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“I agree,” Jack said contemplatively. “Something’s definitely off.”
“I’m actually really glad Eric is going to be working with her,” Cleo continued earnestly. “He’ll follow through with Rowan’s Master and bring him in for training as well. Eric’s philosophy, which I agree with, is that a submissive can only be as successful as her Master permits. Eric has a funny way of putting it that makes me laugh, but that also really makes sense. Let me see if I can get it right.” She squinted up at the ceiling a moment, as if the idea were up there somewhere. “Right, now I remember. He compares subs to lab rats.”
It was Jack’s turn to wrinkle his nose. “Lab rats? I’m not following.”
“The rat’s never wrong, he says. If it can’t navigate the maze or find the cheese or whatever, it’s because the scientist set up the experiment wrong. What he’s saying is, if a submissive consistently fails at something, it’s usually because the Dom is either making unrealistic demands or expecting more of her than she can give. It’s a setup for failure. Eric is all about success.”
Jack nodded. “That makes sense. Definitely. But I’m afraid Rowan’s Master is out of the country at the moment. Dropped her off and left for the airport.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and the bloke won’t come back,” Cleo quipped. She instantly brought her hand to her mouth, her expression mortified as color rose in her fair cheeks. “Excuse me, Sir. That was flippant.”
Jack laughed. Actually, he was enjoying their easy banter. It reminded him he wasn’t just attracted to Cleo for her submissive nature and beauty. He genuinely liked her as a person. He liked being with her. And watching her with Rowan—her obvious concern, compassion and support—warmed his heart.
“Not at all,” he said aloud. “Whatever’s going on with that girl, it’s probably a good thing her Master isn’t here to influence her training. His absence should give Eric time to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on.”
Their snack plate and drink arrived. In spite of their lingering concern for Rowan, Jack was pleased for the opportunity to feed Cleo again. As before, each morsel he placed in her mouth was like a small gift exchanged between them—his to offer and hers to receive. She kept her big blue eyes fixed on his face as he placed a plump raspberry or a bit of soft cheese on her tongue. At one point, she sucked lightly on his finger as he withdrew it, the gesture supremely sensual. It made him eager to take her back to the hotel suite so they could continue where they’d left off.
Just as they were finishing the snack, Grayson and the silver-haired man Jack had seen from the back approached their table. As he got closer, Jack recognized the man as Bob Smithson, a lawyer based in Singapore who often traveled to London on business, and always stopped by the Masters Club when he did. He was a big, beefy fellow with a sizable belly and the bulbous, red nose of a heavy drinker.
“Jack,” Grayson said, “you remember Bob.”
“Of course,” Jack said, getting to his feet.
Bob’s face creased with concern as they shook hands. Without releasing his grip, he placed his other hand over Jack’s. “I wanted to convey my deepest condolences on your loss. Annette was an amazing woman, and I know you must miss her terribly.”
A pang pierced Jack’s heart, as it always did when people brought up Annette, especially in terms of her death.
“Thank you,” he said, gently extricating his hand from the man’s double-handed grip.
Cleo’s face had closed at the mention of Annette, the light going out of her lovely blue eyes. Though her bearing hadn’t changed, she seemed somehow to be crumpling in on herself.
“No one could ever replace her,” Bob continued, his voice too loud for the room. He glanced down at Cleo, his face breaking into a sudden smile. “Is that little Cleo I see?” he asked with a wolfish smile. “I remember you from your London days. How’re the Yanks treating you?”
Cleo lifted her head, though her eyes remained blank. “Very well, Sir,” she said politely.
Bob turned his attention back to Jack. “Grayson was just telling us about the auction. Glad to see you’ve been able to move on after your wife’s untimely demise. Nothing like a new toy to play with, am I right? This little slave girl is the perfect sexy distraction to take your mind off your troubles.” He leered down at Cleo. ”Speaking of which”—Bob placed a hand suggestively over his crotch—“Maybe you could lend her to me for an hour or two? I’ve got an itch that needs scratching.” He cocked a suggestive eyebrow.
Jack clenched his hands at his sides, resisting the impulse to smack the guy. He managed a strained smile. “Sorry. You’ll have to get it scratched another way. I don’t share well.”
