by Mimi Strong
I glanced up at those baby blues that made my heart melt and my pussy ache.
He held my gaze, even when I tossed aside the covers to reveal my gift. I'd worn a pretty peignoir to bed, hoping he'd join me in bed, feel the lace, then wake me and make furtive love to me… or start without waking me.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Not bad. And you?”
He shrugged. “Late night.”
He didn't mention the scene at the restaurant, and I didn't either, because I'd probably go soft and apologize, and I didn't want to do that. Apologies were overrated. Why tell someone when you can show them?
Wordlessly, I rolled up onto my hands and knees and started crawling like a panther toward him.
“You drank the beer and got into the vodka, but saved the champagne,” he said. “Were you thinking of me? How you wanted to share the champagne with me?”
I nodded as I reached him, then nudged his arm with the top of my head. Making a purring noise, I rubbed my head up and down his warm chest. The smell of him was intoxicating. I used my hands like paws, pushing on his chest to try to get him to lie down, but he resisted.
“We can't stay in bed all day,” he said.
I purred and threw my leg over his body so I was straddling his lap.
“Is the kitty sorry?” he asked.
I sank my teeth into the flesh of his shoulder.
He cried out in surprise, then said, “I guess the kitty isn't sorry at all. The kitty is a bad kitty. It's in her nature, and she doesn't know any better.”
I bit him again, this time on the neck.
He grabbed me around the waist and stood up suddenly, holding me tightly.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and dragged my tongue up the side of his face.
He mused, “Where shall I fuck you?”
I stopped biting and began kissing him tenderly, first on his blond eyebrows, and then moving down to his perfect lips.
He kissed me, his hands reaching down under my butt to support my weight as he walked.
“The patio?” he said, walking me through the penthouse. “No, no, I have a better idea.”
I felt myself being set down on a surface. A chair. I let go of him with my arms and legs and looked around.
Smith turned the chair and pushed me in, so I was facing a computer monitor. And a keyboard.
“Perfect,” he said, taking a spot behind me and rubbing my bare shoulders.
I broke my silence, saying, “What the fuck? You want me to type? Right now?”
“It is what I pay you for,” he said. “You're certainly not much value as a dining companion.”
I wanted to grab the keyboard and smash it on the expensive inlaid-wood floor.
“I've already ordered room service,” he said. “Nice, hot breakfast will be arriving shortly, but I figured in the meantime, we'd try to squeak out a thousand words or so.”
“And then what?”
“Then breakfast, and a few more thousand words?”
“Then what?”
“Shopping,” he said. “With all due respect, I think if you upgraded your wardrobe, you might feel more comfortable at fine dining establishments, and you might demonstrate a more refined decorum.”
He took my hand and guided it over to the button to push the computer monitor on.
“There's a good girl,” he said. “Be a good typist, and I'll be a good boss.”
I glowered at the monitor, but I squelched the argument raging within me. I had been hired to type for him, after all, before everything else had started.
“Yes, boss,” I said.
He chuckled. “Good girl. Think about the shopping.”
The large monitor was already attached to his laptop, and I opened the document for the Smith Dunham detective novel. We'd ended in an interesting place the day before, and damn it if I didn't want to know what would happen next.
It felt like something really huge was going to happen.
We worked on the detective novel for nearly three hours, briefly stopping to eat breakfast and make more tea in the luxury suite's full kitchen. Since I wasn't getting any mileage out of my sexy nightie, I changed into some more comfortable shorts and a T-shirt.
I typed so many words, the pinkie finger on my left hand actually got sore.
In the story, Detective Dunham was going undercover to chase down a lead, and his client Sheri was howling with frustration at being ignored.
As Smith ceased dictation and hovered at my shoulder to review, I rubbed my sweating palms on my shorts and said, “Howling?”
“It's from Smith's point of view here, so that's how he sees her irritating, needy behavior.” He picked up the used tea cups from around the desk and disappeared to the kitchen.
