Lessons in Love

by Kathryn R. Blake

  When she shrugged in response, he gave her shoulders a little shake.

  "You'd best talk to me, Miss Weston, or I'll resort to my original plan."

  "I'm not sure anything I can say will dissuade you."

  "Probably not. However, your silence provokes me into proceeding. So, you've got nothing to lose, and possibly something to gain."

  "A reprieve?" she asked with a trace of false hope.

  "No promises, but I'll consider it, if you're honest with me."

  She swallowed, hoping she wasn't digging her own grave. "The women were polite and considerate in everything they said to me."

  "Yeah, I can see how that would set you off. Go on."

  "What's the parable about getting silk from a sow's ear?"

  The eyebrow rose again, so she quickly continued. "They were having trouble making filet mignon out of chopped beef."

  "Okay. Drop the metaphors and tell me what they said, exactly."

  "We’d be here for hours if I attempted to repeat all their comments, so let's just say my perception of me is more valid in their eyes than yours."

  "So, they reaffirmed your unfounded doubts."

  She sighed. "Yes. I know you think they're silly—"

  "I didn't say that, Pam, and I don't appreciate having words put into my mouth. The doubts you carry about in your incisive, witty brain are merely speculative, not silly. There's nothing silly about you."

  "Right." Another warning tap. "Sorry. Habit."

  "And one I intend to break. So, now you're under the impression you are ill-suited to be my assistant. Correct?"

  "Essentially, yes."

  "Okay, get up." He started to push her off his lap, but she clung to his neck.

  "Why? What do you have in mind?"

  "I'm still working through what I'm going to do with you, but, for the moment, I want to talk with them."

  "May I go with you?"

  "Yes, of course, if you wish. In fact, I think I'd best keep you by my side for a while."

  The moment she rose, he clasped her hand and escorted her across the store to the women who stood waiting with expressions brimming with uncertainty.

  Peterson kept his fingers entwined with Pam’s.

  "Ladies. Care to tell me your conclusions?"

  "Well, sir, we don't believe the lady’s appearance is conducive to your usual styles."

  "Expound a bit more on that statement, please."

  "Her breasts are too small, and she hardly has any hips at all, sir. The outfits you prefer require both assets."

  Though he chose not to contradict them, his expression indicated he didn’t appreciate their analysis, either. "Show me the clothes you selected and she's tried on, but you rejected."

  When Pam shifted with unease, his arm wound around her waist as he followed the saleswomen to their selections.

  "These are the ones she tried."

  Giving Pam a look that warned her if she attempted to move from the spot, he would follow a different course of action, Peterson sorted through the dresses while Pam winced in preparation for his inevitable rejection. Then, he pulled out a navy tailored suit with a white inset and lapels accented with a red scarf. She'd liked that one, but the saleswomen vetoed it saying even with the white against her face, blue wasn't her color.

  He handed it to Pam. "Try this on for me."

  She glanced at the women, who frowned. "But it's not—"

  His fingers gripped her chin, not painfully, but firmly. "Whose opinion matters here?"

  "Yours," she whispered.

  "Correct. So, no further arguments. Try it on, or I will dress you myself. Clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. I'll wait here." He took a seat in one of the small cushioned armchairs and stretched out his legs as though he had nothing better to do with his time. She wanted to snap back at him that it was amazing his company didn’t go bankrupt with the way he wasted his days, but prudently clamped her jaw shut as she strode into the changing room to do as ordered.

  Once dressed, she examined herself in the mirror. Okay, bare feet didn't exactly go with this business-oriented outfit, but it wasn't terrible on her. Deciding he'd only come fetch her if she kept him waiting any longer, she stepped out into the open area and stood before him.

  His brows drew together as he rose to tuck in the sides of her jacket, giving it a more tailored presentation. "If you take in a bit here and raise the skirt so it rests an inch above her knees, I think it would work."

  The women appeared skeptical but nodded. He was the boss, after all, and people shouldn’t argue with the person paying the bills if they wished to retain his business.

