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notasapleasure · 8 months

Note

Also can I hear abt the Marthe/Kiaya band AU thing?

Well first, thank you for reminding me it was all in the file named 'bad very bad no good' and just comes after the already published horrible Jerott/GRM (cw rape, dddne!!!). Haha yes, Jerott's my favourite character, why do you ask? This is now uhhhh a 78 page document.

As for Marthe/Kiaya, there's nothing concrete written really, just allusions to it, and I think I was probably gonna follow canon in that way and not go into direct pov on them.

I've just pasted the couple of scenes with Kiaya below to go with my uhh minimal commentary/thoughts! They hopefully demonstrate my idea that she's quite happy to take any favours or gifts going, whether they're offered by Marthe or Lymond, but she keeps her cards close to her chest regarding what, if anything, she intends to offer in return. She sees an investment opportunity in the form of Lymond, as discussed with La Dame (named Thomasina Durand in the AU; also reminder that the Aga Morat is 'Baron Morgan'), but unfortunately Marthe is not viewed in the same way. We're too early for Tori Amoses and Fiona Apples - Marthe's too abrasive and too stubborn, too 'difficult' to market at the scale Kiaya deals in, too threatening to be a Kate Bush, too fierce to be a Toyah, too normal to be a Siouxie Sioux, etc. But Kiaya won't say no to a pretty woman offering to take her to bed *shrug emoji*

Marthe is mad that Francis is trying to muscle in on her tactics - she tries to persuade herself of the belief that anything he does to Kiaya she can do better, but she's been round long enough to know that men always get the contract deals first. It does mean that Kiaya can pick and choose just exactly what kind of nice time she gets to have. She is living her best life :)))

I don't know that Marthe falls *in love* with her, but she absolutely yearns for the power and influence Kiaya (appears) to have, and she imagines that the two of them would be unstoppable if Kiaya would just stop being some kind of gender traitor and back her and her music. She's grown up with her foster mother/grandmother telling her she'll never be enough, but never really understanding *why* (beyond 'misogyny') and never fully internalising the message, so she's always in a state of believeing/not believing it. Rationality about the sexist world she inhabits is constantly warring with ego - she's seen enough 'exceptions to the rule', women who are extraordinary enough to break through, but she's also seen the flip-side and knows no-one ever makes it on their own, they're always a product of a certain kind of marketing and industry support, and so there's a kind of love/hate relationship to the idea of Kiaya and what she can offer. She's always hopeful she can persuade her to take her side, and Kiaya will never be moved.

Kiaya has an open relationship with Dragut, though they'd never be such vulgar hippies as to describe it like that. They make their influence and power work for them wherever they are - fear, lust, money, whatever is most appropriate. She does have a genuine appreciation of music and what will go down well with the public, though she's probably personally rather condescending when it comes to what's popular - away from work Kiaya won't listen to anything younger than 200 years old, because that's the stuff that's truly impacted the world. Marthe playing an antique instrument to her in the privacy of her hotel room is an utter treat, a delight, a morsel of ambrosia - but it's not going to make her any money!

Eventually, I think Oonagh is a helpful person to give Marthe some perspective on band AU Kiaya. Oonagh has met women like this, power-brokers like this, people who take and take and take but simply never give anything of themselves back. Oonagh understands Kiaya with one glance at their first meeting, and when Marthe overhears her assessment of her something probably clicks and she's able to restore perspective on the 'relationship' that never was. She has a new strong force of a woman to learn from and admire :))

Intro to Kiaya in the bandverse (as it currently stands, but of course she meets Philippa in New York before then).

The following day, with Jerott pacified by the diazepam Onophrion had brought and administered - after assuring Francis that one calming dose would not render him addicted to a new drug - Francis managed to sleep through the hot afternoon. He almost felt refreshed, almost felt hungry enough for one of Morgan's enormous steaks, when he made his way to the bar that evening.

He found, however, that Morgan already had company, and stopped in the middle of the room when he recognised the woman sitting next to him.

Her back ramrod straight, her suit and make-up immaculate, talent scout and agent extraordinaire, Kiaya Çalışkan smiled at Francis and there was mischief in her eyes.

