I knew I would need him for Marina, and I wanted only the best for her. Brad had approached me eight years ago and from the moment I hired him, he’s been an asset. Smart, intelligent, and savvy, and he’s been a wonder with Marina. I knew her skin tone alone would be a welcome challenge for him. Her Italian olive skin, dark hair, and eyes give her the exotic look women envy, and men flock to. And he’s done a marvelous job of keeping her dressed exquisitely. She has curves to die for. Curves that are meant to be traced and touched, kissed—licked.
I watch her get into the Limo without looking back. The slacks tighten across her ass as she enters the Limo, and a smile tugs at my lips. I’ll have Brad show her how to get in and out of a limo. In the meantime, I enjoy the view until the door shuts. She’s smart, more powerful than she knows, and beautiful. The curves she has, the curve of her neck, draw me in a way I have not felt in years. And when I had seen her those three years ago, all I could think of was she was one of the most beautiful women I have seen in a long time. I don’t know why I offered for her, aside from the loan conditions from the Council. However, once I saw her, taking her away was the only thing I could think of.
I had to rescue her. I had to save her—she’s mine.
She just doesn’t realize it yet.
Chapter Eight
Marina
THE NEXT DAY, I VIEW my dress hanging in my closet, still in its stiff plastic wrap. This plastic isn’t the cheap stuff from regular dry cleaners meant only to keep dirt, dust, and water away. This one is designed to hold the integrity of the dress intact. It has zippers, and I reach for them, pulling them down each side. The blue mermaid style dress takes my breath away. No, I won’t be destroying this one.
Strangely, I can’t wait to put it on. Strangely, I’m looking forward to the fundraiser. Strangely, I’m looking forward to going to this event tomorrow night with Blake. Strangely, something is shifting and—I do not want to think about it.
I zip the plastic up around the dress and then dress in jeans and a cotton tee once again. Other than when Brad insisted I wear something from the closet, I’ve stuck to my own clothes. Having my own clothes here helps comfort me. I exit the grand closet and survey the room for a bit, breathing out and wondering if anything is planned for today. I haven’t seen Brad, and of course, Blake is gone.
I had done some research on him. I know he runs a corporation and has built his empire through perseverance. And the limited articles I found on him revealed little. He co-owns the five-star restaurant I’ve been to twice now. But beyond these two ventures, he also owned the loan business that my dad had taken advantage of. And then, of course, there was an article about the fundraiser this Friday. There was a two sentence blurb about his involvement with the hospital and his donations. But as small as the blurb was, it told me much more about Blake than I could ever read about him.
And it’s strange that one such as he does this.
He’s different, which makes me trust him a little more, even if he did lie to me about the other night. I’m not angry about it, as I realize he is trying to protect me, and maybe it’s for the best. But thinking back on that night, I realized these acquaintances were just using him for a meal ticket. I also did not like how Inara and Natalia seemed to be extraordinarily interested in me, and I still don’t understand why I went to the restroom with them. Nor do I truly remember what happened there. And the blank memories in my brain trouble me. I want to remember what happened there, and all I really remember is sitting with Inara and Natalia standing at the mirror with no reflection.
But then other thoughts from that night trickle into my brain. Me in Blake’s arms in the Limo, being cradled, protected—loved. Blake’s lips on mine. His powerful arms around me, keeping me safe. His strength surrounding me and keeping me together so I didn’t fall apart. And I know that this man, this enigma, this... different man, will keep me safe and protected.
I had thought to make Blake kill me.
And yet, here I am—still alive.
I WANDER AROUND THE garden, taking in all the flowers, shrubs, and trees. This is a beautiful place. It’s peaceful, and I feel calm. The sun is warm and inviting, but I limit my exposure since I have a function to go to tomorrow. I don’t want to be sunburned, nor do I want Brad to admonish me. I still haven’t seen him. I heard Blake earlier, but I haven’t seen him. He has an office here at his home, and I figure he must be working from home today. I turn to go back inside as my stomach rumbles, and I wander to the kitchen and open the fridge.
