Le Français Pt. 11

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Le Français is an original Law Enforcement series playing with the Cop/Not-a-Cop trope, mixed with some social power play, and (hopefully) realistic BDSM elements. The series will jump between categories based on the content of each part. This series is commissioned by the fantastic ThL!

In this chapter you can expect important conversations.

Marc and Sinead deal with the fallout after the Poker Tournament, both for the investigation and personally.

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Chapter 75

"It's done!" Victor shouted, waving off Liam.

The Irishman was frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog, demanding to get at Marc, but the skinny Italian was holding him back.

Marc, meanwhile, was leaning against one of the metal I-beam support pillars twenty feet away as Sinead grimaced at him with a concerned frown and ran her fingers along his jaw, testing it. "You fucking idiot," she murmured to him.

"Now we know where the money is coming from," Marc murmured back, catching her wrists in his hands and lowering them as he looked into her eyes.

"He could have done serious damage, Marc," Sinead whispered. "Now he wants tokill you."

Liam had rolled out of the way of the flying knee and the fight had become a scramble of thrown punches and elbows. The key was that it had been happening in the broken remains of the tall, slender crate that Marc's knee had busted through.

Neither man had gotten the upper hand when they'd both been grabbed and dragged away from each other and the busted crates. Victor had tried to hide his horror at the potential damage to his goods - it looked like there were antiques of some sort, packed in straw.

"I had him," Marc said with more confidence than he necessarily felt. Then he let go of her wrists and brushed a thumb over her cheek. "Tu vaux bien quelques bleus, ma petite rebelle."

"Marc," she sighed, hearing the tone in his voice without knowing what he was saying.

Victor was apparently attempting to throw the skinny Italian man out with Liam in the most polite way possible. The Irishman was still irate despite his bloody nose and chipped tooth, or maybe because of them. Marc had gotten a couple of good, clean strikes with his elbows. Not exactly Karate that his old Master would have been proud of, but it had been working.

"We should have gotten out of here before them," Sinead murmured. "They could just wait outside for us."

"Then we stay for drinks," Marc said. "And enjoy the hospitality of the host. And when their boss is done with his card game, we leave with him." He could practicallyfeel the argument bubbling inside of her, but he pulled her hands to the buttons of his shirt. She'd put it on him but it was still undone. "Please," he requested.

She grimaced but started doing them up while he took a breath and then lifted a foot to slide his shoes back on.

"Marc," Victor said, finally coming over to the pair - half of the small crowd had already headed back up to the parlour room, and the other half were on their way now that the after-fight show was finished. The middleman looked frazzled, and his eyes were drifting over to the broken crates in concern before he brought his attention back forward. "Look, man, that was... Fuck."

"Please, Victor," Marc said, holding up a hand. "I do not blame you for that at all. I'm just sorry it disturbed your event, and I hope your merchandise over there isn't too badly roughed up."

"I... well, let's hope," Victor sighed. "It might not be a good idea for you two to leave for a while."

"Sinead was just thinking the same thing," Marc said, sliding a hand onto the small of her back. "We will rejoin the party upstairs for a drink or two, if that is alright with you?"

"Right, right," Victor said, then blew out a breath and looked over at the antiques again. "Right."

Translations

- Tu vaux bien quelques bleus, ma petite rebelle. = You're worth a few bruises, my little rebel.

Chapter 76

"Stolen?" Sinead wondered out loud, tapping her pen against her desk.

The night, overall, had been a disaster. Marc had surprised her withanother undercover operation, even if what they did before that was pretty fantastic. She'd rubbed shoulders with escorts, sports celebrities, minor politicians and a bigger variety of criminals than she'd ever seen in one place other than behind bars.

Victor Barisha, no matter the fact that he was a slimeball weasel, was a lot better connected than she would have even guessed. She was... 90% sure he wasn'tle Français, but if she could nail him on a big enough charge he could probably sing about all sorts of interesting criminal enterprises for a big enough deal.

The key were the antiques. She and Marc hadn't gotten a very good look at them, but they definitely hadn't been North American, and her gut said they weren't European either. North African, or maybe from somewhere in the Middle East. Her gut also saidthey were what was valuable, not something hidden inside them - if he'd been worried about drugs, he wouldn't care so much about some potential cosmetic damage.

So what antiques needed to be smuggled overseas, shipped down the St Lawrence and into the Great Lakes? From Lake Ontario and the Toronto ports, someone could ship stuff by boat and through the locks to Buffalo, Detroit, Chicago. Milwaukee. Toledo. Cleveland. The list went on and on, and that was just considering if they were the final stop and not just another leg to get deeper into the US.

For them to need to be smuggled, Sinead surmised, the antiques either had to be so valuable that someone didn't want to pay taxes on their purchase, or there was something illegal about them. Sure, they could be made of an illegal substance like ivory, ormaybe be some sort of an illegal object, but they were most likely stolen from someone, somewhere.

"You look like you're a dog who caught a rabbit and doesn't know what to do with it now," Jules said as she came back into the empty 'Financial Forensics' office and set down the fresh cup of coffee on Sinead's desk.

"Just... thinking," Sinead said.

