Bow to Your Partner (2 page)

She leaned over to the open the door, and then pushed
her hand up to the hole in the grill. "Here's your tip." She let the
coins clang into the metallic dish. "But if you ever pull that trick on me
again, mate, the only tip you'll get is how to drive to the infirmary with your
balls in a vise." She didn't wait to see if he replied, but got out and
slammed the door. He barely missed her feet as he drove away.

"Asshat.
Oh, not you,"
she told the startled doorman as he held the door open for her. "Pissy, up
themselves, taxi drivers who think they can con poor defenseless women out of
their change."

"Ah, right, shall I show him he's no ta mess
with you?" The doorman stared after the fast disappearing taxi, as if he
could drag him back by thought alone. Mason shook her head.

"Nah, he'll get his just rewards. His footie
team's loosing to their worst enemy." She giggled.
"Three
nil down at half time.
And if I get him again he can sing falsetto for a
tip."

"Ah hon, no one in their right mind would ever
think they could do that to you.
Poor and defenseless?
Nah, not in a million years.
Did he think you'd come
up the Clyde on a tourist boat then?" Marco approached quietly as she
chuntered on. He hugged then stood back, eyeing her up and down. "Hiya, you
look good. Are you all set?" He twitched her collar and smoothed the
lapels.

Mason slapped his hand away and returned the embrace.
"Leave that,
it's
okay." Even though he
insisted on interfering in her life—for her own good—Marco was more than a
cousin, he was her friend.

"All set?”

“As I'll ever be," she said. "Is the guy
here?"

"His name, as you well know, is Callan Mackie.
Don’t be disrespectful of a D-darned prospective client.
Or a
friend of mine for that matter."

Why was she suspicious? That wasn't what Marco had
been going to say. She knew her cousin. He was up to something. "So if
he's a friend, how come I don't know of him?" She smelled fish.

Marco kissed her nose.
and
said something under his breath in very colloquial Italian. She kicked him and
he winced.

"Not in
Louboutins
,
cara
. They pack a
mean kick." He rubbed his shin in a very over the top manner. Mason rolled
her eyes.

"Good, and don’t forget,
caro
, I understand every word you say, even if I chose not to use
it." After Michael, she refused to listen to anything in her father's
tongue. It was way too painful. "I am so not awkward, and do not say
'women' in that tone of voice, in any language. Just remember, my
Louboutins
can stand the strain of striking your poor puny
legs, so watch it."

Marco grinned.
"Yes, ma'am.
Okay. Come meet your client, he's waiting at the table. I told him you're
always very prompt."

As if on cue, the chimes of the nearby clock on St
Mungo's church at the Tron struck the hour. Mason stuck her tongue out, and
Marco's eyes narrowed for a second. Whatever he'd been inclined to say, he
changed his mind.

What on earth made me
act like a flaming idiot school kid? Marco in this mood makes me revert, sod
him.

"Always on time."
He nodded in a
satisfied way, and tucked her arm into his, as he drew her toward the
cloakroom.

Mason didn't know if he meant her or the clock, and
a strange itch between her shoulder blades made her not inclined to find out.

"Take your jacket, love?" Marco held his
hand out to help her.

She shook her head. Why did she feel she needed its
protection? Something didn't add up, although she had no idea what. "I'll
keep it handy, thank you. I might need it."
For a quick
getaway?
What on earth made her think that?

With a wry grin at her fanciful notions—if this was
how a business dinner affected her, she really did need to get out more often—Mason
followed Marco across the busy restaurant to where the private rooms were. When
she saw where he headed, her skin prickled and a battalion of ants started to
jig over her. How could he? She stopped dead, pulled her arm out of his, and
shook her head as Marco went to open one of the doors.

"Oh no, not in a million
years, Marco.
So you better do something fast and get this sorted. I do not go in there ever.
Never, ever.
You know that."

"He asked for it, love. Come on it's only a
room." Marco touched her arm, and smiled even though Mason noted it didn't
reach his eyes. She shook him off.

Bastard, I bet he's
hoping I won't make a scene. You'd think he knew me better than that. It might
only be a room to him, but it's where Michael and I went on our last evening
out.
Too many memories.

"And I'm about to recreate the ceiling of the
Sistine Chapel on the walls of Kelvinhall Clockwork Orange Station," she
said, referring to the Glasgow underground rail system. "Not a chance.
Either you find a table out here for your friend and me, or he can go
whistle." She turned her back on the door.

A long melodic flute of notes sounded behind her.

Chapter
Two

Well, that stopped her mid moan and in her tracks. Callan
Mackie grinned as the feisty, black-haired virago spun round on her heels so
fast,
she nearly left her body behind. As it was, the big
amber drops in her ears flipped out at right angles, and wisps of hair escaped
the neat bun thing she'd secured them in. If she were his, he'd have great pleasure
in taking the pins out, and running his fingers through the tresses. He'd bet
his football season ticket that once loose, the strands would spill down her
back and over her breasts to stop just above her clit and ass. The thought of
seeing her like that, with nothing on but those heels—and maybe the earrings, which
grazed the top of her shoulders—both scared and excited him. Damn his libido to
choose now to come roaring back to life. He watched warily as she flexed her
fingers. For a small woman, he reckoned she'd pack a punch and a half.

"What the—
Is
this guy
for real?" she asked Marco and waved in Callan's direction. "You've
got to be kidding me. It's not April Fools Day, and it's not
trick
or treat, what the hell are you playing at?" She looked from one to the
other, and then settled her gaze on Callan.