“No, no,” Shen’s voice rings out. “I cook. You eat.”
I smile at him and slide onto a stool at the island. He asks me what I want, and I tell him to surprise me. He grins and tells me my palate will be forever spoiled, and I will want no other food but his.
“Why? Is there magic involved?” I ask, grinning. He meets my grin with his own, telling me that maybe there just is a bit in there, but this time he’ll leave it out and let me decide. He then takes out the items he needs to begin. “How did you meet Blake?” I ask as Shen deftly prepares the meal.
Shen glances over his shoulder. “A long, long time ago. I helped him once.”
“Sounds like a story,” I say, but Shen is not forthcoming. I change the subject. “So, he told me he owns a restaurant.”
Shen stops and turns to me. “Yes, the one you were at the other night.” He studies me for a bit, his eyes narrowing. “Interesting.”
I draw back a little. “What’s interesting?” I ask slowly, warily.
He shrugs and smiles. “Just a feeling I’ve been getting ever since you’ve shown up. Like something has been upset.” I’m not quite sure what to make of that, so I stay quiet. “Like something is about to happen.” He studies me for a moment more. “There is an old Chinese legend of a demon named Qiong Qi. He feeds on humans, drinking from them, and steals their souls.”
“Sounds lovely,” I say dryly. “Is it something to be concerned about?” Now I’m worried. I need no more problems in my life.
Shen presses his lips together, slowly shaking his head. “I think it has more to do with something in my life than yours. Something will be changing for me.”
I’m instantly concerned. “Will you be okay?”
He smiles then. “Of course. I always land on my feet.” He turns and takes a few more things out of the fridge before facing once again, as if trying to decide what to say. “Blake is honorable.” he finally says and turns from me.
Yes, Blake certainly seems honorable. I’ve never had respect or honor, like what he has given and shown me. I watch Shen’s deft movements in the kitchen. Even Sammy, the cook at my father’s restaurant, wasn’t as fluid. Shen and I chat on and off about little things until Brad shows up. He slides into the seat beside me and looks me up and down.
Self-conscious, I ask, “What?”
“Manners.”
I flush, thinking he is bringing up the wedding reception. He turns to Shen and asks for forks, spoons, knives, plates, glasses, bowls, and napkins. Shen sets the requested items out and turns back to preparing the meal.
“What’s all this for?”
“You will learn some things today. How to eat properly, what silverware to use, how to drink from your glass. Oh, Shen, three wine glasses, please. And, then we work on your walk, your talk, and how to get into a vehicle properly.” He looks me up and down. “What are you wearing today?”
“Um, jeans?” I glance down at myself.
He tsks me. “If you are gardening or hiking. Even then, you need to look polished.”
“I don’t want to look polished all the time. It’s too much work.” I frown at him.
Brad purses his lips and then grins. “It is. Be you. Except for tomorrow—be a better you. I’m going to help you today.”
Brad sets up the dining set in front of me. Then he stands behind me, over my shoulder, and I’m uncomfortable.
“First, relax,” he says, and his hands squeeze my shoulders. “You won’t be
eating at the fundraiser. There will be finger food and drinks. However, we will go over that later. For now, look at your setup—three wine glasses. The first is for white wine, the second for red, and the third—the larger one—is for water.”
He moves around me and shows with two fingers as he continues, “To the left of that is your bread and butter plate and your butter knife—notice the odd shape. Next is your dinner plate. A soup bowl, a salad plate, or both, will normally sit on top of the dinner plate. Otherwise, it will be your plate or a salad plate—again, if a salad is to be served. Or, it might come out separately. It’s whatever the host or hostess decides.”
He moves to my other side. “To your left are three forks. Your salad fork is the out left, your dinner fork is the middle, and your dessert fork is the inner side, closest to your dinner plate. Your napkin is to the far left of all three. On your right, closest to your plate, is your knife—sharp edge in—then the teaspoon, then the soup spoon. If they do not serve you soup, ignore the spoon. Same with the salad fork. Got it?”
