A Family Affair
Disclaimer: Same as the other chapters.
Author's note: WARNING: This chapter contains explicit language and sexual situations that are unsuitable for impressionistic youngsters under the age of 17 and anybody who has a problem with that sort of thing. You've been warned, so please don't report me to ! Enjoy!
Chapter 67.
I love myself
I want you to love me
When I'm feelin' down
I want you above me
I search myself
I want you to find me
I forget myself
I want you to remind me
From "I Touch Myself" by The Divinyls
While waiting to hear from Ian, Sara alternated between pacing restlessly and sitting on her couch staring unseeingly at the TV. It was only through sheer force of will that she refrained from reaching out to him telepathically during the more than two hours that he was out of contact with her. Her imagination began to run wild, and as the minutes slowly ticked by, she became convinced that Kenneth Irons had captured Ian and was beating and torturing him to death. The only thing that enabled her to retain her sanity was the ember of warmth that occupied a corner of her mind, which she'd come to identify as Ian's consciousness. She discovered that if she opened her awareness up, she could sense strong emotions from him. This was how she came to realize that he was confronting Irons. At first, she'd been miffed that Ian hadn't contacted her to let her know that he'd reached the estate safely like he'd said he would, but the maelstrom of powerful emotions emanating from him soon reminded her of how very difficult this was for him. After that, she concentrated all of her energy on sending positive thoughts his way. Still, when Ian finally got around to contacting her, she felt giddy with relief that her worst fears hadn't been realized, and she instantly forgave him for making her wait so long. She was even able to hold out for another 45 minutes before reaching out to him again.
(Ian?)
(Yes, my love?) he responded instantly.
(Are you done working out yet?)
(Yes. I was just about to head back to my quarters for a much-needed shower.)
(Um, you might wanna hold off on showering 'cause if we do this right, things could get kinda messy, if you know what I mean.)
(I'm beginning to get an idea,) he replied, his psychic chuckle causing a grin to appear on her own lips.
(Um, Ian, you have done this -- masturbated -- before, haven't you?) Sara asked him.
(Not in a very long time,) he replied. (My father frowned upon the practice. He considered it a sign of weakness.)
(How long is a very long time?) she queried curiously.
(Not since adolescence,) Ian admitted. (I'll spare you the details of my father's methods of dissuading me from getting into the habit of pleasuring myself.)
Sara shuddered involuntarily. (Uh, thanks, I appreciate it.)
(What about you, Sara? When was the last time you masturbated?) he asked her.
(Good question. Not as long as your drought, that's for damn sure, but it's been a while. Let me think.) There was a brief pause. (Hmmm, I seem to remember making love by myself a couple of months before the Witchblade chose me. To be honest, it's not something I do unless I'm really, really hard up. Don't forget, I went to Catholic school, where we were taught that it was a sin to masturbate. In fact, it's a wonder I like sex at all!) she mused wryly.
(I honestly don't understand how anybody could not like sex,) Ian proclaimed. (Of any kind. It's fun, it feels really, really good, and it's what nature intended us to do!)
Sara laughed at his vehemence. (Spoken like a true believer! But you gotta understand that all of my teachers were nuns who'd taken vows of celibacy. In fact, I seriously doubt any of them would've recognized a penis if you'd hit them over the head with one. They took saving our immortal souls very seriously, and that meant threatening us with eternal damnation if we so much as thought about having premarital sex -- even by ourselves!)
(Sounds oppressive,) Ian opined.
(This from someone who has lived under Irons' thumb for most of his life! But now that's all changed! You, my little Ian bird, are gonna spread your wings and learn how to spank the monkey with the best of them!) Sara said gleefully.
("Spank the monkey"?)
(My favorite euphemism for masturbating. So, are you ready to go?)
(Um, I think I should wait until I reach the privacy of my quarters. I'm still in the gym -- and I'm not alone.)
(Who's there with you?)
(Lieutenant Hopkins. Apparently, my father has ordered him to keep tabs on me. By the way, the lieutenant is sporting a matching set of black eyes thanks to the broken nose you gave him.)
Sara gave a mental shrug. (Serves him right for working for somebody like Kenny!)
(Sara, I made a very interesting discovery after speaking with Lieutenant Hopkins: Neither he nor his men have any memory of the Witchblade,) Ian informed her.
(Really? I guess that explains the weird trance-like state he entered when I pointed the gauntlet at him.)
