Mild panic had her sitting up and reaching for her robe, and that was when she spotted the note propped up on the bedside table.
God, had he abandoned her in Paris leaving nothing but a note?
She dropped the robe and picked up the letter, revealing what it had been propped against. Candy pink and smooth, aside from a slender tether of tiny pearls attached to the base. That egg. It had been in cellophane last night, but now it was unwrapped and cool in her palm as she turned it over. She flipped the note open to read Lucien's confident scrawl.
Morning Princess,
Three things.
Last night was incredible.
The car’s coming for you at twelve. Lunch meeting.
Lube the egg and slide it inside you. Do not come without me.
L x
Sophie's mouth fell open at the third point on Lucien's list and she dropped the note onto the sheets to look again at the egg. What did it do? She gave it a little shake, half expecting it to crack open and reveal something less egg-like, or at least to chime, or do something other than look like an innocent, shiny, pink candy egg. Lube it. She belatedly noticed the small bottle bearing the familiar Knight Inc. logo, on the bedside table. It had not been there last night. Lucien was a man prepared for anything when it came to sex.
Did he expect her to meet him with the egg in place? Surely not. But even as the objection formed in her mind, she knew it was in vain.
Disconcerted, Sophie reached for her phone to check the time, and groaned. It was almost ten already - where had the morning gone? How could she sleep so soundly amidst all this ferment? She threw the quilt back and flung her feet down, clicking on the flashing message icon as she slid her feet into the white towelling mules.
No knickers. Don't forget the egg. I WILL KNOW.
In the back of the limousine a little later, Sophie crossed her legs and flicked a guilty glance towards the glass privacy partition. There was no way the driver could know that beneath her demure mauve woolen dress she wore no knickers, or that the smooth oval of the egg was buried within her body, yet still she felt as if she had a neon sign around her neck. I'm sleeping with the boss.
Would she do literally anything Lucien told her to?
The thought skimmed in unannounced and Sophie let it sit for a second as she weighed it up. No, maybe not absolutely anything, but she couldn't imagine a situation where she'd want to say no to him, because he seemed to understand her limits. Or did he? Had he anticipated that she'd let him screw her last night in the club? Because it had definitely come as a titanic shock to Sophie herself. It would never have happened in a Knight Inc. club back home in London. But something about last night's venue had freed her to be whoever she wanted to be within the confines of its seductive, velvet-clad walls. And now, in the cold, temperate light of day, she found that she couldn't locate a repentant bone in her body.
She'd loved it. Been turned on by it. And thinking about it in the back of the limo, she was turned on by it all over again. She pressed her bottom into the seat, pleasurably aware of the egg’s presence inside her, enhanced by the secret knowledge that she was naked beneath her skirt.
The car eased to a halt outside a swish-looking restaurant. Sophie climbed out and smiled nervously at the chauffeur as he held her door open for her, then stepped beneath the black canopies of the restaurant. Precision-manicured bay trees stood sentry on the pavement and the gilt metal frames around the windows reflected the passing cars like mirrors.
The maître d' appeared as soon as Sophie stepped inside the doorway, ramrod-backed and elegantly suited. The moment she mentioned Lucien's name a look of deference wreathed his previously passive features.
"Mr. Knight is expecting you, madame," he murmured, and inclined his head discreetly for her to follow him into the dining room.
Beyond the sophisticated vestibule, the room opened out into a large, ornate and high-ceilinged formal dining room that was everything Sophie might have daydreamed as a postcard-perfect Parisian restaurant. Starched white table linen matched the stiffened white aprons of the waiting staff and heavy silver tableware abounded. Glamorous patrons lunched, every bit as immaculate as their surroundings. And there amongst them was Lucien Knight.
Sophie spotted him a second or two before he saw her. He was deep in conversation with the man at his side, but there was no missing the flash of pleasure that crossed his face when he caught sight of her. He excused himself and stood to greet her as she approached.
"Gentlemen, this is Sophie Black, my PA."
Two pairs of similarly dark eyes turned to her with polite interest, one younger, one considerably older.
"Sophie, this is Elron… and Peter Carmichael."
"It’s lovely to meet you." Sophie hoped it was going to be. She looked sharply at Lucien. What was he playing at?
Both men proffered firm handshakes as they stood in greeting, then Lucien held Sophie's chair until she was seated.
The men were obviously father and son, given their matching surnames and eyes.
"Elron and Peter own one of the largest sex toy companies in the States, Sophie, as I expect you recall. They produce quite a few Knight Inc. products on our behalf."
Sophie nodded, cogs of understanding turning as she recognised the familiar Carmichael name once Lucien had placed it within a work context. It was a company name she'd seen often.
"I’m delighted to meet you both in person," she smiled genuinely, as a waiter arrived with their hors d'oeuvres.
Lucien leaned in close as the plates were placed in front of them. "I ordered for you earlier. There wasn't any pizza on the menu, sorry."
She shot him a scathing look and could tell he was discreetly laughing as he looked down. Her eyes followed his nervously to their plates. She could only offer thanks to the culinary gods that he hadn't ordered snails, because she was no Julia Roberts, and knowing her luck there would be no deft waiter on hand to catch any of the errant little shells. She was far more likely to put out one of the exquisitely colourful and clearly very old windowpanes.
The salmon on her plate was more a work of art than a starter, a delicate coral fan surrounded by eau de nil foam. Flavours exploded in Sophie's mouth from the first taste: the smoky oak of the salmon, freshness from morsels of cucumber and an unexpected kick of horseradish from the foam. The waiter reappeared with wine selected specifically to accompany the dish, and on investigation, Sophie could only marvel at how perfectly they went together.
She contributed to the conversation a little as they chatted with the Carmichaels about Paris, and found herself relaxing and appreciating more and more the beautiful dining room with its high frescoed ceiling. The towering picture windows looked out over grand parkland, letting natural light flood the room and glint off the crystal chandeliers.