Her mother pointed to the ceiling. “Oh, is that Joshua crying?”
Gemma couldn’t hear anything, but she understood. Emotions weren’t worn on the sleeve in the Marshall household. Her mother’s natural reserve slipped back into place.
“I’ll go and investigate.” She gave her mother the briefest of hugs before leaving the room.
At bedtime, when the house slumbered, Gemma lay next to Jason on their bed, and he played with her. He quietly dabbled with the teasing and torments he held off during the day.
“I’m so pleased with you, babe. You’re the perfect missus and little slave. Once we’ve got this house back to ourselves I’m going to take you into my lair and flog you until you float off into space.” His seductive tone melted into her mind. Across the bed, his hand journeyed, heading purposefully to a specific location. She tensed, waiting for it to arrive.
“That sounds like the perfect Christmas present, Master.”
He twizzled his finger around her clit. “You are mine, understood?”
She twisted her legs from side to side until he knocked them still with an elbow. “Yes, Sir.”
“You serve me and only me,” he said hoarsely.
She felt a sharp pinch below. His assault on her tender nub continued unabated by her shivers and rapid breathing. “Yes, Sir, only you. I am yours,” she rasped.
From deep within her, another voice spoke after Gemma the submissive: Mrs Gemma Lucas—her twin. “I love you so much, Jason.”
Part Three
Chapter 19. Extortion
YOU FUCKING PERVERTED WHORE AND COCKSUCKER.
I KNOW YOU, GEMMA MARSHALL.
I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE.
£1000 BY NEXT TUESDAY.
LEAVE MONEY IN A WHITE ENVELOPE IN YOUR BAG
IF YOU DON’T COMPLY, THIS PHOTO AND OTHERS LIKE IT WILL BE PINNED ON NOTICEBOARDS AND YOUR FACEBOOK PAGE.
IF YOU TELL ANYONE, I WILL KNOW. YOU WILL REGRET IT!
***
Gemma stared at the crisp sheet of paper for an eternity. Was it real? Some crazy joke? Nothing about it made sense. She glanced around the changing room, unobtrusively trying to catch people’s faces. Did she know anyone? Nobody looked familiar—the usual sea of unrecognisable faces. Yet someone had recognised her and had in their possession a photograph of her: an image captured years ago at a party. A long-forgotten party.
She squirreled the photo away in her handbag and put the note back in its envelope. Her husband was in Toronto for two more days on a business trip. Embarrassment flooded her emotions—she would have to explain the contents to her bodyguard, Emma Gibson, and it was going to take courage even if the woman knew about her kinky pastimes. However, the security team would take a blackmail threat seriously, even if the note contained inaccuracies. The photograph, the explicit picture it portrayed, couldn’t be ignored.
Changing back into street clothes as quickly as possible, Gemma made her way out into the main corridor. She continued to scan about, hunting for a possible predator amongst the other dancers. Did she want to know the identity of the blackmailer? Find out she’d been betrayed by a friend?
The old dance school consisted of many corridors and stairwells giving plenty of opportunity for someone to plant the note and scurry away unnoticed. Could it have been someone in the class? Gemma felt sure she would have sensed their mocking stare. She convinced herself that their face would have betrayed something implicit—the knowledge they had an embarrassing photo in their possession.
All the people in the dance class were friendly and approachable. She’d picked the class time and school carefully. With Clara occupied in the evenings with her life, Gemma had chosen a professional dance class held in the daytime.
She had to audition to attend the intermediate class. Nerves nearly undid her, but a pep talk from Jason helped. The class covered many styles of dancing beyond her preferred salsa, including jive, tap, and jazz. Every Tuesday afternoon, she mingled with part-time workers, housewives, and students, whom she suspected of having secret ambitions to hit the stage. The instructor, a woman with her greying hair in a bun and long, flowing skirt about her ankles, was a perfectionist, but managed to keep the fun alive for the enthusiastic amateurs.
During the day, the dance academy teemed with people. There were classes solely for professional dancers, ballerinas, and schoolchildren. On her arrival, Gemma witnessed ambitious parents drag their uninterested offspring along the hallways alongside the ones who keenly skipped about, showing off their abilities. Somewhere, hidden behind the decaying walls lurked somebody who was intimately acquainted with Gemma. The discovery horrified her.
In the back of car, she fiddled with the collar necklace—the symbol of her submission to Jason. Did the person who had left the envelope in the kit bag know enough about what she was that they had recognized the significance of her necklace? Then there was her wedding ring, blatantly worn on her finger. The blackmailer had called her Gemma Marshall—an old name and a different Gemma. She didn’t think of herself as that person any longer.
Gibson drove through the gates of the White House and parked the car by the front door.