have intuited that I wouldn’t be able to run. Because that’s the other reason a woman couldn’t have invented such shoes: they make her far too vulnerable to dangerous men.

  His grip is strong around my wrist, his palm warm over my parted lips. What little sound I can force from my body is muffled by the heat of his skin, the rough texture of a callused hand. As panic grips my heart with its crushing fingers, I know the man who holds me is far too smart to let me scream.

  The brick of the building is painful against my cheek, my body pinned between his heat and the cold, unforgiving surface.

  Leaning over, he ignores my struggle, doesn’t care that one of the heels has been left on the sidewalk just feet from my car. Tipped over on its side, that heel is now useless to lift me up to a height anywhere near as tall as his body.

  His mouth presses against my ear. “Scream and I’ll make this slow.”

  Is it wrong that a shiver coursed through me?

  Not in panic…but excitement.

  My skirt flips up, his boots kick my feet apart, and his hand presses against my skull until I’m helpless but to remain still.

  Large hands explore me, steady breath is a beat at my back and before long, the panties I wear are discarded fabric around my ankles, locking me in place even more.

  No faces. No names. No introduction other than a violent hand. I’m lifted to my toes to accommodate him. And his voice, the words he whispers to me as he has his way, it’s deeper and more haunting than I imagined.

  Most women would shut down at a moment when they’d been stolen away, but I rest my head against the brick, breathe out with each movement of his body against mine. It’s too soon, his attack taking me by surprise.

  Instead of screaming, I stand silent.

  Instead of fighting, I endure the sensual cruelty of his touch.

  He could be any man, a stranger in both real life
and beyond.

  But, I’d chosen this particular game, and this moment was my fault.

  I don’t regret it.

  Who have I become in the months I’d spent playing? What would he say to me when we spoke again?

  Is my stalker the man against me now, or is he watching from another shadowed corner, enjoying how easily I’ve given in?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rule No. 1: Do not enter the game unless you intend to finish. Once accepted, there is no escape.

  For many people, and as is typical of our present society, first impressions are a truth driven into the psyche, a subtle, subliminal message that engenders a response from the brain of one person meeting another. It’s a judgment of sorts that never truly evaporates through time, no matter how often one shows that the moment you first met them may not have been their best.

  I’ve never been a fan of first impressions. I certainly don’t make a good one, not with average looks and a mousy demeanor. Most people see me as weak, quiet, demure to a point of forgettable in a world where it’s every man - or woman - for themself.

  Knowing this, I’ve never relied on first impressions to gauge a stranger’s worth, or lack thereof. It’s unfortunate I can’t say the same for my former employer…former being a new distinction, especially while the freshly printed pink slip in my hand was still warm, the inked words writing me off as forgettable and unworthy still fresh.

  “Mia! Hey woman, slow down.”

  The clatter of heels ran up behind me as I stalked down the sidewalk outside my former place of employment, a flash of scarlet hair catching in the breeze as my best friend and only confidant came barreling toward me. Rachel and I had been friends since grade school, two hopeless loners who’d somehow found each other while being picked on and scorned by the popular kids.

  We’d clung to one another through the tormenting years of growing into adulthood, and now that we’d settled into the lonely lives of two women bound to boring, repetitive schedules, we cling to one another still.

  Whereas Rachel had grown into a fiery personality that matched the red of her hair, I was still that quiet, timid girl who’d been teased relentlessly all through childhood.

  “Damn, Mia. Where’s the fire? I’ve been calling out to you for the past five minutes.”

  The thin sheet of paper flapping in my hand almost pulled free of my grasp within the turbulent wind of the city. Tall buildings loomed above my head to the left and right, peering down at me with dark windows and locked doors, mocking me for the failures I’d endured.

  I held the paper up to Rachel, tears in my eyes. Studying my face, she slipped it from my fingers. “What’s this?”

  “Just read it,” I begged, my choked voice barely audible.

  Jaw dropped and sculpted brows drawn together, Rachel’s eyes moved quickly as her hands clenched the oddly cheerful missive.

  “This is a joke, right? You’ve been with that company for five years. They can’t really be doing this to you.”

  We were supposed to meet for lunch, but with a bag packed full and slung over my shoulder, I was heading home at eleven thirty in the afternoon rather than to an upper class restaurant in the heart of the city. Not that I could have afforded lunch. Rachel always had to pretend like she didn’t mind floating the bill.

  A particularly violent gust of wind blew past, wrapping my brown hair over my face so quickly that I struggled to pull the strands from where they’d locked over the crease of my lips.

  “Five years,” I answered. “Five stupid years dealing with arrogant jerks and prissy women who never let me show them what I’m capable of doing. What is the point of a degree in marketing if they won’t let me prove to them what I’m worth?”

  Her touch on my shoulder was meant to be comforting, but it burned my skin instead. Stepping away, I glanced up at her with an apologetic grin. I hated being touched. I could barely tolerate it during happy times, and sad times only made it burn worse.

  Rachel frowned at the distance I placed between us. “Sorry.”

  Our meandering pace matched as we strolled up the street toward the parking garage.