(Indeed.) Abruptly, a rush of acute embarrassment filtered through the telepathic bond.
(Ian?)
(Um, I'm here,) he said distractedly.
(What just happened?)
(I'd, uh, rather not say,) he responded stiltedly.
(Huh. Well, based on what I just sensed, I'm willing to bet your face is bright red,) Sara hazarded.
(You'd be right,) Ian reluctantly admitted. (Let's just say I uttered a Freudian slip as I was bidding Lieutenant Hopkins good night and leave it at that, shall we?)
(Come on, you can tell me what you said,) Sara cajoled. (I promise I won't laugh at you.)
(Very well,) he finally acquiesced. (When you contacted me, I was in the process of promising to kill Lieutenant Hopkins if he ever tried to harm you again -- after thanking him for keeping my father safe in my absence, of course.)
(Uh, yeah. Right. Of course.) Sara's lips quirked. (It's good to know that you're still adhering to the Assassin's Code of Etiquette,) she teased him.
There was a pregnant pause. (On second thought, I don't think I'll continue,) he murmured, his "voice" distinctly disgruntled. (You're already making fun of me and I haven't even gotten to the embarrassing part yet.)
(Okay, okay! No more smart-alecky remarks,) Sara said quickly in her most conciliatory tone. (Please, go on.)
(Hmm. Anyway, I became distracted by our conversation, and, to be perfectly honest with you, I forgot that the lieutenant was even there. I only took notice of him again when he tried to sneak away. But instead of simply letting him leave, I said "If you will excuse me, Lieutenant Hopkins, I am returning to my quarters to masturbate.")
(No!) Sara gasped. (You didn't!) And then she burst out laughing, her unrestrained amusement clearly telegraphed to a chagrinned Ian Nottingham.
His put-upon sigh gusted along their connection. (Yes, I'm afraid I did. What I meant to say was "I am returning to my quarters to meditate." Unfortunately, that's not how it came out.)
(Omigod, that's freaking hilarious, Nottingham!) Sara said, still giggling uncontrollably. ("Excuse me while I go masturbate." Priceless!)
(It's all your fault, you know,) Ian accused. (And you promised you wouldn't laugh at me,) he reminded her grumpily.
(Sorry!) Sara sent contritely, controlling her mirth with an effort. (So, how did Hopkins respond?)
Ian snorted in disgust. (He laughed at me, too. He had the good grace to wait until I'd left the room, but courtesy of my enhanced hearing, I know he laughed long and hard at my slip of the tongue,) he admitted ruefully.
(Um, I meant how did he respond to your promise to kill him if he ever tried to harm me again,) Sara clarified, biting her cheek to keep from busting out laughing again.
(Oh.) That single syllable spoke volumes. (I think he got the message that it was no idle threat.)
(Good. Speaking of long and hard, have you reached your quarters yet?)
(Yes.)
(Okay, here's what you're gonna need to keep handy -- no pun intended -- a bottle of lotion and a box of Kleenex.) she told him.
There was a brief pause. (Got them.)
(Good. Now get undressed and lie down on your bed.) Sara followed her own instructions and stretched out on her own bed.
(I'm lying down, Sara,) Ian said a couple of minutes later.
(Excellent. Are the lights on or off?)
(Off. I lit a couple of masturbation, uh, meditation candles.)
As he'd obviously intended, Sara laughed. (Perfect. I've got Jasmine-scented candles burning and I'm lying here naked, too,) she told him. She looked down at her bare body, which was bathed in the gentle glow of candlelight, and sent Ian a mental snapshot of the image. Abruptly, the Witchblade's carnelian stone flared to life, adding a lurid red glow to the room.
(You're so beautiful, my love,) Ian murmured, and a moment later he reciprocated by sending her a picture of himself in all of his naked glory.
(So are you, lover,) Sara purred, running her fingertips over her breasts, causing the ultra-sensitive nipples to instantly harden into taut peaks. (Mmmm, you look good enough to eat!)
(Speaking of eating, did you know that you taste better than a perfectly ripe peach?)
(No, I didn't. Did you know that your cock is as perfect as the rest of you?) Sara breathed, the fingers of her right hand skimming over her abdomen to delve into the dark curls below her waist.
(No, I didn't.)
(Well, it is, and I love the way you feel inside of me. Are you ready for me yet, lover?) she asked, her "voice" husky with need.