“Umm, okay.” I bite my lip, confused already. And I had worked at a restaurant!
“Start from the outside and work your way in. It’s simple. You should also know this since you worked in a restaurant.” He echoes my thoughts, and I flush.
I want to ask how he knew, but figured Blake probably told him. “We didn’t have all this fancy stuff,” I mutter.
We didn’t. And I never really paid attention to etiquette there. We only set out the typical silverware, all on one side. People used their soup spoons to stir their coffee, and the only time someone got an extra plate was if they ordered something extra.
“Nevertheless.” Brad stacks everything and moves it out of the way for the food Shen prepared.
“Wonderful, Shen,” Brad tells him with a wink.
Shen made me an omelet, and I pick up my fork and then cringe.
“Upp-bup-bup!” Brad shakes his head at me. “Always cut your food with a knife. Knife in your right hand, fork in your left. Are you right-handed? Okay. Follow the rules. Then, cut smaller than bite-size—if you are confused, cut it in half—set your knife down on the edge of your plate, sharp edge in, transfer the fork to your right hand, gently pick up your food. Remember, small bites so you can chew with your mouth closed.”
“Ugh. This is so weird.” Everyone cuts their food with a fork if it’s doable. I shovel in a bite.
“You’re not a Bovine,” he deadpans. “Go ahead. Do as I explained.”
I flush and shrug. I pick up my utensils like he shows and makes delicate motions, cutting into the omelet.
“How is the omelet?” Brad asks. I begin to answer around a mouthful of food, and he shoves my chin up with his finger. “Ne-ver—speak with your mouth full.”
I finish chewing with an apologetic smile. “Very good, thank you.”
Brad smiles at me. “See, not so difficult.” He pats my shoulder. “Now, if you need to add salt or pepper, always taste your food first. Then, ask for the salt and pepper. Never jump into a conversation you are not a part of. If you are asked a question and do not know the answer, redirect it to Blake. He’s had years of practice. Don’t be rude.”
He lets that hang there. I guess I will not live down the wedding dress incident. Yeah, I know, I instigated it, and I’m still glad I did it, but eventually, it will not be thrust up in front of me, right? But would I do it again? No, I would not, and again, these strange thoughts confuse me. I was so angry, and I wanted to die that day. I tried to. I got my father’s temper up, and I saw how Blake had reacted to me. In fact, I was pleased when I saw his fists and his jaw clench. I thought I had done it. I pushed it at the reception just so he wouldn’t forget.
“Okay,” I say instead, and he pats my shoulder again.
“However, if they ask a rude question, ask them why they wish to know. Put it back on them.” He puts his hands on his hips.
I slouch my shoulders and blow out a breath. I feel his fingers poke me in the back. “No slouching. Ever. Back straight. If your back gets sore, lean back into your seat, but do not slouch and only lean back for a brief moment.”
“Ugh. Who made up these rules?” I cut another piece of my omelet and chew it slowly—with my mouth closed.
“Tomorrow night, there will not be a dinner table, but probably finger foods. Note the name. Finger—foods. It is perfectly acceptable to eat with your fingers. Make sure you have a napkin, however. I do not want you wiping your fingers on the dress.” He gives me a pointed stare, and I flush again.
I really made a mess of it. “Yes, Yoda,” I quip, and he makes a face at me. I finish my omelet and reach for my napkin.
“Dab, don’t wipe.”
I adjust the napkin and dab with exaggerated motions. Brad makes another face at me, and I smile. “What’s next?”
“Don’t call me Yoda.”
I laugh and slide off my seat. I hear him tsk at me. “Get back on your chair. You do not slide. Use the footrest, place your hands on the counter, elegantly push off and step down.”
I slide back in the seat, and he tsks at me once again. I straighten my back when he pokes me and then sigh. I do as he says, lose my footing and stumble away. He makes a noise, but grabs my arm and pulls me upstairs to my bedroom.
