Page 71 of Storm of Bells
‘Take care of…’
‘Yes. Mend it.’
I gaped at him. Was he serious?
‘Err…Mr Ambrose…’
‘Yes?’
‘Err…how shall I put this…?’
Have you lost your marbles, dear Sir? Duringour last few years of piles of files, bandit hunts and crazystunts, firefights and damn hot nights, what could possibly havegiven you the slightest idea that I know how to use a needle?Except for stabbing it into the butts of annoying men, that is.
Besides,this was not what I had signed up for! Fetching beverages, gettingclothes mended…this was not what a secretary was supposed to do!Everybody knew that being a secretary was an important position oftrust, not that of some errand boy who could be ordered around todo whatever the boss wanted. Did the Secretary of State have tofetch beverages? Ha! I think not![20]
‘Um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘I don’t think I’mthe right person for this.’
He cocked his head. ‘Whyever not,Darling?’
Maybe because I’m such crap with a needlethat I needed my little sister’s help to stitch together ‘glovefingers’ for our first night of unwedded bliss?
Perhaps that wouldn’t be the best answer.
‘Because it falls outside my area ofexpertise, Sir.’
‘You want to be my assistant, don’t you,Darling?’ Handing me the tailcoat before I could protest, he cuppedmy face and drew me forward. What the hell is he up to? What did heintend to—
And then his lips captured mine. He held mefast in his grip until he had robbed my lungs of breath and mybrain of thought, filling up the vacuum with pure bliss.
‘Assist me,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
‘Nng. Fff. Brg.’
Very articulate, Lilly. Bravo. That’s theway to stand up for feminism.
Somehow I ended up outside his office, histailcoat clutched in my hand and one question echoing in myhead:
What the heck had just happened?
***
‘Damn! Damn and blast and damn again!’
‘Err… Mr Linton? Is everything allright?’
Glancing up, I saw Mr Stone looking inthrough the door of my office—an office which, somehow, had becomeMr Rikkard Ambrose’s personal tailor’s shop. The room was litteredwith various items of clothing. Apparently, Mr Ambrose’s treasuredten-year-old mint-condition tailcoat wasn’t the only piece ofclothing of his that needed a bit of attention with a needle. Sodid his trousers. And his only pair of socks. And the three boxesof hole-filled objects that I had assumed were fishing nets, but heassured me were actually clothes that would be just fine with a bitof needlework. Would I be kind enough to help out…?
And damn the man, I just didn’t know how tosay no to him! Not that I’d ever had problems refusing his orders.But this time, he hadn’t ordered. Oh no.
He hadasked.
For the first time, he had smiled, given me agentle kiss, andasked. The sneaky bastard!
I didn’t know exactly what was wrong withhim. But when he looked at me with those dark, sea-coloured eyesand enquired, ‘Will you help me?’ how could I tell him no?
‘Ow!’
To the detriment of my fingers, apparently Icouldn’t.
