The Chase

by Vanessa Fewings

  Exhilaration surged though my veins at this overwhelming domination.

  I’ve lost my mind.

  Obsession had stolen all logic.

  He came closer and brought his cock to my mouth and I let out a sigh of gratitude, my head lifting off the pillow as I took him in, lapping his pre-cum and wanting more and sucking hard for it.

  My own need so vital I never wanted this to end. Bound and yet free.

  My body on fire with passion as he trailed his fingers along my cleft and then raised it to show me how wet he’d made me.

  His hands clenched my breasts, kneading them, ignoring my plea that this was too much. My back arched, captured in an erotic suspension right on the edge of falling—

  With a swift movement he twisted his body onto all fours and buried his face between my thighs into a perfect sixty-nine and he lavished affection with his mouth, using his fingers to ease back the folds so he could own my clit, sucking and letting go, sucking and letting go...

  Until all I could do was lap weakly at the tip of his cock, too gone to think straight or respond, reeling into another orgasm.

  At last he untied me.

  Bringing me up to sit on his lap facing him and stilled long enough for me to adjust to his girth as his cock slid all the way in.

  “Circle your hips,” he ordered.

  Looking into his beautiful green eyes, circling my pelvis round and around, making a wider circumference, thighs shaking through another rising orgasm, my scream silenced by his mouth as his lips crushed mine and he kissed passionately, endlessly.

  Time fell away...

  Proving not only Tobias’s ability to refrain from coming, but his mastery at every position. He fucked me from behind, taking me from the side, hanging off the bed, moving my limbs into inconvincible poses—

  We settled with his back against the headboard and me sitting on his lap again, only facing the front, my back to his chest with my thighs strewn over his.

  I rose and fell, rose and fell, taking him all the way into me and keening forward when his fingertips danced on my clit, flicking and circling, slowly at first and then fast until I exploded into a million pieces of blinding light.

  Mesmerized...

  Joy at the feeling of him coming within me, his final burst of aggression and I loved every second of his show of force.

  We stilled, our bodies drenched in perspiration and the remnants of sex, our bodies a perfect lock as his fingers trailed over me, my breasts, my throat and back to my sex where he possessively cupped me with his hand.

  He held me like this for a long time.

  Not moving. Not letting go. Proving his ownership. Until I collapsed in a heap, too exhausted to go on.

  “See how good we are together?” His thumb brushed my clit. “We’re perfect for each other.”

  My heart ached so bad, needing this to be true. All I had to do was believe in us. In him.

  I gave a weak nod. He let me sleep.

  At last.

  And semi-consciousness took me down with it.

  * * *

  My eyes popped open and I raised my head off the pillow, my vision adjusting through the dark to look over at Tobias. He was fast asleep, his limbs stretched out on the bed with a leg over mine.

  I slid away from him and maneuvered out of bed, feeling sore and achy.

  I bent to retrieve my panties and pulled them on. I left the rest not wanting to waste time.

  Pausing by the door, I glanced back to confirm he was still sleeping. Tobias looked so calm, so peaceful, and guilt found me in the dark as I felt my way along the wall.

  I entered the living room and after a brisk search found nothing. I hurried on and soon discovered the door to his den. There was nothing suspicious in there, either, and I went back the way I’d come, toward the east side, through the kitchen where the scent of our delicious dinner lingered.

  I found his office. The desk large and the room tidy. A blank wall calendar. An antique typewriter on a shelf. And near it were books on archeology and others on art. A photo of a young couple who could have been his parents, their similarity familiar. A photo of an older man. His uncle, Fabienne, perhaps?

  There was another door at the back.

  Retribution where there is none.

  Recalling his words, the meaning sent a shiver through me.

  I opened the door and walked right into another hallway. There, at the end, lay a chrome door. And it looked heavy on its hinges.

  I hurried toward it.

  My fingers brushed over the control panel and I tried to guess the combination. A sense of futility caught in my throat along with guilt for violating his privacy, and after all he’d done for me.

  All the wonderful work he was doing for others.

  But I’d come too far...

  “Jade,” I whispered. “Open the door.” I glanced behind me.

  A trickle of sweat ran down my spine.

  Raising my voice a little, I said, “Jade, I need you to open this door.” I rested my forehead against it, questioning what the hell I was doing.

  A noise startled me and I listened out for another. “Jade, open the fucking door.” The lock clicked.

  I shoved it open.

  The deep-boned chill of air-conditioning hit me and it reminded me of the same coldness of a gallery.

  He who is about to win, salutes you.

  My hand cupped to my mouth—

  Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc rested upon a stand to the left of the room.

  Moving closer, my chest heaved as I took in Joan’s beautiful expression of faith, and the bright red sash across her. Closer still I recognized that minute spiderweb of cracked paint in the left hand corner of her canvas, right above Ouless’s signature.

  Turning, my gaze roamed... A Rembrandt.

  Monet. Vermeer.

  All of them originals.