He'd never met her, but everyone in the industry knew her. Though she moved in different circles to Margaret Douglas, her reputation for unearthing talent was no less remarkable, and her track record for securing deals with the big labels was formidable. If Margaret was a king-maker in the British post-punk scene, Kiaya Çalışkan was handmaiden to the globe-straddling empires of artists whose work transcended local or national scenes and matched the invisible, unpredictable zeitgeist of the youth from Tokyo to New York to Berlin. She was even rumoured to have contacts working behind the Iron Curtain, subtly chipping away at the soundtrack of Communist repression on behalf of global capitalism's need to discover new markets.

In short - she was not the sort of person Francis expected to encounter in a barn lying well off the beaten track, in a state not known for its wild creative scene.

Morgan beckoned him over. "Frankie, come and join us!"

He moved stiffly, all the while trying to read what was in Kiaya's expression, as Morgan changed nothing about his own habits, pawing at Francis' leg beneath the table when he sat down.

"It seems I've done you a disservice, boy," Morgan beamed at him. "You are a real rock star..."

Francis didn't take his eyes from Kiaya, whose smile broadened, her white teeth echoing Morgan's.

"Mr Crawford," she said warmly. "It's so good to meet you."

"Did your car break down on the I-70 too, Kiaya Hanım?"

Kiaya turned her smile to Morgan - all condescending business politeness. Her dangling, jewel-speckled earring glittered against her thick mahogany hair when she spoke; the angle she displayed for Francis showed off the profile of her handsome, curved nose. "You tell him, Baron," she purred.

Morgan wore a smug expression. He swilled the bourbon round in his glass, and Francis wondered what time their business meeting in the bar had begun. He was drinking like this wasn't his first of the night.

"Miss Caliskan is a regular at my establishment, Frankie. She knows where to find talent. She's even signed up some of the bands she saw here - big fat contracts and advances to match." He raised his brows significantly.

Kiaya Çalışkan offered to get Francis a glass and share the bottle of wine before her, but he shook his head.

"Coke is fine, thank you."

"I keep tellin' him it'll rot his teeth..." Morgan cajoled.

"You know my partner Dragut, don't you?" Kiaya watched his response carefully. "I believe the two of you worked together in New York, earlier in the decade?"

Francis managed to keep his expression mild. He did indeed know Dragut, or he had known him - as to whether they could have been considered colleagues was another matter, however. As Francis recalled it, he had been considered a possession of the mob, while Dragut had been in their employment as a bouncer at the club Francis was compelled to play at.

He inclined his head. "Indeed? Yes I do know him. It appears we live in a small world, Kiaya Hanım."

Her eyes widened, glittering with ambition as she gave him a feral smile. "Growing smaller by the day, Mr Crawford. As our empire grows - Dragut runs his business out west now. He heads security for a casino in Vegas. It's a wonderful place for acts to get their big break. But he likes to know I'm staying somewhere safe when I travel across country alone."

Morgan beamed with pride. "She doesn't fly, because she might miss the next big thing out here at the Oasis..."

"And I thought it was because she was afraid of heights," Francis accepted the glass of soda he was handed and prepared to hear Morgan make his usual order on his behalf. But tonight, Morgan gestured, palm up, and invited Francis to choose.

Supposing this was some kind of acknowledgement of Francis as a 'real' musician, he picked a burger and then froze in surprise as the chair next to him was pulled out.

Marthe looked down at him with a cool smile. She'd applied the red lipstick of the Doña María costume and her black lace turtleneck and miniskirt had been cleaned of dust. Her hair fell in a blonde cascade over one shoulder and she extended a hand to Kiaya Çalışkan.

"We met in New York briefly, I believe you're a good friend of my foster-mother's."

Kiaya took Marthe's hand and raised her brows, a polite smirk on her lips. "Yes. Marthe, isn't it?"

Francis saw Marthe's neck flush pink as she sat down, hastily calling the barman back to place her own order.

"And I'll have...what wine is good here?" she looked at Kiaya Çalışkan.

"Oh! You're drinking wine? Just bring a second glass for her, please. She can share mine," Kiaya waved a hand to dismiss the man.

