“You.” The stocky German pushes to his feet, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him lumbering towards me with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You have been here for eight weeks now, Daniel. And you never stay in one place that long unless you are about to take something that does not belong to you. What is it this time?”
“Whatever are you on about? I was born here. A visit to London does not come with strings attached. Or an ulterior motive. You, on the other hand, hate London. Shall I report you for harassment?”
He smiles, exposing a mouthful of yellowing, crooked teeth. “Simply return the Portrait of a Lady, and you and I will go our separate ways.”
Though I’m a solid six-foot-two, I’m lean, and Ulrich looks like an overweight rugby player. Edging into my personal space, a low growl rumbles in his throat.
“Really, my good man, you should see someone about that. You sound a bit like a bear—with the breath of a dead whore.” I clap him on the shoulder, glancing around the park to ensure we’re alone before I squeeze my thumb and forefinger around a pressure point and meet his cloudy hazel gaze. “Stop following me. And give up this rubbish idea about recovering the Portrait of a Lady. She was never yours to begin with.”
With the color sufficiently drained from Ulrich’s face, I grab his elbow as he staggers and help him back to one of the benches. “Now be a good boy and toddle off somewhere. Perhaps…right over the side of the Jubilee Bridge and into the Thames? I hear the water’s lovely this time of year.”
Before I rush off, I give him one last squeeze, this time just above his elbow, and he whines in pain, his body going slack as his eyes roll back in his head. He’ll recover in a few minutes. Just enough time for me to be long gone. And to call Tatiana and have her investigate how the bloody hell he knew I was in London at all.
Three
Daniel
Once I unlock my flat door, I dial Tatiana. My oldest friend, a former member of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, knows everyone—and everything. Half a dozen phone calls and she could tell you if your shoe was untied.
The call connects seconds later. “Are you alone?” I ask.
“If I were not, we would not be speaking.” An edge of stress roughens her voice, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. She is always in control, always calm, always collected and capable. “You have not been careful, Daniel.”
The accusation angers me, and I clench my free hand hard enough to crack the knuckles. “We’ve worked together for ten years. I am always careful.”
“Then tell me, please, why I am looking at your face on a traffic camera a block from the British Museum. Facial recognition was a ninety percent match.”
Staring out the window at the twinkling lights of London, I sigh. “Fuck me.”
“I am not interested in you that way, Daniel. But if you do not watch yourself, someone else will certainly seize the opportunity. This image was taken three days ago.”
Bloody hell. Gemma hadn’t been online the night before, and I’d watched to ensure she’d arrived at work safely.
“Ulrich is here, Tatiana. In London. He and I exchanged…words today.”
Her sharp intake of breath is the only sign the call is still connected, and I wait for her to scold me like a petulant child, but she says nothing.
“Find out where Ulrich is staying and ring me as soon as you know,” I say, hoping my stupidity hasn’t buggered the job already.
“Sloppy, Daniel. Very sloppy. I will do this because I do not wish to see you dead. But if you do not take more care, nothing will save you.”
My phone beeps as she hangs up, and I lean my head against the windowpane. I have to focus. Gemma is a distraction, and while I need to keep her in my grasp, I cannot let myself think of her as anything other than a mark.
If only my dick would get the message.
Gemma snorts, then coughs. “Oh God. Coffee’s not supposed to come out your nose. You’re terrible, Daniel.”
“I take that as a compliment.” I lean forward and hand her a napkin. Despite my concerns about Ulrich and the lack of response from Tatiana, spending time with Gemma refreshes me in a way I did not expect. “I have worked quite diligently to be a proper arse.”
Her laugh leaves me undone, and I wonder how I’ve fallen so fast and so hard in only four days. She was a mark. Nothing more. Or so I thought. Until I met her in person. Now, I can barely focus on my plans to steal the Lewis Chessmen.
