Free The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) by Deena Ward Page B

consisted of a flouncy skirt that stopped mid-calf, an off-the-shoulder
top barely held on with elastic and a few ties, and a pair of simple white
slippers. If Paulina had stuck a red bandana on my head and a colorful shawl
over my hips, I would have been a dead ringer for a gypsy.
    I wondered what Paulina had convinced Xavier and Gibson to
wear. I doubted it would be matching loincloths.
    I thanked Toy and strode beside him, trying to keep up with
his brisk pace. “So, Toy, does your mistress have anything special planned for
me that I should know about?”
    He grinned. “I’m not free to say.”
    “Okay. If you can’t say anything, can you nod if I ask a
direct question? Say, umm, is Paulina going to do something that will embarrass
me?”
    Toy shrugged.
    I shot him a hard look. “Lilly said Paulina’s counting on me
being there, so that means something’s up.”
    “You’re manning the art booth, right?” he asked.
    I knew that Lilly wasn’t referring to the art booth. Paulina
had told me days ago that she wanted me to set up a spot where I could make
quick sketches of the guests enjoying themselves. She said it would add an
other-age flair, though I questioned the authenticity of a time period where
gypsies sat around on rich men’s lawns drawing picnic guests.
    “That’s not it,” I told Toy. “It’s something else. What’s
up? I know you know. Spill it.”
    He shook his head.
    I gave up, since I was certain he never would. The man was
whipped. Well, duh. He literally was whipped.
    There were already a number of people milling around the
south lawn when Toy and I rounded the corner of the big house. I thought it
looked kind of like a fairground, with the huge white canopies and the brightly
colored blankets spread underneath, dotted all around with patterned cushions
and pillows.
    Long tables stretched for yards and yards, covered with
chafing dishes, platters, drinks and dinnerware. The party was being catered,
so a number of waiters roamed the grounds, carrying cocktails and hors
d’oeuvres. I knew some of the concoctions were Xavier’s, since I had spent
several hours assisting him in the kitchen on Saturday.
    There were several small, square stages that Paulina had
specially built for the day, and one was currently occupied by a string quartet
which added a lovely ambiance to the scene. Another celebration of a past age,
I presumed.
    Toy led me to my drawing station, off to one side, not far
from the badminton grounds. I had refused to set up next to the croquet area,
having seen enough movies to have a healthy fear of ricocheting croquet balls.
Besides, in my current spot, I wasn’t far from the gelato stand.
    Toy trotted off to rejoin his mistress while I unloaded my
supplies. I propped my sketchbooks on my easel, arranged pencils, charcoal and
pastels on a small table. The sun was fierce, and I was grateful for the
umbrella I would be working under.
    A waiter wandered by, and I snagged a fruity cocktail from
his tray. I sipped and thought about my drawing and hoped the guests didn’t
judge them too harshly. I had only been at it since I arrived at the estate.
    I was rusty when I first started drawing, not having
sketched in more than ten years. Soon, though, I felt it coming back to me, and
I spent many a relaxed hour tucked away in some nook of the estate, sketching
the scenery, and the people too.
    This rediscovery of art was one more thing I had to thank
Gibson for. He remembered I had mentioned enjoying drawing once, and the day
after I arrived at the estate, a delivery truck pulled up outside my cottage
and a couple of men unloaded what must have been half the inventory of a small
art supply store into the cottage’s workroom.
    I spent several hours sorting through it all. Paints,
canvases, brushes, markers, chemicals, washes, palettes, different kinds of
paper, on and on, it was like an artist’s dream. And I had no idea how to use a
lot of it. I picked out what I could use and stored