Baron Morgan chuckled and his fingers massaged Francis' knee beneath the table. "Well well. The little lady has decided to join us. I hope all this raw masculinity hasn't been puttin' you off, darlin'?" He was definitely tipsy, Francis decided.

Marthe gazed at him without expression. "Not at all. But if there are business deals being made, I shouldn't like Francis to have the only say."

Morgan laughed again. "Oh darlin'. You have no idea," he moved his hand higher up Francis' leg, his arm visibly stretching, and Francis jerked his thigh to shake him off. Morgan's laughter repeated itself, his gaze on Francis unperturbed as he took another drink.

Marthe's blue eyes absorbed it all, and she smirked at Francis. "No, indeed. It's far too subtle for me."

Kiaya Çalışkan had been generous with her information. Baron Morgan now assumed he knew all of Francis' troubles and desires, and quizzed him in ever more prurient detail about his life. Meanwhile, Marthe seemed to be doing her best to get a contract signed then and there, though Kiaya Çalışkan appeared unmoved by all her achievements and ambitions. Francis grew ever more frustrated as the other three drank and boasted and plotted and he realised he wasn't going to get to talk directly to Kiaya that night.

He believed that she did pass through Morgan's Oasis regularly, but the coincidence of meeting the mistress of his old acquaintance, Dragut, here still made him suspicious. Yet she acted like she really was just stopping in for a night, and was delighted to find a diversion as amusing as Marthe along the way.

After eating, when Francis was starting to feel tired and heavy, the other three were boisterous with drink. He didn't remember which one of them had suggested it first, but Marthe was looking at him fiercely.

"We should play."

"Yes! Play!" Morgan clapped his hands and then clapped Francis' shoulder.

Kiaya Çalışkan inclined her head and raised her glass. "It would be a pleasure, Lymond, if you chose to play for us."

So he blinked and drew a breath and summoned the energy to stand. He and Marthe helped themselves to instruments displayed on the wall near the stage, but brought their guitars back to perch on the table nearest to Baron and Kiaya.

Tuning up, Francis fought the heaviness in his eyelids, yawned, and listened to Marthe's murmured suggestions.

The first song, she insisted, should be one made famous by Francis Rankin Crawford.

"Really? They won't know that here," Francis grumbled, bending an ear to his instrument as he twisted the tuning pins.

"They will. They do. I used to play it with my band all the time. People loved it."

"In New York."

"It's not another planet. Kiaya will know it. Morgan, if he's half the judge of talent he claims, will know it."

Francis said nothing. He struck a chord and looked at her, and Marthe nodded and double-checked her own tuning.

Together, they played the song that Francis' grandfather had popularised - a French ballad reworked for the English-speaking masses. Together, their riffs wove in and out of each other, their voices were uncannily matched. To their audience they looked angelic: two fine-boned blonds leaning their heads away from one another, their legs crossed in opposite directions, their talent exquisite and their unison innate.

They played a few more songs: the Wayfaring Stranger, a folk ballad familiar to Marthe for its American roots, and a cover of Heaven by Talking Heads. A hint of competitiveness crept in and they ended with another folk song, The Old Man Came Courting: they embellished it with call and response, duelling guitar and voice, the tempo building to a breath-taking gallop.

It was more than enough to woo their audience.

"My, my..." Baron Morgan said as he applauded. "To think I came across real, genuine treasure at the roadside."

"They are golden, aren't they?" Kiaya agreed, her appraising smirk roving over both of them.

Marthe smiled back and Francis rubbed his forehead - he just wanted to go and sleep.

It wasn't permissible though, not yet. Morgan stood and drained his glass. "Great chat, as always, Kiaya," he slurred the name down to two syllables, so it sounded like Kee-ya, but she didn't seem to mind. "You really are a fount of wisdom."

Kiaya poured more wine out for her - and for Marthe. "I wouldn't want you to miss out due to a lack of information, Baron. Information is money," she gazed steadily at Francis, though it was Marthe who approached her.

"As is time," Morgan said profoundly. He took the neck of Francis' guitar and lay the instrument down on the table. "The staff will put it back," he said, looking heavily down at Francis' face.

It was a summons, much as Francis had suspected was coming. He levered himself off the table and lingered a moment, feeling Marthe's scornful stare as he and Kiaya locked gazes. "Are you staying long?"

