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He was watching her. Quite deliberately, making her acutely aware of the swing of her hips beneath the fitted skirt, the glimpse of the back of her knees and curve of calves that would be displayed as she walked in her heels. His regard made her aware of the fact she'd chosen seamed stockings, and this pair had a tiny embroidered rose in black thread just above the delicate anklebone. Even the soft brush of that curl along her temple was intensified by the memory of his touch there.
His gaze met hers in the mirror right before she entered the kitchen. One corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile, and from the expression in his eyes, she wouldn't have put it past him to mortify her with a wolf whistle. She escaped through the door, but her own lips were twitching with a near smile, reminding her that she liked Tyler Winterman. She was just deathly afraid of the effect he had on her.
Taking the two steps up into her side office, she closed her door. Chloe and Gen were used to her doing that at the end of the day so she could focus on receipts. It gave her an excuse now to collect her thoughts. And watch Tyler.
The large Victorian mirror was a façade for a two-way mirror, the window side mounted on the wall of her raised office so she could keep an eye on the floor. It helped her anticipate when Chloe and Gen could use a hand, or she needed to come out to greet a frequent or new customer, underscoring the sophisticated charm and service her tearoom was known to lavish on its clientele.
In this instance, it gave her the opportunity to study him further. He had left the bistro chair, and was now perusing her display wall. It offered pieces from the full tea sets that clients could request for the serving of their chosen beverage, everything from English porcelain to Japanese and Chinese clay. With one hand, he touched the tuocha, a compressed tea shaped like a bird's nest, then he moved on to examine the copper shine of the Russian samovar with its ornate dragon tap.
She had originals under glass that ranged from one hundred and fifty to one thousand years old, the latter being the YiXing set from the Ming Dynasty. Her very first tea set was also under glass, a child's set of colorful ceramic cups and matching small teapot. It sat within the ankle span of a doll whose best days were long over, underscored by her brittle hair, faded satin gown and scarred face.
Her hands clutched the desk edge, knuckles white as she watched him study that symbol of her past which she had arranged with quaint charm. It gave patrons the picture of a little blonde girl getting the set, the doll when it was brand new. Cherishing it, deciding to grow up and have her entire life be like a tea party. Civilized, every detail thought out. Well designed, beautiful. Peaceful.
The room was laid out such that none of the tables were too close to that display wall, so that a person could move comfortably past its offerings without hovering over seated patrons. In this case it gave the ladies in the room the opportunity to study him easily under the guise of interest in the displays that most of them had seen many times before. She had three age groups in the room; Mrs. Allen's set, who were well into grandmother realm and perhaps holding out successfully for great-grandchildren; a pair of women in their forties, now empty nesters; and a table of six chic professional women who preferred this spot on Thursday afternoons rather than a golf course, nightclub or bar hangout. And every one of them was watching Tyler. Not blatantly, but with quick flicks of their eyelashes, secret smiles among themselves, a feminine chuckle. It set her teeth on edge. Why had he invaded her world before she had the inner gates to it closed? She felt as if he were contaminating it in some way, disrupting the atmosphere like the arrival of a Chippendales stripper in a library to deliver a birthday gram to the quiet steward of all those dignified books.
But he didn't have the effeminate prettiness of a Chippendale. Chloe was right.
Tyler commanded attention because he was like a tiger. Mesmerizing and possessing something that suggested it was wise not to turn your back on him, any more than it would be a wise move to run.
He turned at last, made his way down the wall until he reached her mirror. Being a tall man, it was easy for him to rest an elbow on the mantel.
Other male Dominants did not affect her this way. Perhaps it was the Domme in her that admired the strength to his bearing, his profile. The predatory readiness that pulsed from him was equally balanced with the assurance he would be the first to hold out a chair for a woman, help an elderly woman down the stairs at the bank or ask a girl crying in the mall what was the matter. How could he make it better? The moment any woman met his gaze she'd know he could make it better. In short, he was a walking fantasy, and there was nothing more dangerous to Marguerite's world than that.
