Delecto - Games of Mastery (part 1) (3 page)

I was in need
of something superficial and lighthearted to improve my mood before
I left the car. I gave myself a quick once-over in the vanity
mirror.

There was
nothing more superficial than makeup. Except, perhaps, my
smile.

I opened my
purse, took out my coral lipstick and applied it carefully with a
brush. Then I blotted on a tissue and reapplied. My eyelashes had a
quick top up with mascara, and I pinched my cheeks to raise some
color. I sighed at my appearance. I looked more than presentable
with my make up disguise. I had plastered quite a lot on. I was
very sleek, polished and professional. Very attractive to the
unsuspecting. But appearances could be deceptive. I knew that
underneath the makeup I looked pale, washed out, tired, and
haunted. My usual dead look. I ran my hands over my head,
flattening down the flyaway hairs, and retied my hair band,
securing my long, curly black hair in a low ponytail. I always wore
my hair tied back, off my face, for work. It was tidy and looked
smarter, much more so than my normal wild tangle of curls that I
had difficulty taming and even more difficulty keeping in a style
when it was short. Hence the long length.

“
Right,”
I said to myself, taking a deep breath.

Picking up my
briefcase, and my purse, I left my car and made my way toward the
house. As I passed the Jaguar, I couldn’t help but stop and have a
quick and wistful peek inside.

It was a car
that was beautiful to admire and, I imagined, both a pleasure to
own and a dream to drive. Three things I was unable to appreciate
any further than from afar.

My shoes
crunched noisily across the graveled forecourt as I progressed
toward the house entrance.

Arriving on the
door step, I felt like Jack at the castle of the giant. Not only
was it a huge stone doorstep, there was also a ridiculously huge
front door. At least ten feet, of solid, studded, grayed oak,
arched to the heavens like a church portal. I pressed my finger to
the adjacent doorbell, which clanged loudly like the bells ringing
out for Sunday mass.

I waited for
its answer, sidestepping nervously.

The door swung
open a few seconds later, with a painful creak, the weight of the
door straining on its overburdened, complaining hinges, and I was
presented with a well-groomed, gray-haired man. He was in his mid
fifties or thereabouts, dressed formally in a white shirt, black
tie, matching pinstripe pants and a black waistcoat. My brief
observation told me this was not Mr. Shaw.

According to my
father, Sebastian Shaw was quite young. And whatever quite young
meant, I felt fifty-something didn’t qualify.

He nodded his
head at me briefly. “Please step inside, mademoiselle.” Then he
opened the door wider, and I mounted the step.

My heart
stirred to life in an instant. I stood inside a space that was
beautiful to behold. It had an ecclesiastical air with its tall,
arched windows. Signs of modernity mingled with classic
architecture in a pleasing and seamless flow. Creamy walls blended
with black and white accents. My eye wandered over the light
sconces on the walls and the heavy crystal and wrought iron
chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. I admired the pale
gray velvet-upholstered chaise and the pair of black onyx console
tables flanking it. Splashes of large green plants were dotted
artistically around the space. It was all very simple but at the
same time absolutely stunning. And clearly expensively done.

The butler
closed the door behind me and led me in. “This way, please. Mr.
Shaw is waiting for you in his study.”

I followed the
well-dressed Frenchman with a little apprehension at what, or
rather whom, awaited me in the next room.

My kitten heels
clattered with a series of little echoes across the black marble
floor, announcing my presence to the silence. We passed a large
glass table on which stood a black vase full of dozens of white
roses on the verge of opening. I slowed as I passed them, taking in
a deep breath, capturing the exotic scent which bathed the air
around them.

Oh, how I love
roses and these are simply perfection.

We approached
the wide and curving staircase, and he looked over his shoulder and
gave me a small smile of encouragement, then continued onward,
leading me up the grand stairway. My feet sank into the deep cream
pile of the carpet upon the treads, and I laid my hand on the cool,
age-darkened oak of the stair rail for support.

My stomach
rolled with nerves.

