Free Knight's Mistress by C. C. Gibbs Page B

of getting in the middle of whatever game Dominic was playing.
    As the door closed on Max and the servants, Dominic said, ‘I could change, Miss Hart. You never know. Anything’s possible. And thank you for wearing the suit for the meeting.’ Greta’s teal-blue suit, simply cut, was a masterpiece of tailoring. ‘Your clothes reflect on me.’
    ‘Surely, you’re not an unknown here.’
    ‘But you are.’
    ‘
My
problem is that these clothes of yours reflect on
me
,’ she coolly pointed out. ‘So whatever you want me to be, I prefer being myself.’
    ‘You don’t know what I want.’
    ‘I can guess. Particularly after the show in Amsterdam. And this.’ She flipped open the top of her laptop, tapped the keyboard a few times, looked up. ‘There. See for yourself.’
    As he rose from his chair and walked over, a video began playing. It featured a nude Dominic Knight witha braided riding crop in his hand – a long-haired, younger, super-lean Dominic Knight with sleek, corded muscles and the loose-limbed grace of a large jungle cat. Even in the unprofessional video one could see the hint of menace in the spring-coiled twitch of his hand holding the crop. Four women were either tied or handcuffed to various padded sex apparatus, some dressed in kinky lingerie, others masked, one with her mouth muzzled with a rubber ball gag. He leisurely made the rounds with his riding crop. This was not a man overcome by passion. The room was large, black velvet on the walls, mirrors everywhere, crystal chandeliers lighting the scene. It was an elegantly appointed establishment. And none of the women looked unhappy. Apparently the end result was worth it, although there were no full frontal views of Dominic. There was one brief glimpse of his engorged penis that she’d stopped on the video more times than she should have, and it was obvious that the blonde he was fucking was genuinely enjoying herself – that look on her face wasn’t staged.
    Dominic watched the video for a few seconds, then leaned over and clicked it off. ‘That must be one I didn’t shut down. Just joking. Really, it’s a joke. I’ve never seen that before.’ He flicked a finger at the laptop. ‘Are there more?’
    ‘It’s the only one I found.’
    ‘That’s a relief. Do you want an explanation?’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘Good, because I don’t want to give one. As for you thinking I want you to be something other than you are, you’re wrong.’ He drew in a small breath. ‘If you must know, I find you refreshing.’
    ‘I can see why, after those pictures.’ She shut down her laptop.
    ‘I could say that was a long time ago. I could say someone photoshopped that video.’
    ‘You don’t have to say anything. I’ll be going home soon.’
    ‘It might be seven more days,’ he said.
    ‘I can count.’ Time enough to argue about her
walking
once the meeting was over.
    He smiled. ‘I know you can.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come, Miss Hart, let’s go see those bankers and you can show them how well you count.’
    The bank building was thirty storeys high, the director’s office on the top floor a visual exercise in opulence. On display was a collection of gold Shakyamuni buddhas in various poses and sizes, as well as lighted shelves with hundreds of delicate, antique Chinese porcelains in soft, pastel shades.
    As they entered the room, two middle-aged men of consequence came to greet them. Dominic, his attorney and Kate exchanged bows and the requisite courtesies along with several minutes of polite conversation before they were seated in cream leather chairs arranged around a large malachite coffee table.
    Tea was served by a beautiful young woman in a black couture dress and Kate understood why her suit mattered. The woman left. More polite conversation ensued, as per Asian protocol.
    Finally, Dominic’s attorney, Mr Lee, addressed the issue at hand, his tone meticulously respectful. The two bankers presented their arguments. Then,