The motion of his body suggested that he had put a hand in the pocket of his slacks, a comfortable, masculine pose. His attention appeared to now rest on a photo of colorfully dressed tea pickers in India, which was grouped with lovely landscapes of the green hills of the tea gardens in Malaysia. Beyond that were some of her favorite Japanese tea theme scrolls and watercolors drawn by tea masters.
The desk pressed against her thighs as she leaned forward. The surface was too wide for her to touch the window. Inching her skirt up, she slid onto the wood top, folding her legs beneath her as she reached out.
It didn't matter why she felt like doing this. She didn't want to think about why she was tracing his shoulder on the glass, imagining how it would feel, the fabric of his shirt, the solid man beneath. Flattening her palm against the cool surface, she visualized touching his hair, the line of his throat, feeling the heat of life pulsing there as she passed her knuckles over it, just a gentle caress.
He turned toward her, studying the mirror rather than himself in it, and she saw his shrewd assessment, his quick realization that it was likely a two-way. Outlining his mouth, she watched as the sensual lips curved into a faint smile. He winked and placed one finger on the glass. Entranced, she moved hers to it, pressing finger pad to finger pad. She supposed he thought she was frowning at him or ignoring him, and that was fine. But as they stood there for a moment or two and his finger stayed in place with her print against it, she began to get that uncomfortable feeling she often had, that Tyler saw more than he should when he looked her way. Moving off the desk, she took her seat and returned to her paperwork, trying not to look up again.
She held out for about three minutes.
He was still at the mantel. He'd taken out a palm organizer and was keying something into it. Checking his messages, she supposed. Tyler was a significant name in the erotic film industry, using his talent to help producers and directors put high-quality erotic content for women on the screen. He'd even co-written a couple award-winning scripts himself, and served as advisor on countless others. Although she'd heard that he'd cut back some the last couple years, she imagined he had a full schedule just maintaining his going concerns. Evolution of a Domme, his latest investment, had swept the erotic film awards. It had even garnered a Golden Globe nomination, for the first time breaking a barrier shattered previously only by darker, more destructive erotic films with larger name actors.
She watched, curious, as he lifted the organizer. He placed it flat against the glass, his body shifting so to the others in the room it only looked as if he was casually relaxing at the mantel.
What are you wearing back there?
It startled a snort out of her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, though there was a reasonable amount of soundproofing. As if he knew her reaction, he grinned, a slow, sexy smile. Pocketing the organizer, he strolled away, wandering back past the display wall.
Tucking the memo
ry of that smile to her breast like she was clutching her doll, she used it to ease her concerns about this meeting. It would work out. Of course it would.
And it was nowhere near the worst thing she had faced in her life.
Chapter Two
As thirty minutes ticked away, the anxiety returned. A nagging feeling of apprehension that made her wonder again how she'd reached the logical and seemingly well-thought-out decision that she could have this discussion with Tyler Winterman in any capacity that was safe. She shouldn't have entertained it at all, except she had no choice. There were things in her life she knew she needed in order to keep other things under control. Fate recently had determined that Tyler was the key to one of them. Not so much him as his cooperation at the very least.
She bid Chloe and Gen good night, locked the rear service entrance and then stepped back out into the tearoom. Chloe had locked the front door and dimmed the lights to evening security mode, just enough light that the passing patrol car could see into her downtown shop. It surprised her that her hostess had done that with Tyler still in the room. Then she saw, with a mental note to slap Chloe in the morning, a small trio of candles burning in the center of his table. It set an atmosphere she did not wish to cultivate.
Marguerite picked up a douser on the side table and gestured courteously to him to stay seated as she approached. Laying it over each candle, she felt him watching her movements. It put the room in even dimmer light but she knew every inch of her own place, though it seemed different with his presence.
"I'd like to have our talk in the private tearoom, if you don't mind. That way, no one's confused about whether we're closed for the day or not, and we won't be interrupted. "
"Should I bring my cup?"
