Chapter One

GRUNTING FROM EXERTION, Krista Evans heaved three more coats—all of them knee-length topcoats that weighed a freaking ton when they weren't damp—onto the ever-growing pile on the bed. Since starting work nearly four hours ago, she'd made at least twenty trips up two flights of stairs to this makeshift coat room only to have to trudge right down again to get more. And, with four more hours remaining in her shift, she wasn't close to being done.

Halfway up with this last load, she suppressed a groan when she heard the front door open and the sound of more guests piling into the entryway complaining about the sudden turn in the weather. Why couldn't it be summer, with a few shawls, maybe a sweater at most? And why, when there were at least a dozen bedrooms in the mansion, couldn't the host have chosen one on the second floor, or any of the umpteen unoccupied rooms on the first floor instead? But it wasn't her place to argue or complain, not when they were paying her $500 for eight hours of work.

Her hands found the curve of her lower back, and, with a groan, she arched, kneading the sore muscles. When she twisted and bent, trying to work out the stiffness, she grimaced at the creaking and popping that made her sound more like an arthritic octogenarian than a woman in her prime. She knew she should hurry and see to the new arrivals and probably a dozen more heavy coats, but just the thought of those stairs made her already protesting feet and legs ache all the more. She'd have never worn four-inch heels if she'd known stairs were involved.

"Yeah, right," she grunted the next instant.

She'd had this same mental conversation with herself nearly every night since she began working as a waitress. It was a complete waste of brain power. By the next time, the pain would have faded, and she'd haul the damn shoes out and strap them on, yet again.

When she first started, she busted her ass to do a good job—efficient, friendly, attentive, but not too intrusive—but at the end of the night, she'd be disappointed at bringing in less than half what the other girls did. She couldn't figure out where she was going wrong, so she watched and followed their lead. They provided service with a smile to the women customers and families, but with the businessmen, they poured it on. They smiled, showed cleavage, and lots of leg.

An introvert by nature, flirting wasn't something she was comfortable with, but she had a mirror, and, while not supermodel beautiful, she was pretty enough. She received compliments on her light-blue eyes, and her long, golden-blonde hair and nearly D-cup boobs drew attention. And while she thought she had a bit too much padding on her behind, she camouflaged it with skirts that, if she kept the hem above the knee and added a nude shoe, also made her stumpy legs look longer.

She'd never been the type to use her looks to her advantage, but waiting tables and earning a ridiculously low wage of $2.15 an hour changed everything. And while it wasn't easy leaving extra buttons on her blouse open, laughing at jokes that weren't the least bit funny, or acting like she didn't mind being salivated over like a thick cut of sirloin on display at the meat counter, she had a choice to make. Flaunt what nature gave her and earn enough to stay in school, or take the moral high ground in her practical flats and a buttoned-to-the-chin Sunday school blouse while worrying herself sick over how to pay the balance of her tuition.

Since she refused to wait tables her entire life, she played the game. She also got immediate results. Even so, it was a shame the things a waitress had to do just to eke out a few more bucks and earn a living wage.

But right now, with no one around to see, and her feet crying out for relief, she paused the game and kicked off first one peep-toed pump then the other. As her toes sank into the plush softness of the expensive-looking rug, she moaned.

Krista told herself, as she did often, that better days were ahead if she could make it through school and get her degree. But damn, getting there sure wasn't easy.

That was why she was here tonight. She had troubles, lots of them, and most involved her mother, and the subsequent negative balance in her checking account.

"No!" she said aloud. "Don't go there, or you'll be crying again."

Determined to push thoughts of Lily Evans out of her mind—something else that wasn't easy—she shoved some coats out of the way and plopped down on the edge of the bed. Crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, she rubbed her aching feet.

What she wouldn't give for a long soak in the hot tub out back right about now. Well, it was actually a side yard overlooking the ocean. When the caterer had shown the new wait staff around the huge beachfront home—what the locals referred to as the mansion—she'd spotted it through one of the three sets of French doors exiting to a tile patio. The huge pool with its rock waterfall caught her eye first, then she saw the steam rising from a sunken spa big enough to hold a dozen people at least.

Krista closed her eyes and imagined living here, sinking into the spa anytime she wanted, sipping champagne while watching the waves roll up on the shore, and letting the hot, bubbly water of her very own ginormous hot tub erase all her stress at the end of the day. Then again, if she had all this, what could she possibly have to stress over?

Ah, she could only wish.

Her nana's voice popped into her head.

Don't sit around wishing things were different, Krista Nicole. Take action and make a difference.

She was wise, and often spouted various words of wisdom—Nana-ism's, Krista called them, which always made the classy older woman laugh. But she was right. Nothing would change unless she did something about it. To that end she needed an education, but first she needed the money to pay for it.

