THE STRICT BRITISH BARRISTER: ACT ONE (12 page)

“Regardless, you did exactly the right thing,” he assured her, and wanting to take her mind off the incident, he added, “now, where is my gift?”

“Your gift? Oh, you mean these,” she grinned, reaching her balled fist under the table.

“Across the table, if you please,” he corrected her.

She was about to question him but held her tongue, and eyes sparkling, she moved her hand over the pink tablecloth. Closing his fingers over hers he took them from her, then stuffed them into his pocket.

“They’re a gift, Brittany, because they’re mine now. I shall treasure them, and they will always remind me of this very special moment. When you see them missing from your drawer, you’ll be reminded too.”

Brittany felt a rush of emotion, and swallowed, gulping back the unexpected heat in her throat.

“Duncan,” she whispered, “this is…you are…”

“I believe the waiter is coming,” he said softly,
and yes, this is, and we are, and bloody hell, what have I gotten us into.

A
s they placed their orders, Duncan let his eyes wander to see if the man had left, but to his dismay he noticed he’d returned to the bar and was nursing a drink, holding himself in his previous, nonchalant pose. Duncan had more hijinks in store for Brittany during their meal, but he couldn’t pursue them under the scrutiny of the stranger’s fixated gaze.

I know exactly what you’re doing, but I know how to get rid of you, at least for tonight.

“He’s still at the bar, isn’t he?” Brittany asked quietly. “I can feel his eyes on me.”

“Yes, he’s still there,” Duncan replied, “but he won’t be for long.”

“Why, what are you going to do?” she frowned.

“Just leave this to me,” he assured her, “first, put your scarf back on and let it hang over those gorgeous breasts of yours.”

“Duncan,” she giggled, “tell me what’s going on.”

“Second time tonight you’ve questioned me,” he teased. “I can see a slipper in your future. Just put the scarf on please.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she giggled, and lifting her scarf from the chair next to her, she placed it around her neck and draped it over her nipples.

“Perfect, okay, now follow my lead,” he said softy.

“Well, duh,” she remarked, rolling her eyes.

He shot her a look, and couldn’t help but smile, then turning his head he caught the eye of the wine steward standing at attention near the bar.

Patric Dupont, a French born Sommelier, knew how to spot a well-traveled, well-bred, and accomplished man, and the gentleman who had just caught his eye was exactly that. Patric appreciated such guests, and moved quickly across the room, delighted to attend him.

“Monsieur wishes to order wine with his meal?” he asked with a slight bow.

Duncan knew the wine he was going to order, but endearing himself to the sophisticated and educated Sommelier was a necessary part of his scheme to have the blond stranger removed from the restaurant.

“Yes, we’re having the pheasant, and I’d like your recommendations, though I am partial to the M. Cosentino 2001 M. Coz Meritage from Napa Valley.”

As he suspected he would, Patric’s eyes widened, and he broke into a warm smile.

“Ah, yes, Monsieur knows his wine. This is an excellent choice.”

“But I see you also have the Corton-Charlemagne 2009 Louis Latour. With pheasant, it is always a bit…” he remarked, moving his hand in a seesaw motion.

“Oui, this is so,” Patric nodded, now even more impressed with his customer.

Brittany, fascinated by their exchange and wondering what it had to do with Duncan’s scheme, couldn’t help but notice he kept glancing towards the blond man still standing at the bar.

“Perhaps we should ask your beautiful companion,” Patric suggested with a slight nod of his head. “Does she have a preference?”

Patric was smiling down at her, and Brittany, though not a great wine lover, had grown up in a house with parents who entertained on a regular basis, and was more than familiar with the basics of fine wine and gourmet food.

“This particular pheasant dish is served with a rich plum sauce, so I think the Meritage would probably please the palate more, but I’d be happy with either. White burgundy’s are always an interesting alternative.”

Though Duncan’s scheme to rid themselves of the stranger at the bar was forefront in his mind, Brittany’s succinct and erudite statement took him completely by surprise, especially her knowledge that the Louie Latour was a white burgundy.

“Ah, the beautiful woman is also, how do you say it, most civilized,” Patric remarked.

“She certainly is,” Duncan grinned. “So, the Meritage, then?” he asked pointedly.