Kiaya Çalışkan shrugged. "Perhaps I'll stay to see you perform. Perhaps not." She glanced at Marthe. "There isn't usually much to do out here, comfortable as it is."

Morgan chuckled and turned Francis by the arm, indicating he should walk ahead. "Enjoy the amenities, ladies," he put his hat on, touched a finger to the brim in a salute, and then prodded the small of Francis' back.

And the other Kiaya section that's written:

Outside the shower, he put the past - near and far - away, and bent to the rucksack Morgan had salvaged from their broken down car. In it, precious little of Francis' belongings remained - all that they could pawn they had got rid of, and he was left with one spare set of threadbare clothes and a fat, broken-spined paperback collection of contemporary poetry.

He pulled on the other clothes, the shirt of pale-checked cotton, ran his hands hastily through his wet hair, and left again in search of Kiaya Çalışkan.

If Morgan was going to cover the county with posters announcing their performance as 'Lymond and band' there would be no chance at all of arriving stealthily at Graham Reid Malett's ashram one state over - even if the Rajneeshees were sheltered from the outside world, Swami Geetesh would not allow himself to be ignorant of events so close by. It had set Francis' mind: they needed to get away sooner rather than later. He was relying on being able to strike a deal with Kiaya Çalışkan that would get them out of the Oasis and back on the road.

Standing outside his room, peering at the vehicles on the other side of the car park - Morgan's truck, a van used by the ranch staff, a collection of motorbikes glittering with chrome, and a two-seater red soft-top that had to be hers - he was debating where to start his search when a door to his left, over by the pool, opened and he heard Marthe's laughter.

She loitered on the lintel, her Doña María outfit rumpled, her lipstick long gone, and her boots in her hand. She leaned forwards and murmured something that didn't carry, and Kiaya Çalışkan's ringing, plummy laugh answered it.

Francis stepped back into the doorway of his and Jerott's room, but saw that Marthe was already aware of him. She stalked along the decking that fronted the row of rooms like it was a catwalk, her eyes fixed on him and a challenge in her smile.

"Don't tell me you didn't get breakfast in bed, Frankie?"

"No, some of us have actual business meetings to conduct..." Francis circled around her and saw Marthe's eyes spark with annoyance as she realised that he was heading in the direction she'd come from.

Her lip curled as she turned to face him. "And does your roomie know where you've been spending your nights?"

Cold, commanding, Francis took a step back towards her. "I believe he's had his own share of troubles to concern himself with," he said in a tone of warning.

There was that uncanny, funfair mirror feeling again: her eyes, that were so like his, narrowed with an echo of his own dislike; her long mouth curved without mirth, and she raised her chin haughtily. "He doesn't know the half of it, though, does he?

"He doesn't need to," Francis said firmly.

"Oh come on," Marthe said scornfully. "He's more repressed than a citizen of Cuba - it might do him some good to get the five star guest treatment…"

He felt himself turn chill as the blood drained from his face, and Marthe took in his white fury and moved away uneasily. Francis remembered, viscerally, the sensation of being pinned up against Morgan's kitchen counter - he'd braced himself against the marble slab as Morgan stood between his legs, his hips flush with Francis', while Francis tried to keep up with his sloppy, impatient kisses. He remembered each time that week when Morgan had forced himself beyond Francis' generous boundaries, had slapped aside what was offered and grasped for more instead. He remembered cleaning handprints off the piano in the studio at St Mary's and he remembered the blood on Jerott's face, the small, hunched, astonished look about him as he had struggled to come to terms with what Graham Reid Malett had done to him there.

His hands were balled fists, trembling with fury. "And while we're at it, shall we all request some electro-shock therapy to fix our own damaged minds?" he hissed.

Marthe blinked and grimaced. "Excuse me?"

"It's no different, is it?" he raised his brows. "You can't change someone by holding them down and telling them they're wrong."

Still a little ruffled, made standoffish by Francis' tone, Marthe looked him up and down. "Does Morgan play rougher than you like, then?"

"He's a perfect gentleman," Francis backed towards Kiaya's room. "I merely prefer not to share..."