We finally
reached the top of the stairs, and I followed him to the end of a
low-lit corridor, where a door stood slightly ajar.

“
One
moment.” He bade me to wait by raising his finger in the air then
rapped on the door with his knuckles.

“
Yes?” A
male voice replied. He quickly went in and I stood outside,
clutching my case with a racing heart and a feeling of nausea
rising in my stomach. I was so annoyed with myself. I never felt
this nervous meeting clients in the office, so why should this be
any different? Even on a day I had to face a very unpleasant
situation in court, I managed myself better than this. Perhaps it
was my mood. The fact that it was today. My anxiety level was
clearly higher than normal.

A few seconds
later, I heard the Frenchman speak, informing my client of my
arrival.

“
Sebastian, your lawyer, Mademoiselle Preston, is
here.”

“
Thank
you, Bertrand. Show the mademoiselle in, tout de suite, thank you.”
The low and commanding voice which replied raised my anxiety level
further.

I took a deep
breath as Bertrand returned through the door and back to my
side.

“
Coffee
or tea, Mademoiselle?”

“
Oh, no
thank you.”

“
Some
water, perhaps?”

“
I’m
fine, nothing for me, thank you anyway.”

He nodded his
head and stood aside to allow me entry. As I moved inside the room,
he closed the door with a whisper and a soft click behind me.

I stood
awkwardly for a few seconds, adjusting to the dim light and not
wanting to progress forward from the safety of the door. I felt
like I was entering a dark dungeon and an evil presence lurked
within, waiting to terrorize me.

For God’s
sake! Pull yourself together, girl.

“
Come
closer, Miss Preston. We can hardly conduct our business at this
distance,” my client said quietly, in a tone that implied he was
smiling and amused by my reluctance to move.

Well that's
just brilliant. Now I’ve embarrassed myself.

Forcing a deep
breath, and determined to rectify my poor start to the meeting, I
made my way forth into the gloomy room. The heavy drapes were
drawn, and apart from the sharp glare of a laptop, there was only
one other source of light in the room. A black floor lamp stood in
the far corner but didn’t provide much in the way of illumination.
I noticed the walls of the room were plain and unadorned, and there
was little furniture other than a filing cabinet and a large
bookcase which spanned the entire length of one wall. Situated in
the middle of the windows were a desk and two black chairs. And
seated at this desk was my client.

Sebastian D.
Shaw, esquire.

His face was
obscured in deep shadow but I could see enough to ascertain his
good looks. His body was more clearly defined in the light pooling
around the desk. He was wearing a black shirt, open at the neck,
and a fitted black waistcoat. Sebastian Shaw was the kind of man
who belonged in a suit. But not just any suit. I imagined a
designer label at the higher end of the spectrum. His shirt sleeves
were neatly rolled up to mid forearm, giving a more casual and
comfortable appeal to his smart attire, and exposing what appeared
to be a full sleeve of tattoos on one arm and some on the other. He
was pale skinned, but of substantial build. The powerful upper arms
and shoulders didn’t escape my notice. Nor did the large hands that
rested upon the ebony desk. He seemed to be slumped a little in the
chair, his head angled downward. At his right-hand side was a
cut-crystal balloon glass containing a small measure of brandy. I
hoped he hadn’t drunk too much. That would be an unpromising start
to the meeting.

“
What a
pleasure it is to meet you,” he said, his voice rumbling through
me, its timbre low and penetrating. He stuck his hand out across
the desk.

“
And you
too, sir.” I was surprised that he made no effort to stand in
greeting. I found that to be cold and unnerving. I took his offered
hand, shaking it briefly and firmly. His hand was cool, soft and
pleasant to the touch.

“
I must
confess I was expecting Richard.”

“
My
father's busy. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

He laughed at
my reply and I tensed at the sound. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I
watched as he picked up the brandy and after swirling it around the
glass, slowly and expertly, he lifted it to his mouth and took a
small sip. The silence hung in the air between us.