(Getting there,) he sighed, glumly eyeing his burgeoning erection and wishing he could inhale her beguiling scent, touch her satiny soft skin, and watch her beautiful face as he buried himself inside her.
(Good. Now, pour a little lotion in the palm of your right hand and let it warm up for a couple of minutes.)
Ian did as she asked, goose bumps pebbling his bare skin as he clearly sensed her ardor rising in lockstep with his own. He was a little surprised by how uninhibited he felt, given his extremely repressive upbringing. In fact, before he and Sara had made love that first time, he'd never even slept in the nude. Now here he was, about to rediscover the joys of masturbation! Ian couldn't help but smile as he recalled his intense mortification when Dr. Immo had suggested that he try this very same thing less than a week ago. So very much had changed since then. And although this exercise in self-gratification was a poor substitute for the real thing, he was profoundly grateful that their fledgling empathic bond and strong telepathic connection allowed he and Sara to connect in this fashion. Otherwise, their forced separation would have been utterly unbearable.
(I'm already wet with wanting you, baby,) Sara moaned, dipping her index finger into her slick sheath and then massaging her juices into the lushly swollen petals of her sex. She kept picturing Ian's superbly conditioned body in her mind's eye, and literally ached to feel his strong arms around her and his hard-muscled body against and deep inside hers.
(I think the lotion has warmed up, Sara) he sent a tad breathlessly, having sprung to full attention between one heartbeat and the next.
(Then it's time for some hand action. Go for it, Cowboy!) Sara urged him, her own fingers rubbing her throbbing clit insistently. (I'm almost there!)
(I can sense that.) Grasping himself with his right hand, he coated his pulsating shaft with lotion and began rapidly stroking his distended length.
(Feels good, doesn't it?) she murmured, clearly sensing his heightened pleasure, which had the exhilarating effect of redoubling her own.
(Yeah, but it just can't compare to being inside you, my love,) he told her.
Pausing briefly, he sent Sara an image of the rampant evidence of his desire. (See how badly I want you, Sara?) he groaned.
(Yeah, baby. Looking good, Mr. Hoodie! Your home-sweet-home feels tragically empty without you,) Sara panted, longing for him to fill her. She'd toyed with the idea of breaking out the dildo that she kept stashed in the top drawer of her dresser, but had decided against it for fear of offending Ian. Manual stimulation would have to do this time around.
(Hey, don't forget about the twins, Ian!) she reminded him. (I sure wouldn't.)
(The twins?) It took a moment for his passion-fogged brain to figure out what she meant. (Oh. Right.) Reaching down with his free hand, Ian gingerly massaged his aching balls, never breaking the pumping rhythm of his right hand. Deliciously, the coil of tension at the base of his spine wound tighter, causing his back to arch and his toes to curl in anticipation of his imminent release.
(You there yet, Cowboy?)
(Al . . . most!) he barely managed to get out. He sucked in a lungful of air as his entire body clenched.
Sara sensed that he was on the brink, just as she herself was. (Quick! Grab a bunch of tissues!) she bade him with her last coherent thought. Seconds later, a powerful orgasm ripped through her, and she trembled uncontrollably, crying out.
Simultaneously, Ian shuddered violently, his shout of completion echoing in Sara's mind and quivering body.
It was several minutes before either of them could muster the energy to communicate with each other.
(Wow!) Sara sent, her heart still racing.
(I agree,) Ian seconded. (That was amazing.)
(Were you able to grab the tissues in time?)
(Not even close,) he admitted ruefully.
(Sorry about that!) she apologized.(I would have given you more warning, but I was kinda preoccupied with getting off.)
(That's all right, my love. I'm overdue for a shower anyway,) he told her, chuckling. (I guess we did it right, hunh?)
(Amen to that!) she agreed. (But I really miss cuddling with you afterwards, baby.)
(Me, too,) Ian murmured wistfully. (But perhaps you'd care to "join" me in the shower?) he suggested, brightening.
(Don't mind if I do!) Sara accepted enthusiastically. (Lead on, Cowboy!)
With a renewed sense of energy, Ian leapt up from his bed and headed for the bathroom.