I followed him. “Needy? Really? Have you ever considered making your detective a little less of a buttplug?”
He put the cups into the dishwasher like someone who'd never used a dishwasher.
“Do you think making my main character more accommodating to a woman's needs will sell more books?” He smirked. “Is there some new level beyond Number One on the NYT Bestseller list? Some platinum level I haven't heard of?”
“Nice.” I corrected the arrangement of the haphazardly-placed cups.
“Tori, are we speaking in subtext here? Do you really need me to fuck you that bad?”
“Please. I wouldn't have sex with you right now if you begged.”
He licked his lips. “I could make you come in five minutes.”
I rolled my eyes. “Nice try with the reverse psychology.”
He rubbed his hands over his smoothly-shaved cheeks. “Let's go back to bed and I'll fuck you with my tongue until you're begging for my cock, and even then, I still won't let you have it.”
“No, thanks.”
He shrugged. “Your loss. But just so you know, that's all I can offer. Tongue, hand, or I can watch while you finger yourself. I've got to keep my sexual energy constrained, to drive me through the middle of the book.”
“What?” I looked around for the aliens who had replaced Smith Hornypants Wittingham with a chaste doppelganger.
He took a long stretch, his arms raised high above his head, showing off his sexy bare chest. I'd put on my clothes, to be professional, but he was still wearing the drawstring pants and no shirt. After stretching, he flexed his chest muscles and biceps while admiring himself.
“I am one sexy beast,” he commented. “After I take a nap, I'll put a shirt on so you aren't driven mad with desire for what you cannot have.”
I grabbed for the strings at the waist of his pants, but he jumped back out of my reach.
“Bad redhead.”
With a flirty lilt, I cooed, “Come on, baby, just a quickie. I'll get on top so I won't wear you out.”
I thought for sure he was just playing one of his games with me, but instead of taking me up on my offer, he handed me a credit card and told me to go shopping.
“Buy some sexy toys,” he said. “I'll watch you use them on your naughty ginger kittycat.”
My voice as flat as my mood, I said, “That's romantic.”
He grinned. “Get something pretty to wear to dinner tonight, and we'll try again.” He winced. “Different restaurant this time. I don't think I can go back to the other one.”
“At least I'm not boring.”
“Could you try? Could you try to be boring for just one night?”
We were both grinning now. “I don't think I can.”
“Don't hold back with the credit card,” he said. “I can't spend my fortune all by myself.” He stretched again and started walking toward the bedroom. “Have fun. I'll call down and have the driver waiting around front for you. Have him teach you a few phrases in French. All the people in the shops will speak English, but if you make an effort, they'll think you're as cute as I do.”
I followed him to the bedroom and watched him crawl into the bed for a post-writing nap. I wanted to crawl in beside him,
but he did look tired, and I wondered if he'd even slept the night before.
I pulled the blanket up and tucked him in, which seemed to amuse him as much as it confused him.
“You think I'm cute?” I said.
He got his arms free and pulled me down for a kiss. “Very.”
“You're somewhat cute yourself.”
“Says the woman holding my platinum credit card. Surprise, surprise.”
I straightened up with a jolt, my head spinning from the movement. “I don't like you for your stupid money.”
“Would you date a forty-something guy with no job, no house, no prospects? Would a hot, college-educated girl like yourself do such a thing? Just some schlub who works at a sporting goods store?”
“That's preposterous. I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.”
He waved one hand at me. “Have fun shopping with my credit card, Tori.”
Angrily, I turned and stormed out of the bedroom.
I stopped.
Words and ideas were battling inside my mind. I had a feeling, but didn't know how to put it into words.
I came back into the room and stripped off my clothes. Smith didn't say anything as I got dressed to go shopping.
There was something important I needed to say to him, and I'd say it, but first I was going to do exactly as he'd requested. I'd never been to Montreal before, much less shopping in Montreal, and I was going to have fun and spend Smith's money if it killed me.