“
On the
contrary. And please, take a seat,” he said, gesturing with his
hand. I perched my backside on the edge of the leather seat, like a
bird ready to take flight. Then I arranged my legs so they were
pressed tightly together and smoothed my black skirt down to my
knees. I placed my briefcase on my lap and unzipped it, removing
his folder of bound documents.

“
I have
gathered all the necessary papers for you. It’s a matter of reading
through, choosing your preferences, with my assistance and
guidance, and signing the testament. And of course, I’ll bear
witness to your legalities,” I explained.

“
Will it
be a long process?”

“
That is
dependent on your requirements. A few hours maybe. Is time an
issue?”

“
No, I
just wondered, purely out of interest. I have plenty of time on my
hands. Far too much time. At least these will be a few hours well
spent.”

“
I think
so too.” I picked up my pen and prepared to begin. But it was plain
that I could hardly see to read or write a word in the dull light.
“Could we have some more light on the subject, please?”

“
I'm
sorry, it becomes a habit, sitting in the dark. I’ve been suffering
from a migraine since yesterday evening. Would you mind raising the
light a little more for me, please? It’s by the door behind
you.”

I’m now more
sympathetic and appreciate his incapacity to move, suffering from
such a debilitating headache as a migraine.

“
Are you
sure you’re feeling up to this, Mr. Shaw? I can return at a more
convenient time, when you feel better.”

“
No, no,
no. You’re here now, so let’s get this done. I’m recovering fast,
and I'm sure I can manage, but thank you for your
concern.”

I rose and
approached the switch, considerately adjusting the brass dimmer
knob to a functional but not too glaring light, then returned to my
seat. As I did so, my eyes hurried immediately and keenly to study
the man who sat behind the desk in more detail.

My. God.

His
handsome features could grace the cover of
Vogue
magazine. He was smolderingly good looking
and so sensual he almost took my breath away. It was a look I
considered to be highly dangerous. Men who looked like that no
doubt were. My stomach fluttered mutinously.

His hair was
groomed and trimmed. It was like a work of art adorning his face
and head. The brown hair was clipped at the sides and slightly
longer at the top.

Just long
enough to grab a good handful. And very tempting it was too. My
fingers were poised to slip in there. I reprimanded myself for
thinking such thing

But what
captured my attention most of all were his bright green eyes. They
were completely gorgeous. Stunning emerald jewels. The fluttering
in my stomach escalated as I looked at them.

His mouth
twitched into a smile. He knew I was checking him out and it seemed
I was being checked out in return.

I wasn’t a
complete stranger to it. I knew I had some charms worth
investigating. But it had been so long, so very long since anyone
looked at me appreciatively, as he was. A blush began to rise in my
cheeks as his eyes traveled shamelessly over me. I was pleased I’d
opted for my suit jacket. My assets were very modestly and decently
covered; my cream silky blouse buttoned neck high. But even covered
so well, I felt naked under his gaze. I was sure his green eyes
were able to penetrate through my layers of clothing, to the bare
skin below.

His
blatant appraisal finished, he took another sip of his drink, and
his wandering eyes locked onto mine.
My brain clicked
into gear.

What the hell
is he doing drinking with a migraine? And what’s more, why now?
When we were about to work on his will?

“
Maybe
you should give the brandy a rest for a while?”

Oh God, no.
Please don’t tell me I have spoken the words I was thinking
aloud.

His strongly
defined eyebrows rose in surprise.

That was much
too personal an observation for me to make, and actually, none of
my damn business. If he wanted to wreck the composition of his will
and drink himself to death on top of his migraine, that was his
affair.

“
It’s one
small shot, which I’ve been sipping slowly for the last two hours.
I find it to be a great source of relief from my discomfort. It
relaxes me and right now I need all the help I can get. Besides, my
headache has almost passed,” he informed me in a calm and measured
tone of voice. Then he took another pointed sip at the
tawny-colored liquid, shifted a little lower in his seat, relaxing
just a little too much, and raised the sexy eyebrows once
again.