Page 62 of Nothing More

Now he wanted actual coffee. And about ten more cigarettes. And for his hands to stop shaking.

He watched lights wink into existence across the city, smoked the cig he had, and wondered just how irrevocably he’d fucked it all up.

Fourteen

Ten a.m. saw a welcome change of pace: Ian’s lavish, marble-bedecked office, the cool light from the windows pouring over the spec sheets they’d spread out on the coffee table between them. Shep had been banished to the outer office with Bruce. Poor Bruce. But it gave Raven a much-needed reprieve from his chatter.

Neither he nor Bennet, nor even Cassandra nor Miles seemed to suspect anything untoward had happened in the flat overnight. None seemed the type to keep their questions to themselves, so she could only feel thankful that she and Toly had been even quieter than she’d thought.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him, though. His hands. His mouth. Those brief flashes of hunger in his eyes, before he boxed it all away again and played the stern dom.

“…Raven?”

Bollocks. She was off in the weeds.

She tried to appear casual as she sipped her tea. “Hm?”

Across from her on the Chesterfield, Ian sat with his long legs crossed, head tilted fractionally to the side: subtle concern. “Thoughts on the Commodore line?”

She let her gaze drift down to the mockups, some photos of fittings on models, others detailed, colored sketches, not yet brought to life by their tailor team. Her designs were classic, timeless – fitting with her agency’s brand. Ian’s were a little trendier, more fitted, best worn by models, rather than real men on the street.

“I think we should rethink the name ‘Commodore line,’” she said with a snort, and he grinned.

“Itisa bit much, I’ll allow.”

“Admit it: you were watchingPirates of the Caribbeanwhen you came up with it, weren’t you?” She knew she’d heard the music in the background of one of their phone calls.

He shrugged. “What can I say? Jack Davenport is a vision in that franchise.”

“In uniform in the first one, or scruffy in the second one?”

His grin widened, perfect teeth flashing in the sunlight. “Both.”

They shared a laugh, and she resolved to pay better attention. Alluring Russians could wait for the time being.

“I can’t decide,” she said, spreading the sketches further, rearranging them. “I think the best course of action is to decide on our dress options first, and then match the suits to them.”

“Agreed.”

“What if…” She pulled the dress specs from her bag and lined them up like playing cards beneath the suits she’d picked. “The blush with this burgundy. And the emerald with the charcoal. The powder blue with the black, and then black with black, red edging for drama.” She tucked her hair over one shoulder, glanced up to gauge his reaction to her matches, and saw that his gaze was pinned not on the clothes, but on her.

She froze, hand hovering over the table, like a child caught stealing sweets. She felt like that, too, an unusual, unwelcome sense of being in trouble. Of slipping, somehow.

Belatedly, she realized he was looking at her neck in particular. She sat back, and tried to discreetly draw her hair back over her shoulder.

“It appears you have a new accessory or two,” Ian drawled.

That morning, she’d stepped out of the shower, swiped a towel through the fog on the mirror, and found a chain of red-purple love bites down the side of her throat. She may or may not have gasped aloud in dismay, and spent a good ten minutes dabbing on concealer, powdering, and turning side to side to ensure they were properly masked.

Now, she fiddled with the ends of her hair and drew herself stiffly upright in her seat. “This?” She offered the back of her hand, sunlight glinting off the onyx ring on her middle finger. “I’ve had it for ages. It was my grandmother’s.”

He smirked. “Nice try, love.” There was a silver bowl of white roses on the end table to his right. He plucked the flowers free, heedless of the water that dripped onto the rug and sofa, and passed her the bowl. She took it reluctantly, and there, in the distorted, round reflection on its side, she saw that her makeup had smudged, and that three dark marks were visible on her neck.

“Shit.” She thumped the bowl down on the table and flopped back, arms folding. “I ought to sue that cosmetics company. ‘Concealer’ my arse.”

Ian chuckled, replaced the roses and put the bowl back where it belonged. Pulled out his violet pocket square to dab water from the sketches and photos. “You could always tell me it’s an allergic reaction of some sort. Insect bites.” He resettled and fixed her with a prying look. “But we both know that would be a lie.”

She glared at him.

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