"How hard?" Jules smirked. "Am I going to start seeing steam come out of your ears?"

Sinead rolled her eyes. "Alright, hypothetical situation for now - I suspect someone is smuggling antique goods into the country, and I'm fairly certain I know the generalhow, but not the exact what. How do I get a warrant for the place I know they are at so I can get a proper look at them?"

Jules blew out a breath and shook her head as she sat down, kicking her feet up onto the edge of the desk she'd appropriated while she was working in the office. "Do you have any evidence?"

"Eyewitness testimony that it's there, but not what," Sinead said. "... And the testimony is from someone who might be considered compromised if it gets dug into."

"Sinead, what the fuck did Marc do?" Jules asked.

"I- He- Nothing."

Jules raised both eyebrows. "I-He-Nothing," she mocked. "Did you go stake out that warehouse again, just with Marc this time?"

"... No," Sinead said.

"Did you break in?"

"No!"

"But youwent in," Jules guessed.

Sinead gestured haphazardly, trying to find the words that could deflect the accusation but not finding them. "Victor invited Marc to a poker game," she finally admitted. "Marc brought me as his 'arm candy' undercover."

"And you didn't tell me?" Jules scowled. "I could have been there as backup!"

"I didn't know we were going there until we were already there," Sinead said.

Jules narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and Sinead knew she'd put her foot in her own mouth. "What were you doing driving around with Marcbefore you knew?"

"I... would prefer not to say?"

"Sinead!" Jules said, sitting up and pounding the top of her desk. "He's our fucking not-quite-a-CI! You can't sleep with him!"

"We haven't slept together," Sinead said. "No sex has occurred." Not that she hadn't wanted it to. She'd been kind of expecting sex at the end of the Poker night. The fight had helped sober her quickly, but they'd stayed for another couple of drinks - she'd realised later that he'd only had one glass of wine to her two. At the end of the night, after the poker game had ended and Marc had been the talk of the bar for a few hours, Marc had quietly spoken with the hairy Italian guy and came to some sort of understanding as they shook hands. Victor had apologised again to Marc, promising to meet him in the morning. After that, Marc had driven her back to his place, but instead of escorting her up to his apartment, he'd called her a taxi.

That had been a kick in the cunt. Despite all his stupid decisions that night, she'd been fuckingdripping for more of him. His stupid heroics, his stoic control, and even the way he interacted with the other poker players, had all been fuckinghot. Even him reaching into his suit jacket pocket and finding a card with that blonde bimbo Rachel's phone number on it, and casually making a threesome joke before tossing it away, had been hot. Sinead had been imagining him fucking her on every damn surface of his apartment. And instead, she was sent home cold, horny and full of more questions.

And she didn't even complain about it, because he was in charge. That's what she'd agreed to.

It was killing her, just a little bit, but also turning her on.

"Fuck, Sinead," Jules said, burying her face in her hands. "Fuck, youwant to, though."

"Want is different than will," she lied.

"God fucking damn it," Jules groaned. She leaned back in her desk chair and looked up at the old, dirty drop ceiling tiles above them. "Is this why you don't want Marc as an official CI?"

"No, that's all him," Sinead said. "You talked with him, you know he's willing to help out but doesn't want to ruin his business to do it. And it's not like we had leverage on him."

"Right," Jules grunted. "OK, so whatactually happened that night? Just between us. Then we can figure out what'sactually usable, and what we have to sit on like a fucking butt plug because your horny ass can't just go get laid like a normal fucking person."

So Sinead told her... most of it. About the 'dates' with Marc, and being undercover with Victor. About the poker game, and the fight, and the crates. She kept back the dirty stuff, though. The BDSM talks. The oral. The gifts - God, the gifts might have been the worst part, procedurally, since they could be considered bribes. She kept all of that to herself because it belonged to her. They were her choices.

And she was trying to choose both her workand Marc, because for once in her life she'd found something other than work that shewanted. And she was going to try and hold onto them both.

Chapter 77

He had about three minutes of quiet before there was another knock on his office door. Marc looked up from his computer and suppressed his grimace, putting on a magnanimous smile instead as he stood up and went to the door.

"Gregory," he said. "Bonjour. I had a feeling I would be getting a visit from my favourite member of the Board today."

"Marc," Gregory Stanhope said as he took the invitation in, patting Marc on the shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"About how I look, I expect," Marc said, closing the door and gesturing that they could sit in the chairs as opposed to facing off over the desk. Both men took their seats, Gregory with the bit of grumble that came with being a man of his age.

"Was that Victor I saw leaving your lobby?" Gregory asked once they were settled. "Honestly, Marc, I know we give you about as much latitude as a man could ask for in this business, but Victor as a client?"

"Ah, oui, yes, I understand," Marc said. As soon as he'd seen Gregory at the game, he'd known this conversation would need to happen. Victor being here moments before only increased the need. "Before I answer that, perhaps you could... assuage my own thoughts, Gregory. How did you know about the poker game on Saturday and get your invitation?"

"Friend of a friend situation," Gregory said. Then his eyes widened a little. "Oh, you're worrying the same things about me that I am about you."

"Quite possibly," Marc said with a little smile. "What... sort of man would you consider the 'friend of a friend' who got you that invitation?"