  "Good," he said with a nod as he reached for the light cream cashmere sweater and skirt set, held it up to her, frowned, and put it back on the rack. He chose three more outfits from the ladies’ reject pile, which he asked her to model for him, two of which he accepted with alterations, and one he agreed did not do her justice.

  With him, the outfit was at fault, not her complexion or figure. Next, they moved to the ones she hadn't tried on yet. Pam didn't think she could take any more and gave him her most pleading look, begging him not to make her do this.

  Though he did nothing to acknowledge her silent plea, when he sorted through the group, he selected only three. "Try these on then we'll pick out a few pairs of shoes and perhaps a bag or two to match and leave the rest for another day."

  "There's more?" Pam asked, aware her tone came out more as a whine than a question, but he smiled.

  "Yes, Miss Weston. Do you think a couple of outfits with matching accessories are all you will need?"

  "A girl can hope."

  "Most women would be ecstatic to have a man buying them new clothing."

  "So, I'm different. Sue me."

  "I am tempted to do something else entirely with you, my dear, and if you don't hurry and change into your next outfit, I may show you exactly what that is."

  Frowning, she stomped back to the dressing room to do as ordered like a good little soldier.

  He approved all three dresses with minor modifications then suggested they visit the shoe area next. Instructed to leave her penny loafers where they were, Pam put her old clothes back on and dutifully padded after him to the store's shoe section in her stockinged feet and sat where he indicated. Good girl, Pam. Stay, Pam. Sit, Pam. Bend over, Pam.

  He took note of her sour expression and tapped her nose. "Do you know what being on sufferance means?"

  "Is it like walking a tightrope where one false step will send you crashing to the ground?"

  "Similar, except your next false step will land you in a slightly different position."

  "And I suppose it will be your hand that's doing the crashing?"

  "Exactly. So, I suggest you behave, because if you think I won't do anything when we are out in public, you are mistaken."

  For some reason his threat didn't scare her the way it had when he’d first made it, possibly because he knew the notion upset her and was willing to limit his interactions to warnings unless she pushed him into doing more. That did much to reassure her. All the same, she drew her feet together and placed her hands in her lap like a prim and proper young miss. "Yes, sir."

  He chuckled and whispered, "Brat."

  She smiled back at him. Somehow, he made everything so much easier; she almost found shopping fun. Yeah, she was exhausted, more than a little cranky, and her eyes burned as if she'd rubbed salt in them, but her spirits were lighter, and, in many ways, she was content.

  He spoke briefly with the salesman then returned to pull Pam out of her seat.

  "What? I wasn't doing anything."

  "You're tired, short-tempered, and in need of a little TLC, so you're sitting on my lap."

  When he drew her down, she tried to rise again, except his arm held her in place like an iron band. He bent forward to whisper in her ear. "I said sit, but if you continue to be difficult, I'll flip you over instead. And the TLC you'll receive the
n won't be nearly as pleasant."

  She huffed, but settled against him and frowned at the salespeople who didn’t even give her a second glance. From their lack of reaction, she gathered they were used to clients holding someone on their laps during a shoe fitting. What sort of store was this?

  She glanced around. With velvet chairs, a silver coffee service, china cups, and crystal goblets of ice water, Executive Fashions appeared to cater to an exclusive clientele with expensive and discerning taste. Figuring they specialized in customized amenities, she began to wonder what else the place offered when she spotted an adjacent room filled with an odd collection of leather padded furniture that seemed out of place with the rest of the decor. Then, she recalled something the ladies said and turned to gaze at her boss. "What's a submissive?"

  He cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"

  "The women referred to me as your submissive. I wanted to correct them and say I was your executive assistant, but I don't think they were paying much attention to anything I said or did, so I kept silent. But I'm curious. What's a submissive?"

  He placed a kiss on her temple. "We'll discuss it at dinner. I belong to a club that has private dining rooms, so we can talk without being overheard."

  "Is it something bad?"

