“I’m sorry my other employees weren’t better fits,” I finally tell Fiona. “You have my number if you need anything during this transition period.”
“I do,” Fiona says. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”
There was a time she would have accompanied that warningwith a seductive cock of her hip, with a tilted chin and a glance through heavy eyelashes. But Fiona’s changed her approach these days. She’s all business, professional in everything she does.
Besides, she’s always known that crap doesn’t work on me.
Still, there’s enough of her old flash to make me wonder how I’ll eventually cash in the marker she owes me, what favor I’ll request to even out our books. It will have to be something big. The obligation of an Irish mob captain isn’t something to squander.
Fiona and I shake hands, and I finally head back to my Lear jet, to DC, to home, two days later than I expected. It’s nearly midnight when I walk into my bedroom.
Kate is sitting up in bed, pillows piled behind her back, laptop balanced across her thighs. For just a moment, I wonder what I’ll find when I review my logs of her work.
“So,” Kate says, keeping her hands balanced on her keyboard. “That’s the answer.”
“What’s the question?” I ask from the doorway.
“How long is a quick business trip?”
She’s angry. It occurs to me, belatedly, that I should have checked in from the road. Let her know things were taking longer than I expected. Given her an idea of when I’d be home.
But what difference would that make? She’s had Nilsson to procure anything she needs. Anna to cook her meals. Mrs. Watson to take care of her grandmother.
I won’t apologize. I don’t apologize to anyone.
I leave my roller-bag by the door. Nilsson will handle it tomorrow. It’s not until I turn toward the dresser—intending to leave my watch in the upper right drawer for the night—that I see the Soutine hanging on the wall.
For just a moment, I wonder what she’s done with the O’Keeffe. On her first day in this house, I warned her what would happen if she damaged the work in my office, but she wasn’t onnotice for the flower painting. I hope to God she hasn’t burned it.
Dropping my voice about twenty degrees, I say, “You’ve been busy interior decorating.”
Climbing out of bed, she plants her hands on her hips. “You’re the one who said you deserve that painting. While you were gone, I realized I deserve it too. So I moved it.”
I don’t want to fight. I planned on coming home, collecting my wife from the bed we share, and taking her down to the basement—giving us both a little release. After three days babysitting that job in Boston, I need it. And judging from the sulky look on Kate’s face, she’s missed the dungeon too.
But she’s going about it the absolute wrong way. She’s doing her best to goad me. And that will never, ever get her the reward she wants to earn.
“So,” I drawl, drawing out the word with pretend boredom. “You deserve to be an expressionist? You deserve to wear all your feelings on your sleeve?”
She crosses to me with all the taut fury of a caged cat. “Ideserveto be a feckin’ piece of meat. That’s all I am to you, right? Something to use downstairs, then forget about once you’re busy with work. Or travel. Or play. Whatever the fuck you’ve been doing for the past three days.”
I’ve been trained by manipulators a hell of a lot better than she is. Shannoninstalledmy buttons before I could talk.
Kate’s first night here I taught her one lesson: She’s not allowed to top from below. And she clearly intends the rearrangement of my art collection to warrant punishment. She’s gone to a lot more work setting up this little rebellion than she did hinting that she wanted me to use the cane.
“Nice try, my dear.” I settle my hands on her biceps for just a moment before I step around her. I hear the exasperated catch of breath in her throat, but I’m already heading to the bathroom.
Iwantto take her downstairs. Iwantto put cuffs around herwrists and ankles. Iwantto tie her to the iron bed, to stripe her ass with a flogger, to watch her shift into sub-space, into the place where every calculated touch of mine threatens to break her into a million glinting pieces.
But all I’m getting tonight is a cold shower. That’s the only way I know to make her understand. The only way for her to learn her role in what we do, to truly accept who and what she is. What I am. What we are together.
By the time I come out of the bathroom she’s asleep, or pretending anyway. I pad over to my desk and log in to my accounts. I check on Chuck’s progress in Boston. I review email from a dozen other clients. I see Barry Lynch’s demands, piled up from the last three days—all the things he wants me to do, all the things he forbids.
Lynch isn’t worth it. I’ve fired clients for a lot less. I don’t need his money, and he’s never going to bring me more business. Men like him don’t share with their friends.
But if I fire Lynch, Kate will have no reason to stay. And I’m not willing to turn her loose. Not yet. Not before I’ve proven to both of us that I’m the one in charge. That I’m the one in control. That I’m the one who wins.
Always.