"Fairweather, occasionally interesting, and not that trustworthy when it would matter," Gregory said. "I'd throw him a lifeline if he fell off a boat into the lake, but I wouldn't dive in after him by any means."

"Mmm," Marc nodded. "And your impression of Victor?"

"Exactly what he appeared to be, I should think," Gregory said. "A lowbrow gangster running a poker game in a warehouse. What doyou think of him?"

"I think he's a more dangerous man than you might suspectbecause he is a lowbrow gangster running a poker game in a warehouse that attracts men like you and I to have a reason to rub elbows with some of the other men and women there."

"Mm," Gregory grunted.

Marc took in a breath and let it out, making a decision. "Victor is not a client of the firm," he said. "I've... made theappearance of agreeing to do some off-the-books work for him. Call it a personal financial audit. Butbecause he is... who he is, there are no contracts. And, I'm trusting you with this, Gregory - I am passing along everything I learn about his operation to the police."

Gregory nodded with an understanding look, then frowned as his brow furrowed. "That's the right thing to do, Marc, but-"

"My reputation, yes," Marc said. "And the firm's. I understand. I have an understanding with the detective I am working with on this - I will never be named in an official document or asked to testify. The information I find and pass to them will not be admissible in court, but gives them a place to start looking."

"That must be highly irregular," Gregory chuckled, his concern abating. "How did you get them to go along with that?"

"Well, you've met the Detective already," Marc smiled softly.

"Have I?" Gregory asked.

"My friend Sinead, from the game."

His eyebrows went up. "Ah! That explains so much, then. Ihad been wondering about Felicity."

"Felicity and I are still on our usual terms," Marc said. "The Detective was on my arm so she could get a look into the operation. I assure you, Gregory, I am not in league with the likes of Victor Barisha, and I am doing everything in my power to not tarnish mine or the firm's reputation."

"I didn't doubt it, Marc," Gregory said, waving dismissively. "But you know I had to ask."

"I understand," Marc nodded. "And about theother event of that evening..."

"No need to explain, other than to tell me you're going to be more careful in the future," Gregory said. "The last thing we need is that dazzling brain of yours getting dashed on a concrete floor. Even if it is for the honour of a gorgeous woman."

"I'll be more careful," Marc smirked. "I wouldn't want the bottom line of the firm to be impacted by any future concussions or brain bleeds I may have."

"Good!" Gregory chuckled. "Then I have something different to ask you. How would you like to come over tomorrow night for a game of Baccarat? Are you familiar? It's supposedly one of the big games in Vegas and other casino locations for 'whale' players such as ourselves, and Andrea needs practice. I'll host the friendly game, and I've found a dealer to hire in. Bring Felicity, we'll make an evening of it."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled for the invitation," Marc said, standing up and offering the man his hand. "See you then?"

Gregory took his hand and shook it firmly. "Absolutely."

Chapter 78

"Marc!" Felicity gasped.

"Shhh," Marc hushed her, catching the busty blonde's hands as she reached to touch his bruised ribs. "It's fine."

"No, it is certainlynot fine," Felicity said, shooting him a concerned look with her brow furrowed tightly. She was utterly adorable, giving him that look, but he knew that she was more than just an adorable face.

"There were some... issues at the poker event," Marc said. "Issues that I had to handle."

"She got you into a fight?" Felicity scowled.

"To be fair, ma petite fée, the fight was not her fault." Marc let go of Felicity's wrists and carefully guided her hand to the bruising, letting her press her hand against it. They were supposed to go out for dinner and then come back to his apartment for their usual fun, but Marc had decided that after the events of Saturday evening, and the long day of work recovering, he would order in instead. "The Detective was, in fact, quite cross with me for feeling that I needed to handle the issue instead of letting her handle the man in question."

"Oh, Marc," Felicity sighed, feeling the warmth of the bruise and looking into his eyes. "Chivalry never died, it just took a trip to France and decided to stay there for a while, didn't it?"

Marc smirked a little. "Chivalry wasborn in France, ma petite fée. Somehow the English have convinced the world that they were the birthplace of knights, just like so many other things."

"Lay on the couch," she ordered, moving her hands up to start stripping his dress shirt off the rest of the way. She'd been waiting for him when he got home from work, having let herself in, and had been working on her thesis until she had put it aside as soon as he'd entered. It had been the wince of pain as she hugged and kissed him that had tipped her off.

Marc sighed, but let her boss him around as she stripped him down to his briefs and then had him lay down. Sometimes a little role reversal, in small ways, only highlighted their desired roles when they flipped back.

Felicity didn't remain clothed for long. She quickly stripped off her knit sweater to reveal her wonderful curves and the bright red lingerie bra that was managing to contain her bust. Her tight jeans went next, revealing the matching panties. He'd bought them for her a year ago - at this point, her entire underwear drawer at homeand at his apartment were entirely Marc-purchased lingerie. Properly attired, she sauntered to the kitchen, knowing he would be watching her ass, and pulled out the jar of coconut oil and came back with it. She mounted him carefully, settling her butt down on his thighs, and then ran her hands up his back.

