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A few moments later, he returned and directed Gemma down a corridor to the back of the building. In another room furnished in yet more archaic wood and littered with haberdashery items was her husband. Not, as she envisaged, standing on a box surrounded by effeminate men fussing over him with pins in their mouths and tape measures around their necks. Instead, he stood by the window, examining cloth swatches in the daylight. By his side, a young man quietly suggesting colours and fabric finishes. She waited for a few minutes as they discussed Jason’s next choice of suit, providing her with a chance to witness his thorough approach to choosing his suits.
Jason’s clothing fell into two clear categories: work and leisure. For each, he had very different requirements and shopping tactics. For his working days, he wore tailored suits. Without ever seeing his bills, she could guess they were extremely expensive and well-made. He stuck to his chosen tailors to alter or clean them. He wore two-buttoned single-breasted jackets, or, occasionally, three-buttoned jackets. Never double-breasted. All of them fitted perfectly across his shoulders and tapered at the waist. In the winter, during the harshest weather, he dressed in matching waistcoats. For formal social events, he donned tuxedos—white or black—with immaculate poise. He wore his suits like a uniform and he exuded military sexiness, the kind of appeal that men with trim muscular figures carry off so well. She purred at the mental imagery. Regardless of his style of suit, he maintained an elegant appearance and with it came his natural vanity. Something she chose to ignore. He was her handsome husband, and so what if he flaunted it.
Then, there was his other persona. The man of leisure, and with it came a different appearance and approach to clothing. For his weekend wear, Jason was content to frequent the high streets and chain stores. Nothing bargain basement, his choices fell beyond the price range of most people—he wanted the clothing to wear well. Faded stonewashed jeans or multi-pocketed black cargo trekkers were his favourites for the lower half of his body. Above, T-shirts in the warmer months and long-sleeved polo shirts in the winter. Whatever he wore fit him flawlessly and accentuated his figure—broad shoulders and narrow hips.
Gemma would often accompany him on those shopping trips as she sought out clothes or accessories for herself. They would browse the high-end department stores or men’s clothing boutiques, and he was happy for her to make suggestions. While she held up this or that, he would nod or shake his head at her choices. The last trip out she’d found a black T-shirt with words LOVE YOUR PET emblazoned across the front in white. She waved it at him from a few metres away, and he gave her a smile. She knew he liked the subtext of the phrase; Gemma was his pet, and he owned her in a manner they both considered essential to their relationship. However, when she turned the shirt around to show him the back, Jason frowned. A great big picture of an ugly British Bulldog had been embossed on to the fabric. Gemma had shared the sentiment and put it back on the railings.
Back in the tailors’ shop, Jason stroked the fabric samples, and he seemed relaxed and at ease with his surroundings. Around the edge of the room, full-length mirror stands and mannequins exhibiting suits: some of the fabric marked with chalk or covered in pins. As a frequent customer, Jason required only one fitting for each suit he ordered. She assumed his personal cutter was now familiar with Jason’s shape and stature without needing his presence for several fittings. Jason wore one of his new suit trousers, and already it fit him to perfection.
When her feet began to fidget and her body swayed, Jason gave her a cursory nod, an acknowledgement. “Wait over there.” He indicated a long settle, and she perched on the end while pushing the buggy back and forth.
“I’ll leave you to change, sir,” said the tailor.
Heels knocking together, she chewed on the end of a lock of hair. She felt like a fifth wheel. Why was she there? He didn’t need her assistance—he knew what he wanted, and she never doubted his judgement. The man had excellent taste.
When the assistant left, Gemma had the wherewithal to stand up and face her husband. He changed out of his finished trousers, putting back on the ones he had arrived in. His nimble fingers straightened the necktie.
Then, he asked his pointed question.
“Well? What did I ask you to do?” His tone had an awful bite to it, making her heart pound. His question took her by surprise.
Feeling flustered, she ran through the previous day, a slide show of memories flashing before her eyes. Nothing! Surely it had be something worthy of his summoning.
“I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” She grimaced, sensing a simple apology wouldn’t suffice.
He frowned, picked up his jacket, and slipped it on. “Not remember? Do you know what I found in the car on the way here?”
“No, Sir.”
What is he getting at now?
He stepped closer, his fingers reached round her neck, coiling about her hair, grasping the stray locks. Her scalp stung. With his other hand, he fished something out of his jacket pocket. A flimsy piece of printed card. A postcard?
“This! Open your mouth.”
She held the card between her teeth and peered down her nose: a parcel-delivery note, informing the absent householder that a parcel was waiting to be collected. At Blythewood House, the gatehouse would deal with deliveries that needed to be signed for, but at their townhouse, if nobody was in, they went back to the depot and Brooks, their butler, arranged for the package to be collected. Then she remembered. She was supposed to have gone to the depot to sign and collect the package. Brooks had gone to visit his ailing brother.
“I could let it slip, that you forgot yesterday. Mummy brain would have been your excuse, but then I found this lying on the back seat of the car. The same car that ferried you about yesterday. I didn’t go to work in the Austin Martin, so I had the Jag today.”
“So, not only did you forget to go to the depot, you lost the delivery card. Stuffed down the back seat
, all lost and lonely. What would have happened to my package? Eh?” He snorted. “One bloody thing, Gemma.”
“I’m very sorry, Master,” she said through gritted teeth. He took the card from her mouth and thrust it into her hands. She swallowed. “I will deal with it now.”
He released the ponytail and she slotted the delivery message into her handbag. Jason snapped his fingers.
Crikey! She couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that particular signal.
“Kneel, Gemma.” His voice changed. Husky and lower. The kind that made her both self-conscious and needy.
She hesitated a fraction, glancing toward the doorway.
Not here, please!
She slipped down onto her knees. The puppet master pulled her strings, and she couldn’t resist him. Something about the musky smell, the displays of suits and ties, all masculine symbols making her flushed and hot.
“Master,” she murmured, her face close but not touching his legs.