Still chuckling to himself, former Navy Seal, Lieutenant First Class Graham Hopkins headed for the study, where his employer was presumably still ensconced. His mind kept replaying Ian Nottingham's puzzling behavior leading up to his hilarious slip of the tongue. If Graham hadn't known better, he would have thought the assassin was wearing a wireless earpiece through which he'd been communicating with someone -- and he was willing to bet that that someone was NYPD Homicide Detective Sara Pezzini. But Nottingham hadn't been wearing an earpiece, which made the way he'd acted more than a little bizarre. Graham stopped dead in his tracks as a truly horrifying thought suddenly occurred to him. Could the assassin have been coming on to him? He shuddered visibly. No, that simply didn't bear thinking about. Plus, just before he'd begun acting strangely, Nottingham had threatened in no uncertain terms to kill him. Unless that been some weird kind of professional assassin come-on . . . Shaking his head, he continued walking. Nah. Besides, Graham was positive that Nottingham had completely forgotten that he was even there until he'd attempted to leave. Still, he'd learned to trust his sense of intuition, and it told him that somehow Nottingham had been communicating with his lady love, Detective Sara Pezzini. But how? Telepathy? Graham snorted. Yeah, right! But as preposterous as this notion was, it got him to thinking once again about the experimental drug therapies that Nottingham and his fellow Black Dragons were rumored to have undergone. Could they have resulted in him possessing telepathic powers? But that wouldn't explain how Detective Pezzini had also developed these abilities. Which brought him back to his maddeningly hazy recollection of that morning's confrontation with Nottingham and the detective in the escape tunnel. Try as he might, he simply couldn't recall anything beyond that fact that both of them had been there. All he'd gotten for his trouble was a splitting headache. It was a mystery, and Graham hated mysteries -- especially those that involved him. Maybe his employer could shed some light on the subject, he thought as he reached the billionaire's private study.
"Come," Kenneth Irons commanded imperiously when Graham discreetly knocked on the doors.
"Mr. Nottingham has retired for the night, Mr. Irons," he stated without preamble after coming to stand at attention before the billionaire, who was seated in his throne-like chair in front of the roaring fire. "But before that, he visited Dr. Immo in the infirmary for approximately five minutes and then went to the gymnasium and worked out for 45 minutes."
"I see. Tell me, Lieutenant, what did you and Ian speak about in the gym?" Irons asked, cold blue eyes pinning him where he stood.
Graham blinked. This whole place is under surveillance, he realized. Why doesn't that surprise me? Aloud, he said, "Oh, uh, he thanked me for keeping you safe during his absence."
"Go on."
"And then I asked him to clarify what happened in that tunnel this morning," the lieutenant told him.
"And did he?"
"Well, not really. He claimed that Detective Pezzini did most of the damage."
A faint smile touched the older man's chiseled lips, but didn't come close to reaching those glacial eyes. "Do you believe him, Lieutenant?"
Graham nodded. "Much as I hate to admit it, yes, I do, which means she must have had seriously kick-ass combat training, much like Nottingham is rumored to have had." He hesitated. "But I've discovered that I don't have any clear memory of how I was overpowered, and neither do any of my men. In a few cases, this memory loss can be attributed to concussion, but according to the doctors who examined me, not in my particular case."
Frustratingly, Irons chose not to comment on this. Instead, he said, "Did Nottingham say anything else to you?"
"Yes. He threatened to kill me and every single one of my men if we ever attempted to harm Detective Pezzini again," Graham informed him. "And I believe he meant it."
"Oh, you can rest assured that he did, Lieutenant," Irons agreed, that smug little smile reappearing. "Tell me, what did Ian say that caused you such amusement? Ian is many things, but in my experience, a comedian is not one of them."
Again, Graham hesitated. "Uh, well, right after he threatened me, he started acting a little, uh, weird."
"Describe 'weird.'"
The younger man shrugged uneasily. "His whole attitude suddenly changed from intimidating to, um, to almost . . . flirtatious," Hopkins said with obvious reluctance. "Except that I got the distinct impression that it wasn't directed at me," he added quickly at Irons' raised eyebrows.
"Was someone else there?"
Since you were watching, you know there wasn't, Graham thought, but said, "Uh, no. We were alone. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I got the strangest feeling he was talking to someone I couldn't see, except that he wasn't speaking out loud either." He shrugged again. "I told you it was gonna sound crazy."
"Yes, that does sound rather odd. But you still haven't told me precisely what Ian said that you found so amusing," he reiterated.