"If it had been me there, instead of the Detective," she murmured. "What would have happened?"

"I don't know if anything would have been different," Marc said. "Not the way the events occurred."

"She didn't lead the man on or anything?" Felicity asked. "Maybe trying to get him to reveal some nugget of information she could use?"

"No, Felicity," Marc said softly. "The Detective was 'on duty' so to speak, but not trying to rush things or take risks. She made it clear she was not receptive to the man, and several hours later he pushed things again. If it had been you, perhaps you would have manoeuvred yourself to stay closer to me while I was in the card game, but that may not have even mattered."

"Mm," Felicity hummed, opening the jar of coconut oil and starting to rub some of the gel into her palms, warming it up.

"And if he'd tried with you what he tried with the Detective, the fight would have been different," Marc said. "I would not have used it to discover more about the host, and I would have been perhaps a little more emotional."

"Emotional?" Felicity asked quietly as she pressed her hands to his lower back and started to massage him.

"You are a beautiful, capable woman, ma petite fée. With many skills, and an intelligence that is as pointed as my own, just in a different area," Marc said. "Sinead hasdifferent skills. Self-defence being one of them. I was not soworried about him touching her because he wastouching her, but because of what her reaction would be. I fought because he touched her, but I was notangry. With you, I would have been angry."

She sighed softly, sliding her hands up his back. "Oh, Marc," she said.

The massage lasted a while, and at some point, she disposed of her bra and her big, pillowy breasts pressed against his back and she kissed and nibbled on his neck. When she asked him to turn over he did, and she sat on his stiff cock, their underwear between them, and slowly ground her pussy against his stiffness as she massaged his front. Once her hands had rubbed the oil into every square inch of his torso, she leaned back down and pressed her tits to his chest as she started to slowly make out with him.

They were only interrupted by the knock at the door.

"The food," Marc said.

Felicity sat up, a little smile on her face. "Should I answer the door like this?"

"It would be the greatest tip they ever got," Marc chuckled, sitting up with her and palming her now oily breasts, giving them a loving squeeze. "But you'remine tonight, ma petite fée. Rien qu'à moi et à personne d'autre."

She kissed him, and Marc kissed her back firmly before encouraging her to dismount from his legs so he could stand and rush upstairs for a robe. First, dinner. Then he would remind her thathe was the one who gave orders in his house. And she would laugh, and bite her lip, and do exactly as she was told with a joy in her eyes.

It would be a good night.

Translations

- Rien qu'à moi et à personne d'autre. = Just me and no one else.

Chapter 79

Sinead hated that she was nervous. Again.

And this time it wasn't the kind of nervousness that had butterflies fluttering between her gut and her cunt because Marc was scary and sexy and she was turned on. This time she was nervous because as she waited for him, Jules was next to her in the coffee shop and Sinead dreaded that Jules was going tosee something. Catch on to Sinead's secrets. The things she wasn't telling her best friend.

If anyone would notice that Sinead acted differently around Marc, it would be Jules.

So she couldn't. And yet, she sort of felt like she had to.

Marc was in control, and he'd made it clear he didn't like the idea of a brat being in... whatever they were calling the thing between them. But what was consideredbratty when it wasn't a BDSM thing? What if she wasn't being bratty, she was just being a cop and a detective, but he felt like something she said or did was bratty?

"Sinead, what the fuck?" Jules asked quietly, setting down her coffee and giving Sinead's foot a hard enough nudge that the bouncing leg slipped off of where she'd crossed it at her knee.

"Sorry," Sinead said, readjusting in her seat. "Probably didn't need this cup of coffee."

"I told you to get tea," Jules rolled her eyes.

"Tea might as well be water filtered through a handful of dirt."

"Because coffee beans areso much more refined."

"You drink coffee too," Sinead countered.

"Next time get tea so you aren't bouncing off the fucking walls. God, you're gonna need to pee as soon as we get back in the car, aren't you?"

"Shut up," Sinead sighed. The door to the coffee shop opened and she glanced over, but it wasn't him.

"Is he usually this late?" Jules asked.

"No," Sinead said. "Usually he's pretty prompt, even when he says he's running late. I think it's a European thing or something."

"I thought the French were known for being sort of lax on promptness?" Julia snorted.

"OK, maybe it's just a Marc thing," Sinead shrugged. "Or, like, an 'I make a shitload of money because I'm smart as fuck and super structured in how I do things' thing."

"Sounds like he has a stick up his ass to me," Jules said. "Though I guess he wasn't like that when we had dinner at your place." Then she smirked and snickered. "What if you're all hot for him, and it turns out he's into getting pegged or something? All that sexual tension and suaveness and he wants you to grab a dildo and-"

"Fuck off," Sinead sighed, very aware that Marc was the exact fucking opposite ofthat, then sat up as she saw Marc through the front window. "He's here."

"Calm your tits," Jules murmured with another smirk, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Twat," Sinead murmured back, then tried not to smile as Marc finished brushing the snow from his coat and strode through the seating area of the coffee shop and approached their table.

"Detectives," he said with that fucking smile of his as he nodded to them and swept off his coat, folding it neatly once and hanging it over the free chair at their table. "A moment, if you please. Can I get you anything while I order?"