  "No. And, though discussing the dynamic here wouldn't be out of place, I think you'd be more comfortable asking questions in a less public setting."

  "Then it is bad."

  The tap on her thigh was firm but not painful. "I said we'll discuss it later."

  She didn't argue the point because the salesperson came over with some boxes and a long, metal apparatus. He smiled at her, not Peterson, which surprised her. "Mr. Peterson said he thought you were a size eight, so I picked out a few pairs I thought you might like, but I also brought a foot measuring device to make sure we have the correct width as well. All right?"

  Pam nodded and rose from Mr. Peterson's lap, while Danny, the shoe salesman, laid the instrument on the floor and instructed her where to place her foot. Usually she purchased shoes off the rack, so it had been awhile since anyone measured her feet.

  "Both feet are 8B or medium, I'd say, so these should fit you fine." He opened one box and showed her a low-heeled, shiny black pump.

  She glanced back at her boss, who gave her a nod. "I like them. Go ahead and put them on and walk about a bit to see if they're comfortable."

  They repeated that process several times, until they ended up with Mr. Peterson purchasing two pairs of flats, two pairs of running shoes, four short heels and allowing her one pair of six-inch heels she thought were sexy.

  In between trying on shoes, he insisted she return to his lap where he rubbed her arms and shoulders while they waited. She couldn't say she minded. In fact, she rather liked the attention. The stroking she received from his strong, long fingers relaxed her, easing any lingering tension from her trying clothes session.

  Once the shoes were chosen, they moved to another area, where once again Pam was instructed to sit on her boss’s lap. Here, a saleswoman brought out a selection of purses for her to consider. This woman also took care to direct all her questions to Pam and ask for her opinion instead of Mr. Peterson's. Since he approved all her choices, Pam suspected they knew him well enough to limit their options to the sort of items he'd requested for his other assistants. The notion he'd done this many times before bothered her, but the moment she considered it, he gave her a small shake and murmured, "Stop it."

  She frowned back at him. "What? I'm not allowed to think now?"

  "Think, yes. Worry and chew over something, no."

  "Great. Even my thoughts get an outside editor."

  The smack she received for that quip was light, but nonetheless insistent she cease quibbling. Not wanting him to get any more creative, she ceased arguing and turned her attention back to the array of handbags being laid out before her."

  Though the purses were all selected to complement the style and color of her shoes, she only picked three. He would have insisted she get more, but when she admitted the thought of changing from one purse to the other each night was more work than she wanted to invest, he accepted her decision.

  Pam experienced a sense of relief when he announced their shopping was concluded for the day, but groaned when he made her choose the handbag she would carry out of the store as a replacement for her old shoulder bag.

  "Why? The one I've been carrying is fine and it's comfortable."

  "Yes, I can see that. However, it’s sadly out of place with the shoes we just purchased, and I want to toss away those scuffed loafers before we leave here.

  "They're comfortable, too," she informed him with a scowl.

  "See that room over there?" He indicated the room with the odd-looking furniture she'd noticed earlier.

  "Yes. What is that stuff?"

  "That room is filled with special equipment executives use to help adjust the attitudes of their sassy assistants. Would you like to go in and take a closer look?"

  Pam considered that for a moment. Admittedly, she was somewhat curious about the strange assortment, but no way was she up for a personal demonstration. Not if they were used for the purpose she thought they were. "By closer look, do you mean show and tell or use and experience?"

  "What do you think?"

  She regarded him through narrowed eyes. "I think the black bag will do nicely, thank you, along with the black flats."

  "Excellent choice," he murmured, placing a light kiss on her cheek.

  She suspected he would have insisted she change clothes, too, if they all hadn't needed to be altered.

  Once her new shoes were on and her belongings transferred over to her new handbag, she was surprised to discover it was after 6:00 p.m. Linking their arms, he said, "Now, my dear, I'm going to take you out to dinner, feed you, allow you one, possibly two, glasses of wine, then put you to bed—alone."