She shook her head, her mouth curled in disgust as he turned to try his own hand at seducing Kiaya Çalışkan and her contracts.

"Fuck you, Francis," she spat and stalked away.

Francis stood outside the end room, straightened his back and stretched his shoulders and neck. He let out a sharp breath - and with it any extraneous, irrelevant feelings about what he was doing.

This was necessary, he told himself. It wouldn't always be necessary - he had to make himself believe that - but it was now, in order to allow him to protect the people he cared about, the people he'd put in danger. And he was wiser than he had been, he knew what he was dealing with. He knew now how to make sure that no one got all of him, the way it had been with Margaret Douglas. How to draw up the terms that would allow him to endure the signing away of autonomy, that would guarantee he wasn't going to let anyone down again, because he still retained just enough of himself - just enough - to arrange their freedom and safety.

Kiaya opened the door at his knock. She was wearing a fine robe of white cotton that, held loosely together by a knotted cord, revealed her black, lace-embellished slip beneath. She tossed her glossy hair back over her shoulder and smiled at her guest. "Good morning, Mr Crawford."

She was professional enough not to act coy or naïve: she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "I had some breakfast sent over from the kitchen and there is still coffee in the pot."

Her room was larger than the twin he shared with Jerott, and had a small counter with a kettle on it and shelves above for crockery. There was a tray with fruit salad and a half-empty plate of pastries on it, and Kiaya poured him a coffee and handed it to him enriched with cream and sugar.

"I would ask how you knew, but your acquaintance with Thomasina Durand explains it." Francis leaned his hip against the counter and smiled coolly over his mug.

Kiaya's brows raised in polite acknowledgement. It might have been said that she was impressed at his observation from the previous night regarding her contacts - but he didn't expect her to know everything about his history with Marthe's foster-mother, writer of the industry-leading column 'Doubting Tom'.

"Perhaps I simply saw a tired man who has not yet had breakfast, and made a good guess?" Kiaya suggested, raising her own drink, black as her hair, to her lips.

Francis met her playful gaze and his eyes narrowed. "It's said by many an average agent that this industry runs on hunches and gut feelings alone - but you and I know better. It's about who you know, and what they've decided the future will be."

"Intuition and observation still play a part," Kiaya replied robustly. "Why would I waste a meeting with Ms Durand discussing your rider, Mr Crawford?"

He laughed and allowed her the point, pausing to drink the sweet drink in his cup and experience the sensation of being revitalised. He accepted a seat in one of the two small armchairs that her room was provided with, and managed a grateful nod when she placed the fruit and pastries on the coffee table between them.

Unselfconscious about her scant outfit, Kiaya crossed one long, olive-brown leg over the other and combed her hair idly with manicured nails. She watched Francis and smiled. "Of course, during our meeting, Madame Durand and I did talk about you. She truly has high hopes for your career."

Francis put down the fork he had held poised above the fruit bowl. He laced his fingers in his lap. "Indeed? I thought I must have disappointed her by now? If not, it wasn't for lack of trying."

"Madame Durand has faith in you, Mr Crawford. Faith can't be shaken by a few petty squabbles in the press, nor, you should know, by any level of proximity to another's...tragic misadventure." She raised a brow and took an engraved silver cigarette case from the pocket of her robe.

Francis sat stock still, determined that she would not see him react to the implication in her words.

"Indeed, she was quite impressed at what you achieved on behalf of that Libyan boy. A shame that he seems to have had to resort to farm labour after the success of his album. It can be hard to find an audience for world music."

Still Francis didn't move. His mind was whirring into frantic action though, trying to determine what she might do with the information that Salah was on site, and whether she also knew about Archie and Onophrion; whether she had learned about them from Morgan, or whether she planned to tell Morgan.

Finally, he shook his head when she offered him one of the long, slim cigarettes as she lit one for herself.

"How did you know?" She had compelled him to ask it anyway, it seemed.

Genuine amusement cupped her eyes as she watched the ash fall from her cigarette into the ashtray. She considered how honest she was willing to be and then shrugged. "Dragut knows I'm safe when I stay here. He keeps his own contacts among Baron's staff to ensure it remains that way. All sorts need to visit an Oasis in the desert, after all - predators can get...mixed up with prey."