"Oh, yeah. That. Well, the weirdness went on for several minutes and he seemed kind of distracted, so I thought I'd see what happened if I tried to leave. You know, to give him a little privacy," Graham said, clearing his throat self-consciously. Encouraged by the enigmatic billionaire's keenly interested expression, he continued. "That seemed to snap him out of it, but then he says, 'If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant Hopkins, I'm going to my quarters to masturbate.'"
Irons' eyebrows shot up in patent disbelief.
"I swear to God!" Graham swore. "Then he got all red in the face, and said, 'Meditate. I'm going to my quarters to meditate, and then I'm retiring for the night, so your surveillance duties are finished for tonight.' And then he left. I thought it was damn funny, so I laughed. But I waited until after he left before busting a gut, of course."
"Of course," Kenneth agreed archly. "Well, that is certainly an interesting anecdote, Lieutenant Hopkins. It seems Ian may have developed a sense of humor after -- !!!" Abruptly, the older man's words broke off and he stiffened, pale blue eyes widening.
Graham tensed and glanced behind him, fully expecting to see Ian Nottingham, but no one was there. He turned back to Irons and noticed that the man's face was flushed and that he'd begun perspiring and squirming around in his chair as though in pain.
"Are you all right, sir?" he asked, alarmed by the sudden change in his condition.
"You . . . are . . . dismissed, Lieutenant," Irons got out through gritted teeth.
"I'm calling for a medic, Mr. Irons," Graham decided, reaching for the phone. "You don't look so good!"
"No!" Kenneth hissed, slamming a hand down on the phone. "Just . . . get . . . out!"
"If you're sure," the lieutenant said doubtfully, slowly backing way. "Good night, sir."
The billionaire didn't respond, just gripped the carved wooden arms of his chair and moaned softly.
And I thought Nottingham was acting weird! Shaking his head, Lieutenant Graham Hopkins headed for the infirmary to check in on his men who were still hospitalized.
A moue of distaste twisting his lips, Kenneth Irons plucked at the front of his grey flannel trousers. A damp spot stood out on the fine, Italian wool fabric like a red flag of shame. Although the tortuous edge was off his too-long-denied desire, he still felt wholly unsatisfied and more than a little humiliated at having been forced to resort to self-gratification. It was either that or be driven mad by the link to the Wielder and her ravenous libido. Add to this his simmering rage at the conversation he'd overheard between Ian and Dr. Immo, and he felt like killing someone with his bare hands. The revelation that Sara Pezzini might be carrying Ian's child had been only slightly less shocking than the discovery that they'd formed a strong telepathic bond. And based on what Lieutenant Hopkins had just told him and the evidence mutely staring up at him from his crotch, there was also an empathic connection between the Wielder and her Protector. Just great.
Getting to his feet, he slunk off to the bedroom he'd chosen for the night, praying that he wouldn't see anyone along the way, because although his suit jacket thankfully hid the damning evidence of his weakness, he seriously doubted his ability to speak civilly to anyone who had the misfortune to cross his path. Luckily, he saw no one. Even more fortunate was the fact that he was in the shower when Sara and Ian chose to indulge in another round of psychic lovemaking. Gnashing his teeth, he silently raged at both of them even as his traitorous flesh responded to the Wielder's apparently bottomless passion. Shamefully, he gave in and pleasured himself again. Afterwards, his movements jerky with anger, he toweled himself off and donned a pair of silk pajamas. Too agitated to even think about trying to fall asleep, he attempted to read a book, but was unable to concentrate as his stomach began rumbling insistently, reminding him that he'd missed the evening meal. He started to ring for his valet, but recalled that he'd given the man the week off for the upcoming holiday and that his replacement had been inconveniently stranded out of state by the storm. Still wary of inflicting his foul mood on an unsuspecting staffer, Kenneth decided to go in search of sustenance himself. Throwing on a robe, he stalked through the deserted halls of the estate.
As he made his way down the ground-floor corridor that led to the enormous, state-of-the-art kitchen, Kenneth noted that the lights were on, perhaps signifying that Mrs. MacFadden, the estate's longtime cook and head housekeeper, was still up, meaning he would not be reduced to fending for himself after all. Hmmm, perhaps things are looking up, he thought sardonically, then froze in the doorway as he discovered the last person on earth he wanted to see standing contemplatively in front of the open refrigerator. But before he could turn on his heel and leave, Ian Nottingham glanced over his shoulder and spotted him.