Ally, one of her classmates, had tipped her off about the job. Otherwise, she would have never had any reason to set foot on Wanaker Landing, a small, self-sufficient community on a barrier island just south of Georgetown, accessible only by boat or the toll bridge across the bay.

She always wondered where the residents went during a hurricane evacuation until she saw row upon row of yachts on the drive in from the city.

The Landing residents had their own city council, dedicated law enforcement, shops, and businesses mostly in a small commercial area they called the Strip, where they also had several 5-star resorts that were ultra-exclusive and very expensive, costing more per night than she made in a month, and generated huge tax revenue. The city had been trying to incorporate them for decades, unsuccessfully, mostly because the wealthy residents wanted no part of it.

The residential areas with the multi-million-dollar homes were private, and no one she knew, except Ally, had ever been inside the gates. Back on the mainland, it was rumored very few of these homes ever went on the market. They either stayed in the family or were bought by people known to the residents who had enough money to have their legal teams handle the transaction without realtors and for sale signs and mortgages. And the homeowner's' association was said to have a ridiculous screening process. It all seemed secretive and a bit over the top, but wealthy property owners could afford to be eccentric, as well as have the best security to ensure their privacy.

"Waiting on millionaires in an awesome beachfront mansion is a server's dream job," Ally had gushed.

"You've been there?"

"Lots of times. It's unbelievable money for one shift, plus tips. If you aren't offended by the kinky stuff going on, you can make bank."

Krista was fully onboard up until that point. "What kind of kinky stuff?"

"Nothing too out there. They set up bondage tables and crosses, and whip each other with floggers, crops, and canes, mostly. You know, Fifty Shades kind of stuff. And there's a lot of fucking, right out in the open."

Eyes wide, she had gaped at her friend. "And that's not out there?"

Ally looked at her like she'd suddenly grown a third eye. "Where have you been living? Under a rock? BDSM is everywhere, now." Reaching out, she retrieved the embossed card she'd handed her. "I guess this isn't for you, Sister Kristina. I'll find some other girl who needs the money."

Krista immediately snatched it back. She desperately needed tuition money and would lie, cheat, and steal to get it. Okay, maybe not steal.

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it. How much does it pay?"

"Five hundred for the night plus your tips."

Nice. In one night, she could make more than a third of what she owed by the first of next week.

"You'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement," Ally cautioned her. "Refusing to sign is a deal breaker for them."

"I've got no problem with that. It's not like I'm going to know anyone there. How do I get an interview?"

"Call the number on the card in the morning."

She looked down at the business card. It wasn't much of one, containing only the name of the island and a phone number.

"Who do I ask for?"

"Just tell whoever answers you were referred to work at the mansion on Saturday night. They'll walk you through the rest."

Nearly convinced, she had one remaining reservation—a biggie. "No one will expect me to, um, participate, will they?"

"The staff is off limits while working. What you negotiate on your own time is up to you."

Krista found that amusing and let out a short little laugh. "Like I'm going to say yes to a guy with a whip."

"You might change your mind after you see what goes on."

Her amusement fled, and she stared at her friend in shock. "You mean..."

Ally shrugged noncommittally. "To each his or her own. I try to stay open-minded. If the job pans out, I'll see you there."

"You'll be there this weekend?"

"I might. We'll see." She gathered up her books. "I have to get to my next class." Before she rushed off, Ally gripped her hand. "This is an opportunity, Krista. Please call. You've had some really bad luck, but I think this could be a turning point for you."

She still believed her friend was putting too much emphasis on one shift at a kink club—correction, mansion. Otherwise, everything she'd told her had turned out to be true. She took coats, served drinks and hors d'oeuvres, and that was it.

Except for a quick peek into the huge formal ballroom on the first floor where the bondage equipment was set up, there hadn't been a need for her to stick as much as a toe inside the twisted playroom where the whips-and-chains crowd would get busy. Food was off limits and bottled water was the only drink permitted, and they didn't need a waitress to fetch it, not with the dozen or so well-stocked refrigerators artfully hidden around the room.

Before the flood of guests arrived and she was pulled to coat duty, she'd been serving the early guests in the parlor, which was what they called the room off the entryway and in front of the play area. It had several bay windows with cushioned seats and plenty of couches for lounging, before and after activities.

As she wound her way around the half-dozen guests, offering canapes and sparkling cider—alcohol was off limits until after, evidently—cries of "yes, sir" and "please, master" and a multitude of soft groans wafting through the arched doorway served as a backdrop to their chatter and laughter. Krista tried to keep her composure, but it was all she could do not to drop her tray and run for the exit when the sounds escalated to skin slapping against skin and the sharp crack of leather.

Every so often, a woman would scream. And, once, a similar sound came from a man, although it was at least an octave lower. When this happened, conversation stopped, and the guests shared amused looks, some smiling wistfully, before returning to whatever topic they were discussing.