  "Spoilsport," she murmured under her breath, but, in truth, all of that sounded heavenly except for the alone part. She really liked the man who sat with her and bullied her into relaxing. Though he gave her no wiggle room, and had little to no concept of personal space, at least for her, she enjoyed being with him. He not only managed to keep her inner demons at bay, he soothed her whenever they started to chew her up into little pieces. However, exhaustion was taking its toll, so alone probably would be best.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A footman greeted Mr. Peterson by name when they entered the establishment’s foyer, as another gentleman in livery approached them. This club of his employed footmen?

  "Everything is prepared for you, Mr. Peterson, as you requested. If you will follow me, sir." The footman led them toward a tall, curving staircase.

  Taking note of the club-like atmosphere, complete with a gentlemen's reading room, Pam began to wonder if she should suggest they dine at a more public place when she realized most of the "dining rooms" they passed along the upstairs hall featured large four-poster beds. These men all ate in bed? Talk about the epitome of decadence.

  Pam breathed a sigh of relief when the room they were escorted to appeared to be a private parlor rather than a bedroom. She liked Mr. Peterson, but she wasn't ready to sleep with him…yet. As she took in the soft Wedgwood blue walls, cream trim, and cozy table for two set in the center of the room. Pam started to relax. Instead of a bed, the chamber had a long, teal velvet sofa against the right wall situated beneath a six-foot painting of elegantly gowned dancers at a formal ball. In front of the armed couch sat a highly polished light wood coffee table decorated with a few magazines, a cut crystal decanter surrounded by tiny stemmed sherry glasses and two dancing figurines. On either side of the long sofa were end tables topped with lamps and delicate looking porcelain couples, fronted by similarly upholstered lounging arm chairs that gave the stately room a homey, relaxed appearance.

  At the opposite side of the room sat an empty fireplace with an intricate wooden mantel adorned with candles and additional porcelain figures. Two mat
ching cream leather armchairs faced the fireplace at oblique angles so they could be used for reading or conversation. Pam couldn't see anything sinister or menacing about the room, but she sensed its appearance masked an alternate purpose. The odd man out was a padded leather and wood sort of chair tucked away in the corner, which appeared similar to the furniture she'd seen in Executive Fashions. Apprehensive, yet curious, Pam was tempted to examine the oddity close up, but a small, internal voice warned her she probably wouldn't like what she discovered.

  "This is an unusual place," she murmured after Mr. Peterson assisted her into the chair facing the elegantly curtained floor-to-ceiling windows and placed her back to the door. Once she was seated, he took the seat directly across from her.

  "I enjoy the privacy along with the amenities this club provides," he admitted, snapping out his napkin. "The ambiance offers variety, and their food isn't bad. Not equal to five stars, but comparable to a good restaurant."

  Pam laid her napkin on her lap and glanced at the menu. Hers didn't list any prices, but eating was the last thing she wanted to do right then. In fact, she thought it might be best if he just took her home. Despite the room’s clean smell of lemon polish and subtle potpourri, something about this gentleman’s club caused her stomach to knot uncomfortably.

  She put her menu down. "You know, I'm not all that hungry after all. Maybe I should just go home."

  He stared at her, his expression resolute. "Go ahead. Ask any questions you want, but you are eating if I must feed you myself."

  She rose from the table. "No. You stay. I don't want to spoil your dinner. I'll call a cab."

  "Sit down, Pam," he ordered, his attention returning to his menu.

  "Mr. Peterson—"

  The scowl he bestowed on her next froze her words on her tongue.

  "When I give you an order, Miss Weston, I expect to be obeyed. Now, sit down before I show you exactly how that piece of furniture in the corner, you're so curious about, works."

  "Why did you bring me here?" she asked, her voice trembling uncertainly.

  He pointed at her chair. "Second and last chance. Sit down, please."

  She shook her head, but when he rose she hurried back to her seat and picked up her menu. He put his napkin aside, stepped next to her chair, and extended a hand. Ridiculously, she noticed the blunt-tipped nails at the end of his long, lean fingers were buffed.