Shadow Lane Volume Eleven: The Venus Club A Novel of Sex, Spanking and Modern Love. Eve Howard

sitting in the bookkeeping office in his parents’ vineyard in Northern California filling out quarterly tax forms and thinking of Amanda and how happy he would be to rendezvous with her three weeks hence, as they had planned. Colby Hodge’s heart gave a little jump when he saw the return number was Amanda’s. She didn’t call him often and he was always startled and elated to hear from her. He didn’t recognize the girl in the photo immediately. Five seconds later, Amanda’s phone rang.

      “Yes?” she answered as they continued walking down Main Street, enjoying their ice cream cones on the warm, June afternoon.

      “Babe, what did you do?”

      “Do you hate it?” Amanda asked.

      “No. It’s cute as hell. I can’t wait to see you, Amanda,” said Colby in his husky voice.

      “It’s very charming of you to mask your shock and repulsion, Colby. I didn’t credit you with so much gallantry.”

      “I love you, Babe,” he said before hanging up.

      Amanda shut her phone with a smile and said, “So that muscular metal god lives next door to me, on Shadow Lane?”

      “Amanda, have you fallen in love with him already?” Pamela laughed.

      “Well, I am on vacation.”

       Chapter Three

      Gallery Party and its Aftermath

      Agreeing to meet at the gallery at ten that evening, the young women separated, Amanda to do some shopping in the village and Pamela to drop in on her husband at the department store. Young Mrs. Bartlett did look very smart in a straight skirted, chunky belted, sleeveless cherry red cotton shirtwaist and a pair of snub nosed black patent leather stiletto platform pumps, as she nodded to her husband’s secretary outside his office and waited until she had been announced over the intercom before walking in. Ambrose had been studying the bank of security cameras on the far wall that monitored every department in his large and well-stocked store. But he looked up sharply on her entrance and gave an immediate start at the change.

      “Oh my god, you cut your hair?” he ejaculated, getting up from behind his desk to take a closer look. He was a tall, lithe, dark haired man in his early forties, well favored, impeccably groomed and as fashionably tailored as a luxe department store owner should be. He took her by the arm and turned her around. “So that’s the mischief you were getting up to with that bad Amanda Sands,” said Bartlett disapprovingly. But she could easily perceive from his tone and expression that the sleek bob did not displease him. “Very becoming,” he unwillingly complimented her. “But, you should have asked me first!” he added so sternly that she blushed.

      “Why do you call her bad?” Pamela asked.

      “Never mind.”

      “I told her I’d meet her later at that new gallery that Raphael Price is opening tonight.”

      “Fine. I’m working late tonight anyway.”

      “Could you meet me at the gallery?”

      “We’ll see,” Ambrose said, by way of dismissal, before turning back to his spy cams.

      Amanda called Susan to ask her to go to the opening but found her fair friend was in Manhattan for the next several days. Susan helpfully suggested to Amanda that Anthony Newton might escort her to the event and offered to call him and arrange this. Amanda flushed with pleasure at the notion of arriving at the party with a celebrity collector in tow. For even at her tender age she knew the value of introductions and counted on making a big impression on Raphael Price that night. And besides, she had a shy crush on Newton, having liked him very much on the first day they had met.

      Anthony Newton cruised by Hugo’s at ten pm to pick Amanda up. She had Hope Lawrence with her and both girls wore cotton halter dresses and strappy, high-heeled sandals, Amanda in white, Hope in pale blue. Hope was another one of Amanda’s slightly older scene girlfriends, a sophisticated, sunny natured blonde in her middle twenties who could answer questions on every aspect of BDSM from hobble skirts to straight jackets with equal acumen. By walking into Raphael Price’s gallery flanked by both a Broadway luminary and an exquisite second babe, Amanda knew that she would be not only noticed but also taken seriously. What had happened in the pool with Jaime so recently had been sweet, but it had hardly taken the edge off the crazily insistent itch of sexual frustration the sudden absence of Colby had left her with.

      Dennis drove them to the gallery in the Bentley and went in with them. Amanda thought Anthony’s young English driver looked very smart in his gray sharkskin suit and narrow tie and told him so with an engaging smile. Dennis blushed and melted for Amanda. Newton was in a lightweight putty-colored suit, white shirt and no tie. As always, Newton’s pockets were stuffed with cash and he was ready to buy things. Cape Cod was Newton’s home away from home and he felt it his duty to patronize its shopkeepers as much as he could. A stylish new art gallery was just the sort of place where he was likely to spend. And he was particularly well disposed towards the photographer whose work was on display that evening. Pascal Robbins was not only a sensitive lens man, but his wife, Phoebe, a well trained stage actress and gifted chanteuse, was one of Newton’s friends. In fact, the Robbins were spending the summer in Random Point, as they had done several years before, so that Phoebe might perform at the Cape Cod playhouse with a repertory company she often toured with. The company was staging a revival of Kiss Me Kate this summer. Anthony Newton was producing, directing and accompanying the orchestra on piano and Phoebe was going to play Lily. Which was why Newton was spending almost the entire summer at his house in Random Point that year.

      The Price Gallery was very large, taking up the three storefronts on the end of the last commercial block of Woodbridge village. The first storefront, towards the middle of the block, was given over to inexpensive prints, old-fashioned toys and novelties, sweets and stationary. The second store in was filled with moderately priced framed reproductions and mirrors, calculated to appeal to discriminating tourists and tasteful locals. The third room, at the corner end of the street contained original art, photographs, lithographs, signed numbered prints of the works of known artists as well as costly art and photography books.

      Even though she was very new to Random Point and Woodbridge, Amanda ran into several people she knew in the outer courtyard behind the gallery, where there was a fountain, colored lanterns and several tables laid out with hors d’oeuvres and other refreshments. She first saw Dru Baxter, the young man who tended the coffee bar at Marguerite Alexander’s bookshop on the days when Hope was off duty. He was about to be a sophomore at Vassar and they had spoken at length about academic subjects and life on their respective campuses when she came in from the antiques shop to get her mid morning coffee. He was having as hard a choice picking a major as she was and they had already gotten into deep discussions about books. She liked him and had no idea, as yet, that he was in the scene

      Then she saw Marguerite Alexander, the proprietor of the bookshop, who was engaged in conversation with Pascal Robbins. The photographer regarded Amanda with shock, left speechless by her new haircut.

      “It’s adorable,” Marguerite assured her, giving her a hug.

      “Is the cute man here?” Amanda whispered to Marguerite, looking about her.

      “There are several, but who did you have in mind tonight?” Marguerite asked, taking the greatest pleasure in the natural vivacity of Hugo’s newly sprung offspring.

      “The owner,” Amanda disclosed. “Raphael.”

      “Oh! Raphael. Yes. He’s inside, with the photos on exhibit.”

      “Don’t you think he’s an exceptionally well favored young man?” Amanda asked her worldly friend.

      “He’s a god,” answered Marguerite whole-heartedly.

      “Do you know anything about him, what he might be like?”

      “I’m afraid he’s a complete mystery to me,”