Bow to Your Partner

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 Raven McAllan

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-571-6

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Avril Ashton

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Paul and Doris for chocolate, virtual chocolate, hugs and nags. To UCW for starting it all, and to all at Evernight and Sour Cherry for their hard work. To Avril for not throwing darts at me when she saw it, and to everyone who reads my work. Thank you, all.

  BOW TO YOUR PARTNER

  Dance Studio, 3

  Raven McAllan

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter One

  Mason dragged a brush through her unruly hair, and winced at each tangle. No two ways about it, an hour to shower away the grime and aches, and make herself half presentable was nowhere near long enough. She glared at the clock and wondered, for goodness knows how often, if she'd done the right thing. The pesky habitual thought irritated the hell out of her. However, arguing with her cousin was equally as counter-productive. It wasn't worth the time and effort it wasted because Marco always got his own way. Just like the water torture, drip-nag, nag-drip until you gave in to save your sanity.

  So Mason had grumbled her way into stockings and suspenders, added a deep red thong and matching bustier, and painted her nails. If she had to go out, then the war paint would be fixed firmly in place. A mask was essential. With armor on, she'd hopefully be able to play the part of confident, successful, businesswoman even if inside she did feel a fraud. Successful? In some ways, yes. Confident? Not now, not since— She shut that thought down with a mental snap. No more. Not now. No time.

  Mason checked her black hair was tied back neatly, and no smudges of paint still decorated her cheeks. Under her fingernails were a different matter, but she hoped the varnish hid them. Trust her to have used Mediterranean Blue gloss all day. Satisfied she'd scrubbed the signs of her work, and a layer of skin away, she put on her jacket over the severe grey dress she'd chosen to wear. With a grimace at her hands which needed a manicure, she stood in front of the mirror, and twisted around to see her profile. She really had to do something with her hair. And the rest of you, a tiny voice niggled at her.

  True she'd lost weight over the past year, but she still retained her hour glass figure. If she did put on any weight, her Italian genes would no doubt change hour glass into voluptuous. Mason had no wish for that, not now. She liked her less ample, more manageable, physique. The bustier might not be necessary for her figure, but it didn't half help her confidence, though she didn’t know why. Ever since her stick-insect-shaped body developed curves, Mason played them down. No cleavage enhancing bras in her wardrobe, just silk and satin sexy, unpadded ones.

  Maybe I really do see it as armor? She sniggered. I bet a psychiatrist would have a field day with that admission. “Why do you feel the need to be protected? Why armor? Why not adornment?” Argh. Shut up and get on with it.

  Sometimes wished Marco to perdition. Older than Mason by a month, her cousin made it his purpose in life to look after her. It didn't matter how often Mason said she was fine, happy, and didn't need his help, Marco ignored her. Which explained why, on this Thursday night, instead of a curry on a tray with her eReader, she was off to have dinner with an unknown man in her cousin's restaurant.

  A client, he's a client. Though why we have to discuss paint selections over dinner, I’ll never know.

  The toot of a horn warned her the taxi she'd ordered waited outside. Mason slipped her feet into killer heels—she did love a good pair of fuck me, if you dare shoes, and freely admitted to being a mass of contradictions. With a last look around, she picked up her shoulder bag, made sure she had keys, money, rape alarm, and spray deodorant, and went outside. She checked she'd locked the door then walked down the path to the road. Late spring in this part of Scotland brought soft weather. Soft gentle sunshine, soft breezes, and all too often, soft rain. At least it wasn’t raining now, and Mason didn't have the added annoyance of frizzy hair. She might have her dad's hair color, but it frizzed like her mum's did. One hint of damp and they both looked like they'd been wired to the mains. Thank goodness for straighteners.

  The taxi firm was one she used a lot, and the driver a typical dour Scot. Thankful for no inane chatter, Mason gave him the address of the restaurant and sat back, letting the football commentary from the radio wash over her. A few shouts and “you effin ref” told her the driver wasn't a fan of the team who seemingly scored. He lapsed into silence, only to mutter again as the traffic snarled up around the one-way system in the center of the city.