  All of them on the list of paintings stolen. I snapped my head around, frantically looking for the Titian, but couldn’t see it.

  I gasped—

  There, in the center upon a marble stand sat the Maxwells’ Tibetan singing bowl and around its rim ran a swirl of lilies and lying beside it was that familiar gong.

  The silence shattered with my sob.

  He’d stolen it from them. Used me to access the room and then pretended he had no interest in it.

  The air was suffocating. I had to get out.

  I rushed across the room and slid out the door, quickly closing it behind me. Heading back down the hallway, through his office and on through the house.

  My palm clamped over my mouth—Tobias was in the kitchen.

  He’d opened the fridge door and was peering in and was basked in a fluorescent white.

  Expressionless, he turned to look at me.

  “I was looking for the loo.”

  “Our bedroom has a bathroom en suite.”

  “It was dark.”

  “Find one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thirsty?” He reached in and removed a bottle of water. And offered it to me.

  My gaze jumped between him and the bottle. He twisted the lid and offered it again.

  I mentally counted the steps from here to the front door, reconciling with the fact I was only wearing my panties and would just have to go for it.

  Tobias’s stare held mine and he took a sip himself and then smiled after taking several gulps. “Was it too much?”

  I bit my lip, using pain to hold back panic. “What?”

  “Next time I’ll be gentler.” He tilted his head. “Told you I make the kama sutra look vanilla. God, Zara, what you do to me.”

  “I liked it.”

  “Let’s go back to bed.” He
held the bottle out to me again.

  I stepped forward and took the water from him and sipped and then gulped a little more, my thirst refusing to quench.

  Hand in hand we walked back to the bedroom. We got back into bed.

  Tobias rolled me onto my side and spooned behind me, pulling me into a hug, and I prayed he couldn’t feel my heart racing so fast it pounded my rib cage.

  I ran through what I’d seen and the stark danger I’d placed myself in came at me like a tsunami.

  “You’re cold.” He hugged me tighter.

  My breathing stuttered and I realized I’d made the worst mistake of my life.

  “I want to cherish this,” he whispered.

  It didn’t make any sense... I’d watched him drink from the same water... I fought the urge to let go.

  Limbs weakening...

  “What did you give me?” My fingers clutched the sheet. “Tobias...”

  “Shush,” he soothed. “I’ve got you. Sleep.”

  32

  With heavy eyes, I blinked awake.

  I was in my own bed.

  Home.

  My hands covered my face as memories swarmed in—all the pieces came together, bringing a tidal wave of panic and forcing me to suck in calming breaths. When I’d mentioned the name Sarah Louise Ramirez to him, his expression hadn’t been frustration, it had been recognition.

  God, I needed to pee.

  Peeking beneath the duvet I realized he’d dressed me in my babydoll nightdress. He’d brought me home and put me to bed.

  I shot a glance at the bedside clock: 8:00 a.m.

  My feet were unsteady as I padded out to my bathroom, my hand trailing along the wall to support me as I tried to shake off this postdrugged daze. After using the loo I brushed my teeth to try and rid myself of this taste of betrayal.

  Feeling a little better, I checked each room to make sure he wasn’t here. I reached the kitchen—

  The Tibetan singing bowl was on my kitchen table. “No!”

  I was already a suspect for that theft at Christie’s, and it wouldn’t take much more of a stretch to have them believe I had anything to do with this.

  Oh my God.

  I’d spent time in that private safe with Violet as my witness.

  I burst into action and ran into my bedroom, quickly finding a box and that Harrods paper bag that Tobias had given me when he’d gifted those strappy new shoes. I’d had no idea then I’d be using it to transport a priceless artifact.

  I dressed in a hurry, pulling on jeans and a jumper, and tugging on my boots and grabbing my parka.

  In a blind panic I flew out the door.

  There was no other way to prove my innocence but take full responsibility for being caught in this web.

  I hailed a taxi and within minutes the black cab pulled away from the curb.

  Clutching the Harrods bag to my chest, I cycled through why Tobias had set me up by staging evidence. My heart felt like fragile glass on the brink of shattering; I begged God to numb this agony.

  I could have loved him...

  Some part of me felt as though I had.

  Oh no...

  I’d accompanied Tobias to Blandford Palace and helped him stake out the painting by Goya. The one suspiciously hidden behind a fake. And I’d been forbidden from filing a report and relented to his demands for secrecy.

  I’d been so naive.

  The journey to Scotland Yard was an endless drive into the mouth of hell. I knew I was about to succumb to the worst kind of questioning. A cruel treatment worthy of the police’s finest detectives. An interrogation so fierce they’d have me believing I’d played a part in this dreadful crime.

  If I thought my life was bad before, it was circling the drain now.

  I reached into my handbag and pulled out my phone and dialed Tobias’s number. It went to voice mail. He’d not canceled his line yet. There was hope I might speak with him one more time. Get answers to why.

