The Corporation was the dragon- ready to swallow Thomas whole. There was more good in him that her husband was prepared to admit. He was capable of tenderness, passion, protectiveness... at one point, she'd dared think capable of love. Could she save Thomas? Did hewantto be saved? Would he ever be willing to picture another path in life than the deadly one he walked? Lauren rested her head on the neck of her cello, unaware that the rosin on the strings was painting white stripes across her cheek. The concept of turning into the warrior saint that the priest seemed certain she could be seemed ridiculous. She'd gotten by in life by being her mother's "good girl," a loyal friend, a hard worker. But "fierce" was not a word ever used to describe her. And if she tried to battle for Thomas's heart, could he ever be capable of loving her? She thought back to the night on the dance floor where she knew she'd never leave him. So would she just... stay leashed in a collar, clipping the chain on herself? Lauren chuckled mirthlessly, pouring another glass of wine. Even with the need she felt for her husband, that sounded pathetic. But in her past life, if she'd ever asked herself: "What's the worst thing he could do?" it would have involved a breakup or some minor humiliation. The girl shuddered in spite of herself. The "worst that could happen," by Thomas Williams's definition was utterly terrifying to contemplate.
Thomas was swirling his glass of Jameson, looking attentive with a light, sardonic smile while in reality having no idea what Monsieur Boucher was talking about. The French arms dealer was visibly disappointed that Lauren did not accompany him that night. Williams hadn't been surprised that Arabella was "ill" as well, leaving the tremulous Clara to attempt to act as hostess at the dinner. He looked at her and smiled warmly with a nod, which the girl seemed grateful for. Michael had mainly ignored his bride during the dinner to exchange in filthy banter with Boucher's adult son, who was well on his way to becoming as blood-stained as his father. Forcing himself to look chagrined, Thomas bowed out after the last small cups of coffee and Creme Brule were consumed. "Forgive me, I have a series of conference calls with Moscow in the morning, and there are still files I must go over." He and "The Butcher" were standing a bit apart from the rest of the increasingly raucous dinner group, politely shaking hands.
"Of course," the man said, before hesitating a moment. An expression of concern crossed his plump face, making the arms dealer look even more like someone's grandfather. "This... partnership," he said with a frown, "it is as you expected?"
Thomas arched an elegant brow. Discussing dealings with other criminal organizations was Simply Not Done. "I have no idea what you're talking about, my friend." His tone dropped to a lower register, making his smooth tone sound vaguely threatening.
But Boucher was unwilling to let the matter drop, and his expression almost made it look like the man cared. "Loyalty is not constant with that organization," he said quickly, aware the others were rising from the table. "I would not like to see you surprised by this."
Number Two at Jaguar Holdings eyed the Frenchman thoughtfully. "I appreciate your concern?"
"Ah," Boucher said, his genial expression returned and in place, "I do have a gift for your bride." He gestured to an assistant, who brought out a small white box, wrapped in a pretty purple ribbon. Thomas looked at it, a little confused. The man who sold surface to air missiles to both sides on several different conflicts had thought to bring a gift to Lauren? "It's lavender honey from the nunnery she and I discussed when we dined last. I traveled there this winter, just to visit. It sounded so enchanting, as described by Mrs. Williams."
"And how did it appear to you?" Thomas inquired, interested despite the oddness of the exchange.
The Frenchman looked a little sad. "I suspect all things are more beautiful as seen through the eyes of your bride."
Thomas gingerly took the box, oddly conflicted as he thanked Boucher for the gift. "I am certain Lauren will be very touched and pleased, thank you, Phillippe." Driving home, he circled around the odd conversation with the arms dealer. "The Butcher" being troubled about their association with Bratva? His grandfatherly fondness for his wife? It was... irregular. Something Thomas disliked. He spent most of his existence analyzing every move and reaction for variables. This entire night had been an unseen variable, from Lauren's coldness to this old man's warmth. A little confused, he let himself into the house, letting Chuck go for the night.
"Any problems tonight?" he suddenly asked.
Chuck, his hand on the front door handle, turned slightly with a look of polite inquiry. "Not at all, Mr. Williams. Mrs. Williams stayed in her conservatory all night, practicing. The London Symphony Orchestra series for this next month seems to have some rather fierce-sounding pieces of music." He waited politely at Number Two frowned at him thoughtfully until the man collected himself and sent him home. Walking down the steps, Lauren's bodyguard allowed himself a very small smile, really just a curve upwards of one side of his mouth. Rare to see his employer looking... unsettled?