  The cab lurched to a halt and Mason shot forward, almost onto her knees. The last thing she needed was laddered stockings, and she had no intention of dropping to her knees for anyone. Those days were long gone. With a groan, Mason forced herself to stop nibbling her nails. Chipped polish wasn't a good look. Seriously, all she wanted was a quiet life. She'd had the excitement, the love, and the partnership with Michael. As she'd said to Marco to no avail, she'd been there, done that and got the T-shirt. It’d been so perfect, it couldn't be equaled, and she harbored no wish to try.

  Marco disagreed.

  "You're thirty going on fifty, cara, and I'm not having it. Zia and Zio would be horrified to see what you're like. Let alone Michael. Do you think he'd want to see you like this?"

  He had a point.

  Mason accepted Michael might be horrified, but it was all too much effort. If she were honest, she was too darned scared to open herself up again. When it all went pear-shaped, it hurt.

  Worn down by Marco's nagging, and knowing he spoke out of love, in the end Mason did as her cousin asked. Now she found herself en route to meet a client who wanted something painted. As to what and where, Marco had been somewhat unusually reticent.

  "He does know I'm a painter and decorator now, doesn't he?" Mason asked Marco as they drank cappuccinos in the sunshine of her garden one morning. They'd grabbed an hour together before he went off to the restaurant, and she spent a rare day off in her garden. Weeds would soon overwhelm her seedlings if she didn’t attack them. "You know, Marco. Walls, windows and doors. Nothing else."

  "He knows exactly what you are," Marco said. He'd refused to be drawn on the subject, and just said the client would discuss it with her. Somehow his choice of words didn't reassure her, but Marco could be tighter than a clam when he chose to be.

  Therefore in—she checked her watch—ten minutes she was due to meet a Callan Mackie to discuss a commission.

  Mason wished it had been during the day, and she wore in her painting get-up. A what-you-see-is-what-you-get scenario. This dressed up, made up woman was a strictly a once only, and then back to the casuals occasion. Hell, she'd had to delve to the back of the wardrobe for her bustier and just about brush the cobwebs of it. She wasn't going to think about the last time she'd worn it. It had been perfect, and probably never to be replicated. Mason pushed the memories of that hot and exciting evening away. How the color of her ass matched her bustier and both set of lips, and she'd spent the following day sitting gingerly. It wasn't long afterwards her world caved in, the corset consigned to the darkness of the back of the wardrobe, and she'd eschewed her fuck-me clothes.

  She ign
ored the fact her shoes were at the front. Mason freely admitted to being a shoe whore. She’d been known to wear heels to work with her painting overalls before shucking them for steel toecaps. Hot, sexy shoes were a necessity.

  "Marco's. That's eleven twenty, hen."

  She bit her lip at the Glaswegian nickname, refraining from saying cluck cluck as she usually did when someone referred to her that way. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts Mason hadn't realized they'd driven across town, and the taxi had pulled up outside her cousin's very up-market restaurant. She took out a twenty pound note and handed it to the driver. He passed a fiver back. She waited, until with a few muttered swear words he gave her the rest of the change.

  She leaned over to the open the door, and then pushed her hand up to the hole in the grill. "Here's your tip." She let the coins clang into the metallic dish. "But if you ever pull that trick on me again, mate, the only tip you'll get is how to drive to the infirmary with your balls in a vise." She didn't wait to see if he replied, but got out and slammed the door. He barely missed her feet as he drove away.

  "Asshat. Oh, not you," she told the startled doorman as he held the door open for her. "Pissy, up themselves, taxi drivers who think they can con poor defenseless women out of their change."

  "Ah, right, shall I show him he's no ta mess with you?" The doorman stared after the fast disappearing taxi, as if he could drag him back by thought alone. Mason shook her head.