I want to know everything about Gemma. Her childhood. Her interests. What she tastes like. I haven’t thought of the Chessmen in more than twenty-four hours, and if I do not remedy this distraction, I fear I will lose something more valuable than the Chessmen. I will lose my edge. The cold detachment that makes me…who I am.
This morning, she wears a pale orange sweater that sets off her green eyes behind a pair of red-framed glasses. Short, unpainted nails, a simple silver bracelet on one wrist, a smartwatch on the other. No rings.
And her lips. Fuck me. I’m drawn to them. Just a hint of gloss. Full. Kissable.
“I should go,” she says as she drains the last of her vanilla latte. “I have a tour group coming in at one.”
“The Assistant Curator gives tours?” Offering her my hand, I help her to her feet just so I can steal one more moment of closeness. Her fingers curl around mine, and my arousal presses against my boxer briefs.
“On occasion. My master’s degree focuses on artifacts from the twelfth century, so when we get a group interested in that time period, I take over for one of the regular docents.” She smiles up at me. “I could give you a tour sometime. If you’d like.”
I step closer and rest my hand on her lower back. “A private tour? Perhaps…one that ends with dinner?”
The little hitch in her breath makes my heart beat faster.
“Get yourself under control, Daniel. Focus. You are here for the Chessmen.”
And then my dick—and perhaps my heart adds, “And Gemma.”
“Dinner?” she asks.
“My treat. I know a brilliant Italian restaurant not far from here.”
Gemma’s cheeks flush a delicious shade of pink. “Tonight?”
“Name the time.”
“I get off at 6:00. Come at 5:30 for a tour, and then you can take me anywhere you want.” Gemma wraps her fingers around my forearm for leverage and rises up on her toes. Her lips brush my cheek, and my cock rises to attention at her alluring scent. “Don’t be late.”
“Never.”
On my way back to my flat, I stick to the side streets, my face hidden from the cameras by a black trilby. My mobile vibrates in my pocket, and I glance at the screen briefly as I tap my Bluetooth. “Tatiana. Tell me you have something.”
“Ulrich arrived in London five days ago. The day after you were so…sloppy.”
“Where is he staying?” Stopping at a traffic light, I let my gaze sweep over the crowds. No obvious threats, but that means little where Ulrich is concerned.
She huffs, and her accent thickens. “He is not so stupid as you, zadrota.”
“Keep looking.”
“Da. But get the package and get out of London. Or I fear this may be our last conversation.” Tatiana ends the call, and I grind my teeth together hard enough to give myself a headache. She’s right. If I can’t get the Chessmen before Ulrich makes his move, this could be my final job.
Gemma
My little compact mirror shows the frustrations of the day in the bags under my eyes. Digging into my purse, I retrieve my concealer and dot it over my skin. My first date in…well…three years, and I look like death warmed over.
The knock at my door startles me, and the concealer wand streaks across my cheek. “Shit.”
“Careful there.” Daniel’s smile warms me down to my toes, and he leans in and brushes his thumb over the smudge. All afternoon, I second-guessed myself over that quick little kiss. But now, caught in this moment, I want more. Much more.
When his o
ther hand slides into my wavy brown locks, I tip my head up to meet his lips. His very firm, very demanding lips.
We only stay locked together for a single breath, but it’s enough to make my panties wet. “Hi,” I whisper. “You’re…very punctual.”
“I had good reason to be.” He hasn’t let me go, still leaning over my desk. “Now…about that tour.”
The wine leaves me pleasantly warm, or maybe that’s Daniel. The Italian restaurant is the fanciest in London. But though this is so far out of my comfort zone it’s practically another planet, Daniel is…chivalrous and engaging, setting me at ease.
“More wine?” He tips the bottle towards my glass, and though I know I shouldn’t, I nod. I don’t want this evening to end.
“Thank you. Um, don’t take this the wrong way, but why is someone like you playing chess online every night?” I omit the unspoken “with me,” but he’s handsome, obviously well-off, and incredibly intelligent.