Climbing the stairs to the third floor, Thomas paused on the landing. There was silence from above, so Lauren was likely asleep, or even more likely pretending to be. He'd always been amused by her favorite method of avoiding him. But the bed was empty, still neatly made and no telltale shower steam from the bathroom. Brow furrowed, Thomas stepped out into the hall again. The door to their 'playroom' was still open, but he was still surprised to see his timid bride seated in one of the big leather armchairs. Leaning against the door and folding his arms, he gave her his most infuriating expression of urbane amusement. "Darling, I do believe you're attempting to send me a signal here, lounging in our "special" room like this." Lauren stared at him with an unreadable expression. Thomas felt a small twinge of tenderness to see the rosin marks across her cheek. His musically gifted wife always seemed to have those white bits smeared somewhere on her person. But he could tell she was attempting a forbidding expression, so the man kept himself from smirking.
"I was just looking around," Lauren finally said, deliberately placing her bare feet on the long ottoman she'd be trapped in the night before, "wondering how it felt for you to have me thrashing around and begging you to let me out of this dog cage. Wondering if you enjoyed it."
"It's not a dog cage, darling," Thomas strolled into the room, running a hand along a length of rope hanging from a ceiling hook. "It's a 'pet' cage. Quite a different thing." He could tell she was fighting to keep calm.
"That's not what it felt like!" It was the angriest he'd ever heard his sweet bride, and his eyes narrowed.
"Be careful, pet, you will want to think now, before you speak." Thomas's voice was always beautiful, elegant, rich. But when he lowered his already deep tone, it was ominous.
Lauren rose from the chair, walking to him. "You asked me there - in the hall - if I had anything I wanted to tell you before my 'punishment,' but then you had no interest in what I was trying to tell you."
He rolled his eyes irritably. "You had nothing to say but excuses, reasons why the whole idiotic adventure was not your fault. Like a child."
Her lips pressed together angrily. "Arabella was my friend!" Thomas noted the past tense in that sentence. "She'd been beaten within an inch of her life, and she was desperate when she dragged me out the door. I thought if she could talk to me freely without anyone listening to report back, I could maybe..." Lauren hesitated, her pretty face turning sad. "Help her?"
Thomas made an irritable noise, brushing past his bride to pace, hands on his hips. "I made it quite clear you were not to spend time with her! You chose to disobey-"
"Haven't you ever had a friend?" Lauren interrupted him, for the first time she could remember and feeling both terrified and giddy. "Someone who needed you? Maybe the only friend they could count on?"
His first thought was to throw his outrageously insolent wife over his lap and spank some sense into her, and then Thomas was chilled by the memory of Lauren trying to get through to him in their bathroom that night, how it made him feel disgusted with himself. Weak. So Thomas took in a deep breath and waited until he was calm again. "My actions - my friends - have no bearing on your behavior or what I expect from you. My requirements are always quite clear, and they are in place for your continued survival, little girl! Do you really think Arabella gives asecondof thought in that apparently empty blonde head for you? For yoursafety?That is my task, and Straker's. How dare you question-" And she did it again, his suddenly,clearlyinsane wife interrupted himagain.
"You care about my safety?" Lauren pounced, "Not just that I'd die and make you look bad as a scary Crime Lord, but that you really care?" He was staring at her as if she'd grown a tail, and the incongruous image of the three tails attached to plugs she'd spotted in the armoire accosted her, and the girl had to swallow down a hysterical giggle.
"I..." a frown crossed her husband's beautiful face, and she held her breath. Thomas growled and took her by the arm, hustling Lauren from the room. "You're a grown woman, and you know that your safety and that of your admittedly worthless father's rests upon your good behavior." Thomas shut the door to the room with a loud "thunk!" of the heavy door. "Nothing has changed from my original requirements for you as my wife."
"Thomas, just-" Lauren started, but he cut her off.
"I have work to do in my study. Go to bed." He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, and she almost shouted the next words.
"WE CAN BE MORE THAN THIS! We ARE more than this! I'm not a dog that you have to discipline- I'm your wife, Thomas! Don't-" his back was to her, but he could hear the hitch of her breath as she tried not to cry, "don't turn me into Arabella. We're not them."
He hesitated for a moment, his broad shoulders stiff, then her husband calmly descended to the next floor, and she heard the click of his office door.
It was an hour before Thomas climbed the stairs to his bedroom, tie loosened and even another liberal application of Jameson failing to restore his cool equanimity. Lauren was not as instructed asleep, she was curled up in the window seat, staring out to the darkened park across the street. She stiffened as he opened the door, but she didn't turn her head to look at him.