  "Nah, he'll get his just rewards. His footie team's loosing to their worst enemy." She giggled. "Three nil down at half time. And if I get him again he can sing falsetto for a tip."

  "Ah hon, no one in their right mind would ever think they could do that to you. Poor and defenseless? Nah, not in a million years. Did he think you'd come up the Clyde on a tourist boat then?" Marco approached quietly as she chuntered on. He hugged then stood back, eyeing her up and down. "Hiya, you look good. Are you all set?" He twitched her collar and smoothed the lapels.

  Mason slapped his hand away and returned the embrace. "Leave that, it's okay." Even though he insisted on interfering in her life—for her own good—Marco was more than a cousin, he was her friend.

  "All set?”

  “As I'll ever be," she said. "Is the guy here?"

  "His name, as you well know, is Callan Mackie. Don’t be disrespectful of a D-darned prospective client. Or a friend of mine for that matter."

  Why was she suspicious? That wasn't what Marco had been going to say. She knew her cousin. He was up to something. "So if he's a friend, how come I don't know of him?" She smelled fish.

  Marco kissed her nose. and said something under his breath in very colloquial Italian. She kicked him and he winced.

  "Not in Louboutins, cara. They pack a mean kick." He rubbed his shin in a very over the top manner. Mason rolled her eyes.

  "Good, and don’t forget, caro, I understand every word you say, even if I chose not to use it." After Michael, she refused to listen to anything in her father's tongue. It was way too painful. "I am so not awkward, and do not say 'women' in that tone of voice, in any language. Just remember, my Louboutins can stand the strain of striking your poor puny legs, so watch it."

  Marco grinned. "Yes, ma'am. Okay. Come meet your client, he's waiting at the table. I told him you're always very prompt."

  As if on cue, the chimes of the nearby clock on St Mungo's church at the Tron struck the hour. Mason stuck her tongue out, and Marco's eyes narrowed for a second. Whatever he'd been inclined to say, he changed his mind.

  What on earth made me act like a flaming idiot school kid? Marco in this mood makes me revert, sod him.

  "Always on time." He nodded in a satisfied way, and tucked her arm into his, as he drew her toward the cloakroom.

  Mason didn't know if he meant her or the clock, and a strange itch between her shoulder blades made her not inclined to find out.

  "Take your jacket, love?" Marco held his hand out to help her.

  She shook her head. Why did she feel she needed its protection? Something didn't add up, although she had no idea what. "I'll keep it handy, thank you. I might need it." For a quick getaway? What on earth made her think that?

  With a wry grin at her fanciful notions—if this was how a business dinner affected her, she really did need to get out more often—Mason followed Marco across the busy restaurant to where the private rooms were. When she saw where he headed, her skin prickled and a battalion of ants started to jig over her. How could he? She stopped dead, pulled her arm out of his, and shook her head as Marco went to open one of the doors.

  "Oh no, not in a million years, Marco. So you better do something fast and get this sorted. I do not go in there ever. Never, ever. You know that."

  "He asked for it, love. Come on it's only a room." Marco touched her arm, and smiled even though Mason noted it didn't reach his eyes. She shook him off.

  Bastard, I bet he's hoping I won't make a scene. You'd think he knew me better than that. It might only be a room to him, but it's where Michael and I went on our last evening out. Too many memories.

  "And I'm about to recreate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on the walls of Kelvinhall Clockwork Orange Station," she said, referring to the Glasgow underground rail system. "Not a chance. Either you find a table out here for your friend and me, or he can go whistle." She turned her back on the door.

  A long melodic flute of notes sounded behind her.

  Chapter Two

  Well, that stopped her mid moan and in her tracks. Callan Mackie grinned as the feisty, black-haired virago spun round on her heels so fast, she nearly left her body behind. As it was, the big amber drops in her ears flipped out at right angles, and wisps of hair escaped the neat bun thing she'd secured them in. If she were his, he'd have great pleasure in taking the pins out, and running his fingers through the tresses. He'd bet his football season ticket that once loose, the strands would spill down her back and over her breasts to stop just above her clit and ass. The thought of seeing her like that, with nothing on but those heels—and maybe the earrings, which grazed the top of her shoulders—both scared and excited him. Damn his libido to choose now to come roaring back to life. He watched warily as she flexed her fingers. For a small woman, he reckoned she'd pack a punch and a half.