"We're good," Jules said.

Marc looked to Sinead.

"We're good," she confirmed.

Marc nodded and went to the counter to make an order, and Sinead could tell immediately that he was being his smooth-talking self as the older woman behind the counter gave him a warm look and started bantering with him.

"OK, he's hot," Jules sighed. "You're still on thin fuckin' ice."

"Fuck off," Sinead sighed, shaking her head. She wasn't sure what was worse, Jules knowing just enough to torture her like this with her little barbs, or Jules not knowing before and flirting with him in her apartment.

Marc came back carrying his coffee with a ceramic cup and saucer - a fucking cup and saucer when everyone else in the place had basic cardboard takeaway cups. And he had a croissant on a plate, buttered neatly.

As soon as she saw the croissant, Sinead regretted not ordering one. Or a doughnut.

"I apologise for the delay, Detectives," Marc said as he set his plate and saucer down and pulled out his chair, adjusting how his coat hung on it before taking his seat. "It was not my intent to keep either of you lovely ladies waiting on my account."

"It's fine, Marc," Jules said, leaning back in her chair and eyeing him over a bit. Sinead wasn't sure if she was doing it because she was doing another round of judging him, or just to bug Sinead. Either one was equally likely.

"Thank you for coming," Sinead said. "I know we could have met at your office, but this seemed... more appropriate."

Marc lifted an eyebrow as he took a sip of his coffee, then set it down on the saucer neatly. "Is this meant to be aclandestine meeting?"

"... Sort of," Sinead said.

"More yes than no," Jules said, leaning forward in her seat. Sinead took a second glance at her friend and partner - had Jules unbuttoned an extra button on purpose, or had it just slipped? It wouldn't have been the first time for either. "Look, Marc, I get that you and Sinead had your arrangement with you helping her sort through financial documents and such, but I didn't realise you were... Fuck it. I didn't realise you were 'going undercover' with her. That's super dangerous."

"Ah, Julia," Marc said with one of those fucking smiles of his. "Please, providing Sinead with an unobtrusive escort into locations that would otherwise be more difficult for her to access is my pleasure."

Jules gave him a deadpan look. "Yeah, sure."

Marc sighed, cocking his head slightly. "Detective, I would be happy to provide you with a similar excursion. I'm sure Sinead would vouch for my proficiency as an undercover partner."

"Marc," Sinead groaned. "Just... stop talking."

Jules snorted and Marc gave her another one of those grins.

"Look," Jules said, lowering her voice a little more as she leaned into the table between them. "I'm not saying what you've helped us uncover so far isn't helpful, but every time you get involved and things aren't done by the books it makes things morecomplicated. You know this, Sinead knows this. At this point, things have gotten so fucking complicated that the little knot you two have tied is going to take some serious unpicking to make any of it workable."

"It sounds like you've already come to a decision on how that 'unpicking' needs to occur, Detective," Marc said with a little smirk. He glanced at Sinead. "Sometimes itis helpful to get a third, outside perspective on things."

Sinead felt her eyes widen just slightly, reading the unspoken question in his eyes. Does Jules know? Marc was asking. NO, she silently screamed back, hoping he would get the message without Jules catching on.

"Well, that's me, the third perspective," Jules said, almost but not quite rolling her eyes. "And yeah, we worked out what needs to happen. Iget why you're refusing to be an official informant, Marc, but it's really fucking us here - none of the financial documents you've got us are admissible in court, which means nothing we find out following them without being able to show another way we discovered the info is rotten too. And since you don't want to be named or testify, that means every time you do something with Sinead it's pretty much useless too. So your whole thing with the cards and finding out about the smuggling? So far it's totally useless to us."

"I appreciate the dire picture that you have painted for me, Detective Xu, but I sense you're coming to the climactic declaration of this midday meeting?" Marc asked. He'd been taking small bites of his croissant throughout the chat and now he gestured with the tail end of it. "In other words, perhaps you should get to the point?"

"We need actionable information, Marc," Sinead sighed. "Something one step removed from Victor so that everything we've done so far can be plausible happenstance. Something that Jules can chase down separate from me, because Victor knows my face now and that it's tied to you. I can't show up in court or he'll know you're involved, and that'll roll downhill. So we need to figure out what those antiques were, where they are now, or even better where they are going and how. If we can find outwhat andwhere then Jules can set up a plausible discovery of them, which can lead to us getting a warrant to dig up everything else we already know about from your work."

"I see," Marc said, looking back and forth between Sinead and Jules. He was leaning back now, and Sinead's training told her he'd settled into a power position. Open body language, feeling unthreatened and dominant. Feeling in control.

Before, it would have gotten Sinead's back up to see him like that. Nothim, but someone standing between her and what she needed for a case. Someone she was going to need to cajole, intimidate or otherwise manoeuvre into doing what she wanted.

Now, because it was Marc, because of everything between them, Sinead felt her pussy start getting wet.

Sinead knew that Marc, in control, in a position to make demands, meant that she would be paying a larger price than before. Andthat meant that she might finally get the fucking that she'd been craving from him.

God, I'm fucked up, she thought to herself. And yet she couldn't help it.

