Chapter 43

James

“Morning, Kirstie.”

The concierge smiles from her desk as we enter and cross the lobby. “Good morning, Mr Alexanders.
Morning Charlotte.” Then she riffles through a stack on her in-tray. “Oh, Charlotte. Some mail for you. I
had to sign for this one.” She offers a small padded envelope, then, clearing her throat, “Um, James…”

“I’ve not forgotten my promise, Kirstie. I’m seeing Ryan later this week on-site. I’ll make a point of
allowing extra time for a chat with him.”

“Thank you.” She bobs her head, the pearl on her velvet choker bobbing with her.

Charlotte looks curiously but briefly, her attention taken by the packet. She receives very little mail.

And there’s only so many people who might send her a package…

My antennae twitching, “Why don’t we go up to my office,” I say. “Have a coffee together before we
start the working day. You can open it there…”

… In privacy…

She nods, going into silent running. As we ride the elevator, she crosses her arms, then uncrosses
them, then recrosses them, all the while clutching the packet.

As the doors swish open, Francis looks up from her desk. “Coffee for two, please, Francis.” And as I
wave Charlotte into my office I turn back to the receptionist and hold an invisible telephone receiver to
my ear, then draw a finger across my neck in a cut-your-own-throat gesture, mouthing at her silently:
“Michael.”



She nods understanding and heads for her phone.

Inside the office I prise the envelope from Charlotte’s fingers, placing to one side. Then taking her by
the shoulders, I turn her to face me. “I’m tempted to take it from you, open it for you and only tell you
what is inside after I’ve checked it for myself. But I don’t think that would be right. However…” I lay a
fingertip on her lips… “I will ask that, whatever is in there, you remember our conversation of a few
days ago. Alright?”

She’s blinking too quickly. Her movements are jerky, but, “Yes, Master.”

“Good.” I kiss her on the mouth, then offer her the envelope again. She starts to open it but pauses as
we are interrupted by Francis tapping at the door, bringing in the coffee. Her eyes flick to the envelope
and flick away again just as quickly.

As the door closes behind her, Charlotte tugs at the flap, trying to peel it open, fighting heavy-weight
gum which refuses to yield. Parking a hip on the edge of my desk, I pass her a letter opener.

This time the envelope rips, plastic bubbles bursting with small spiked pops.

She peers in, swallows, then turns it over onto my desk. A small plastic zip-bag slides out, along with a
sheet of paper.

Inside the zip bag; a necklace: a fine chain bearing a butterfly in silver filigree. She slides it out, holding
it up to the light where it spins, glimmering. It’s only perhaps an inch wide, but it’s beautifully made and,
protected by the plastic, the metal shines brightly.

But I wait.

The paper is simply folded in two; a short, typed message:

I’m sorry. Please come to see me. L.K.



“He wouldn’t be able to write it himself, of course,” she comments, “if he had to get someone else to
send it.”

“No, he wouldn’t. What do you want to do?”

Fingers trembling, she fumbles with the clasp of the necklace. “Would you help me.”

Sweeping her hair to one side, I fasten the chain behind her neck, the butterfly sitting beside the small
ammonite she’s already wearing…

… and with a cursory tap, the door opens; Michael. His head swivels between Charlotte’s face, the
letter in her hand and my face, then, as I eye-point him down, to the butterfly resting below the hollow
of her collarbone.

His eyes widen as her registers what he is seeing and silently I pass him the note. He reads it, then
warily, “Do you want to see him?”

She touches the butterfly, sucks in her lips. “Yes.”

*****

I have a promise to keep. And I’m not looking forward to it.

I’m fond of Kirstie, and not simply because of how we met, in a three-way scene with Michael at the
club years ago. She’s a lovely girl and deserves the best in life. And as a sub, she deserves the best
from her Dom.

An inept Dom, however well-meaning, is a formula for trouble.

From my spot across the conference table, I fold away plans and blueprints provided by Ryan. “That’s
all fine. I’m very happy with the schematics from the technical side. So, if you can get me the quotes to



me by the end of the week…”

“Got them here.” He chuckles at my expression then proffers a folder. “I just wanted to be sure you
were satisfied before I gave them to you.”

Efficient as ever…

“Ah…” I sit down again. “Just give me two minutes to read through…”

He sits too, waiting calmly as I scan the documents.

Well within budget…

Flicking the file closed, I tuck it into my briefcase with the rest. “No problems there. I’ll get the i’s dotted
and the t’s crossed, but you’ve got the contract.” I offer my hand. “Congratulations.”

He stands, his smile wide. “That’s great, James. Thanks so much for giving me this opportunity…”

“As I said, there’s plenty of work to go around. Get this right and there’s a lot more coming.”

“Oh, I will. I will.” He slips a diary from his top pocket, flips it open, pen hovering. “So, same time next
week? Or should I make an appointment through Francis?”

Here goes…

“Actually Ryan, there’s something else I would like to talk about with you.”

His forehead creases. “Of course, um…”

“But not here. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Would you care to join me for lunch?”

He inclines his head. “Certainly. What’s this about?”



“As I say, not here.”

He scratches an eyebrow then, “Mind if I suggest the eatery? Do you like Italian?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. Luigi’s then.”

“Ah, one of my favourites too.”

“Really? The chef there is a relative of mine.”

*****


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