These weren't screams of protest or pain. Even Krista, who didn't have extensive experience with sex, and none at all with kinky sex, could tell they were screams of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Her fingers shook as she picked up empty wine glasses or carefully balanced a tray of full ones because the sights, sounds and, yes, even the smells—leather, salt air, mixed with the musky scent of passion—had her on edge and really turned on. She was glad for the tray that hid her hard nipples, easily visible through the thin white nylon of her blouse, but she couldn't do anything for the ache that settled into the space between her thighs, or the dampness of her panties.

How long had it been since she'd had sex?

It had been months since she'd broken up with Matt, but those few times never counted in her mind since the "big O" had never happened for her. He'd gotten off every time while she'd been left unsatisfied. Then the putz had the gall to dump her.

"This isn't working for me, Krista," he'd told her one evening after a cookout with friends.

She remembered it being hot. Not as recent as this past summer, which meant it had been well over a year. That she couldn't recall, didn't miss him, or his company, or the uninspiring sex that hadn't prompted anything close to the bliss-filled cries originating from the playroom told her parting ways was the right decision.

And she wouldn't give the man before him her consideration—ever!

A soft whoosh followed by a dull clunk brought her back to the present. She looked down to see a coat had slid from the big pile on the bed to the floor while she'd been daydreaming. As she bent to retrieve it, another started to go and another. By the time she managed to stop the cascade of garments, four more had joined the first to form a heap of damp wool and expensive cashmere.

With a sigh, she bent and gathered them up, deciding it would probably be better to lay them neatly on the bed rather than tossing them as she'd done before. When she stood, arms full, something shiny on the floor caught her eye. To see better over the mound of wool and leather, she twisted a bit and peered down at what she figured was a button, but Krista froze.

It wasn't a button or a key or a tie pin, but a money clip, and it was clamped around a rather large wad of bills. It must have fallen out of one of the coat pockets. But which one?

Krista opened her arms and let everything drop to her feet. She needed to keep this bunch of coats separate from the others until she figured out who it belonged to and put it back. She nudged the clip with her toe, flipping it over. There was something engraved into the gold.

She turned her head from side to side, trying to make out the swirling script, but couldn't. Another item on her list of must-haves was glasses. She bent, ever so slightly, needing to get closer, but at the same time afraid to, approaching it warily as if it were a cobra ready to strike.

"Stupid," she chided herself. "It's only money."

Scooping it up, she thumbed through the mostly large bills.

"There must be $1200 here," she told the empty room.

She eyed the stack of coats on the bed. From what she'd seen of the men in attendance tonight, their tight-fitting leather pants and snug-tailored trousers didn't have room for air, let alone wallets and other valuables. If one man left his money clip, there was bound to be a treasure trove of wealth in the others. The women wore even less than the men, some completely naked, and since they expected to be bound and flogged, they weren't slinking around with their purses slung over their shoulder.

Those were on the bed, too—ripe for the picking.

It would be so easy to take what she needed.

"No," Krista told herself firmly. "Your petty theft days are a thing of the past."

Except her bill from the bursar's office was still sitting on her desk in her shabby apartment, waiting to be paid. She remembered the balance due because the number in bold type—$1378.24—had burned into her brain. It might as well have been thirty thousand since she still had to buy books, a campus parking pass, get groceries, and pay rent.

Tonight's extra pay would cover only a fraction of what she needed.

It was oh-so tempting.

They were wealthy, and no one would miss a fifty here or a twenty there.

She closed her eyes, fighting the battle being waged between hard-working Krista, the good girl she'd become, and the misbehaving teenager she'd left behind, the one with the juvenile record, who wouldn't think twice about taking what she needed, without remorse and blaming the victim for not securing their money in the first place.

But if she did it, she'd prove the old adage of the apple not falling far from the tree.

Standing there with a mountain of debt weighing her down, she knew she would come up short and be purged from her classes. She'd be a semester further away from her goal, in addition to being broke, having a piece-of-shit car that half the time wouldn't start, and in her same crappy apartment. No matter how hard she'd tried—she came up empty—a lot like her gas tank right now.

But no one cared, no one cut her any slack, or offered her a helping hand. And while she could sit there feeling sorry for herself, she didn't. Instead, she got pissed. Mostly at her mother, who was responsible for all of this, but also at her father, who should have been here to offer love and guidance, or simply give her a come-to-Jesus, get-your-head-out-of-your-ass lecture.

But she cursed fate more than anyone. It had been dicking with her since she was twelve years old, and still wasn't finished, evidently, getting its jollies by taunting her tonight. Why else would it drop a wad of cash at her feet?

Slowly, as if her fingers were operating independently from her brain, she slid out a twenty. When alarm bells didn't sound and a cop didn't immediately jump out of the closet and haul her away in cuffs, she took another and tucked them both in her apron.

Like an addict discovering a stash—only her drug of choice wasn't crack but money—she searched through the other coats, shoving bills in her pocket. She was wrong; millionaires didn't carry twenties and fifties, they mostly had one-hundred-dollar bills. In no time, she had amassed a sum equal to what she owed, but crack and greed are powerful addictions, and she kept going.

