Winding Her Up

  Winding Her Up

  An SK Private Label Story

  Sahara Kelly

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Sahara Kelly

  Discover other titles by Sahara Kelly at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To readers everywhere who keep writers like me going through the challenges and failures of this business—my deepest gratitude. My books are for those of you who want a few minutes or an hour away from everyday life. Those of you who like to dream and indulge in a fantasy or two now and again. In other words, all of us.

  To my amazing and offbeat family, who have managed to survive this strange journey of mine thus far without reading a single one of my novels—which is quite okay— my love always.

  And to my best friend and writing partner—a big hug for ten years of patience, laughter, informative musical discussions, bad puns and amazing ideas. You're a visionary, a contemporary humorist, a brilliant artist and you eat the olives off my pizza for me. Thank you hardly seems adequate, but it's all I got!

  (Cover art copyright 2011 Sahara Kelly)

  Author's Note

  When I began this series, I used the Boston settings as a personal convenience, having lived in this area for many years. I didn't realize at the time how important a role they would play in the stories. There is a Newbury Street and a stroll up it toward Boston Common is a must for tourists and residents alike.

  The Festival of St. Anthony is an amazing event. I went once, many years ago, and have never forgotten the noise, the food, the laughter and the singing. Not to mention the astounding sight of the statue itself draped with long streamers which, on closer inspection, turned out to be made of cash! It's a wonderful party and if you're ever in Boston at the end of August, I suggest you add it to your calendar. You won't be disappointed. And you have to try a sausage sub…

  Chapter One

  Marielle Todd stared into the mirror and wondered whatever happened to Mary Ellen Shaughnessy.

  Mary Ellen would have had at least three kids by now, and a husband who worked hard—enjoying his hockey and basketball over the winter, and possibly baseball during the summer. Although that would be when they took the kids up to New Hampshire for two weeks in July.

  Mary Ellen might have had a part time job—crossing guard or teacher's aide perhaps—something associated with her children's lives. She would definitely be a member of the PTA and know how to cook a prize-winning pot roast. And they'd all go to Sunday mass at St. Monica's, except for the times they were away or planned a trip; then they'd go to Saturday night services if they could.

  Yes, Mary Ellen Shaughnessy would've been a good Irish-Catholic girl like her mother. Born and raised in the South End, there was really no question about it.

  So where had she gone? What had happened to her?

  Marielle stared into her own blue-green eyes and saw the answers. Mary Ellen had passed quietly away on the day her mom died from the complications of pneumonia and a weak body. Katy Shaughnessy had been denied the lifespan most humans enjoyed, and the little snatch of years she'd had...well, there'd been almost none for her. It had all been for her family and it had literally worn her out. So much valuable time wasted.

  Marielle Todd, nee Shaun, had arisen from Mary Ellen's soul as the cortege had carried the mortal remains of her mother to the cemetery. She swore on her Mother's grave that she'd have a life of her own before it was her turn to ride inside a box to her final resting place.

  She'd turned her back on her four siblings, kissed her Dad with more bravado than she'd known she had, and headed for South Station, where she bought a ticket on a Greyhound bus to the mighty metropolis known as New York.

  She thought she'd left the pain of her loss behind.

  She hadn't, of course, but it grew more bearable as the weeks turned into months and into years.

  Marielle Shaun had escaped her pre-ordained destiny and fled south, with five hundred dollars and her new name. Over the most strenuous of objections from her family, she'd forged her way into that teeming city—working several jobs, saving money for courses at the lesser known colleges, and finally swinging enough credits to get a year in at the continuing education program at CUNY. All while holding down two part time jobs.

  The degree she'd fought so hard to obtain got her hired with a very prestigious marketing agency. At least she hoped it was the degree. She'd hate to think her milky skin with its smattering of freckles, rich red hair and curvaceous body had secured the position. Because that would have made her feel like shit for a variety of reasons, none of which she cared to dwell on.

  At least she had managed to avoid the three-to-five kids-before-thirty syndrome, and the marry-Tommy-O'Riley syndrome. Insert any Irishman's name in place of Tommy's. She had known from an early age that she wasn't cut from that cloth, even though she'd been born into it and raised within it.

  She still missed her mom, of course...and it had been an agonizing pain on her wedding day. Well, the whole day had been pretty bad, to be honest. A quick civil ceremony in a snowstorm, and then off to a modest hotel for a two-day honeymoon spent in bed.

  She'd been a virgin, amazingly enough. Something Alan Todd hadn't believed. If he had, perhaps he'd have been a bit less forceful on their wedding night. She didn't know it then, but that would be the tone of their marriage.

  Alan took what he wanted and considered Marielle a useful asset. He was more show than substance, his progress in his mundane job dismally slow, and he quickly blamed Marielle for what he perceived as her lack of support. All while slipping off with any spare money they had and finding a poker game, in order to lose every penny of it.