Francis felt his lips pull into a smirk. "And which are you, Kiaya Hanım?"

She eyed him from below heavy lashes and her mischievous expression echoed his. "I am merely here on safari."

Francis barked a laugh and picked up the fork again, spearing a grape and a cube of melon. "And as such, you must not interfere with the ecosystem? Or is it a hunting safari?"

"If you are asking whether your friends are in danger of exposure on my part - the answer is no. Their plans do not interest me," Kiaya smoked with the vigour and speed of a steam train, yet each clipped, decisive gesture remained elegant.

She added nothing more, and once again it was Francis who was forced to ask, "Then what does interest you?"

"Ah," she grinned. She seemed pleased that he had asked, that he was willing to play along with these little games. "What interests me is how a man with a golden path laid before him spends more of his time in the gutter than pursuing this path. How, with each new album, though the sales increase and the fans multiply, he ends up poorer and further from the act of creation than he has ever been. How a man whose music could change this messy world instead shuns the platforms from which he could use it to do so and pursues dead ends in the desert."

As he gazed into her knowing expression he felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. He moved his hands, gripping the arms of the chair to stop them quivering. "I have found that music is less effective as an instrument of change than I once hoped."

Kiaya's smile was unmoved. "That is because you are focussing on the little things. Take a broader view - imagine what your music sounds like to those who have never heard it before. Imagine hearing lyrics in your own language that arrange the world in a way you had never realised was possible."

He allowed his brows to rise at this and let out a snort. "The little things?"

"Your destiny is not with a bastard child born in the desert, Mr Crawford. It is not with the child's mother - she is a husk, she has no more to give to the public sphere, and her art could not stand alongside yours." Kiaya's lips still curved, but her eyes were cold and hard as brass.

Francis felt something hysterical flutter in his chest and he laughed at the ceiling. "No. Of course. Destiny is always impersonal. What are destiny's thoughts on theft, however? On music that might change the world, as you'd say, being repurposed to fund a cult?"

"I understand that cults can change the world, too," Kiaya replied. "Are you telling me you have unreleased material to recover?"

He smiled crookedly, knowingly at her, though the bile rose in his throat. "And if I did? What would it be worth to you?"

Kiaya carefully extinguished her cigarette and toyed with the lace trim of her slip. "If it is already out of your hands, there is nothing to prevent me from recovering it myself. Is that not so?" she raised a brow in challenge.

It felt like acid inside him, his hatred of this bargaining - it was even more loathsome, somehow, than simply bargaining with his body - and it seemed like the feeling might dissolve through the front of his chest and neck, exposing a gaping, red ruin: the need of the man behind the musician. "All I ask," he said as steadily as he could. "Is for a ride to Salina. From there, I can arrange finances, I can ensure my people are safe. I will go to Nevada and finish what I came to do, and then you will have what I can recover from the man who stole from me; you will have those master tapes and more. I will sign a deal with you, and - " the words stuck in his throat.

Kiaya watched him mildly, amusement in her expression. "And?"

"And the terms will be as you wish," he forced himself to say.

"Mm..." she looked down at the lace on her thigh, at her glossy nails plucking at it. "It is a nice offer, canım. But I can't let you leave here like that."

"Excuse me?"

"You've made a commitment to Baron Morgan. You want to make a deal with me, while you say this is how you will honour that commitment?"

Francis released a disbelieving breath of laughter. "I didn't think you would be subservient to him..."

Kiaya's smile was now a little patronising. "It is useful for me to stay here. Why would I jeapordise my relationship with him?"

"With my material to your name, you'd never need to stay here again," Francis cocked his own, challenging brow.

"Hm," Kiaya moved decisively to light up another cigarette. "That will be up to me, Mr Crawford. In the meantime, if I sign you, it will be after seeing you perform."

"You could be waiting a while," he said sourly. He felt doubt begin to nag at his assumptions regarding this conversation and what Kiaya Çalışkan truly wanted.

She shrugged. "Then perhaps in the meantime I will make a visit to Nevada. I know who it is you have business with there."

Francis' fingers curled tightly against the arms of the chair. "Graham Reid Malett is a dangerous man."