Then she hit the mother lode—a small black velvet jewelry box inside an evening bag.

She stared down at it, hands trembling, her heart pounding in her throat. Although she knew she shouldn't, Krista opened it. Upon seeing the contents, she almost swallowed her tongue. Never had she seen anything as beautiful as the silver choker inlaid with a row of glittering diamonds. Only, considering the number and size of the stones, she doubted it was silver and more likely white gold or platinum. It had to cost a small fortune.

While practically drooling over the gorgeous piece, she suddenly came to her senses.

"What are you doing?" she whispered aloud.

Dread settled heavy in her stomach. She'd worked in food service since she was sixteen. When something went missing, it was always the service staff who got blamed. And since she had been the only one taking coats tonight, she'd be the prime suspect.

Frantically, she started putting everything back.

"You've worked too damn hard to fuck things up now," she muttered, but quickly discovered another problem. She had no idea how much went where.

Betting the wealthy probably didn't keep track down to the dollar, she divvied up the bills two at a time. A purse got two fifties, as did the pocket of a black overcoat, and the money clip that had nearly caused her to relapse into a life of crime got its forty bucks. She still had a stack of bills in her hands and the jewelry box open on the bed—who knew it would be harder to return things than to take them—when she heard footsteps in the hall.

Paralyzed with fear, her lungs ceased working, and her heart felt like it lurched to a stop. Her eyes shifted to the door as she prayed for the steps to fade away.

But the prayers of a would-be thief must be low on the priority scale. The footsteps were close—too close—and Krista was mere seconds from being caught red-handed if whoever it was decided to come in here.

Frantic, and lacking a better hiding place, she shoved the money deep inside her apron pocket and tossed the coats she'd dropped on the pile with the others. At the last second, she spotted the black evening bag lying open in plain sight. She grabbed for it, snapped it shut, and sent it flying like a Frisbee toward the bed. It skidded over the top, smacked the wall with a thud, then slid down it, disappearing behind the headboard just as the hinges on the door squeaked and it swung inward.

Krista spun, her hands flying behind her even though they were empty. It was a rookie mistake she wouldn't have made at fifteen, but being on the straight and narrow for six years had made her skills grow rusty. She forced her gaze to the man who stood in the now open doorway.

He was huge, taller than the frame, so he had to duck to enter, with broad shoulders so wide she was surprised he didn't have to turn sideways to get through. If there was anyone with him, she couldn't tell because his big body blocked everything in the hall behind him. Not that she would have noticed—his thick wavy hair, compelling dark eyes, and ruggedly handsome face, in addition to his intimidating presence, captured her full attention.

He had a coat folded over his arm, and a white Stetson clutched in one hand, which she found odd since this was the southeast coast, not Texas. Both items had a sheen of wetness from the wintry mix of sleet and snow that had been falling for the past hour. Winter storms were a rarity this far south; she'd only seen snow once in the twelve years she'd lived here.

Was it a full moon? If not, something bizarre was in the air for sure.

"What are you doing in here?" the late arrival asked, his low drawl full of suspicion.

"I, uh...was just...um—" She jerked her head toward the bed, blurting out the truth, mostly. "I'm working here tonight and was dropping off some coats."

His dark eyes dipped to her hands, which she immediately brought forward, proving they were empty. When he didn't say anything more, just stared at her with a skeptical assessing gaze, she couldn't keep them from trembling nervously. Her grandpa, who'd been an avid card player, would call it a tell, and this man didn't miss it.

"You seem mighty nervous for someone on an innocent errand." He walked toward her slowly, leaving the shadows of the doorway and into the full light of the room. "How about you try again with the truth, girl?"

"I am telling the truth," she exclaimed with forced outrage. Then, like most guilty parties accused of a crime, she overreacted. "Who are you to say I'm not, anyway?" She squared her shoulders and moved past him toward the door. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."

He caught her arm, spun her around to face him, and pulled something shiny out of his pocket. When he held it up, she saw it was a sheriff's badge, and her heart fell like a rock into the pit of her stomach.

"I'm Sam Golden, the law here on Wanaker Landing, which gives me full authority to ask questions when I see something suspicious. And you, little missy, are triggering alarm bells like mad in my head."

Wasn't that her god-awful luck, for the sheriff to walk in while she attempted to un-perpetrate a crime?

Why, oh, why, had she been so stupid?

He jerked his chin up slightly when he asked his next question. "What do you have in your apron?"

"Tips," she blurted out as she plunged her free hand into her double-width front pocket. She fished around for evidence to prove she was telling the truth, almost fainting dead away when she felt the velvet jewelry box. Why had she shoved it in there, on her person, of all places?

Stupid. Stupid!