  They were divorced before their second anniversary and she tried not to look at the nineteen months as a giant waste of time, but it was difficult.

  She accepted an offer that finally brought her back to her roots in Boston. In the intervening seven years she had risen through the system to her current appointment, executive assistant to Frank Hart. He was the "Hart" of Hart and Miller, exclusive financial consultants, with quarters high above the Charles River overlooking Cambridge.

  Her office was paneled in polished walnut, her salary two dollars a year shy of being appallingly decadent, and her exclusive high-rise waterfront condo, in which she now stood, had a view of Boston harbor many would kill for.

  Yep, Mary Ellen Shaughnessy would have been out of her depth in these surroundings.

  Fortunately, Marielle Todd was not. She was just—lonely.

  She stared from her window at the water, loving how the sun danced off the waves. It was late summer, one of her favorite times of year, when the enervating heat of August surrendered to a whisper of cooler air now and again. Chrysanthemums replaced impatiens at the garden centers, scenting the air with their autumnal tang.

  Being on the twenty-sixth floor of the Harbor Towers building, she couldn't hear the lap of the sea against the wharf pilings. Nor could she smell that unique fragrance of seaweed, mud and other pollutants. That was, in fact, a plus to living this high above the water, especially at low tide.

  The view, as always, soothed her. It was the dealmaker when it came time for her to buy her own place. One bedroom was enough. She didn't ever plan to share it with anyone on a permanent basis.

  Guests
were fine. Live-ins, of any description, were not. When the front door closed, her time became her own to enjoy as she pleased.

  There was a soft whirr behind her, then another, and a quick clicking followed. She smiled and turned waiting for the sounds that had become her friends.

  She knew exactly what time it was because eighteen clocks were telling her so in their own way. Some chimed, others did nothing more than point at the correct hour. They were arranged on a lovely display unit, nestling happily together, a family of assorted moving parts. They were all crystal-regulator clocks, small to medium desk and wall versions, all with their lower regions and innards on display. There were also a couple of carriage clocks just for fun.

  She was hoping to bring a new member of the family home this upcoming week, if her favorite antiques dealer decided to be reasonable about that mid-eighteen hundreds pillar clock she'd fallen for.

  She walked to the shelves and absently picked up the feather duster standing like a strange flower in a vase to one side. As was her habit, she whisked away the few particles that dared to mar the gleaming surfaces, lost once more in the charm, elegance and masterful workmanship of the timepieces. Then she checked each of them for accuracy, and wound the two smallest ones that needed attention every six days or so. If she didn't give it to them, they'd lose a minute or two.

  That notion was anathema to Marielle. Because she had an obsession.

  She was obsessed with watching the passage of time.

  Tonight she was going to take an adventure connected with that obsession and she was looking forward to it with a certain amount of trepidation. Time and clocks were one thing—and dear to her heart. Clockwork machinery, strange devices and historically-accurate costumes—well those were something else again.

  But it had all sounded very appealing when she'd first learned of it via an invitation that had been impossible to refuse.

  So she stirred herself, heading for the shower and the Victorian dress she'd rented.

  Tonight, Marielle Todd was going to attend the gathering of the Steampunk Society, which she tried to do on a semi-regular basis. Her membership was relatively new, but overall she enjoyed the experience—and the dressing up parts. Usually she was a Sunday guest, but it was Saturday night and she had nothing to do. There would be some activity at the Society, for sure. She devoutly hoped it would be fun. She was definitely overdue for some of that...

  *~*~*~*

  Ian Matthews looked across the counter at his friend. "Looks authentic?"

  Thaddeus Fisher nodded. "That it does." He gently opened a tiny door with a small tool, not unlike a padded toothpick. "I'd say perhaps 1860 or so? Viennese..."

  "That would be my guess, yeah." Ian leaned over and adjusted the high intensity lamp to shine more brightly on the object they were both scrutinizing.

  It was a clock. About a foot tall, it was a boxy little fellow, standing proudly on the counter of Time Travelers, the Newbury Street antique store owned and run jointly by Ian and Tad.

  Their friendship and collaboration had begun over Ian's baby turtle in kindergarten, and showed no signs of ceasing any time soon. Their shared interest in the past and antique artifacts had led them through art and history majors in college, and eventually to their own snazzy little boutique in the most upscale area of Boston.

  They were damn lucky to be there and both knew it. They'd worked hard to get where they were, and neither of them would be taken in by some amateur who thought he had a potential undiscovered treasure and wanted millions of bucks for it.

  Clocks, and other timepieces, were Ian's forte, but Tad wasn't lagging in that area. Anything old and interesting fascinated them, and they knew they shared a genuine affection for the past. Some people looked at it as junk. Not the proprietors of Time Travelers. They looked at each and every item in their store as a little piece of history.

  And Ian was almost drooling over this one. "I reckon it's French. See the enamel work?" He pointed at the delicate ornamentation. "Lovely stuff."

  "Cast brass, d'you think? Gold wash?"