"If you're about to ask what's in it for you, I'm going to seriously consider taking a key to your probably very expensive car," Jules said dryly.

"Not at all, Detective," Marc said. "No, I'm very happy with the current arrangement we have going. In fact, I would say that I have very few complaints at all. Other than the business with the legalities of the information, would you disagree, Sinead?"

"No," Sinead said quickly. "No, I'm happy with the terms of our... agreement."

"What do you think of helping us get this straightened out then?" Jules asked.

"I think it will take some careful execution, but I can likely figure something out," Marc said. "Though I may only be able to discover what, whereor when, not all three."

"Whatever you can get for us, we'll make it work," Sinead assured him.

"Where and when are more important than what," Jules added. "We can figure out the What once we have the suspicious cargo in custody. We need to catch it before we can tag it."

"Understood, Detective," Marc nodded, taking a final sip of his coffee and setting it down on his saucer. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I do need to get back downtown. While I will always appreciate a visit with a pair of beautiful women, and my two favourite Detectives, Iam expected to be available to my paying clients. En avons-nous fini très chères?"

He shook each of their hands, acting like the smarmy French bastard he was and kissing their knuckles before sweeping his coat on and giving them one more nod before leaving.

"God, that's corny and shouldn't be attractive," Jules said as he stepped out the door of the coffee shop and back into the snow. "But somehow he makes it work."

"I know," Sinead grumbled. She hated the fact that she loved it.

"Do you?" Jules asked her with a sly smirk. "Do you know?"

"Fuck off," Sinead sighed.

Translations

- En avons-nous fini très chères? = Are we done, dear ones?

Chapter 80

'I'm sorry I didn't give you a heads up.'

Marc sighed as he checked his phone and saw the text from Sinead. He wasn't sure if he'd put up too much of a front or not with Jules in the meeting. The truth of the matter was, on this sort of a day in Toronto even the Finance world started to slow down as the weather plastered the streets with slush and thick snow. It was like the mood in every office across the city shifted, the heavier the coating of snow. And a late February snow could bethick due to nearby Lake Ontario.

Making the trip out to the coffee shop the Detectives had chosen had taken some time, but it was time Marc could easily spare. More than half of his employees were working from home for the day, there weren't any deadlines approaching until the end of next week, and it wasn't exactly the time of year to be aggressively hunting for new clients or projects - that season would come soon enough, not that Marc was the one to go hunting for them at this point. His sorts of projects came looking for him, these days.

'It was no problem at all, Detective,' Marc texted back.'It was good to see you and Julia working together again.'

'Are we good?' Sinead asked quickly.

Marc looked at the message and decided to let her stew for a few minutes. She'd responded immediately, which told him this, or her next question, was what she really wanted to talk about. Her apology had been a pretext. He turned back to his computer, finishing his email of items for Jillian to check up on for him, before considering how to respond to Sinead.

'We should talk about expectations, ma petite rebelle,' Marc texted her.

'I assumed I would owe you,' she responded a few minutes later, though Marc only glanced at the text since Jillian had come down to his office to follow up on a couple of items rather than them trading emails back and forth. She really was excellent at her job. Marc made a note to make a reservation for her and her partner somewhere nice next week. He'd pay her the same, or better, than some of his other staff if it wouldn't have raised flags with the greater HR machine of the company - she was more valuable than half of them by far.

Once Jillian had strutted back out of his office, shooting him a knowing smirk as she closed his office door that had him wondering if maybe she had somehow figured out how to clone his phone so she could read his texts, Marc responded to Sinead again.'Assumptions are dangerous, Detective. What did you assume I would be owed?'

Her next response didn't come for a good twenty minutes, but when it did it came in the form of a picture. He was a little surprised she'd gone this far, but then they'd done much more risque things now than this.

Sinead was in a bathroom stall, likely at work, and her slacks were down around her thighs as she took a picture of her cute, pale ass. Her buttplug was perfectly seated between her cheeks, and her vagina was slightly flushed with arousal.

'We'll see,' Marc replied, smirking to himself. That had been a backhanded request if ever he'd received one. He knew he was stretching things out with the redhead, but now that the game had progressed to explicit consent, the anticipation was delicious and there would only ever be onefirst time.

He also knew that he was torturing her with a comment like that.

'Tonight?' she asked.

Now she wasn't even trying to be demure.

'I would, ma petite rebelle, but I am otherwise engaged tonight. I will let you know when.'

'Thank you.'

He knew she didn't mean it. That was a 'Fuck' sort of thank you if he'd ever read one. He smirked a little, glancing at it one more time before setting his phone down and getting to work. He really was otherwise engaged for the night, and the Detectivehad summoned him to a meeting even if it had been more because of Jules than her own demand.

Chapter 81

Felicity leaned over the centre console of the car, kissing Marc's shoulder. He was just parking out in front of Gregory Stanhope's absolute mansion of a house in the Bridle Path neighbourhood of the city, northeast of downtown. Marc had once heard of the neighbourhood being called 'Millionaire's Row' by a Real Estate agent, and that might have been true at one point but with the overpopulation of the city and the skyrocketing real estate prices it was probably more like 'multi-millionaires row' at that point.