Still trying to cover up her boneheaded actions, she pulled out what she hoped was the ten spot a gentleman had slipped her earlier along with a few other items she'd stuffed into the smaller inside pocket at the beginning of her shift.

Krista brought her hand out and held it up. She slowly uncurled her fingers until the items were visible in her open palm. When she saw a sugar packet and the pencil she'd tucked away for notes, alongside the wadded-up ten-dollar bill, she came close to heaving a sigh of relief. That would have incriminated her further, so she silently congratulated herself for keeping it in check.

"See?" she demanded. "Now, if you don't mind..."

Unfortunately, her small moment of triumph didn't last long.

While still holding her arm in his inflexible grasp, the lawman grunted. "If you've only got tips, you won't mind if I check for myself."

Not asking for permission, and clearly not thinking he needed an invitation, he dipped his big hand into her front pocket and rooted around.

"Hey!" she protested as his knuckles nudged her intimately.

"My friends downstairs can be generous," he said as he withdrew the long velvet box, "but I've never known any of them to tip in jewelry." The box creaked when he pried it open, and he whistled low. "By the look of this trinket, you're in a passel of trouble, little girl. I'm guessing the charge will be grand larceny."

"No! It dropped on the floor, and I was putting it back when you startled me."

"Yeah? It jumped into your apron pocket on its own, I suppose? Digging your hole deeper with lies ain't gonna help, missy. What else did you take?"

His hand dove in again and this time he pulled out a wad of bills that looked huge even in his paw-like hand. She saw a few fifties and several hundreds, probably close to $1000. No way had she made that much in tips in a few hours. Her face flamed with heat and got worse when she heard more footsteps and voices in the hall.

"Sam? Is that you?" a man called from the hallway. "We were wondering about the investigation. Was it what we expected?" he asked when he appeared in the door.

Krista recognized George Peterson, her employer for the evening. The older man had been kind and made her feel welcome, assuring her she was here to work, nothing more. And how did she repay his kindness? By stealing—or what was a good as stealing, no matter her change of heart.

"It was trouble, my friend. The same as the last time, but when I arrived, I found more brewing here."

Standing beside the sheriff who held out the evidence he'd found in her possession, she felt about two inches tall, and suddenly queasy.

The older man's gaze shifted from the money to her face, his mouth downturned in disappointment. He'd obviously put two and two together, but the sheriff clarified it for him just in case.

"It seems you've got a thief on your wait staff tonight, George."

At the word thief, her previous bravado evaporated, and the beginnings of tears stung her eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought about taking some money, but when I saw that"—she waved at the black box—"I changed my mind. Please. I was returning everything when the sheriff walked in. I'll leave right away, and you don't have to pay me a dime. Just don't call the police."

"Too late, missy, or didn't you hear me when I introduced myself?" This he murmured near her ear, and though the situation was serious, and tension crackled in the air, his voice seemed softer, and slightly amused. To their host, he inquired, "What would you like to do with her, George? She's got about a grand in cash, and depending on the value of this diamond necklace, which I'm guessing didn't come cheap, we're looking at more than a misdemeanor."

"That's my wife's collar," a man exclaimed as he shouldered his way past the judge into the room. He grabbed the black box and examined the choker. Appearing satisfied it was as it should be, he nodded then looked up at the sheriff. "She exchanges it for a leather one when we play. It's platinum with six carats of diamonds. I paid $12,000 for it several years ago, but figure it's worth about fifteen in today's market." He turned and glared at Krista. "I never thought for a moment it wouldn't be safe up here."

The big man holding her grunted. "And why would you? This sort of thing doesn't happen at the mansion." His gaze swung to her temporary employer. "How much time is she facing, Judge?"

"Judge!" she gasped.

"Yes," he replied. "This is the Honorable George M. Peterson, municipal judge for Wanaker Landing."

A sheriff and a judge— Krista felt like throwing up; she was so screwed.

"Let's see," the older man said, stroking his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. "For the cash alone, a first offense usually means community service and probation. Adding that necklace bumps the charge up to third-degree felony theft, which carries a three-year jail sentence and a $5000 fine—if she's got no priors."

To keep from breaking down and blubbering uncontrollably, she bit the inside of her cheek.

Her record was short, but it wasn't pretty.

In high school, she'd gone through a rebellious stage and been before a judge more times than she cared to remember. Truancy, assault—Marisa Bishop deserved every slug for stealing her date for the junior prom—and an embarrassing shoplifting conviction at sixteen. The two drug possession charges that followed came after her eighteenth birthday. The first was while she was driving her ex-boyfriend Brett's car. He had a brake light out, but when the cop pulled her over and got a whiff of the lingering pot aroma, he quickly forgot about her minor equipment violation. When he searched and found a half ounce stashed under the seat, he'd arrested her for possession.

Brett swore up and down and sideways the weed belonged to a buddy he'd been out with the night before, and she, like a fool in love, believed him.