"Good evening, father," his son greeted him jovially. "After a late-night snack, too, are you?"
Glowering at him, Kenneth moved further into the room. "Yes. Recent . . . events seem to have been piqued my appetite," he said acerbically.
The wretched whelp actually had the nerve to smile cheekily at him. "Mine, too. I feel like I could eat the proverbial horse. Ah, this must be your plate." He removed a tin-foil-wrapped dinner plate from the refrigerator, and uncovered it. "Mmmm. Rosemary lamb chops, roasted red-jacket potatoes, and string beans almondine. Shall I reheat it for you, father?"
"Yes, thank you," Kenneth muttered sullenly.
Just then, Graham Hopkins strolled into the room. A look of dismay crossed his clean-shaven features when he saw Kenneth Irons standing there, but he recovered quickly and nodded to the two men deferentially. "Mr. Irons. Nottingham. I thought you were retiring for the night, Mr. Nottingham," he said to Ian, noting with some amusement that the two men were almost identically clad in black silk pajamas and navy-blue velour robes.
"I fully intended to, Lieutenant Hopkins, but I have discovered that . . . meditating stimulates my appetite," Ian said, completely straight-faced. "Would you perhaps care to join us for a snack?"
"Don't mind if I do," Graham replied. "If that's all right with you, sir?" he added quickly, glancing at Kenneth Irons.
The billionaire made an expansive gesture. "By all means, Lieutenant." He arched a eyebrow at his acting head of security. "I don't suppose you, too, were . . . meditating?"
"Um, unfortunately, no. Up until just a few minutes ago, I was checking in on my men who are still confined to the infirmary. By the way, one of them took a slight turn for the worse after encountering you there earlier this evening, Nottingham. Apparently, mixing a mild concussion and the after-effects of a taser shock with a sudden jolt of adrenaline can cause a nasty reaction. But he's feeling much better now that the sedative has kicked in," Graham said, taking a seat on one of the barstools that lined two sides of the enormous, granite-topped kitchen island.
"Regrettable," Ian murmured, sliding his father's plate into the microwave oven and pushing a button. He began pulling Tupperware containers out of the refrigerator and setting them on the countertop. "What would you like to eat, Lieutenant?"
"What've you got?"
"Leftovers from tonight's dinner, featuring lamb chops, roasted potatoes, and string beans," Ian told him, putting out two more plates, three cloth napkins, and three sets of silverware.
"Sounds great."
Just then, a diminutive grey-haired woman clad in a colorful housedress and a loosely belted fuchsia chenille bathrobe entered the kitchen. "I thought I heard voices in here!" she exclaimed, a Scottish burr easily detectible in her voice. She stopped short as she caught sight of Ian Nottingham, round blue eyes widening with delight behind her bifocals. "Oh, the rumors are true then! You've come back to us, Master Ian!" she gasped. "Welcome home, lad!"
A wide grin appeared on Nottingham's handsome face. "Hello, Cookie," he said, using his boyhood name for her. "I missed you, too."
"Why didn't you ring me if you wanted a snack? I would have gladly fixed something for you!" she chastised him.
"I did not want to bother you this late at night," Ian told her. "Cookie, you would be so proud of me: While I was away, I made omelets. Twice! And they came out great both times!" he boasted.
"You don't say! You were just a wee bairn when I taught you how to prepare them. I didna think you'd remember how after all these years!"
"I also learned how to make three kinds of pancakes, scrambled eggs with cheese, and bacon," he informed her. "Although my pancakes were not exactly perfect at first, I eventually got the hang of it, and even the misshapen, slightly under- or overcooked ones tasted pretty good I was told."
"Och! Flapjacks aren't easy ta get right at the best o' times, so good for you, laddie, good for you!" she beamed up at him, patting his arm affectionately. "Mayhap you'll demonstrate your technique for your old Cookie one of these days, eh?"
"I would be delighted to," Ian said, grinning down at her.
Kenneth cleared his throat. "Touching as this reunion has been, having missed the evening meal, I'm very hungry." he said sourly.
"Oh, yes, yes," Mrs. MacFadden said, apparently taking notice of her employer for the first time. "Of course you are, Mr. Irons. My apologies, sir."