Of course, Gregory certainly qualified for that title, sitting on the boards of several highly profitable companies as he did.

Marc turned to Felicity and found her smiling at him as she rested her chin on his shoulder. Her eyes, bright and glittering from the house lights, were mirroring her smile.

"What is it, ma petite fée?" he asked, taking her hand in his own and giving it a squeeze. They were both wearing gloves, his leather driving gloves and hers fashionable long suede gloves to match the coat he'd given her the previous winter.

"I'm just really happy," she said, a little wistfully.

"I'm very happy you're here too," Marc replied, leaning in and giving her a gentle kiss. He could feel her continue smiling.

He got out of the car and went around to open the door for her, helping her up and out since she was wearing heels that he'd chosen for her to match her dress. They were entirely unsuitable for the weather, but she looked fantastic. Then, with her on his arm, they walked across the cleared driveway and up the steps to the front door.

"Do we know who else is expected?" Felicity asked.

"Only Gregory and his daughter Andrea," Marc said. "But I'm sure it will be a selection of the regular rogue's gallery."

She flashed him another smile, this one more of a smirk, as they reached the door and he thumbed the doorbell. "The fact that you still consider your friends a 'rogue's gallery' tells me that you're still a lovable little boy at heart, darling."

Marc chuckled and let his eyes drift down from her face to her cleavage, which was peaking delightfully from the top of her coat. "Well, if that's the case, then this lovable little boy is easily distracted."

That made Felicity laugh, and it was perfect timing as the door opened and Gregory, clad in a wool knit sweater, slacks and house slippers broke into a chuckle of his own because the blonde's smile and laugh were often infectious.

"Felicity, my dear," Gregory said, offering his hands and helping her up the stoop and into the house. "It's so good to see you!"

"Oh, it's been too long, Greg," Felicity said, sweeping him into a hug.

"Marc," Gregory grinned, offering his hand for a firm shake. "Glad you could make it."

Their coats were taken and hung up, Gregory made the appropriate 'Oohs' and 'Aahs' over Felicity's dress without going overboard, and he led them deeper into the house to his parlour. The regular furniture had been rearranged and a couple of the couches moved somewhere else in the house to make room for a big card table that would have fit fairly easily onto a casino floor. When men of Gregory's means decided to host a party to do something like help their daughter learn a mildly obscure card game, they rented a professional table and hired a professional dealer. That dealer was a pretty black woman, her curly hair neatly tucked back and her glasses giving her a 'nerd chic' look while her crisply buttoned blouse had its sleeves rolled up. This, of course, was to provide a dramatic frame for her hands as she did shuffling tricks for the amusement of some of the guests.

The display was interrupted by Marc and Felicity's entrance, and Joan Stanhope immediately abandoned her awe of the card tricks as she swept across the room, beaming in delight. "Felicity," Gregory's latest wife said, spreading her arms as if she were going to pick Felicity up and fly off with her. "Darling, it's been so long!"

"Joan," Felicity said, the warmth in her voice as she hugged the other woman back hiding the mild disdain she actually held for her. She'd told Marc before the problem wasn't technically Joan herself, more just the position that the woman had put herself in. Felicity was friends with Melissa, Greg's third wife who he was still with when Marc had started bringing her to functions and introducing himself as her escort for the evening. She was also friends with Wendy, who she hadn't known while Greg was married to her, but who was still very active in the philanthropic and art scene in the city. Being friends withtwo of Gregory's ex-wives, and Joan being something of a pretty airhead, meant that Felicity had to put in just a touch of effort to be her utterly pleasant, completely engaged self.

It also didn't help that Joan was twenty-three, younger than both of Greg's two eldest children, and Felicityswore that the woman had been in one of the big first-year university courses she'd TA'd for while she was doing her Masters degree. She hadn't been able to find any proof of that (she'd been mostly interested to know if the woman had written a solid essay or not), but the weird feeling was still there that she was simplytoo young for Greg.

The only saving grace was that Andrea, Greg's youngest, the only Stanhope heir living at home, and the focus of the evening, had developed a good relationship with her new 'stepmother.'

It took moments for Felicity to be getting led off by Joan, and Marc smiled a little as Felicity clung to his fingers for just a moment and looked back at him with that same warm smile, but a playful little,'No, don't let me go!' tease in her eyes before she laughed and followed Joan. Marc had already spotted Lucia Randolph in a conversation across the room, and they'd traded friendly nods, so he knew Felicity wouldn't be getting tired of the gathering any time soon. Lucia was more his date's speed, a fellow academic though she'd made the transition to the private sector a few years ago.

"How are things, Marc?" Gregory asked, gesturing over towards the fully serviced bar on one end of the parlour. Marc nodded and followed, knowing Gregory had some whiskey or scotch in mind for him to try. He always did.

"Things are stable, Gregory," Marc said, patting the older man on the shoulder. "Which is exactly what we hope for, this time of year."

"Too true, too true," Gregory chuckled.