“I think so,” she nodded, “if that meets with your approval.”

“It does,” Duncan nodded.

“Oui, excellent,” Patric nodded.

As Brittany had noticed, during their exchange Duncan had blatantly darted his eyes across the room towards the bar several times, and as Patric took the wine list from his hand, Duncan frowned and shook his head.

“Is there something wrong, Monsieur?” Patric asked, wanting to be sure nothing was bothering his dignified customer.

“No, nothing, not really, I don’t want to make a fuss,” Duncan said quietly.

“Monsieur, we here at The Mermaid, pride ourselves in making sure our guests are comfortable and satisfied. If there something not to your liking, please, allow me to make it right.”

“I can assure you it is not this lovely restaurant, or the service. May I ask, what is your name?”

“Patric, Patric Dupont, and please, how may I be of assistance?”

“Duncan, Duncan Rhys-Davies,” Duncan said formally, “and this is Brittany Carter. Forgive me, Brittany,” Duncan continued, “but perhaps Patric is right.”

“Yes,” Brittany sighed, playing along, though having no idea what Duncan had in mind, “perhaps he is, but as you said, we don’t want to make a fuss.”

Duncan smiled; her response had been perfect, and Patric, now completely intrigued, leaned closer in.

“Monsieur, please, tell me, how can I be of help.”

“It’s just, that fellow at the bar, the blond man, the one who looks like a surfer,” Duncan said discreetly, knowing the description would give Patric the image of a man in thongs, loud trunks and a disheveled appearance, “he’s been staring at Brittany, and I believe he’s making her uncomfortable, am I right Brittany?”

“Yes, Duncan, a bit,” Brittany replied, “I mean, every time I risk a glance he’s looking at me,”
and now I know why you wanted the scarf over my nipples. Good call, Duncan. We don’t want the sommelier to think I’d given that man an excuse to stare.

“He’s been there for some time, and I don’t know if he’s waiting for someone, or just lounging at the bar…” Duncan commented, allowing his voice to trail off.

“This will not do,” Patric frowned. “Please, do not worry, I will take care of this matter. I see he is not wearing a tie, and ties are required here. I’m surprised the concierge even allowed him entry. Please do not concern yourself further, Mr. Rhys-Davies, I will handle this,” and with a pronounced strut to his step, Patric Dupont marched across the room to the middle-aged, portly maitre de who had been captivated by Brittany’s nipples just a short time before.

“Wow,” Brittany said, suppressing a giggle, “that was masterful.”

“Thank you,” he smiled. “I have something in mind for you over our dinner, and it certainly couldn’t happen with that joker staring at you all night.”

“Something mind? Like what?” she pressed.

“You’re going to have an orgasm before we leave here tonight,” he said quietly, locking her eyes.

Brittany raised her eyebrows, staring back at him in astonishment.

“Very good,” Duncan remarked, “that’s the first time you haven’t shot back a question or a comment.”

“That’s only because I couldn’t think of anything to say,” she quipped.

“You are wearing the thigh-highs?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, then lifting her gaze she let out a small gasp. “Look over there.”

She had nodded her head in the direction of the door, and turning his head Duncan saw two large men, both dressed as waiters, escorting the blond man from the restaurant.

“They did that really well,” Duncan remarked. “You would never have known he was being kicked out of here.”

“I certainly wouldn’t argue with those guys,” she remarked.

“I can tell you fighting is not his style,” Duncan grimaced, “and now that he’s out of the way, we can begin. You will reach under the table, and as you rub yourself you will share with me a fantasy, and I want one of your own, not something from my book.”

Brittany felt her face blush red, but after surreptitiously checking her surroundings, she dropped her hand under the tablecloth and between her legs.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be flogged,” she breathed.

“What do you think it would be like?” he pressed.

“I don’t know. I’ve looked at pictures and there are so many different kinds of floggers, but the one that keeps jumping out at me is always black, and it looks heavy.”

“Uh-huh, the tongues are wide?”

“Yes, the tongues are wide,” she nodded, her finger moving quickly across her clit as she spoke.

“And how would you be dressed,” he asked, leaning closer.