  My voice sounded shaky. “Tobias, please call me. I’m begging you. We have to talk.” I killed the call and dialed Abby’s number.

  Her voice mail answered.

  I canceled the call, unsure of leaving words on record that might later hang me.

  With the taxi paid for I climbed out and hesitated on the curb. That tall police station of New Scotland Yard threatened to keep me in there.

  There was no other way...

  I began the trek up the steps.

  Hands trembling, I resigned myself to my fate and continued up.

  A flash of inspiration hit me, and I plopped down and rested on the stone step. With a sweep across my phone and a tap, I had the number for the operator. Within seconds I was being put through to a Sarah Louise Ramirez, the only one listed in Canterbury. At some point she’d moved from France to here.

  Tobias had met with Sarah the same night he’d had Cooper drive me home from the palace. He’d flown to Canterbury to give her back her family heirloom.

  A woman answered. “Hello?” She sounded elderly, just as Tobias had described her.

  “Ms. Ramirez?” I said. “Are you enjoying your Titian?”

  She gasped and hung up.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I cursed myself for needing more proof.

  Tobias had stolen St. Joan to protect me.

  It was over.

  My gaze rose and froze on the image across the street—

  Standing there, clad in orange robes, was a young monk, serene and completely still. He was staring right at me.

  He was the same monk who’d been outside the Wilder building.

  He walked away.

  Taking two at a time, I hurried down the steps.

  I dodged the other pedestrians and rushed after him, terrified I’d lose this fine thread that might lead me to Tobias.

  The monk headed into the entrance of Charing Cross tube station, and I quickly got in line for a ticket.

  At the bottom of the escalator he was gone. “Please.” I begged the universe.

  My shoulders slumped with frustration as I looked left and right into the crowd. A tube pulled up.

  A flash of orange. He was sitting on a seat on the tube. I ran toward the compartment right in front of me and pried open the doors. I slid through and grabbed the center pole to steady my feet as the train took off, not taking my eyes off the monk.

  He got off at Bermondsey.

  Making his way out of the tube station and along. His steady pace was easy to follow.

  After fifteen minutes he opened the towering iron gates of a large brick manor set back on the street. He continued up the steps and through a turquoise-colored door.

  He went inside.

  I pulled open the gate and it squealed on its hinges. And made my way inside—

  The scent of incense hung heavy and the quiet seemed to be trying to calm my thundering heart. Stepping in farther, I soaked in the oriental decor of carved wooden furniture and took in the deep red walls that offered a womb-like peace.

  The monk stood at the end of a long, dimly lit hall, and he was looking back at me. Standing beside him was an older priest who was also clad in robes.

  The older priest stepped forward. “You have it?”

  I clutched the bag to my chest.

  “Please.” He gestured the way. “He’s waiting for you.”

  Hands trembling, I took a wary step forward. “It was stolen from you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  The old monk hesitated. “A year ago.”

  “You asked Icon to get it back?” I said.

  He gave a kind smile. “We prayed for its safe return.”

  “Did you know who had it?”

  “W
e were spared such details. We were told it’s better that way.” The young monk earned himself a nudge of disapproval.

  Tobias was returning it through me.

  Was he returning them all?

  “You must take off your shoes first,” said the younger monk.

  “I have questions,” I said.

  “‘True love is born from understanding,’” said the older monk and gestured. “This is the way.”

  Light-headed, my feet teetered.

  A sense of reverence with this small action of removing my boots. I rested the paper bag on a long side table and lifted out the box. Carefully, I removed the singing bowl with the gong inside it and clasped it tightly.

  I held it out to them. “Here.”

  Their gazes fell upon it and they bowed their heads. The older monk gestured left.

  Carved wooden doors lay ahead, foreign whispers... The doors opening—

  A low chanting emanated from fifty or so monks who kneeled before a large wooden bed and under those covers slept an elderly priest, his head propped up by pillows.

  The monks turned to look at me, and as their gazes fell onto the bowl I saw recognition in their faces.

  It was hope.

  Step by step, as though outside of myself, I walked toward the left side of the bed. “You cannot touch him,” said a monk to my left.

  I gave a nod of understanding and moved closer until I stood next to the elderly monk. He looked so peaceful and my gaze fell to his clasped hands.

  The spiraling fine wisps of incense rose here and there, the soft lighting calming. Whispers rose around me.

  The old man stirred awake and he turned his head to look at me. His kind chestnut gaze found mine and lowered to see the bowl, and he gave a nod of acknowledgment, a glimmer of relief.

  Kneeling, I bowed my head in respect and raised the bowl for him.

  It was taken from me and handed to him by the same young monk who’d guided me here.

  The elderly monk raised himself higher in the bed, freeing his hands from the blankets and waving off help from the others. He wrapped his hands around the singing bowl, his eyes closing once again as though in prayer.

  The younger monk sat on the edge of the other side of the bed and took the bowl. He rested it close to the old man and leaned in farther to continuously stir the gong around the inner edge...