“Get your heels. The ones you are wearing tomorrow. You need to break them in, or you’ll have blisters.”
“Great.” I do as he says.
I walk out in the heels, and he tsks at me again. He walks to me, crouches, and rolls up my pant legs. He pokes me in the back, presses the flat of his hand against my belly, and then pokes me in the back again.
“Stomach in, back straight.” He steps back, looking at my posture. “Walk.” I wobble a bit as I walk away and hear him tsk at me again. “Imagine a straight line in front of you. The heel and then the toe of your shoe should hit that line as you walk.”
He comes up behind me and walks with me, poking me in the back and jamming a finger in my tummy whenever needed. Exasperated, I fall onto my bed dramatically, feet dangling.
“Come on, Cinderella,” he goads me. “If she can do it in glass slippers, you can do it in these.”
“Why don’t you crack that whip a little harder?” I mumble. My feet already hurt.
I hear him enter my closet and rummage around. I lie there on the bed and close my eyes. I’m tired already, and I’m sure my lessons have only just begun. I didn’t realize I was so unpolished. I sit up on my elbows as he comes out with a scoop neck blouse.
“Put this on.” He hands it to me and turns around. I make a face at him. “I saw that.”
I screw my lips together, and he tells me he saw that too. I take off my shirt and put the blouse on. It dips low over my cleavage, and I adjust my bra and pick up the neckline a bit. I stand, wobble a bit, and then he turns around. He adjusts my blouse to show my cleavage again, like how the evening gown will look on me. He then looks at my feet, and I look down as well.
“When you stand, one heel should be at the middle of the other shoe, toe turned slightly out. It doesn’t matter which foot. This will give you stability and streamline your body. Not that you need that.”
I drop my mouth open and gape at him. “You gave me a compliment!” Then I laugh, and he stares at me, a ghost of a smile on his face.
“You’re doing quite well. But it is a lot to remember. Just do your best. Now, we are going to practice getting in, and out of vehicles, so you don’t flash people your boobs, ass, or legs—unless your legs are bare from the knee down.”
“There are proper ways to get in and out of vehicles?” Who knew? Besides Brad, that is. I wobble a bit but gain my footing as we walk down the hall to the stairs. I hold on to the banister as Brad jogs down and then waits for me at the bottom.
“Channel your inner Forties Movie Star,” he tells me.
I stop, straighten, suck my gut in, and lightly curl my fingers over the top of the banister. With each step, I swing my other hand with e
xaggeration.
“Are there flies around you?” Brad is not amused.
I stop and giggle again. I put my hand down and grasp my jeans as if they are a skirt, and continue my way down. He’s beaming when I reach him, and I feel like I’ve accomplished something. We head to the garage, and there is the Bentley I rode in the other day. Beside that is the Limo Blake, and I rode in for our wedding. I glance around at the other expensive vehicles housed in the massive garage that appears to be as big as the mansion and just as clean.
“Okay. Get in.” Brad tells me. I reach for the door handle and he swats my hand. I jerk back and look at him. “Never open your own door. The chauffeur will do it, or Blake will do it.”
I tap my foot and cross my arms.
“Stop crushing your blouse and don’t ruin your shoes.”
I drop my hands and stop tapping. I make a face at him as he opens the door for me. “I saw that. Now, sometimes, you will be offered a hand into the vehicle. However, you will always be offered a hand out of the vehicle. Enter, Princess.”
I blow out a breath and crouch to get in. I feel a hand at the waistband of my jeans, and he hauls me back. I stumble a bit.
“It’s not a cave. It’s a limo, and you will more than likely have people behind you staring at your ass. Watch me.”
I move over, and Brad slides in, legs bent, then swings his legs inside, knees closed. I bend over to see him slide effortlessly along the leather seat, and he acts like he is arranging his dress over his knees. He angles over to face me.
“Make sure you straighten your dress. No wrinkles.”
I make a face as I straighten up and hear him tell me he saw that. I don’t even know how he does it. He comes to the vehicle door once again, peering out at me.
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