  "What the— Is this guy for real?" she asked Marco and waved in Callan's direction. "You've got to be kidding me. It's not April Fools Day, and it's not trick or treat, what the hell are you playing at?" She looked from one to the other, and then settled her gaze on Callan.

  Her fingernails were a deep red, which matched her lips and those heels perfectly. Callan expected the earrings to clash, but somehow they didn't. The facets caught the light and sparkled as she moved her head. Even that gentle movement made them swing against her cheeks, and he was amazed she didn't do herself or anyone else an injury with them. Maybe they were her secret weapon? He smothered a grin. I’d never live that one down. Marked by an earring.

  He raised one eyebrow, and she blushed. The redness moved up from her neck, and over her cheeks and forehead. Where else might be a nice rosy shade? It was too much to hope to help the color into her skin by a nice simple spanking, or a little light flogging. The thought made his mouth water. He chuckled and her eyes sparkled.

  "What's so funny, mate?" The Glasgow twang was overlaid by something he couldn't place, but he would. Italian? But Marco insisted she was all out Scottish. Something to puzzle over later.

  Marco cleared his throat and touched her arm. She shrugged him off impatiently. "Stop it, Marco. I'm away."

  "Er, Mason, honey, this is—"

  Callan interrupted Marco before he said something Callan preferred he didn’t. "Callan Mackie, Miss Andriacchi. Good evening." He held his hand out with a smile. What will she do now? She stared at him for a long moment, and then put her palm in his. The sting of electricity jolted him, even as she gasped and pulled her arm back.

  Mason glared and rubbed her hands together. "Crappy trick," she said in a low v
oice. "I don't know why you did that, but for f-er there was no need. Look, if this evening is all one big joke, ha ha, and time to be off."

  "Bratty sub." He couldn't help it. Something about her gave him the idea she fought her true self. His hands itched to tame her. No, not tame her, channel her feistiness and attention in a different way. I think she's lost somehow—and lost something. He grinned inwardly at his fanciful thoughts.

  "In your dreams, mate." She moved backward and Callan stopped her with a word.

  "Wait." To his amazement, although her eyes sparked, she did as he demanded. With a swift movement of his head, Callan indicated Marco should leave. If his companion decided to create a scene, and Callan hoped she wouldn't, not this sort of scene anyway, there was no reason for Marco to suffer the fall out. Already Callan’s body was taut with the indefinable what if. His cock showed the most interest it had in anything since Melody McFadden danced naked on the table at their university graduation.

  That interest had been somewhat short-lived. In fact, he recalled it hadn't lasted much passed that evening. Just until she opened her mouth, yawned, and showed her boredom at everything, including his prick. Luckily his manhood hadn't disappointed anyone since, but Callan was well aware of his own attraction, and didn't kid himself that only his rugged looks that attracted women. A healthy bank balance and a dominant attitude helped.

  He’d be the first to admit these days he had sex to scratch an itch, not sate his deeper desires. He’d become jaded, and even the club didn't hold any interest for him. For longer than he wanted to admit, he was happy to be the one on duty, the one who oversaw everything, and not the one who played. A sorry state to be in.

  For too many evenings he'd gone there, and ran the proceedings whilst letting the owners play. Then he'd been asked if he wanted to invest. After a thorough perusal of the figures, he decided it was a good asset, and agreed to buy into the club. With the proviso most demonstrations or tutorials were not up to him. Luckily his erstwhile partners agreed. Up until then, it had been enough. Now he wanted more. And for some unknown reason, he wanted it with the woman in front of him. Not for one moment did he think she'd agree to his demands—well, not at all at once—but he hoped. One small step at a time would work.