The second time, only a few weeks later, was also all Brett.

They were on their way to a party and, unbeknownst to her, he dropped two joints in her purse for later—his later, not hers. With her family history, she didn't want anything to do with the stuff. He must have forgotten his stash when the fifth of Jack, something else she very rarely touched, numbed his brain. When the party went past midnight, the neighbors called the police because of the noise level, and they brought a K-9 cop with them. They busted her for possession again for something that in most states was legal nowadays.

And in both cases, when she appeared before the judge, good ole Brett had been nowhere around.

Her grandmother had borrowed money for a decent attorney, money which, on a fixed income she didn't have to spend, not after the recent expense of her grandfather's hospital stay and funeral. Yeah, she'd been going through a really rough patch at the time. The lawyer earned his pay by getting the charges dropped if she agreed to a six-week intensive outpatient rehab program. Being the only actual teetotaler in treatment wasn't a blast, but she'd done the time, gotten the certificate, and the charges were dropped. Unfortunately, the arrests still showed up on her record. Getting them expunged wasn't something she or her nana could afford. She just had to hope future employers would accept her explanations and, in her current circumstance, the sheriff and Judge Peterson.

They might not see her sealed juvenile records, but it was unlikely they'd miss the rest. The judge might consider her a troublemaker, or a drug addict looking for money to score her next fix. Since it was in his house, and his guests, he could decide she needed to learn a lesson.

"Please," she pleaded her voice quivery with unshed tears. "I wouldn't have gone through with it. I was suffering a guilty conscience and putting it back, I swear. I don't do things like this, I promise." The last word came out broken and raspy.

"She's breaking my heart," the necklace owner stated, looking on with a concerned expression. "The little gal can't be much older than my daughter. I'd hate to see her go to jail."

Thank goodness, the victim was a kind man and not set on vengeance.

"If you don't want to press charges, what would you have me do with her, Morgan?" the sheriff asked.

"Ginny would probably let you lock her up; she's rather fond of that necklace. But she seems remorseful, at least since she's been caught. If she were mine, I'd turn her over my knee and give her a sound licking with my belt, and I wouldn't let up until she learned never to do such a thing ever again."

Yikes! Maybe not so kind after all.

"That gives me an idea," Judge Peterson said.

"I'll do anything, sir."

"Are you sure, young lady? You haven't heard my proposal yet."

She nodded vehemently, believing her life would be ruined if she didn't go along with whatever he planned. "Anything is better than going to jail, sir. Please."

The older man's eyes shifted from her to the sheriff. "Are you contracted with anyone currently, Sam?"

He grunted. "You're not serious."

"Why not? I think I recognize one of our own when I see her. She's just untapped."

Krista didn't understand what they were referring to and how it involved her, but she watched as he turned to the other men, three in all since a younger man had joined their ranks.

"I'm available if he's not," the newest arrival chimed in eagerly.

The tall man at her side tensed and all but snapped, "I didn't say no, Geoffrey."

Confused as to what they were discussing, other than it involved her, her gaze shifted over the group who held her fate in their hands. They were staring back at her with looks ranging from amusement—the blond, blue-eyed man with the boy-next-door good looks who looked not much older than she did—to resolute—the judge—to curious—her affable victim. When she glanced up at Sheriff Golden, his expression was neutral though a little muscle jumped in his cheek.

"What do the rest of you think?" he asked. "It must be unanimous."

"I vote yes," Geoffrey announced, barely taking a second to consider his answer. It was on the tip of her tongue to thank him when he added, "But she must pay the same penalty as any other submissive resident of the Landing." His eyes gleamed with eagerness when he offered her an explanation. "That means corporal punishment before the community followed by a public apology."

Krista's jaw dropped open. "Are you nuts? This isn't medieval times. Public floggings don't exist in twenty-first century America. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Perhaps five licks for that mouth, too," Morgan added with a frown. "Never could abide foul language from a woman."

The sheriff's fingers still encircling her arm tightened, and he dipped his head near hers. "Talk respectfully, girl," he warned. "You're about to get an opportunity presented to you that could significantly alter your future, for the good. Cussing and being snotty will not help your cause."

"You were downstairs long enough to know what's going on here," the judge interjected. "I'll add a few more details so you understand more what this is about. Tonight is more than a party, and we are much more than the well-to-do gated community everyone thinks us to be. We're a society of like-minded people who have chosen to live a more traditional sort of lifestyle. Here on the Landing, we have a particular way of thinking and doing things, and we manage our private affairs accordingly."

"You have a particular way of being vague, too," she retorted, repeating his word deliberately. "But I'm guessing that's intentional."

"She's mighty lippy," Morgan commented. "Are you sure you've got her pegged right, George?"

