“Well, that must be a good book since you’re risking my displeasure at your display of bad manners to read it.”
Zoe’s face colored. “God, so pompous.” she muttered.
At his sharp look, she rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Ian,” she said, and then her eyes turned mischievous, “but it is good. Dirty, too,” she whispered with glee.
“Dirty?” he raised his brow. “I’m shocked. What is it?”
“It’s called Three and a Half Weeks and it’s about this girl who meets this gorgeous guy who happens to have a taste for whips and handcuffs. It’s a lot of fun.”
Ingrained in him by years of business dealings, his poker face served him well, as he now kept it devoid of any expression. “Interesting. Who’s the author?”
Zoe shrugged. “Someone named Ariel something or other. Oh, right. Ariel Strong.”
He just managed to finish the swallow of Cabernet without aspirating it and muffled the choke to sound like a cough that hit at an inopportune moment. “Really? I think I’ve met the woman actually. I’d never have pegged her for a writer of kink, though.”
“You know her? How?”
His sister’s cheeks flushed even pinker—was it the wine or the conversation? Zoe had a pale complexion with dark brown hair and when flustered it was readily apparent on her face—like someone else he knew. Instantly he felt the familiar sharp ache in his chest.
“If it’s the same woman, I met her one evening as I shopped for your birthday gift, as a matter of fact. She was the salesperson in the boutique. I took her out for dinner a couple of times.”
“Well, well, aren’t you just full of surprises.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know, Ian, I suspect you have a secret life that you keep hidden from everyone. You probably have a whirlwind social life and binders full of women and then when any one of us, your family, I mean, comes over, you hide all evidence in your oversized closets and reach for a biography of FDR or something of that ilk. It’s all a big charade, isn’t it?”
He managed to laugh. If she only knew how close to the truth she actually was.
The next day he put in a call to his attorney. Delacroix was the soul of discretion and that’s precisely why he was his attorney. He set up an appointment for that afternoon, told the man it was critically important. At two the next afternoon, Delacroix strolled into his office, perfectly punctual as always.
“Ian, good to see you. I hope all is relatively well?”
“Yes, Jackson. Relatively. Please,” he gestured to the chair opposite his own, “have a seat. May I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks. I have to be in court at four—with a clear head. Tell me what’s up.”
Ian pressed his index fingers together, resting his chin on the point of them. “A bit of a dilemma, Jackson.” He proceeded to recount to the middle-aged blond attorney the whole sordid story.
“You wouldn’t want this thing to go through the courts.”
“Of course not.”
“Yet there’s really no need for Ms. Strong to know that.”
"No, none at all,” he agreed pleasantly.
“Do you want to go after her money? She’s got to have plenty from the book sales, plus I believe that I read she sold the movie rights in a seven-figure deal.”
“I’m not interested in her money, either. I’d like to use her breach as leverage to convince her to return to me, Jackson. She cannot, however, be made aware of that fact.”
Delacroix smiled wickedly. In addition to being the soul of discretion, he shared his client’s penchant for kink and often played at the club Ian frequented. “My lips are as sealed and impenetrable as my ex-wife’s asshole.” He stood up, smiling as Ian chuckled at the comment, and extended his hand to shake. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ll be hearing from me soon, Ian.”
“As always, thank you, Jackson, for your sage counsel. Will you be at the kickboxing exhibition at the dojo next weekend?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I assume I’ll see you there.”
“I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to kick your ass, Delacroix.” He gave his friend a two-finger salute.
“Bring it on, Blackmon.” Delacroix exited the office laughing.
Delacroix called the very next afternoon.
“News, I presume?”
“Indeed. Turns out our dear Ms. Strong is back in the States and, as of this morning, a bit anxious. You need to decide how you want to play this, Ian. Do you want to lull her into a false sense of security by allowing her to think it’s a simple matter of legal remedy and that the lawyers will handle the matter or do you want her to know from the start that the redress will require a… ahem… more personal approach?”