  "Yep." Ian's voice was automatic, since he was peering closely at the clock's innards over the tops of his glasses.

  "What do you reckon?"

  It was Tad's standard question when it came to valuation. In fact, it was Ian's standard question as well, when the article was something more in keeping with Tad's expertise.

  Their mutual ability to do things like this often had people wondering if they were a couple in more ways than just one. The women they dated would have snickered and then shaken their heads. An affinity for antiques and a partnership in a business with your best friend didn't make a guy gay.

  And if there was any doubt, Ian knew people had only to ask their dates. Who were, if not legion, at least many. From Boston to Cape Cod—where Tad's family had a small beach house—there were past girlfriends and lovers who could testify to the masculinity of the two men.

  But Ian had other things on his mind. "I'd say we could put a price of two thousand on it. I'd come down to seventeen-fifty for the right buyer. But the condition is so good and that enamel work is really awesome...I can't see letting it go for less."

  "Done." Tad scrawled numbers on some papers and then turned to enter data into his laptop. "That's it, I think."

  "Good. I'm ready to go punk out tonight. Have some fun."

  Ian grinned, knowing he'd probably get shit from his buddy for being so eager to hit the Steampunk Society meeting. Tad had ragged on him mercilessly until Ian had dragged him to a Steampunk social a few months ago.

  The sight of all those curvaceous breasts popping up over the tops of corsets—well, it had made a believer out of Tad and they'd attended together ever since.

  "Did it ever strike you that we're getting old?" Tad waited for his operating system to shut down.

  "What?" Ian began to pack the clock back into its box. The owner would be contacted and various pricing arrangements discussed. A contract would be completed before the item could go on the shelves for sale.

  "The women we meet are lovely. But the sex is...lacking."

  Ian snorted. "You need a handbook? Some new positions? Toys?"

  "No. I'm serious." Tad locked away his laptop and cleared the counter. "There's something missing. Some spark. It's all the same-old, same-old."

  "Maybe I should give you some pointers."

  "Yeah right." Tad made a rude gesture that betrayed his Italian heritage.

  Ian, who also grew up in the North End of Boston, grasped the significance. "Back at ya." He put the re-wrapped clock into the large wall safe and swung the door closed, clicking it locked and recovering it with the huge seascape of Rockport's Motif Number One. The red building with the buoys and lobster pots was a bit hackneyed, but it covered the safe, which was why they'd bought it in the first place.

  Finishing up their closing ritual, Ian shrugged. "So what are you going to do about it?"

  "Maybe you should give me some pointers."

  "What?" Ian blinked.

  Tad took a breath. "You ever considered sharing?"

  Ian stopped dead. "What?"

  "You're repeating yourself."

  "I know." Ian shook his head. "I just wasn't sure if I heard you right." He sat down on a seventeenth century chair, ignoring the sign telling him not to. "Say that again."

  Tad looked at him. "Sharing. The two of us, one woman."

  "Dude." Ian reverted to tenth grade. "Shouldn't that be the two of us and four women?"

  "Dude." Tad sighed. "We did that."

  "Oh. Yeah. Right. Two summers ago."

  "I'm talking one woman. The right woman. Someone who could really get into it. And someone it would be fabulous to watch, not just fuck." Tad shifted, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

  Ian was quiet for a bit, thinking over what his friend was proposing. "We're growing up, aren't we?"

  "Where the hell did that come from?" Tad bit back a laugh.

  "
The fact that we're talking about two of us sharing a woman. And the fact that I'm understanding the appeal here, without going into serious testosterone overload or challenging you to a duel for possibly insulting the length of my dick."

  "It's not about that." Tad frowned.

  Ian held up his hand. "I know. It's about fucking her, yeah sure. But it's also about the pleasure of being really close to a woman while she's being fucked. Of seeing things we miss when we're balls deep and ready to blow. Being voyeuristic in the most private and personal sense of the word."

  Tad nodded. "Yes. All that."

  "And probably more." Ian finished the thought. "I kinda like the idea."

  And with that, the deal was struck. They'd been friends for so long, Ian knew he didn't need to say anything else. They had discussed it, agreed to it and it was on to the next question. He stood. "Now all we gotta do is find ourselves the right kind of lady."

  "Attractive, horny and willing to do a double."

  "They must be everywhere." Ian turned off the remaining light.

  Tad chuckled as he locked the door behind them and stepped out onto Newbury Street. "Piece of cake."

  Chapter Two

  Marielle strolled down the cobbled pavement to the Steampunk Society building, feeling very Georges Seurat even though it was Saturday night not Sunday afternoon and she wasn't in the park. Perhaps the sound of her skirts as they swished around her ankles did it, or the occasional blaring horn—clearly the folks behind the wheel weren't expecting to see a Victorian beauty in her delicate lavender finery. She'd asked the cabbie to let her off a block away so that she could take a few moments to indulge in some purely girl playtime as she sauntered to her destination.