The driver's name was Claude, and he seemed chipper, practically bouncing as he ran around to let me in the passenger side. He seemed to be the same guy who'd driven me to the hotel the night before, but I hadn't been in a super chatty mood.
Claude had a French accent, which made everything he said sound like he had his lips pulled tight to his teeth, yet it wasn't over the top like the waiter's thick accent.
“Good morn-eeng,” Claude said, his ice-blue eyes attentive.
“It's still morning?”
“It eez 'alf past eleven,” he said solemnly. Claude was a handsome man, with thick, black hair and a gold wedding band. Lucky wife, I thought.
The midday sun was hot on my bare calves. I'd worn the cornflower-blue dress that Smith said matched my eyes, with a pair of dressy flats that wouldn't slow down my shopping. As always, I'd slathered on sunscreen to prevent the production of additional freckles on my pale skin. I usually tried to avoid being out in the middle of the day during the summer, but the sun on my legs felt blissful.
If I couldn't be touched by Smith, the sun was a decent alternative.
Claude opened the back door of the town car for me, at the same time as I reached clumsily for the handle of the passenger door at the front. I clapped my hand to my forehead and apologized as I shuffled over and climbed into the back.
“The car's not yellow, so I forgot,” I said, laughing. “I'm not used to having a driver.”
“Maybe I should paint zis car yellow,” he said with a wink. “It would be cheery. And the look on Mr. Wittingham's face, it would be priceless.”
“Do you always drive for him when he's in Montreal?”
“I drive for him in any city. Where he goes, I go.”
“Really.” I put on my seat belt and tapped my fingers on my leg as Claude crossed around the vehicle and got in the driver's side.
He must have been reading my mind, anticipating all my intrusive questions about the mysterious Smith Wittingham, because before I could say a word, he said, “Of course, where I drive my boss is confidential. As are all the details of my employment.” He gave me a friendly smile in the rear view mirror. “But I think we will have a very nice time today. I know all the most wonderful places for ladies to go shopping.”
“Are you going to park the car and come in shopping with me?”
“If you would like me to. If not—” he held up a book of crossword puzzles “—I have my puzzles. Now, where are we going? Jewelry? We could go to Birks. Clothing? There is a Chanel boutique at Holt Renfrew.”
“Oh.” My heart started to race. “Um. Holt what-now?”
“It is a chain, like Saks or Barneys,” he said. “I also know of some smaller boutiques. Local designers. You can buy Chanel any day when you're in New York.”
“Honey, I can't even buy knock-off Chanel from a street vendor. Hmm. Then again, I have his shiny credit card, so Smith is buying today, which seems fine in theory.”
He chuckled. “Some things are not so confidential, you know? You have been dating Smith for how long now, one week? You must know he is on the Forbes billionaire list. If he has sent you shopping, he will not be like the typical boyfriend who makes the gasping face at the price tag.”
He was right.
“Take me to this Holt Renfrew place.”
“At once,” he said, his pale-blue eyes in the rear view mirror crinkling with a smile. “Actually, it is very close by. Just a few blocks. We could walk, but it will be nice to have the car for all the clothes that you will buy.”
“We'll see about that.”
He pulled the car out into traffic, still chuckling.
Holt Renfrew.
Oh, yes. Yes, please.
The art-deco, gray stone building rose up on its corner in the heart of downtown Montreal. Dressy, busy-looking people, each woman skinnier than the last, rushed back and forth past the department store's colorful window displays.
The air inside the store was clean and smelled of luxury—leather, brand-new wool, and hints of perfume as fresh as ozone crackling at the edge of the ocean.
I'd left Claude with his crossword puzzles in the car and braved the store on my own. I wasn't alone for long, because a pair of stylish women approached me as I wandered through the front area, afraid to touch anything.
Conscious of my knees shaking, I said, “Bonjour. Comment-allez vous?”
