Hey all – I'll keep this brief: Just wanted to say that I'm glad you guys are enjoying things, and that the rating of this fic may increase to M if Mr. Gold's imagination gets its rather wicked way. This chapter is still firmly T.
As they waited to be served, Gold wanted to speak to Belle as he had in his office during those first few weeks. Back before he'd jammed the wedge of position and snobbery between them. And Regina would pay for her part that day – she'd come into his office at 2:30 on a flimsy pretense, just to rile him up he suspected. Worst of all, it had worked. Now he did not know how to begin anew. This was not his office, and a significant part of him felt glad for that small grace. Miss French would not be candid with him in there, not after everything he'd put her through today.
Regina playing mind games did not surprise him. Anything to make a rival look weak, and Mr. Gold's enterprises regularly outperformed her own. He would certainly return the favor twofold, now that he'd gained a bit of perspective. At first, Regina's needling bothered him. Later, it was that Belle never seemed at any great pains to deny it. An innocent would have flat-out refuted claims of an affair. A cunning woman would have levered her alleged influence over Anthony Gold into real influence over his sycophants and subordinates. Belle was certainly clever enough, so why didn't she make a move?
It was only today, when he ventured down into her domain to have a little peek at her dress delivery that he realized – Annabelle French spent most of her day at work locked up in a forgotten dungeon. The workshop and storage spaces for his museum were well out of the way of any foot traffic, and even the small museum staff would be hard-pressed to find many reasons to visit her where she worked. The only other visitor he could conceive was Gaston, and he'd rather not think on that. From his vantage point, he could only see what appeared to be a very old wooden scaffold. He hadn't dared go in far enough to give himself away, so he missed her reaction. From the lack of her screaming, there hadn't been much to see.
Still, it got him thinking. Belle was not part of his world. She didn't interact with anyone in the executive suites, except for himself and Mary Margaret. Miss Blanchard certainly wouldn't insinuate anything untoward. First of all, she knew better, and secondly, her budding flirtation with David Nolan was quickly culminating into a very large and obnoxious bloom.
Of course, the realization that Belle wasn't intentionally perpetuating Regina's lies did little to calm him. By then, Belle had already ruined everything.
His curious little gypsy just had to look him in the eye during a moment of public humiliation. Why couldn't she study her feet like everyone else? Her eyes said "yes, this happened" and "no, we're not going to pretend otherwise." He hated being weak.
Then, just to add insult to injury, she'd wandered into his office with his morning tea and cut him off mid-tirade in defense of his useless secretary. Belle simply invited trouble. How may other women had "complained boss could not be trusted to wield a cross bow properly" in their H.R. files? Not that he'd been peeking.
Her scolding had been quiet in volume, but possessed an undeniable strength. She wasn't afraid of him, and though it sent him into a black rage at the time, looking back his memory found her disturbingly sexy. At the time, he'd felt vindicated in trussing her up and parading her, humiliated, through a crowded room. It was a fair trade. Now he almost wished he had just kissed her quiet.
The aging granny who ran the cafe brought them their drinks then, Earl Grey for him and chai with a large blueberry muffin for her. He noticed her coat was still resolutely buttoned all the way up to her neck as she ate.
Her neck. That dress. When he'd requested it over the phone, it had been from memory. He recalled one of his vain little dancers from the opera's ballet asking him to get it for her, to wear to a banquet held in honor of some retiring colleague. Naturally, he insisted she choose something more polite. His memory was of a golden dress that was both immature and trite, not one that was titillating, shimmering and sheer. It belonged in a night club somewhere, but when Belle wore it... Showing ample, peachy flesh and carrying herself with the grace and countenance of a queen despite everything, she looked like something to eat. All tenderness, perky breasts and cream.
She usually wore clothes at work that were easy to move in, he realized, and that she didn't mind splattering with paint or chemicals. Yet here she was, on display for all to see. He felt angry, for the both of them. He'd wanted to humiliate her, and she'd let him show off her assets cheaply. She should have come up stairs and really yelled at him, refused to wear the thing. And he should have known that nothing good could come of playing a vengeful game of dress-up with a woman as stubborn as she.
