“We’re in a hurry, my flower. Faster.”
Jamie’s hand dipped between her legs and stroked the one thing that had been abandoned in that fervent lovemaking. Etta was right: it took all of ten seconds of bathing her fingertips in her wetness and staring into that stoic visage. As climax claimed her, Jamie jerked back on the desk and unleashedeverything she held inside.
“Shit,” she muttered, lowering her feet to the floor and pulling her dress back into position. “It got… everywhere.”
“It sure did.” Etta looked like she desperately needed a smoke. Too bad she didn’t ever partake. Instead, she went to her office wet bar and poured herself a shot of whiskey. “As soon as you’re done cleaning both it and yourself up, we can go to dinner.”
Jamie shot her a hasty look. So much for basking in her orgasm. She had to do what now?
“Oh,” Etta continued, finishing her drink and leaving the glass on the bar. “I have one last request for you. Give me your underwear.”
Chapter 36
It didn’t matter how Etta made her feel in her office. Both good and not so good disappeared as they entered one of the most high-class restaurants they could ask to visit.We don’t come here much. French food. Etta wasn’t that much into it and Jamie hadn’t sampled enough yet to say whether she cared. Adele had insisted that they should have their business dinner here, however, because of the prestige the place carried.
As was customary, they passed the main gallery, electing to take a private hall as they followed the maître d’ into a back room. The mahogany panels evoked a rustic European charm. The tablecloth lace, both delicate and firm enough to withstand the abuse of diners, also carried an Old World feeling. It briefly reminded Jamie of her gaffe at Lady Winston’s, and she swallowed so hard that Etta asked her if she was all right.
No, because I have no damn panties on. They were stuffed in Etta’s inner jacket pocket. For some reason, she wanted Jamie prancing around completely naked beneath her skirt. Was it a power thing? Or was there some other ulterior motive?
Adele was already there, fussing with the maître d’ over whether the tea light candles should already be lit. She was stag, which surprised Jamie.It further surprised her to quickly find out that Ms. Adele Thompson was single, having fired/dumped her assistant. Etta said she was using a middle-aged woman in the interim. “I don’t know what happened between them,” she said in the back of the limo, shrugging. “None of my business. Now, let me see what you look like between those gorgeous thighs again.”
Jamie shed her coat and let the maître d’ walk away with it. Adele looked Jamie up and down with a light whistle. “Aren’t you a sight?” she said. “Richard Blake is going to go nuts for you. Ah…” she winked at Etta. “That’s your plan, isn’t it? Shilling your poor woman to woo over the Blakes.”
“You’re on to me, Adele.”
“I know how you work.”
She left them, chasing down the maître d’ again because the tea lights were the wrong shade of rose. When they had this moment to themselves, Etta pulled out a chair for Jamie to take, lips lowering to her ear. “Remember what I said about you serving me today? About the world seeing what a beautiful wife I will have… and an obedient one? Don’t make me look like a liar, Jamie. When you’re serving me…” Etta’s hands massaged Jamie’s shoulders, but all she felt was more tension inside her, “you’re serving those around me as well.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.”
“You’ll figure it out soon enough.” Etta took the chair to her left as the maître d’ returned with new tea lights… and the Blakes.
Jamie instantly recognized Francesca Blake, the queen bee from Monique’s garden party over a month ago. They exchanged a tentative look while Etta rose to greet them. Richard Blake – who was not actually the musical actor, much to Jamie’s disappointment – sat next to Jamie while the others filled in the gaps around the table. Francesca continued to glance at her. The only thing keeping someone’s pride in check was that, well, as Etta had promised, Jamie didn’t have to speak or do anything sinceshe was there to be her gorgeous trophy wife.
Maybe I should fucking own it.
Francesca Blake was suspect #1 in the world of calling Jamie Joy a trophy wife wannabe. She probably whispered with her other good-breeding friends that one day young and socially naïve Etta would realize her mistake of marrying a low-class fuckup like Jamie and divorce her ass. Hopefully, she wouldn’t lose too much of her fortune in the process, but hey, she could always make more, and it would be a valuable lesson. Somehow, Jamie managed to keep passive while she read this tremendous piece of bullshit on Francesca’s Botoxed countenance.
Introductions went around for Jamie’s benefit, even though she wasn’t allowed to speak. Once again, Etta explained that her voice was not up to par that day and she was resting it. Pretty soon, half the city would think she had laryngitis.
A sommelier brought them the wine Adele ordered. It was a ridiculous vintage that Jamie couldn’t even fathom, of course, but she didn’t say a word as the sommelier left them the bottle to fetch something else Adele requested.
“He didn’t even bother to pour us…” Francesca scoffed, or at least Jamie thought she did.Hard to tell when her face barely moved. I can read derision, but not actual muscle movement.
Etta patted her knee. “Now would be a great time to show off your skills, my love.”
My… skills?Excuse her, she was not going to crawl under the table and…
…Oh. She didn’t mean that.
Jamie got up from her chair, one hand draping across Etta’s arm as she delicately turned around and faced the bottle of wine. Everyone, including Adele, looked at her as if she had lost her damned mind when she picked up the opened bottle and filled the glasses around the table.
After all, if she had to serve her Mistress, she had to serve everybody.Adele gaped at her as Jamie filled her glass first. “Well, this is very kind of you,” she said, attempting to save grace. “Thank you, Jamie.”
She was fine until she got to the Blakes, namely Francesca, who came up first.
Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck up.Jamie had images of her spilling this wine not only all over the tablecloth, but Mrs. Blake’s lap as well. She was wearing Versace, and not just any Versace.VintageVersace, the kind that always stayed in style and only increased in value and prestige as the years went on. In other words, it was irreplaceable, and to stain it would end Jamie’s life.