Her fingernails were a deep red, which matched her
lips and those heels perfectly. Callan expected the earrings to clash, but
somehow they didn't. The facets caught the light and sparkled as she moved her
head. Even that gentle movement made them swing against her cheeks, and he was
amazed she didn't do herself or anyone else an injury with them. Maybe they
were her secret weapon? He smothered a grin.
I’d never live that one down.
Marked by an earring.

He raised one eyebrow, and she blushed. The redness
moved up from her neck, and over her cheeks and forehead.
Where else might be a nice rosy shade?
It was too much to hope to help
the color into her skin by a nice simple spanking, or a little light flogging. The
thought made his mouth water. He chuckled and her eyes sparkled.

"What's so funny, mate?" The Glasgow twang
was overlaid by something he couldn't place, but he would.
Italian?
But Marco insisted she was all out Scottish.
Something to
puzzle over later.

Marco cleared his throat and touched her arm. She
shrugged him off impatiently. "Stop it, Marco. I'm away."

"Er, Mason, honey, this is—"

Callan interrupted Marco before he said something
Callan preferred he didn’t. "Callan Mackie, Miss Andriacchi. Good
evening." He held his hand out with a smile.
What will she do now?
She stared at him for a long moment, and then
put her palm in his. The sting of electricity jolted him, even as she gasped
and pulled her arm back.

Mason glared and rubbed her hands together.
"Crappy trick," she said in a low voice. "I don't know why you
did that, but for f-er there was no need. Look, if this evening is all one big
joke, ha
ha
, and time to be off."

"Bratty sub."
He couldn't help it. Something
about her gave him the idea she fought her true self. His hands itched to tame
her. No, not tame her, channel her feistiness and attention in a different way.
I think she's lost somehow—and lost
something.
He grinned inwardly at his fanciful thoughts.

"In your dreams, mate."
She moved backward
and Callan stopped her with a word.

"Wait." To his amazement, although her
eyes sparked, she did as he demanded. With a swift movement of his head, Callan
indicated Marco should leave. If his companion decided to create a scene, and Callan
hoped she wouldn't, not this sort of scene anyway, there was no reason for Marco
to suffer the fall out. Already Callan’s body was taut with the indefinable
what if
. His cock showed the most
interest it had in anything since Melody McFadden danced naked on the table at
their university graduation.

That interest had been somewhat short-lived. In fact,
he recalled it hadn't lasted much passed that evening. Just until she opened
her mouth, yawned, and showed her boredom at everything, including his prick.
Luckily his manhood hadn't disappointed anyone since, but Callan was well aware
of his own attraction, and didn't kid himself that only his rugged looks that
attracted women. A healthy bank balance and a dominant attitude helped.

He’d be the first to admit these days he had sex to
scratch an itch, not sate his deeper desires. He’d become jaded, and even the
club didn't hold any interest for him. For longer than he wanted to admit, he was
happy to be the one on duty, the one who oversaw everything, and not the one
who played.
A sorry state to be in.

For too many evenings he'd gone there, and ran the
proceedings whilst letting the owners play. Then he'd been asked if he wanted
to invest. After a thorough perusal of the figures, he decided it was a good
asset, and agreed to buy into the club. With the proviso most demonstrations or
tutorials were not up to him. Luckily his erstwhile partners agreed. Up until
then, it had been enough. Now he wanted more. And for some unknown reason, he
wanted it with the woman in front of him. Not for one moment did he think she'd
agree to his demands—well, not at all at once—but he hoped. One small step at a
time would work.

She stared. Oh, how she stared. Callan fought to
stop his lips from twitching. If he were her Sir, she'd be on her knees and
wondering what her punishment might be. A pity he wasn't, and she wasn't.
Callan firmed his mouth, and remained silent until the tell-tale blush of embarrassment
appeared over the neckline of her prim grey dress once more. Why she thought
the outfit dimmed her attraction he had no idea, but he felt sure it had been
her intention. Someone needed to tell her it she’d miscalculated. The demure
outfit proved to be seduction personified. To him, attraction was being able to
use his imagination, before he discovered what each layer of her armor
revealed. He itched to see what hid beneath.

Stocking? Suspenders,
or hold ups?
Bra, bustier, or naked?
 
His mind went into overdrive. He shut those
erotic thoughts off and concentrated on the here and now.

"So.
Miss Andriacchi,
after worrying your cousin sick, do we stay or do we go? Note I said we, to do anything
else would be unforgivable. He's put himself on the line for
you,
the least you can do is listen. And perhaps not show either of us up in front
of a very full, and interested, restaurant. I can stand the heat," he
paused, "can you?"

It went against every instinct he possessed to sound
so harsh and unyielding. Callan was not noted as a stern or critical Dom, just
the opposite. He was in great demand as a teacher, someone whose empathy helped
many a new sub to understand what they wanted, and needed. Probably one reason
he'd opted out so much, he was drained. Now he behaved in a way he abhorred.
However, instinct told him to act like that or Mason would take advantage, flip
him the finger and leave.

All the redness his stare produced receded, and she
went white and swayed. Just as Callan thought he might have to jump in and
catch her if she fell, her face colored once more. He watched, fascinated, as
she clenched her hands into fists, and took a quick glance around the room. Nearly
all the tables were
occupied,
however he'd lied when
he told her the diners were interested in their actions. Most people were too
interested in their food to pay attention to the two of them. He almost heard
her weigh up her choices.

Finally, just as he decided he might need to prompt
her, she shuddered and dipped her head. Not in a submissive way, more resigned.

"Okay."

He opened the door.

She went white again, and shivered. "Anywhere
but there, please."