Without batting an eyelash, the taller, older one warmly said, “Bonjour. How may we ass-eest you?”
I told them I needed some things to wear for dinners and parties, and the younger woman, a dark-haired beauty with rouged cheeks, clasped her hands together in excitement. “Oh, fun!” she exclaimed. “With your exquisite coloring, such creamy skin and lovely red hair, I have many ideas.”
“Lapis blue,” the older woman said. “Her eyes, yes?”
They both nodded knowingly, and from that moment on, they stayed at my side, like the best combination of personal assistants and good friends.
I tried on several things, and while they were quick to offer alterations for a custom fit, I found that most everything the ladies picked for me fit perfectly.
I didn't look at price tags, and I averted my eyes from the total when I made my purchase. If the dresses and shoes cost more than a year of college tuition, I didn't want to know. The women asked me about jewelry, but I politely demurred.
Clothes and shoes were one thing, but jewelry was different. Jewelry was like cash, because it could be purchased today and easily hawked at a future date. A more opportunistic (and probably smarter) girl would have loaded up on diamonds, shopping until the credit card combusted in a puff of smoke. I was neither a prostitute nor an embezzler, so that idea didn't sit well with me.
If I was going to get jewelry, it would have to come from Smith.
After the Chanel boutique and the rest of Holt Renfrew, Claude loaded my haul into the trunk of a car.
“On to the next stop?” he asked. “We have not yet been to Ogilvy. There you will find more unique items. Perhaps a funny hat with feathers?”
“I think I've done enough damage to Smith's credit card,” I said, laughing.
“Mmm,” he said, his voice ringing with doubt as he rearranged the items in the trunk. “I see no jewelry boxes in those bags. Only shoes and dresses. Tsk tsk.”
“I have a lot to learn, don't I, Claude?”
“You will learn. Back to the hotel?”
“Not yet. I wonder if you might take me somewhere… silly.”
He clo
sed the trunk and gave me a cool, appraising look with his pale-blue eyes. I shivered and wondered how pretty his wife was.
“Silly?” He gave me a twisted smile and opened the car door for me.
“Yes, silly. The kind of place I'm too embarrassed to name. That kind of silly. Something you would keep confidential.”
A smile curved his lips and his icy eyes sparkled with mischief.
“I know just the place,” he said.
We didn't drive far from downtown before we entered a less dense area with low-rise, old stone buildings and visible graffiti. Teens in black T-shirts rolled by on skateboards. We turned down a pretty, tree-lined street with colorful flower boxes.
Claude slowed the car down as we rolled past shop windows with red neon lights and mannequins in strappy bondage gear. I felt my pulse quicken with excitement, albeit a different excitement than I'd experienced at Holt Renfrew.
“Silly like this?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
The car stopped in front of the shop, which literally screamed SEX from signs in the window.
Claude rushed around to open my door, but he didn't presume to offer his company for this excursion.
I said ominously, “If I'm not out in half an hour, send in a search party.”
Claude found this very amusing, and his chuckle super-sized itself to a wheezing laugh that was more cute than sexy.
As I approached the shop, I wondered how he knew of the place. Did his wife shop there when he was in the city? Or… had Mrs. Wittingham, Smith's ex-wife, shopped there? I still knew nothing about her, and thoughts nagged at the back of my mind, like mice chewing their way into sacks of grain and scattering everything.
I pushed back my curiosity and the first tingles of jealousy, and walked into the store.
The place smelled like cherries—not real cherries, but the artificial flavoring—and the music sounded like monks chanting, intermixed with ladies' moans of pleasure. The combination was not unpleasant, actually.
I stepped into what appeared to be a pet-supplies corner, but all the leashes and studded leather collars were Mastiff-sized. I ran my fingers over the chunky stitching on a harness, smiling at the memory of the giant Mastiff who'd lived down the street from the place where I'd grown up. What was his name? Mittens? Marcus?