The microwave beeped, and she shooed Ian out of the way with a flap of her hands before opening it. Removing the plate with the aid of a potholder, she eyed her employer, who was leaning indolently against the countertop. "Will you be dining in here, sir, or would you like me to put out a place setting in the dining room?" she asked him diffidently.
"I may as well eat in here," Kenneth replied. Embarrassingly, his stomach growled loudly as the enticing aroma of the food reached his nostrils.
"Very good, sir. However, I must warn you the lamb is bound to be quite a bit drier than it was the first time I served it to you," Mrs. MacFadden sniffed.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, just give me the damn food, woman!" Kenneth growled, taking a seat next to Graham Hopkins. He rolled his eyes as she took her sweet time adding a dollop of mint sauce to his plate before sliding it across the island countertop to him.
"Will the gentleman be havin' the same thing then?" she asked a highly amused Graham Hopkins, completely ignoring Irons' loutishness.
"Yes, thank you, Ma'am!" he said, giving her a jaunty salute.
"Very good. Sit down, Master Ian," Mrs. MacFadden bade Ian, who took a seat at the end of the counter nearest Graham. "It'll just take a few minutes for your food to heat up. Now, what will ye be havin' to drink?" As she spoke, she quickly and efficiently filled a Tupperware container with two generous portions of food.
"I'll have a glass of red wine," Kenneth requested without looking up from his plate as he cut a piece of the mouth-wateringly tender lamb and slathered it in mint sauce.
"Got any beer?" Graham asked.
"Domestic or imported?" Mrs. MacFadden queried, sliding the food into the microwave and pressing a button. She poured three glasses of ice water, and slid them across the countertop.
"Hmmm. A Guinness Stout would be great if you have it," he replied.
Mrs. MacFadden beamed at him. "An excellent choice. And you, lad?" she addressed Ian.
"I will have a Guinness Stout, too, thank you," Ian said, ignoring the disapproving frown his father gave him.
"Before you go complaining about the fact that you never drink stout so why do we have it on hand, Mr. Irons, allow me to inform you that it's from Mr. MacFadden's own private stock," Mrs. MacFadden said tartly, correctly interpreting the disgruntled look on her employer's face.
"It's good to know you think so highly of me, Mrs. MacFadden," Kenneth bit out irritably. "But at the risk of sounding petty, let me hasten to assure you that I'll replace whatever Ian and Lieutenant Hopkins drink."
"Completely unnecessary," she retorted blithely, "but thank you for the offer. Gentlemen, please excuse me while I go fetch the wine and the stout. I won't be a minute!" She swept out of the room.
"Good old Cookie!" Ian said happily into the awkward silence she left in her wake. "Although I was fortunate enough to have two excellent cooks as my hosts for the past few days, I missed her cooking."
"So, are the chops dry, sir?" Graham asked his employer blandly.
His only reply was a dark look. "Who did you stay with in your absence, Ian?" Kenneth asked his son pointedly after swallowing a mouthful of the delicious food.
"Robert and Paula Siri," he replied. "Sara's surrogate older brother and sister-in-law. They live in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn."
"Pray tell, what sort of undoubtedly pedestrian fare did they serve you?" Kenneth asked snidely in a blatant effort to destroy the younger man's disgustingly good mood.
"Although admittedly not gourmet fare -- much like the meal you are giving every indication of enjoying right this very moment, I might add -- everything they so generously shared with me was quite delicious," Ian coolly rebuked him. "Paula made London Broil the first night I dined with her family, accompanied by a tossed salad, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, and mixed vegetables. I believe I mentioned the pancake breakfast that I helped prepare alongside Sara's nephew, Joseph Siri, Jr., which I tremendously enjoyed doing. For lunch that day, Paula made homemade chicken salad sandwiches --"
"Oh, I love a good chicken salad!" Graham interjected enthusiastically. "With celery and a little bit of chopped onion. Mmmm."
"It was indeed excellent," Ian confirmed. "For dinner that evening, Robert Siri made Lasagna Bolognese, which Sara claims is better than his mother's, although she swore me to secrecy about that fact. It was superb, although, of course, I cannot vouch for its superiority having never sampled Marie Siri's lasagna. However, I can attest to the fact that Marie -- who, by the way, is also Sara's godmother," he explained for Graham's benefit, "is a phenomenal cook in her own right. She is a native of Italy, and last week she prepared several authentic southern Italian dishes for her family at her home, which is also located in Bay Ridge. Not far from her son's house, as a matter of fact."