It was Scotch this time, from some corner of Scotland Marc had never heard of. Gregory's passion, beyond making money and women who were too young for him, was sharing the little 'liquid gems' he found as he travelled. And he had the fully renovated Tasting cellar to prove it in the basement. They didn't get that far from the small party, though, and it was only a few minutes of chit-chat before the final guests arrived; Paul and Penny Ballinger, old money socialites that edged closer to Gregory's age than Marc's.

With all the guests, playing or not, arrived, Gregory called everyone to the table and the dealer explained the rules of Baccarat for the uninitiated, which was most of them. Marc knew of the game but paid attention to remind himself of the rules, which then reminded him why he didn't pay much attention to the game anyway. Unlike poker or even blackjack, Baccarat wasn't really a game of skill. It also really wasn't a game you would want to play anywhere other than a Casino. There were only ever two hands, the 'Player' and the 'Dealer,' and you had to place your bet for which would get closest to nine points without ever seeing a card. That was theonly decision point for the player, everything else had a strict set of rules for when each hand received another card or not, all managed by the dealer.

Marc's mind immediately spotted the obvious way to 'win' at the game - always bet Player (since betting Dealer usually came with a small cut to the Casino on a win), and if you lost, double your bet over and over until you won. You could, in a vacuum without other factors and enough resources to make it happen, make it statistically unlikely to ever 'lose' in the long run. Of course, a Casino could screw with those efforts, the most obvious being putting betting caps on someone. If you weren'tallowed to double your bet over a certain amount, you couldn't make back the amount you had already lost.

But all of that made the game both an excellent social game that someone could barely pay attention to, but also an utter bore if you weren't playing against the House because you were never competing in any meaningful way.

Marc started the evening as one of the eight players there was room for at the table, along with Gregory, Andrea, Paul Ballinger, and a few other guests. Andrea was taking the game seriously and Marc could immediately tell she was likely doing some form of counting cards, though he wasn't quite sure how effective that would be - he knew the basic maths behind counting cards for Blackjack, but wasn't sure how they translated when there were only ever two hands so the decks cycled much slower.

There was no money on the table, just chips and bragging rights, so Marc found himself making idle chat with whichever player was next to him for the first hour or so of the party, occasionally finding his drink had been refilled by a magnanimous Gregory as he puttered around doing his hosting duties. The man did love a good, old-fashioned party even if he was a frequent attendee of the more extravagant Fundraisers in the city.

Marc found himself distracted, though, over time. From both the game and the conversation.

Felicity was effortless as she moved through this world. She wasn't the thinnest, or the youngest, woman in the room. She wasn't the richest, the most accomplished. Didn't come from old money, or carve out her fortune. Yet she was... radiant. A star that others orbited around. Marc had never noticed that before. Felicity didn't just work the room, the room adjusted and worked for her. Whether it was by choice or by will, Marc watched her direct the flow of conversation partners like a police officer directing traffic, except she made it an art form. And she did it humbly, never stepping on Joan's toes as the hostess, never letting a hint of friction develop.

And, thinking about it, Marc couldn't remember a time she hadn't seemed this... poised. She'd been nervous, the first few times she'd donned a ballgown he'd bought her and took his arm as they stepped into a major fundraiser. And she certainly hadn't been a naturalleader of the wealthy elite in her quiet way at first; it had taken time for that to happen. But it was that poise, that perfect balance of grace, good humour and friendly flirtatiousness that got them all on her side.

"What is it, dear?" Felicity asked. She'd caught him watching her and he'd left the game table, crossing the parlour to her. She'd slipped from her conversation effortlessly and met him partway, and smiled questioningly as Marc side-stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her gently and leaning down to press his lips to her ear.

"I was just admiring you, ma petite fée," he murmured.

"You were?" she asked, turning and smiling at him again. "I don't know what you would need to admire, darling. You picked every piece of this outfit and werevery thorough in making sure each piece was in its proper place."

Marc grinned, remembering how he had rained kisses, and spankings, over Felicity as she'd gotten ready for the evening. How he'd chosen her lingerie and the dress. Her jewellery. She loved that he enjoyed pampering her that way, and he loved that she delighted in receiving both soothing kisses and sharp, teasing slaps to the ass, thigh or breast. She'd had to change her panties before they ended up leaving.

"I admire you inthat way often, Felicity," he said. "But just now? I was admiring the woman behind the beautiful face, and the body of a Goddess. I was simply admiring you. Tu ne te rends pas compte à quel point tu illumines la pièce."

"Thank you," she said simply and brought up a hand to hold him still as she kissed him lightly. She kept it demure - they were at a salon party, after all - but it was more than a peck. It lingered. It spoke of the things that were more than envelopes and business deals and payment for services.

It spoke of more than the games that felt less and less like games between the two of them. Especially now that he was playing with Sinead.

"I'm going to miss this," Felicity said gently, leaning back against him as she revelled in being held in his arms. She was looking across the room at the game table where Andrea was in a teasing argument with Gregory, and the Ballingers were egging them both on.

"Miss it?" Marc asked in mild confusion.

"Eventually, dear," Felicity said, patting his hand. "When it's gone, I'll miss this. Everything ends eventually."

Marc wasn't sure he liked that thought.

Translations

- Tu ne te rends pas compte à quel point tu illumines la pièce. = You don't realize how much you light up the room.

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