The judge moved in closer, his eyes narrowing on her. "You've got one shot at a reprieve, my dear. I suggest you zip it, so you can listen and deliberate our offer." He paused briefly, to see if she was done interrupting, she supposed, which she was, for now. "The Landing is a private island with a private charter. Anyone wishing to move here must agree to it, in writing, and the language is iron clad and binding. We have an association they must join, but before this happens there is a stringent interview process to weed out those who aren't in accord with our way of life. Our community is unlike any other I'm aware of. It's small, closed, and because of this, we're like a big extended family. We have the usual public services, and beyond the residential areas, there are businesses and tourism, but our residents' private lives stay private. We expect discretion from our contractors and employees and to get it, we compensate them well. There is also the matter of confidentiality, which we strictly enforce. You signed an agreement before coming here tonight. In light of all of this, we also have our own judicial system including law enforcement." He indicated the sheriff with a tip of his head. "Very rarely have outside agencies been involved in Wanaker Landing affairs because we manage troubles within our group, when we can."

"This sounds too unbelievable to be true," she whispered.

"Perhaps, but it works for us. If you accept, you'll be subject to our rules, and the sheriff need not be involved further, in an official capacity, that is."

"But why are you doing this for me? I came to work here for one night. You don't know me or owe me anything."

"Are you trying to talk us out of it, little missy?" inquired the big man at her side.

"Oh, no. I'm just trying to understand."

"It's because you're young, seem contrite, but most of all, because you're like us." The judge nodded to the others around him. "We're always looking to increase our population with the right type of resident."

"He means pretty, submissive women," the younger man explained with a grin bordering on a leer.

Krista tried to contain a shudder. He was good looking, but she didn't get a good feeling from him. He seemed too put-together, too handsome—not ruggedly so like the sheriff, but almost feminine in his beauty—and too eager to see her punished.

"You should take us up on our offer," Geoffrey went on to advise. "None of this will go on your record. After you serve your sentence, you can remain as part of our community or move on."

"You sound like you've done this before."

His grin broadened. "That's because we have, not quite how you are going about it—in lieu of jail—but we indoctrinate new members this way all the time."

Indoctrinate made it sound like a cult. No way. This was wrong in so many ways.

"Don't I get to speak to a lawyer?"

"You haven't been officially charged yet, but you just did," the same young man answered, his eyes gleaming as though thoroughly enjoying himself at her expense. "I can send for my uncle, the senior attorney at our law firm, if you'd rather. He's downstairs."

The sheriff answered her unspoken questions. "Geoff and his father, Russ Kleinman, as well as his uncle Gerald, are the only law firm practicing on the island."

Good lord, they were all in cahoots: a libidinous counselor, a biased victim, and the man who would sit in judgment over her. The cards were stacked heavily in favor of the house.

This was a lot more than a club for kinky players, or even a lifestyle community. These people were so invested in their alternative way of life, they'd set up their own society on a private island.

It was like something out of a dystopian sci-fi novel, and she'd gotten caught in their web. Did Ally know what was going on here? If so, surely she would have warned her.

"We need your answer, Krista," Judge Peterson prompted. "We can either let the sheriff arrest you, and you can await your day in court, or we'll see to your punishment here. Once done, you can move forward with a clean slate."

"This can't be legal," she exclaimed with rising panic.

"It most certainly is," the older man stated with a frown, as if offended. "It's all voluntary, which is why we're giving you a choice. Abide by our judgment—"

"Yeah, in your kangaroo court," she snapped.

The hard fingers tightened around her arm as the sheriff issued a setdown. "After being caught in possession of cash and a costly diamond pendant that doesn't belong to you, you don't have the moral high ground here, missy."

"Lippy and disrespectful," Morgan grumbled.

"And so badly in need of discipline," the attorney added while smiling enthusiastically.

The judge ignored them all and concluded, "You're free to take your chances with the legal system."

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying more and digging her hole deeper while silently weighing her options, which weren't options at all.

"We're wasting our time, George." The sheriff's low voice was very close to an impatient growl. "I'm taking her to the station and charging her. I'll return within an hour, and we can discuss my other troubles this evening."

He walked toward the door, pulling her along with him

"Wait!" she cried, digging her heels in until he came to a halt. She turned to the judge. "This sentence... I get a spanking downstairs and apologize to your group, then I'm free to go?"

A grunt of disbelief sounded near her ear. "Would you expect such a light sentence in criminal court for felony theft?"

"Sam's right, I'm afraid," the judge concurred. "You'll not find it that easy. For such a charge, you'll be handed over to a dominant for a period of thirty days. He'll likely put you to work in some capacity, but for the duration of your time here, you'll live under his roof, abide by his rules, and be subject to his discipline. At the end of your sentence, you'll have paid your debt to Wanaker Landing society."

She recoiled, taking an instinctive step back. This brought her up against the chest of the sheriff, which, for all the give it had, might as well have been a brick wall.

"Thirty days is too much. No," she exclaimed. "In fact, hell no!"