  Move your car and hand the parking attendant your keycard. He’ll be sure to return it to us. They were the last words spoken to me by the polished receptionist my firm had hired only two weeks ago. Her smile told me that while I’d been given a pink slip and escorted out, she’d found a way to climb the corporate ladder. I wondered how often her legs had spread for that particular promotion.

  “My rent is due next week. I have nothing in my account,” I admitted. “Mom and dad won’t help me again. They want me to move home and give up life in the city.”

  “You’ll figure something out,” Rachel insisted, but I didn’t sense hope within the tired placation she muttered.

  The elevator car in the four story garage smelled like piss and body sweat, making me wonder how many vagrants called this box home before the night attendants found them and chased them off. Silently, Rachel rode with me, stepping out and holding the door when we reached the third level.

  It didn’t take long to reach my car. Staring at her over the roof, I asked, “Would you like a ride back to work?”

  “No,” she answered, taking a step back. “The restaurant is just around the corner.”

  Surprise flickered through me. “Did you still want me to go?”

  A subtle shake of her head was my answer. “Go home, Mia. Scour the internet. Find a new job. I don’t want you to leave the city.”

  I was still nodding my head in feigned agreement when she walked off. Listening to the click of her heels, I waited until the elevator doors closed, leaving me alone inside the confines of the garage. Every sound I made was a hollow echo: my keys pulled from my purse, the slide of metal against metal as I unlocked the car, the loud scream of rusted hinges as I opened the door, and the groan of blown shocks as I climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Leaving the keycard with the attendant like the receptionist had asked, I pulled my car out onto the road.

  My apartment building wasn’t more than a twenty minute drive in the crush of lunch hour traffic, the small lobby empty and bleak as I let myself inside. Another elevator ride had me standing at my door within seconds, my keys jingling again as I slipped one into the lock.

  I doubted death could be as quiet as the interior of my five hundred square foot home, my studio apartment that was as sad and lonely as me.

  Kicking off my shoes, I changed out of the skirt suit that filled me with pride on the day I’d bought it with my first paycheck. It wasn’t much, a trendy find left over on a sale rack at the back of the store, but it had been a mark of my growing up at the time I’d purchased it. Carefully hanging it up, I pulled on sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt, choosing comfort over style while I evaluated the course of my life.

  My computer came to life with a cheerful chime after I took a seat at the table I’d fashioned into a makeshift desk, the sound mocking me and my crushed state of mind.

  Back to the wanted ads, I go…

  It only took me a few minutes to update my resume and send it out to any job I could find. So desperate for anything, I didn’t bother checking the pay scales, education requirements or job responsibilities. I would do whatever it took, even if it involved cleaning toilets.

  After posting several dozen responses to the ads, I scrolled through other job types. Until now, I’d only had experience as an executive assistant. I’d taken the job hoping to eventually land a position as a marketing specialist, but the opportunity never panned out. Maybe it was because everybody saw me as meek and mild. They didn’t recognize the person I was inside.

  Get paid to play. Starting bonus of up to five thousand dollars. Only serious applicants need apply.

  My gaze locked to the bold letters of an odd ad that appeared out of place among the professional job opportunities. Scanning the company name, I wondered at the offbeat moniker. Dark Realities wasn’t much of a description. The company w
asn’t incorporated and wasn’t a Limited Liability Company either. When my curiosity became too much to ignore, I clicked the link.

  A black screen with white lettering popped up.

  Rule No. 1: Do not enter the game unless you intend to finish. Once accepted, there is no escape.

  Below the writing was another link that would take you into the site. With the inside of my lip trapped between my teeth - a bad habit that left me with a permanent indentation - I clicked the link.

  A flash of video played just before the page loaded, a woman’s mouth opening as a moan rolled over her red glossed lips.

  The video ended and I stared at a listing of sexual fantasies, at a link that would take you deeper into the web.

  There was an information tab labeled Help conveniently located at the top of the screen. Clicking it, I waited for the next page to load, my breath an even rhythm in my chest until the next heading popped up. Reality Television for the Brave and Depraved.

  My breath caught in my lungs.

  The game is simple. You pick a fantasy. We arrange for the fantasy to occur. All of it will be available for the audience to watch. Only certain games are for participant profit.

  Exiting back to the second page, I glanced up at three tabs spaced evenly over the list of fantasies.

  Audience Log In. Predator Log In. Prey Log In.

  I clicked Audience.

  Three choices were a running list beneath the page heading.

  One Night Stand. Threesome. Orgy.

  My finger hovered over the button of the mouse. My interior lip shredded by how long I’d been gnawing it. “One night stand, it is,” I said to myself.

  Curiosity has always been my downfall. It’s what led to broken hearts when I’d been in high school. It’s what led to awkward sex when I’d been in college. It’s what drew me like a moth to a flame even though I wasn’t the type of person who could tolerate human contact.

  Scrolling through the screen, I hovered the arrow between three separate videos. The first two were open for viewing, the third locked with a login requirement. I chose the first.

  A woman stood at a bar, her back to the camera that looked as professional as a smartphone recording. Music and the thrum of conversation were a mass of chaos within the speakers. One voice rose above the others. “Is that her? I think that’s her. Let’s go.”