“I’d be in a black garter belt and…wait…Patric is headed over here,” she said quickly, spying the wine steward from the corner of her eye.

“Don’t stop what you’re doing,” Duncan instructed, leaning back, “unless one of us says the word, blackberry, then you can take a short break.”

She wanted to protest, to say she couldn’t possibly do such a thing, but she knew better.

“Your unwanted admirer has left,” Patric announced as he began the ritual of uncorking the wine and pouring it into a decanter.

“That was so kind of you,” Duncan said appreciatively, “wasn’t it Brittany?”

With her fingers moving against her sex, she did her best to smile convincingly.

“Yes, very,” she managed, hoping she’d sounded sincere.

“Sir,” Patric said formally as he poured the wine in the large, crystal glass and handed it to him for tasting, “please.”

Duncan raised the glass, swirled the deep red liquid, and inhaled.

“Do you smell the intense blackberry?” Patric asked.

Discreetly sighing, Brittany dropped her hand away from her nether regions and lifted back to the table.

“I do, the fragrance is overwhelmingly clear,” Duncan replied, then taking a sip he nodded his head. “Marvelous, absolutely marvelous.”

“Thank you, Sir, and for Madame,” he continued, splashing the wine into Brittany’s glass.

“Thank you,” she smiled, “I’m very happy we ordered this particular wine.”

Duncan grinned back at her, while Patric did a sharp, quick bow and placed the decanter in the center of table.

“Bon appetit, and if I can be of further service, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“Patric, thank you for everything,” Duncan said.

“Yes, everything,” Brittany echoed, and picking up her glass she took a sip, then rolled her eyes.

“Ooh, this is delicious, it’s like velvet,” she remarked.

“How did you know about the white burgundy?” Duncan asked. “You never cease to surprise me.”

“My father is a wine lover, he has quite a collection,” she replied.

“And here you were pretending to be a simple southern girl from a small town,” he grinned.

“I am a simple southern girl from a small town, but my father was very successful at a relatively young age, and wanted to live somewhere quiet. We moved to the small town in question when I was only about three. He travels quite a bit, but mostly runs the business from home.”

“So that’s where you get your business savvy,” Duncan said knowingly.

“I guess so,” she shrugged.

“Hand back between your legs, please,” he said lightly, “and remember what I said. If we have to stay here until the place closes, we’re not leaving until I see you climax.”

“Ooh, Sir,” she sighed, feeling the now familiar wave of submission sweep through her. “Just saying that makes me want to come.”

“Excellent, so keep at it, and tell me every time you’re close. I shall decide when the moment will be.”

So it began. Their meal was served, and when her face became flushed and she told him she was nearing her moment, he’d instruct her stop and allow her to eat. By the time they had finished their main course, her eyes were sparkling and silently pleading.

“Would you care for dessert?” the waiter asked, handing them the menus.

“Yes, please,” Duncan replied, without perusing the list of choices. “We’d like Baked Alaska.”

As the waiter left, Duncan reached across the table and took hold of her free hand, the other still busy between her legs.

“When he comes back, and flambes the meringue, that’s when you’ll come for me, and you’ll pretend your being wowed by the flames. That will be the excuse for any noise or heavy breathing.”

“I’m not sure I can pull it off,” she breathed.

“You can, and you will,” he decreed.

And she did.

As the waiter brought the flame to the dessert, all eyes, except for Duncan’s, were on the excitement of the fire. Brittany exclaimed her awe, but no-one was paying her any attention, and as the bluish glow around the meringue began to subside, so did her waves of orgasmic pleasure.

None the wiser the waiter plated their slices, but Brittany was too overcome to do anything but stare down at it, as the post-climax fatigue washed over her.

“You were fabulous, you are fabulous,” Duncan whispered. “I’m immensely proud of you.”

“You are? I’m so glad, I wish I curl up in your lap right now.”

“Soon,” he promised. “Try the dessert, you’ll love it.”

Her eyes glittering, her face flushed, she slowly picked up her fork and took a bite.

“This is incredible,” she declared, “this was the tastiest meal I’ve ever had.”

“The most satisfying too, I’m sure,” he added.

“Definitely,” she nodded. “Thank you, Duncan, this is truly one of the best nights of my life, and I’ll never forget it.”