"You're not being smart, my dear," the judge advised as he shook his head. "But if you prefer three years in state prison and a criminal record that haunts you the rest of your life, so be it. Take her and have her charged," he told Sam while he moved to the door. The other men followed, the young one for the first time having lost his smarmy grin, looking disappointed, instead.

"Wait!" she cried for the second time. "Don't I get time to think about something so serious?"

They turned expectantly, glancing at the man holding her for some reason. When he nodded, the judge advised, "You may have sixty seconds."

How generous. A whole minute to decide if she would hand herself over to a stranger who could do heaven only knew what kind of depraved things to her for a month.

"What kind of discipline are we talking about?"

"That's up to the man who will be in charge of you," the judge said.

"You saw what was going on downstairs?" the sheriff asked.

"If you're referring to the floggers, crops, paddles, and restraints, yes."

"Don't forget the whips," Geoffrey put in with a laugh.

"That's quite enough, Kleinman," Sam told the obnoxious attorney in a no-nonsense tone.

The younger man didn't say another word, which Krista thought was the smartest thing he'd done since his arrival, but he didn't do a very good job of hiding his scowl.

Sheriff Sam didn't seem to notice, and, if he did, he plainly didn't care.

"You will not be harmed," he assured her. "But if you don't behave during your time here, you can expect to experience much of what you saw. Except, instead of play sessions, your punishments will be real."

Aka, painful.

"You might get lucky and get a judge who is lenient," the owner of the necklace commented, drawing chuckles from the judge.

"Why is that funny?" she asked in a high-pitched voice, directing her question to the sheriff who, once again, was the only one not appearing amused by all of this.

"Judge Peterson is one of two judges who hears cases on the island. Since he knows of this personally, I expect he'd recuse himself."

"You'd expect right, Sam," the older man answered. "Which leaves you with the Honorable Nadine Pierce."

"She's called Mean Nadine for a reason, sweetheart," Geoffrey interjected, serious for the first time when he addressed her. "Take the get-out-of-jail-free card you're being offered."

As she glanced around at the others, each was nodding encouragingly, excluding the sheriff who silently awaited her decision.

"Thirty days of submission or three years in lock-up. Which is it going to be?"

She wanted to argue more, or stall, or find an empty corner and cry, but after Judge Peterson summed it up so succinctly, it seemed she had only one option.

"Okay," she said, her voice barely audible.

"What was that?" the sheriff asked. "Speak loudly so there is no misunderstanding."

"I agree to your deal."

"You'll be required to sign a sentencing agreement," the judge advised. "And to affirm in writing this is of your own volition.

"By coercion, you mean?" she grumbled.

"No, young lady," the owner of the diamond necklace from hell informed her. "This is your choice. I'm fine pressing charges and letting the chips fall where they may for you, but I suspect you don't want that, or we wouldn't be standing here having this discussion ad nauseam."

"Who will I be assigned to? Just some random sadistic stranger?" Her gaze shot to Geoffrey. If it was him, she'd just die.

But the judge's gaze shifted over her head, to the man standing behind her. "I don't think he leans to that extreme, but we'll let Sam discuss all of that with you in private. Come down to my den when you finish with her, Sheriff. It won't take me long to put the necessary paperwork together."

The older man, along with the others, left her alone with...

Suddenly, understanding dawned.

She whirled, breaking the grip he'd had on her arm for the last several minutes, and looked up at Sheriff Golden. "He means you!"

"Indeed," he replied, not with amusement but what appeared to be resignation. An instant later, he clasped her hand firmly with his much bigger one. "Let's get you processed, and your first punishment seen to, then you can finish out your shift. There are about fifty residents in attendance tonight; I won't let you leave the judge hanging without serving staff."

"Fifty?" she squeaked.

"Yes, which is fortunate for you. New subs are usually introduced at the mansion with a public scene. Your punishment will serve for both."

Fortunate? Yeah, right. This was so far removed from her definition of the word, it wasn't funny.

"Any further questions before we begin?"

Plenty, she almost replied, but what would be the point? As she told him, she'd do anything to keep from going to jail—even agree to this extreme remedy. But it didn't mean she wasn't completely petrified about what lay ahead.

Krista wasn't completely ignorant of what this entailed. Beyond the glimpses inside the main room downstairs, she'd read about BDSM, mostly in romantic fiction. The storylines she favored featured bold, brave, and sexually adventurous heroines who also had a deep-seated need to submit to either the dom or the experience.

She was more like a faint-hearted blundering Alice who'd tripped over her own feet and fallen headlong down a rabbit hole into a demented, kink-filled wonderland she had no hope of escaping for thirty days.

On that scary note, Sheriff Sam, who was now her dominant as well as her warden, towed her away from the crime scene and down the stairs to where she would begin serving her sentence. She could only hope to meet a short-tempered vindictive queen or a nonsensical man in a huge hat along the way; then, at least, she'd be assured this was all a bad dream.