And I’m…a thirty-one-year-old graduate student with four degrees because the idea of leaving school behind and staying in “the real world” long term terrifies me.
“Gemma,” he says, his voice serious, “are you implying I should not be interested in ‘someone like you’?”
“Well…yes.” The wine loosens my tongue, and I try not to fidget as he pins me with an inquisitive stare. “You’re successful, look like you should be on a magazine cover, and—”
“And you are stunning. One of the most intelligent women I have ever met, and your laugh is addicting. Do not ever underestimate yourself, Gemma. Not with me. Not with anyone.” There’s an odd note in his tone I don’t understand, and embarrassment crawls up my spine.
“You have all the right words.”
And I don’t have any.
“Buying and selling art requires a silver tongue.” Now he’s self-conscious, his jade green eyes turning a deep emerald as he hands his credit card to the server. “I must often convince someone to part with a piece they would not otherwise consider selling, or talk a buyer into a much higher price than he or she is willing to pay.”
Art. I pounce on the subject. This is one area where I can hold my own. Thank you, second master’s degree. “What was the hardest deal you ever had to negotiate?”
“One for my own collection. The Siren.” The corners of his lips curve into a hint of a smile, and his gaze softens.
“Waterhouse?” At his nod, I grip the edge of the table. “You own Waterhouse’s Siren.”
Daniel arches a perfectly-groomed brow. “I do. Would you like to see it?”
“Hell, yes.”
Four
Daniel
The look in her eyes when I mentioned The Siren was too tempting to ignore. I should take her home, leave her with a kiss, and disappear. In thirty-six hours, the Lewis Chessmen will be mine, and I’ll be halfway across the world. Without her.
But Gemma is…intoxicating. The car service rolls to a stop outside my flat, and I open her door, help her up, and tuck her close. Her sweet scent—jasmine and vanilla—wraps around me, and my control shatters further with each breath.
I should not have brought her here. Nor should I have retrieved The Siren from one of my storage units last week. But after I found out that Gemma had written several academic papers on the painting, I could not resist.
Tatiana will make sure the entire flat is packed up by midnight tomorrow, but though I kept her focus on me as we sped through the London streets, she’s very observant, and could likely lead Interpol here after I am gone.
But I ache to see her reaction to the painting. Flipping on the lights, I lead her into my great room.
“Oh. My.” She takes two steps forward. The loss of her warmth against my side is palpable, but my cock threatens to tent my trousers at the look of pure, unadulterated joy on her face.
“Does it live up to your expectations?” Coming up behind her, I rest one hand on her hip, and she leans into me. My lips are only an inch from her ear, and her dark locks brush my cheek.
“And more.” With a sigh, she twines our fingers. “She’s so…innocent. As if she’s never seen a man before and has no idea he’s drowning.”
“And he is so enamored of her, he forgets the peril he’s in.” Pressing a gentle kiss to her neck, I drink her in.
Gemma shudders in my arms. “The detail…”
“Beautiful.” Another kiss, this one firmer, closer to the shell of her ear.
“She’s perfect.”
Spinning Gemma around to face me, I hold her light green eyes as I sink my hands into her hair. “I was talking about you, darling.”
Her lips part, a subtle invitation, and when she angles her head slightly and lets her eyes flutter closed, I crush my mouth to hers, tasting the wine and the unique flavor I know is Gemma.
“I…never…do this,” she gasps as she winds her arms around my neck. “But—”
“One word, and I’ll stop.” I want this—want her—more than I have wanted anything in a very long time. But after tomorrow, she’ll never see me again, and I cannot let this fascinating woman have a single moment of regret.
“Don’t stop.” Her chest heaves, the drape of her siren-red blouse accentuating the swell of her breasts. “I want…you.”
“Then you shall have me.” I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into my bedroom.
“Light,” she says, a hint of panic lacing her tone, but as soon as I flip on the lamp, she kisses me with such passion, I let the moment pass, losing myself to her.
