Double Dealing(79)

“Thank you, I rarely get a chance to cook evening-type meals,” she said with a chuckle. “Although if your time schedule is going to become this compacted, I may switch to making you those American style scrambled eggs with cheese that you like.”

“If that is easier, go ahead,” I said, sticking another bite of steak in my mouth. My stomach was clenching, not wanting so much food after such a hard workout, and my calves trembled underneath the table inside my suit pants, but I didn't stop. At that moment, eating was my job, and I was going to do my job to the best of my ability.

The last bite from the plate went into my mouth at eight minutes and forty-three seconds by the clock behind Maria, and I now had exactly nine minutes to finish preparing. Wiping my mouth on the napkin, I stood up. “Thank you Maria. You are a talented chef.”

I pulled on the shirt and silk tie that Mistress had ordered laid out for me, tying it in the full Windsor that she said she preferred. I checked my tie length against my belt and then the knot itself, snugging it under my chin and making sure the collar tips laid down perfectly before grabbing the jacket. It wasn't Italian, my build was too broad for that narrow of a cut, but it was still a very nice suit, imported from London according to Mistress when she first had me wear it for her. I did the top button on the jacket and turned to Maria, who had gone back to her duties. “How do I look?”

“Do you really want me to answer?” she said with a little laugh. “Because you look good enough that I want to drag you away and do things to you now. So get going before I lose my job.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Thanks, Maria. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Leaving the kitchen, I hurried, the heels of my shoes clicking over the marble tiles as I made my way to the solarium. I noted to myself that the clock on the wall read nine fifty-nine as I came to the door, seeing that it was empty. I went inside and assumed the position I was to take before receiving instruction, my hands behind my back and my eyes cast to the floor, with my feet exactly shoulder width apart in the middle of the floor, touching nothing.

There I waited until I heard the sound that I longed to hear, the distinctive click-clack of Mistress' high heels on the hallway tile. While the outdoor turf was often too soft and muddy for her to indulge in such footwear, especially in winter, she loved the feeling of height that the stilettos gave her, and they made her legs look so good that even the sound of her walking was pure sexual energy. The door to the solarium opened again, and I smiled, still not lifting my head. “Did you have a good exercise session?”

“I did,” I replied, keeping my eyes downcast. I was to receive instruction, and would not move unless she told me to.

“Good. Tell me, are you happy this morning?”

“I’m very happy to be here with you this morning.”

I meant every word.





Chapter 34





Francois




The day should have been wonderful. I was back in Paris with Charani, Syeira, and, of course, my soon to be wife, Jordan. We’d come back to handle the passing over of some of the bank accounts to my signature, but of course I was mostly happy to be back in the City of Lights. Our home in Albania is one thing, and we would go there soon, but Paris . . . Paris is special.

I should have been happy, but instead, I was put off. There was something in the way that Jordan and Syeira were acting that concerned me. It had started a week before, but now that we were in Paris, it seemed stronger than ever.

It started with just the occasional look, a look in Jordan's eyes as we would talk, or when I would come home after doing work for my new position as King of our tribe. It was a look I'd never seen before, one of questioning me. It was different than any other expression she'd given me before. When Felix and I had first kidnapped her, she had looked on me with wariness, but not outright distrust. Then, later on, she looked at me with eyes filled with desire, then love. When Felix had 'died,' her eyes were filled with sadness. But now . . . now she didn't trust me, even though she loved me. And I didn't know why.

These thoughts whirled through my mind as I sat in the offices of La Banque Postale, waiting for the accounts manager to come back from his verifications. I was dressed in my finest suit, my hair slicked back and styled in the latest French fashion, a day's worth of stubble on my face. All in all, I looked like a successful French businessman and not a Romani thief. The fools.

The account manager came back, holding in his hand the thick envelope I'd been hoping for. “Monsieur Hardy, thank you for waiting,” he said to me in French as he sat down. “I apologize for taking so long.”