He didn't know his scheme succeeded in bringing her low until it was too late. Today was his day to play the fool, it seemed. Belle's behavior all night showed only confidence and cool indifference to a minor defeat. She was attentive and anticipated his needs, so much so that it took him the better part of the evening to realize she was doing it intentionally. As he worked the room, she seemed to fit at his side naturally. It wasn't until he'd watched her purposefully take a longer route back to his side, so she could hand him a drink to his free hand without drawing attention to his cane, that he noticed she was caring for him, specifically.
Then it became a game. He would watch her at it, to see what small things he took for granted. It was research, he told himself. If all of his escorts could behave so well, he would not have such a high turn-over rate. Miss Blanchard would appreciate that, at least.
Gold was watching Belle out the corner of his eye, listening to some half-baked plea for money, when he noticed her mask of confidence slip. It happened when Gaston pawed her. And gawked at her. Really? Didn't they just have a conversation about Gaston not touching Gold's things? He wouldn't have minded a chance to trip up the towering man with his cane. Before he could, Belle's body language gave him an excuse to intercede.
She retreated into her hair, and leaned away from Gaston – closer to Gold, actually. She tugged her hem to make sure the cover was at maximum. Although she spoke calmly and refused to join him, Gaston thought he could compel her to go anyway. It was the shift to panic in Belle's stance that finally allowed Gold to act.
In the cafe, Belle pulled him from his reverie. She was offering him two sugar packets, which was how he took his tea. Neither of them had spoken, but the silence seemed companionable enough. At any rate, he still had no idea what he was supposed to say. Belle's tentative smile reminded him of the look on her face when he'd said they could leave, and he gripped his cane a little tighter.
He knew the depth and drama of their little three-man play, and assumed that the others were staring because she'd made a scene. He forgot her reactions were all quiet and small, because to him they'd felt like screams. When she said the others had always been staring, he nearly went out of his mind in a rage. Fool that he was, he spent the night "not looking at her" so much that he didn't noticed the dozen or so men painting her with a long, lascivious gaze. Her eyes told him what he already knew – if he didn't like it, the only person he could blame was himself.
Gold knew what those men were thinking, and his only thought was escape. Escape or throttle them. When he helped her into her coat, he could see himself in his mind's eye, slinking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. Pulling her close to smell the rich maple curls around her head and nuzzling her neck. The back of the dress would slip-open easily, with barely a tug, and the fine fabric would fall down to pool around her hips leaving a pair of high, firm breasts and a million miles of skin exposed. She would lean back into him and gasp his name...
Those thoughts were poison if he was to be around her for the remainder of the night. He'd bundled her up quickly, and had the decency to look ashamed. For all that he would like to ravish her in a dream, the reality of Belle was infinitely more complex and complete. She was not the kind of woman who consorted with men like him. Certainly not the kind who would bed him immediately after a very uncomfortable, coerced "first date." She wasn't the type to play Regina's little games, either, and he reminded himself again that his business associate would have to pay.
For all his internal debate, Gold still didn't know what to say to the woman eating a muffin across the table from him. Luckily for him, Belle was brave. She spoke first.
"Thank you for saying we could leave."
"The room was getting stuffy," he offered back, accent thick. "I didn't... I didn't mean to bring you into such a... stuffy place. It was worse than I imagined. I wish you'd told me."
She nodded, seeming to accept that that was the closest thing he could muster to an apology. The conversation flowed more smoothly after that, until it was time to leave.
As Gold helped her into the car, she let out a low hiss and gasped in pain. He slid in next to her immediately, asking if she was well. Gold felt his fantasy woman start to chip as she unbuttoned her coat explained that her movement had ripped free a piece of tape.
Ah. So there would be no graceful pooling of golden silk about her waist because he'd felt the need to send her a dress that she had to keep on with fucking tape. He was an idiot. Still, as she had a good laugh over the whole thing, his thoughts of that sultry, imaginary Belle moved over to accommodate more of the smiling reality.