"Oh, man, you're killing me over here, Nottingham," Graham groaned. "Italian food is my favorite, especially the real deal, which is next to impossible to find in these parts." He either didn't notice or chose to ignore the oppressive look Kenneth Irons leveled at him.
"Unfortunately, owing to my ill health at the time," Ian continued, "I was only able to eat her Millecosedde vegetable soup, which was outstanding. But I hope to be able to enjoy her culinary expertise at Thanksgiving. She has invited us to join her and her family for the holiday meal," he informed his father.
"Us?" Kenneth queried in surprise, a forkful of food poised in midair.
"Yes. She told me I am welcome to bring a guest."
Just then, Mrs. MacFadden came bustling back into the kitchen carrying a six-pack of Guinness Stout and a bottle of red wine. Seconds later, the microwave beeped.
"Perfect timing!" she said, setting the wine bottle and stout on the countertop.
"Here, let me open that for you, Ma'am," Graham offered, leaning across the counter to snag the wine bottle.
"Why thank you, Lieutenant," she said gratefully, handing him a corkscrew that had a bottle opener on the other end, along with a wineglass, a bottle of stout, and another glass. She passed Ian his own bottle of Guinness and a glass.
Deftly, Graham opened the wine and poured a glass for his employer before opening his stout and then Nottingham's. Idly, he wondered if he could finagle his way into accompanying Irons to this Marie Siri's house for Thanksgiving. If in the next couple of days Nottingham took off again to be with his girlfriend, his employer would need a bodyguard for the trip to Brooklyn, right? However, his hopes on that front were immediately dashed.
"Ian, you know very well that I've had finite plans for Thanksgiving for months," Kenneth Irons said, frowning. "Plans, I might add, that include you."
"My plans have changed, father," Ian said with a lot more bravado than he actually felt. "I intend to have Thanksgiving dinner with Sara and her family." Defiantly, he lifted his glass of Guinness Stout and took a sip.
Kenneth glared at him, infuriated by his insolence. He was on the point of uttering a scathing reply, when he remembered that they had company. A glance at the avidly interested faces of his housekeeper and acting head of security forced him to rein in his temper.
Lieutenant Hopkins cleared his throat, drawing Ian's gaze to him. He frowned in noncomprehension as the younger man made an odd gesture with his right index finger beneath his swollen, bandaged nose.
"That's a bonnie foam mustache yer sportin', laddie," Mrs. MacFadden chuckled, holding up a shiny pot lid so that Ian could see his reflection.
"Oh," Ian said, coloring. He hastily wiped his mouth with his napkin. "It seems there is a knack to pouring stout that I was unaware of," he murmured, eyeing Lieutenant Hopkins' glass, which had a fraction of the foam his did.
"A first-timer, hunh? You gotta tilt the glass while you pour," Graham offered helpfully. "'Tilt and pour, then drink some more!'" he rhymed, grinning and taking a healthy draught of the dark-brown liquid. "It's damn good, isn't it?"
"Yes," Ian agreed, taking another drink and savoring the roasted malt flavor. "Foam mustache notwithstanding, I think I can get used to this."
Abruptly, the lieutenant became aware of the fact that Kenneth Irons was glaring daggers at him. "Always drink in moderation, son," Graham said sternly to Nottingham. "Take me, for instance. I never drink beer while I'm on duty -- which, by the way, technically, I'm not. And I would never drink an entire six-pack by myself. That would be wrong."
"Well, then," Ian smiled devilishly, "it is a very good thing there are two of us drinking!"
"I'll drink to that!" Graham agreed, promptly holding his glass up to Ian.
Grinning conspiratorially at each other, they clinked glasses. In that very moment, a friendship was born.
"I'm thinking it's a very good thing you lads won't be drinking on an empty stomach," Mrs. MacFadden observed wryly, sliding plates of steaming food across the countertop to them. "Dig in!"
More to come. I'd like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to those of you who took time out of your busy days to leave feedback for me. I read every single one with delight and, as always, crave more. Thanks for the gentle nagging, Nanz. I really appreciate it. What can I say? A few chapters ago, I thought I was winding up this, my inaugural fanfic, but, apparently, even the best-laid plans go awry! Keep leaving feedback, and I'll keep writing. After all, Thanksgiving is right around the corner, LOL! dragongrrl
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