Chapter 10: Pursuit

I’d told Sarah I hoped I’d see her around the bookshop. My next step was to ensure that it happened. As frequently as possible. Money was no issue, especially considering the price she’d bring. Besides, expenses would be passed along to the eventual buyer, who undoubtedly would not even blink at the sum. I bought the shop, and, for good measure, the building in which it was located.

The trap set, I continued to bait it.

Jane arranged for Sarah to receive a surprise severance cheque from her previous employer. Enough to carry her for a month or two, with a little extra she could spend on herself. Jane and I both knew where our Sarah would come to spend it.

The bell above the heavy oaken door rang. Sarah entered, her eyes half closed, breathing deeply, drinking in the musky scent of dust, leather, and old paper, smiling like tired Odysseus, home at last. I was seated behind the old desk, with its antique brass cash register, reading a vintage copy of Mallory’s Le Morte de Arthur. I smiled and lifted my fingers in a friendly wave.

Sarah raised her lovely eyebrows inquisitively. “I didn’t expect to see you ... well, not there, anyway.”

I shrugged. “The previous owner was threatening to close. As I think I mentioned, I’d like to see places like this remain open. So I bought it. Besides, it seemed more convenient to buy all these lovely books all at once, rather than one or two at a time. Don’t you think?”

Sarah beamed. “Only if you don’t mind parting with one or two. Now and then.”

“Only if I know they’re getting a good home.”

“Of course!” She bounced away, into the shelves to shop.

Now, to see if she’d find the bait I’d left, just for her.

I’d created a book, one I knew would appeal specifically to her. I’d written the story myself, with a character I knew Sarah would relate to only too well. It was, after all, based solely upon her, the secret her I’d read about in her hacked diary, thanks to my partner’s devious diligence.

The story, called simply La Belle, was a retelling of Beauty and the Beast, albeit one with a decidedly erotic, if romantic, flavor. In this story, Beauty wasn’t merely a captive, she was a slave, one who slowly came to accept, and then to relish in, her bonds, and the kiss of her Master’s whip. Slowly, she came to crave her master’s cock moving inside her naked and nubile body, and more slowly still she came to love and worship him in her captivity.

I’d commissioned illustrations, in the Rackham watercolor style, no less, at the same time romantic and wickedly erotic. The Beauty captured therein even bore a subtle resemblance to my Sarah—large-breasted, dark-haired, blue-eyed. It was printed on a vintage palimpsest and bound in old leather, so that it seemed antique. The leather was smooth and supple to the touch, and the scent was deliciously intoxicating. I left the volume where she’d be sure to find it.

I’d placed a series of hidden cameras throughout the shop. My iPad, hidden in a book cover-like case, contained a monitor app. I set down the Mallory and picked it up. Now, I could watch Sarah discretely as she browsed, while pretending to read my book. Hers was the story that engrossed me.

It took her an agonizingly long time to find her way the mythology and folklore section. She started with classics and fiction, and then science fiction and fantasy, and finally poetry. Apparently, she’d been saving her favorite for last. When she finally made it to that section, her eyes widened when her glance landed on the gilded volume that, she was quite sure, hadn’t been there before. She touched the cover carefully, caressing the spine like a lover’s face, exploring the textures of the leather with the feather touch of her fingertips. I saw her lips move as she spoke the title aloud, softly, to herself. Moth to the flame, moth to the flame.

She pulled it slowly from the shelf, smiling to herself when she saw that she had, in fact, discovered a new take on the Beauty and the Beast motif, one she’d never heard of. Cradling the book, she settled down on the floor, cross-legged, to open the pages. She read for a few moments, and then I saw her eyes grow wide as she realized this was not a version of the story she’d find in the children’s section.

She flipped through the pages more rapidly, though still quite carefully, pausing to take in the brilliant illustrations, reading passages that seemed especially promising. I saw her shift uneasily as her cheeks flushed deeply. Her breathing was faster, deeper. Any connoisseur of beautiful women will know the signs.

My Sarah was aroused.

Nearly an hour passed before she brought the book to me at last. She set it carefully on the counter. She didn’t meet my gaze. “Mr. Corwin, can you tell me how much this book is, please?”

I looked down and feigned surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that book to reach the shelves. I’m afraid it’s not for sale. Even if it was, well, I’m not sure it’s a price you would pay.”

She deflated.

“Are you sure?” she asked hopefully. “I — I’d really like to read it.”

I smiled. “Now it’s my turn to ask. Are you sure? It’s not the Disney version, I assure you. Or even the Couteau.”

Sarah blushed. She could not meet my gaze. I think, perhaps, she’d hoped that I didn’t know what the book contained.

“It’s something I’d acquired for my ... private collection. I am a collector, you know.” She didn’t answer.

I folded my hands under my chin thoughtfully for a long moment. When I spoke at last, I said, “If you just want to read it, take it. Call it a loan. Bring it back when you’ve finished. If you don’t like it, leave it here, and take another book instead. If you like it, well, maybe we can ... talk. Maybe we can work out another little barter. Is that acceptable?”