He knows about the suit. Shit. “I’m guessing that wanker bit is yours?”
“All me. You can take the man out of London, but—hell, you know how the rest goes.” He snorts and glares at the road. “Just so you’re aware, ten minutes on the phone with your ex and I wanted to elbow him in the nose for being such a little shit. What the fuck possessed you to marry someone like that? I bet he attends brunch at country clubs on Saturdays and golfs with his old schoolmates every Sunday.”
Tom plays soccer with his friends on Sundays, but still, Jace has the man figured out after one conversation. I sink down further into the leather seat. "Christ."
"He's not here, love. Only me. Why didn't you tell me about the lawsuit?"
"Because it didn't—" I drag in a breath that burns my lungs then move my arms from my chest to run my hands through my pulled-back hair. "I didn't think it mattered. Because it’s not a lawsuit at this point … he’s just contacted his attorney.” Which means the lawsuit is probably inevitable. Because Tom’s a turd.
"It wouldn’t have changed my decision. I just would've liked to have known all the facts."
"So, after you knew them all, why did you call me?"
"I wanted the best person for the job. Pending lawsuit or not, you've got a reputation for getting shit done, and that's what I need." One corner of his mouth tilts into a half-smile. "Plus, like I said, your ex-husband is an arse I'd like to punch in the face a couple of times. I’m sure it would do him some good."
This is the second time he's done this—favor my side over Tom's. I feel a sharp tug in my chest at the support from the man who’d driven me crazy when we were kids. After I got over the initial numbness caused by the destruction of my marriage, I found myself stunned by the number of friends in San Francisco who sided with Tom. The same people that we vacationed with in Vegas and brought into our home for Stir-Fridays thought I was being irrational, and that had stung. He's going through a rough time. If he cheated on you, there must have been a good reason. He deserves a second chance … don't be a bitch, Lucy. I had heard it all, but I also wasn’t willing to listen to excuses for Tom’s bad behavior.
Jace hasn’t even come close to defending my ex-husband, and I appreciate that more than he’ll ever know.
"Yes," I murmur at last, fireworks exploding beneath my skin because I feel his blue stare against the side of my face. "He is a jerk.”
"So, make a new email."
There it is again—that commanding edge to his voice—but I find myself nodding, despite common sense yelling for me to tell him to shove his bossiness up his own arse. "I will.”
“See. It’s really not so hard to listen.”
He stops his black Challenger in front of the wrought iron gate of a sprawling, white house that's on at least a two-acre lot, a rarity for Winchester with its small lot sizes and subdivisions. Letting down his window, he punches the intercom button. I can't hear exactly what he’s saying over the rock version of Taylor Swift's "Blank Space" blaring from the stereo, but a moment later, the gates swing open.
He drives forward.
I tilt my head to the side, marveling over the trees lining each side of the wide driveway. "Private collector?"
"Overachiever." He gives me a look that tells me he thinks I'm the same way. "He likes these parties held at his home, so he's willing to invest in the cause."
The cause? What the hell is he investing in—sitting around and watching the minute hand go around a pretty clock? I don't have time to ask questions, because as soon as he maneuvers his car between a sleek Mercedes and a Range Rover, he walks around to open my door for me.
I gawk up at him.
"Why’s your mouth wide open?" he demands, rolling his eyes when I ignore his hand and grip the door frame to hoist myself out of the tiny muscle car. "Ahh, that's right. Germaphobe."
"I'm not a germaphobe," I hiss as we walk side by side up the staircase leading to the front door.
"When you stare at my hand like I've cocks for fingers, I automatically assume you're afraid of what filthy things they've touched."
I whip my head toward him, my nostrils flaring. "That's such an unprofessional thing to say. Which is what touching my boss is."
"Believe me, Williams, I have every intention of being professional with you." Continuing to stare at me like I've offended him by refusing his help, he rings the doorbell. "I was trying to help you out of a snug place, not asking you to choose between flavors of lube."
"Marketing 101," I say before he can murmur something lewder that will send my pulse and brain into overdrive. "It's best not to let clients hear you discussing politics, religion, sex, or—"
But I lose the ability to speak when the door swings open. Oh … shit. I've completely got this situation wrong. Because instead of the elderly gentleman I'm expecting—the collector who likes to impress his friends with his extensive hoard of metal clocks and whatever else Jace designs for him—I come face to face with a pair of breasts.
Large, naked breasts that make my C-cups feel underwhelming.
Those breasts are attached to a statuesque, extremely bare redhead whose only accessories are diamond earrings, a metal collar and cuffs on either of her wrists. "Thank god you're here," she whispers to Jace, batting long eyelashes over cornflower blue irises. "We can't get the cuffs to hook, and we needed you here like an hour ago."
She can't get the cuffs to hook.
Oh. God.
She can't get the cuffs to hook.
And something tells me they're not hooking to a clock unless she's the living, breathing minute hand.
Where the hell has Jace brought me?
Five
Lucy
Blown away.
Those are the only words to describe how I feel for the next hour of my life.
I am blown away to the point of complete and utter silence, my fingers clasped tightly in front of my waist, and the edges of my hazel eyes burning because they spend most of those fifty-three minutes wide. Unblinking.
Stunned.
I've read stories about sex parties. After I indulged in a particularly kinky TV show on HBO and Googled a few of the terms that were mentioned, I saw a plethora of sponsored ads for local clubs specializing in the erotic arts on Facebook. Still, I've never witnessed anything like this first hand. Until tonight.