“M’lady.”
I laughed and took it, stepping from the car. “You’re an idiot, Ivan.”
“I’m being a gentleman. George would hold good on his threat to render my cock useless if I were anything less than one. And”—he paused as he opened the restaurant door—“I have to admit to being rather attached to it.”
We were immediately led to a table when the host recognized Ivan. But not just any table—the best available table. It hit me now that, despite his relaxed, carefree attitude, Ivan was in London what George was in Seattle. Well-known. Respected.