"My partner is a dangerous man, as you should well remember."

"Dragut is honourable - as you tell me you are. Honour won't stop Reid Malett."

Her eyes sparked with - excitement? Francis suppressed a shudder.

"I think, Mr Crawford, I am beginning to understand something of what Madame Durand sees in you. You are ruthless, and ambitious. I cannot wait to see you play."

"You don't need to. I'll play for you now." Francis twitched a shoulder, acting like the change of topic suited him, even as he reeled from the imagined damage Kiaya Çalışkan and Dragut Reis could do to his plans. Should they thunder into Graham Reid Malett's Nevada ashram without a care, the victims and hostages Geetesh had tucked and woven into the fabric of the place would be in direct, mortal peril - of that Francis was certain.

He made to stand - "I'll get the instrument I played last night from the bar. A private concert, Kiaya Hanım..."

"Sit," she cooed. "Eat your breakfast. There is no hurry, Mr Crawford."

He was already on his feet and she rose to join him, standing close so that he smelled her perfume beneath the cigarette smoke.

She shifted the balance of her weight so that her hips tilted towards him. "Sit," she repeated, her fingers pressing to his chest.

He stood there, looking into the canopy of her eyes and trying to see beyond the cool imperviousness. He allowed one hand to rise to her arm, smoothing over the thin, rumpled cotton of her gown from her elbow to her shoulder. She didn't move as he lowered his gaze from her eyes to her mouth.

"Of course," he looked at her again. "I could perform any other way you choose..." She was watching him with a closed, amused expression, her fingertips still on his chest. So he leaned forwards and murmured, "Sit? Or would you prefer me to kneel?"

The way her brows raised and her lips curved seemed to give him his answer, so Francis sank to the carpeted floor as gracefully as his tired body allowed. He touched his hands gently to her hips and then moved his fingers to the bare skin of her legs, softly running his touch up the outside of her thighs beneath the robe, working his way up to the lace hem of her shift.

Kiaya smiled down at him. She tucked her hair back behind her ears and then reached for him, raking her fingers through his curls, tilting his face up to her.

He tried not to flinch as he recalled Morgan's grip tugging on his scalp.

"How nice, canım," she purred. "But I've had my fill of such gifts this morning. You may return in the evening, and we can continue our...negotiations."

He let out a harsh laugh as she drew his head back, and leaned his jaw into her palm. Privately, he cursed Marthe and her own selfish agenda, her untrustworthy, libertarian approach to her career. "That won't be possible, my lady, not if I am also to keep my word to our good host."

"Not at all," Kiaya beamed, running one thumb over his lower lip. "Baron has some business to take care of - I believe he intends to source some of your records. He won't be back from Salt Lake City for a couple of days."

Francis did all he could not to let the hope these words sparked show. If Morgan was away it was the best chance he'd have of getting out of here - he could be in Salina that very day, get a car with Gaultier's money, and be back to pick up the others before Onophrion's kitchen shift was even halfway done. No more bargaining: he'd be able to leave Jerott and Marthe, Salah, Archie and Onophrion somewhere suitable and safe and make his own way to the ashram for the reckoning he was due.

"In that case," Francis said smoothly, "I shall be only too delighted to return later."

"I am pleased to hear it," Kiaya Çalışkan smiled and turned away. "I haven't enjoyed business quite this much in some time," she added over her shoulder when Francis had got to his feet.

He blinked back dizziness - he was still hungry, still tired - but caught her wrist before leaving, pulling her close again.

She was warm and soft against him, scented with jasmine and sandalwood, leaning her hips readily into him as she pulled back to smile at his expression.

"A down payment," Francis's lips curved in something like a smile, and he moved to kiss her, recalling the taste of Margaret Douglas' lipstick and her moans of pleasure at knowing the power she had over him.

Kiaya Çalışkan smiled before she opened her mouth and then returned the kiss, filling his senses with the buzz of caffeine and nicotine.

"How nice," she repeated in a murmur as he released her and turned to leave. "You'll go far, Mr Crawford. Just as Madame Durand predicted."

#the band au #wip ask meme #my fics #my wips #lymond chronicles #marthe/guzel

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