The limo driver met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Ben thought he detected a trace of approval in the gray eyes. Not that he cared what the muscle-headed Boy Scout thought.
Dana turned in her seat and reached around the back of Max’s headrest to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders. “So, have you kissed Janet yet?”
The shoulders lifted in a sigh. “Pest. None of your business.”
“That’s a yes,” Savannah observed, tossing the others a smile.
Dana started back as Max hit the button to raise the dark privacy screen between the driver’s area and the rest of the car. He ignored their boos and catcalls as he disappeared from view behind the scrolling glass.
“He’s so totally kissed her,” Dana said.
“Leave the man alone. You women are like piranha,” Ben chided.
“I could have asked him if he’d done other things to her,” Dana pointed out. “I showed a lot of restraint.
Rachel flashed a mischievous smile. “Since Janet is a Mistress, more likely it’s what she’s done to him.”
“But he’s no sub,” Marcie said.
“Exactly. Which makes it so interesting to imagine,” Cass said, drawing out the so in a way that had the women chuckling.
“Or not,” Ben said, affecting a shudder.
“Watch this,” Marcie said conspiratorially to the others. Leaning against Ben’s shoulder, she spoke into his ear in a sultry stage whisper. “But I want to talk about my fantasy starring you and Max. Both of you naked and all oiled up, wrestling until one of you wins, overpowers the other, and then…”
“Lalalalalala,” Ben said, putting his fingers in his ears and rocking his head back and forth, ignoring the peals of feminine laughter. “You are all cruel, terrible women,” he said mournfully.
Chuckling, Marcie glanced toward the storefronts as the limo slowed to a stop. “What are we doing at…”
It was rare for his feisty sub to be without voice, but she stopped in mid-sentence as if the air had been snatched from her. When her cheeks pinkened, his heart accelerated. Telling himself to get a grip, he blew a short, playful puff of air on her ear.
“You know, there is a bagel shop next door. I could just be wanting a sesame seed whole grain with cream cheese.”
Her eyes snapped up to him. Though Ben was sure she’d registered what he’d said, her gaze was wide and questioning. He couldn’t fathom what he saw there, but he knew it wasn’t rejection, so he could handle pretty much everything else. He hoped.
The rest of the car had fallen silent right after Marcie. The level of feminine intuition assembled in this one spot could reorganize civilizations. The women realized he was trying to figure out Marcie’s cues and needed his full attention on that. Otherwise, he expected there would have been squeals of excitement filling the suddenly much smaller, denser area.
Because there was really only one reason he would instruct Max to bring them to one of New Orleans’ oldest and most respected jewelry stores.
Reminding himself that he needed to appear calm and confident, every inch the Master he was supposed to be, he exited the car on the opposite side and circled around to open Marcie’s door. Max hadn’t done the honors, knowing this was Ben’s show. Smart guy. Worth every penny they paid him. When Marcie looked up at him, her eyes still round and lips slightly parted as if she wasn’t sure what to say, he extended his palm, his voice quiet and even.
“Come with me, brat.”
She put her hand in his, and he felt a tremor in her fingers. He brought her to her feet, pulling her out of the doorway so he could shut it, but before he took her any further, he pulled her close. Banding an arm around her shoulders, he dipped his head down to brush his lips against her cheekbone. “Okay?”
She nodded, but her fingers were clutching the front of his shirt. “I just…you took me by surprise.”
“What?” He lifted his head. “I’m just picking up a broken watch they’re fixing for me.”
He took the fist to his gut manfully—fuck, she hit a lot harder than Savannah—because his teasing had served its purpose. A tiny smile appeared on her face.
Stepping back, he clasped her hand and drew her to the store entrance, opening it with his free hand so she could precede him. When he let her go, his palm shifted to rest on her lower back.
The others had remained in the car, as he expected. They would hang back to give him and Marcie this moment. But he had no doubt, unless he’d wisely kept that glass scrolled up, that Max was getting the third degree, since the driver had known the destination without Ben clearly stating it.
As Ben brought Marcie into the jewelry store, its reputation was reflected by the interior. Deep red carpet edged with gold, and a glittering chandelier that threw the right amount of light on the gold cases. An array of wing-backed chairs and cherry-wood tables provided intimate circles for fittings. Oil originals done by some of New Orleans’ premiere artists, featuring different New Orleans landmarks, were mounted on the eggshell-colored plaster walls. An honest-to-God medieval era tapestry was hung on the back wall, depicting a hunting party with well-dressed ladies and lords, and a pack of narrow-waisted hunting hounds.
There was a lot of dark wood molding, and the polished floor revealed at the borders of the carpet was likely over a hundred years old. The building itself was their original store site, a structure dating from the 1800s.
Bernard, the owner, was emerging from the arched doorway to the left of the tapestry. He’d probably been given a heads up on Ben’s arrival by his twenty-eight-year-old son, Winston, who was manning the front.
Bernard had old world style spectacles perched on his craggy nose. He reminded Ben of the tall, gaunt butlers in horror films, only more solid and imposing, like Lurch of the Addams Family. But that was the physical. He had a reassuring way about him that told his clients he would take care of them, whether it was a kid who’d saved three months of his salary for a half-carat engagement ring, or someone like Ben. He wore creased slacks, shoes that shone like polished coal, and a dark green sweater over a white dress shirt and tie.
“Mr. O’Callahan,” he said, and came out from behind the glass counter to shake Ben’s hand with long, bony fingers. Then his gaze turned to Marcie.
“This must be the angel who has agreed to save you from the fires of hell.”
“I’m pretty sure I described her as the woman who put me through the fires of hell,” Ben said.
A long smile creased all of Bernard’s face as he took Marcie’s hand and kissed it. He pulled it off as if he was a count in a Dumas book, which Ben suspected the guy had been, in a past life. The identity simply refused to let go, even in the face of much more modern times.