Bow to Your Partner (3 page)

Callan nodded, he'd find out what was going on
later. He'd chosen the room for its size, decor, and privacy, nothing else. As
far as he knew, it was a bland private dining area. However, it seemed not so to
Mason. "I don't know what else Marco has, and I don't want to discuss
business where we can be overheard. But let me see what I can do." He
touched her arm briefly. "Wait here." He didn't look back to see if
she obeyed or not—if his gut feelings about her were correct, she had—and walked
toward the bar, where Marco hovered, a worried look in his eye.

"What the fuck?" Callan asked him, fury in
every word. "Your cousin is either going to knee me in the balls or throw
up. And you knew it, didn't you? Why?"

Marco looked miserable.
"Her
story, not mine.
But seriously, I didn’t think she'd be so bad. Look,
I'm full in here that's why I agreed to the dining room for you when you asked,
without mentioning it might be a problem. Else you'd have been on a standby
list, and maybe having deep-fried pizza and chips from the all night café by
the arches. I just hoped Fergy would go for it."

"Fergy?"

Marco grinned.
"Massy
Ferguson, the tractors.
Mason-Massy-Fergy.
Best
way ever to piss her off, she hates it, and as I value my balls, I don't call
her that to her face anymore.
So.
Sadly, yeah, I was
wrong, but
shit,
she has to walk through the bloody door
at some point." He ran his hand over his stubbly hair. "Well, like I
said, it's not my story to tell so, if you want to go up to the office to talk,
I'll have a table in half hour or so. Will that do?"

Callan looked back to Mason and waved her over. She
came so slowly, he didn't think he had a snowball's chance in hell of getting
anything sorted out, least of all the painting he wanted doing. However, as he
explained Marco's solution she nodded.

"I guess so, because if I don’t agree to listen
to you now, he’ll only nag me until I agree to do whatever he asks to shut him
up."

"I know how to manage her," Marco said
with more than a hint of smugness.

She turned on him like a mama bear protecting her
cub. "No one, but no one manages me, mate, and don't you forget it. Remember
the paint stripper and your car?" She didn’t wait to hear his answer.
"Oh, for heaven’s sake, can we get this over with?" She walked to the
door leading to the office area, and keyed in a set of numbers. Callan raised
an eyebrow in query.

"Gives me a hand when we're short staffed,"
Marco said briefly. "Wine in the fridge in the office, help yourself."

Callan nodded and followed Mason through the doorway,
pleased and surprised she waited for him in a square room, with three doors off
it. Once she saw him, Mason tapped a code into a keyboard on the left hand wall
and opened the door next to it.

"In here, and I'm filching his finest."
She didn't wait for him to follow, but headed for a fridge and took out a
bottle. Callan's amusement at her attitude changed to annoyance. He usually ran
the show, not a sub with attitude. Mason rubbed him up the wrong way. He was
the Dom, not her. With a smile he was sure didn't reach his eyes, Callan took
the bottle from her and applied the bottle opener.

"My job."
He dared her to
contradict him.

She held on for a second before relinquishing her
hold, and walked straight-backed to the window. She leaned against it and watched
him from under lowered lids.

"Mr. Macho."

She better believe it.

Even like that, the fire in her eyes was enough to
scorch, and deflate any eager cock. He chuckled before a thought struck him. Had
he misunderstood Marco?
Surely not.
He remembered
Marco's words.
 
My cousin is floundering. She needs direction. Can you help?
Marco
knew what Callan wanted from life, because, as Marco explained, they both shared
the same beliefs needs and goals. That's how they'd met up again after so many
years—at a club owned by mutual friends. The one he now held a share in.

"Sit down." Callan firmed his voice.

Mason gave a short gasp, and her hand went to her
throat as if she was looking for something, before she gave an infinitesimal
nod. She walked across the room to a long comfortable-looking sofa and sat down.
Her legs, encased in sheer black stockings, and those red shoes, were a beacon
to his cock. His trousers grew tight as his prick swelled.
 
Shit, sweet sex on legs. He wanted to bury
himself deep inside her, and fuck her until she sobbed her completion and he
shouted his
. Be honest, you want more
than that.
True, but it would do for a start.

Callan poured two glasses of wine, and snagged a
plate of nibbles from inside the fridge.
Perhaps
Marco expected it to come to this?

"Cheers." He handed a glass over, and
touched his own glass to it. "Help yourself, courtesy of your
cousin." He waved to the canapes. She ignored them.

"Cheers." She didn't sound very cheery.
"So what do you want, Mr. Mackie?"

You.

"You.
To
paint something for me.
I have an interest in a…" He hesitated.
"A night club.
The inner foyer needs a complete
overhaul. Marco suggested you might be the very person to do it." What would
she say? It was a gamble. Maybe she'd ask the question he really didn't want to
answer?

She stood and walked to the window, before she faced
him. Then she said the one thing he'd hoped not to hear.

"Oh? What's it called?"

He took a deep breath.
"The
Dance Studio."

She looked him with a query in her eyes, and then
they cleared.

God almighty, even the
bloody air seems to be waiting and I have no idea what the hell for.

"Oh, what a good name for a
night club."

No, she hadn't got a clue.
Strange.

Chapter
Three

"Ah, have you ever been there?"

Callan made it sound like they were talking about
Queen Street railway station, somewhere most people visited at one time or
another. Under the clock there was famous as a meeting place. Only the set of
his shoulders made her think he tensed as he waited for her to answer.

