ICE QUEEN (Part 3)

 Mrs. Allen smiled at her and clasped her hand, and Marguerite immediately covered it with her own, savoring the contact with someone she genuinely liked, who eased rather than disturbed, the familiar rather than the unknown. She realized at once her grip might be a bit desperate, for Mrs. Allen looked startled. Marguerite loosened her hold and gave the woman’s knuckles a gentle pat with the other hand. “After your friends treated you to the Staffordshire set for your birthday, I thought you’d never go back to brown Betty.”

 

She nodded at the little brown ball of a teapot, its surface polished to a shine that allowed her to see the impression of her own reflection, distorted and distant. The connection of their hands was magnified, as if it was the truly important part of the picture, and she supposed it was.

 

“Miss M, you know that was the prettiest thing. And you were right. The same tea could taste entirely different in it. I’m so glad you had us try that new brand of Earl Grey. But me and the Brown Betty…” Mrs. Allen gazed fondly at the squat ball of a teapot. “We have ourselves a standing date each week. We’re a sturdy pair of practical birds, is all.”

 

“Stolid classics,” one of her two friends at the table put in.

 

This incited a chatter of notes and laughter among the three women that made a music in her tea room. It would join with a similar composition at the next table, then another, the different conversations interweaving themselves into a song, a complex arrangement that was a song of sanctuary. Marguerite imagined its energy filling and surrounding her tea room every day, even spilling onto the street and bringing in new people, those seeking tranquility. She fed off of it, used it now, absorbing it in a deep breath as she gave them one last smile and released Mrs. Allen to face the less tranquil element who had entered her domain.

 

As she passed the last table, he rose, that Southern gentleman she expected. Her height of five ten, with an added two inches of heels to bring her to a willowy six feet, didn’t faze him. That centered element to him made him perfectly in sync with the atmosphere she strove to provide. It was how he affected her that sent a ripple through the composition, that warning note that a transition in the symphony was about to occur, focusing the attention, the anticipation of the listeners.

 

He didn’t smile, utter polished platitudes or flash a smile to throw up the barricades of acquaintances. His gaze passed over her leisurely. She was sure he had thoroughly inspected her when she came out from the back, as sure as she was that he was doing it now to be certain she was aware of his scrutiny.

It made no sense at all. Tyler was a sexual Dominant. She was a Dominant. There should be the attraction of mutual admiration, but why this? This indefinable, overwhelming feeling?

 

“Our meeting was for six-fifteen,” she said.

 

If he was taken aback by her lack of greeting, he did not show it. He remained standing, studying her, and then he did the most remarkable thing, because men did not touch her. Not without her expressed permission, and usually only after they had begged for the privilege.

 

He reached out and touched the hair she’d artfully arranged along her temple. “I’ve never seen you with a curl.” Sliding his finger into the coil, he caught it with his thumb to stroke it with his forefinger, stretching it out straighter as he did so, then letting it go, watching it bounce gently back into place. It caused a pleased and warm look on his face that made her feel at loose ends. “Always, when I see you, you’re wearing it tied back in that severe tail.”

 

She knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t fill in that sentence with “…when I see you at The Zone”, the place where they knew one another best. Or rather, the façade they both knew best. They both knew the strict rules of confidentiality for all members of The Zone, maintained in the outside world.

 

“Yes,” he said at last. “I’m early. I wanted to see your place, how you run it. I can’t get that impression after closing. Why does my being here early bother you?”

 

If it had been anyone else, the automatic answer “It doesn’t” would have bounced out of her mouth. But she was sensible enough not to bluff with a man who only had one equal at The Zone for interpreting body language and tone, and that was herself. It raised her hackles for him to exercise his power as a Dom at this moment, calling her out and making it clear, albeit in a mild and courteous way, that he wouldn’t accept an evasive answer.

 

People lied all the time in the real world, with a bouquet of pleasantries to deceive no one, only to make evasiveness palatable, acceptable. In The Zone, Doms didn’t allow subs to do that. It was all about getting to the pure naked core of every thought, no dissembling on any level.

 

“That’s not really something I care to discuss. It’s my problem, not yours.” That was as honest an answer as it had been a question. “You’re welcome to be here. If you need anything, let Chloe or Genevieve know. I’ve got some things to finish in the back, but I’ll be out when they lock up, in about thirty minutes.”

He nodded, those amber eyes never shifting from her face, but making slight movements, revealing that he was studying her lips as she spoke, the sweep of her lashes, even the sparse movements of her hands. “I’ll be here. Go finish your day. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

 Like she needed his permission.

She nodded, her lips tightening to suppress a retort, turned precisely on her heel, and headed back the way she had come, intensely aware of the curious looks from Mrs. Allen’s table. Her regulars would be wondering about that corkscrew curl move, she was sure, but she kept on her cool smile and moved briskly enough that no one engaged her. Her track took her into the reflection path of the large Victorian mirror mounted to the left of the kitchen door, so she could see him.