She has the buttons of my black silk shirt half-undone before I set her down, and as she slides the material down my shoulders, I’m drawn to her swollen lips, the way her tongue darts out to lick them.
“Can I…?” Her fingers rest on my belt, and I dip my head for another searing kiss.
“My sweet bijou, you can do whatever you want to me,” I whisper as I trail kisses from the corner of her mouth to her ear, and then down the curve of her neck.
Her breath hitches as she slides my zipper down, and when my pants fall to the floor, the sound she makes—it’s almost a mewl. “Bijou?”
“It’s French.” Cupping her arse, I draw her against me, her luscious curves too tempting to resist. “It means precious stone.”
One of my most prized acquisitions. Second only to The Siren. But now, I think Gemma might displace every single one of them.
“You have me at a disadvantage.” I step out of my pants, wearing only a pair of tight, black briefs.
Gemma turns and sweeps the hair off the back of her neck. Four buttons beckon me, and I flick them open, planting a tender kiss along her skin for each one. Guiding her arms over her head, I strip her of her red blouse and find an expanse of creamy skin begging to be kissed. Once I unhook her bra, I slide my palms around her and cup her breasts under the peach lace.
“What do you like, bijou?” I pinch one nipple between my thumb and forefinger, relishing the little shiver shaking her body. “This?”
“Yes.”
Though I want to take my time, to explore every sensual inch of her, my cock has other ideas. As does Gemma. She unzips her skirt, and bloody hell. She’s wearing a garter belt to match her bra and panties, attached to thigh-high nude stockings.
It’s as if she were made for me. And only me.
“Bloody hell, Gemma. Get on the bed. Now.”
At my growl, she turns with a shy smile on her face. “See something you like?”
“Everything.”
I stalk towards her, a predator about to capture its prey, and cage her body with mine. The sheets rustle as I kiss her breathless and she writhes under me. Fuck, I need to get her naked right now.
Her short nails take down my back, the light burn ratcheting my arousal. Threading my fingers through her hair, I twist, angling her head so I can nibble along her jaw and down the curve of her neck.
With every kiss, Gemma comes alive, the quiet, demure Assistant Curator giving way to a tigress, one I am going to ta
me.
“This,” I slide a finger under the peach lace thong, “must go.” She tries to sit up to reach for her garters, but I shake my head and pin her arms over her head. “Oh, no. This is part of the fun, my little bijou. I get to unwrap you bit by bit.”
Crossing her wrists, I curl her hands around the edge of the headboard. “Do not let go.”
“Daniel!” The word escapes as a gasp, but she’s not upset with me. No. This lack of control pleases her greatly, and I slide down her body, kissing as I go, savoring the scent of her skin and the fresh wave of her arousal that fills my nose as I reach her mound.
Gemma shimmies her hips as I ease the thong down her hips, and then her reddish curls beckon me. So wet, she’s dripping for me.
“Fuck me, Gemma. Hold on. I do not know that I will be able to control myself once I taste you.”
My precious jewel’s sharp breath and whimper as I take my first taste are matched by my groan, and she tastes like spring. Like everything I have ever wanted before and everything I will never be able to have again.
I have to make this last. Make tonight last, so that the memories will carry me through the rest of my life, because I know for certain, I will never find another woman like Gemma.
Gemma
“Oh, my God,” I manage as I sink back against the pillows in Daniel’s bed.
“I am not a god, bijou. Prince will suffice.” He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger as we both laugh.
He’s wrong, though. He is some sort of god. He has to be. That was the best sex of my life, and I feel so…comfortable with him, even though we’ve only known each other in person for a few days.
But now we’re entering that awkward phase of any night together. What do I do? Get up and try to find my clothes? Snuggle closer and hope he asks me to stay? Do I even want to stay?
Daniel reaches over and flips off the lamp, and the darkness sends my heart into overdrive. “No,” I gasp. “Please…turn…the lights—”
The Grandmaster's Pawn Page 2