Mason wriggled her nose, and rubbed her fingers
together. The bloody itch between her shoulder blades returned, shouting at her
to beware. Why? He'd said or done nothing untoward, but something put her sense
of self-awareness onto high alert, and she trusted that itch over everything
else.

Why does he look like
I'm dissing him?
"No," she said in as even a tone as she could manage, and was
convinced he relaxed. However, if she wanted the job, she had to be a little
bit cooperative. She wasn't successful enough to turn down jobs, not in the
present economy. The trouble was
,
he kept changing
from a businessman only interested in a possible joint business venture, into a
… well she daren't think into what, except it didn't seem like work in the employment
sense. Then she was certain her negative answer had been positive to him.

She waited for him to add anything to his previous
statement. When he didn’t, she carried on. "Since my husband…" She
gulped.
Come on you can say it, you're
not unique.
"My husband, Michael, died just over a year ago. I haven't
been one for going out much."
And we
preferred to entertain ourselves at home.
"So if it's a new night
club, it's not likely I've been."

"Then maybe I should show you around one
evening, and let you get a feel for the place." It wasn't a question.
"Let you plan what you think is needed."

Why did such innocuous words send a stab of fear
skittering over her skin, and bring the hairs on her arms to stand on end? He
wanted a foyer or something painted, matte or silk on the walls, gloss or a
stain on the woodwork.
Simple.
It was a nightclub.
Music and dancing, and maybe a glass of wine and some peanuts, not
a house of ill-repute.
Mason wanted to snigger at the old-fashioned
phrase. Why on earth had she thought of that? She believed in Marco's judgment
If
he trusted Callan, then so should she.

But Marco's trying to
jog me out of what he calls my rut. What he thinks is in my best interests
might not mesh with my ideas.
A little niggling voice did its best to stir up her
worries. She ignored it.

"Thank you, when suits you best?"
Yes, the perfect reply.
Interested
and businesslike
.
I can do this.

He stared at her, a look that Mason could only
describe as considering.

"After we've eaten."
It was a take it or
leave
it tone. One guaranteed to make you either get on your
knees and bow your head, or bristle with indignation and stalk out, depending
on your inclination.

Her skin stung, and crawled, a horrible feeling akin
to a column of ants marching over her even as she nodded. Every part of her
screamed it was time to run.
"If you say so.
I
wonder when our table will be
available?
I'm
hungry."

A lie, but she was proud of how even her voice stayed.
If she ate anything she might throw up. It annoyed her. First because she had
no idea why she felt so churned up, and second, she loved the food at Marco's,
and resented the fact she wasn't going to be able to eat much.

A knock came on the door and Mason jumped. She'd
been so involved with her thoughts and feelings she'd forgotten a table was due
to become available.

Callan looked away from Mason and glared at the door.
He crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing. Mason couldn't take her
eyes off the way his jacket stretched over his taut abs.
Hells bells, what would he look like stripped? Don't even think of it.
However, those tantalizing pictures were flickering through her mind like an X-rated
movie.

"Aren't you going to tell whoever's out there
to come in?" Mason asked him in desperation after several long seconds.
"You know, in case it’s a fireman to say the building's on fire. Marco's
used the blowtorch on his Italian Meringue and got torching happy or something
like that. I'd sort of prefer to get out in that case."
Anything to get my mind out of the gutter,
and away from his assets.
She didn't mean his financial ones either.

He didn't even crack a smile. "The fire escape
is outside the window," he said. "And the alarm hasn't sounded."

Oh, for fuck’s sake,
state the obvious, why don't you.
I
can hear an alarm in my head and
it's
screaming run.
Too late for that.
"Yeah, of course.
Oh dear, silly
me."
She always did have a good line in sarcasm. In the past it was
the one thing guaranteed to make Michael act.
If only…

The brief look Callan gave her before he resumed his
perusal of the door should have made her shiver in fear. She shivered all
right, but not in fear. It was a pure
I am
the boss. Do not mess with me, do as I say or else
look. Mason wanted to
cry. It was so similar to Michael in his best
I am in control
mood, it sent signals to her channel and her thong
chafed. If she weren't careful, she'd be rather damp and uncomfortable,
wriggling in her undies soaked with her juices. His voice did things to her
psyche—and her pussy—she'd prefer to ignore. She chose to try and do something
to take her mind off his gravelly diction and coffee and chocolate tones.

"Oh shoot, if you don’t answer the door, I will."
Mason rolled her eyes, and he stiffened. Good, at least she'd got another
reaction out of him. His lack of visible shows and tells regarding his state of
mind pissed her off. "It doesn't matter how long or hard you stare at it,
the wood is thick."
A
bit like you
.
"Unless you have ESP or whatever it's called, you
can't see through it. And your Mr. Macho act will come grinding to a halt, eh?"

He turned around in one elegant sweep and looked her
in the eye. The tiny flecks of gold she'd noticed in his otherwise brown irises
flickered, and he frowned. Even that forbidding expression made her clit tingle,
and her juices dampened her curls.

"Don't you dare, not if you value your
hide.
" His voice could curdle eggs. "I'd like
nothing better to push that tease of a dress up, push down whatever is covering
that hot little bot, and spank your ass until it's the color of your nails. Now
sit on the settee, cross your legs and behave."

She knew damned well her jaw dropped.

"Wha—"
Who
the…
She dipped her head and jerked it up again. Oh no, no way. She decided
perhaps she'd shut up.
For now.
Her heart might refuse
to recognize his attitude, but her subconscious had no such problems.
Don't you dare kneel; he'll think you're a
fruitcake.
Or a sub?
 
She bit her lip.