by Dee Brice
“I want you to scream for me again. Now and again when you come once more.”
She slid her hand down his chest to the thick, silky thatch that surrounded his penis and balls. Laughing, she grasped his cock with her fingers. It pulsed, enlarged until it throbbed against his belly like a living scimitar.
“No wonder.” She expelled a sigh and touched her tongue to the glistening head.
“No wonder what?” he ground out when she took him fully into her mouth.
She laughed and seemed to choke on his fullness. “You taste like a perfectly salted steak.” Lowering her head, she swallowed him. Her tongue swirled around his cock head. Her fingers tickled his balls.
His mind went blank for a moment. Recovering his ability to think, he said, “That is not what you were going to say. No wonder what?” he repeated, pulling out with a pop that made her laugh harder.
A blush seeping up her chest, she buried her face in his groin. Then, running her tongue up and down his length, she whispered, “Rub my…rub me and…and…”
“Rub your clit while I fuck your juicy cunt.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that exactly, but—essentially that’s what I meant.”
“Just as I thought.” He flipped her onto her back, teased her legs apart and placed her hands between her spread thighs.
“Touch yourself. Show me yourself. Hold yourself open and watch while I slide in and out of you and touch you…everywhere. Dios, but I want you again. I want to taste you until you scream for me over and over. But a promise is a promise.”
Inching into her slick channel, he watched her pupils dilate until only a ring of green showed. Her breath alternated between deep sighs and desperate-sounding gasps. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips as her body joined his in the ancient, timeless dance.
“Yes,” she whispered, writhing against him as he deepened his strokes. Her cunt muscles grasped his cock, clenched around it as he withdrew, then clutched it tighter when he sank into her. “Faster. Yes, like that. Oh god, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
Her pulsing folds triggered his own release. Driving into her, his balls slapped her soaked curls and his cum spurted deep inside her liquid heat. Struggling for breath, he gathered her trembling body in his arms, then rolled to his back. Like a living blanket, she went slack.
Her breath a murmur along his neck, she muttered, “Thank you.”
He smiled, and his breaths matched hers as they drifted on gentle waves of bliss.
* * * * *
They never did eat, he recalled when the late-morning light streaming through his bedroom windows wakened him. With a satisfied smile, he rolled to his side and reached for her. Somewhere deep inside himself he was not surprised to find his bed, his arms, empty.
Was this payback for his wanting the perfect fantasy?
Because, for him, she had been just that—the beautiful stranger, a night filled with the best sex he’d ever had in his life, the painless parting.
Her leaving was more painful than he had imagined.
* * * * *
LAX SECURITY AT BANQUE DE MEDELLIN LEADS TO THEFT OF PRICELESS ARITIFACT, one London newspaper headline screamed.
“Are you cold, Miss Carter? You’re shivering like a Chihuahua.”
From her seat in a Queen Anne chair, Tiffany Carter smiled up at Sarah Paddington, Sir James Foster’s formidable secretary and dogsbody. “No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s quite pleasant in here.”
“I’ll leave you to your tabloids then. Just a few minutes longer, Miss TC.”
The invariably cheerful and discreet Mrs. Paddington then beckoned TC to a Chippendale sideboard—as far away, she noted, from Sir James’ office doors as they could get unless they left the room. On its marble top rested a sterling silver tea service and Limoges china. A Chippendale shelf unit, accented by a vaguely Rococo design, hung above it. A modern mirror attached to the back of the unit allowed visitors a trisected view of the room or their own faces. An upholstered side chair sat to one side.
Mrs. Pennington whispered, “This theft has everyone in a dither. Even Interpol.” Matching her Wedgwood-blue suit, her blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. Her silver curls quivered. “Two agents are in with his lordship now.
“Are you sure you’re not cold? Your hands feel like ice. I suppose it’s the fog. I haven’t seen a pea souper like this since we Londoners stopped using coal for heat. Just the sight of it’s enough to chill a body to her bones.”
“That must be it. I’ll just take a cup of tea back to my…to the newspapers.” The teacup rattled in its saucer. TC separated them before she spilled the entire contents on the ivory Aubusson carpet.
She resumed her seat in a corner duchesse chair where she could see the entire room. With all its antique furnishings, TC suspected Sir James’ reception area was intended to remind callers of how long Bijoux Indemnity had been in business.
She didn’t intend to read, but another bold headline caught her attention. She picked up the paper.
Expert Summoned. George Fox of Interpol, she read, stated that the theft of Isabella’s Belt conformed with the modus operandi of an international jewel thief well known to Interpol. Yes, his agency had called in outside help—expert help. TC could almost hear the smugness in the agent’s voice. The expert’s name? Mr. Fox was not at liberty to say.
Nothing more. No mention of when the artifact had been reported missing or who had discovered it was gone.
She heard voices and somehow found the courage not to cower. Still, she wasn’t ready to face an introduction to Interpol. Behind her newspaper, she fought to maintain her composure. A small headline captured her attention. Georges Cinq Theft—Precursor to Richer Pickings?
Distracting her, an unknown voice said, “Nice legs.” The comment was met with a preoccupied grunt that made her grind her teeth, not knowing if the remark or the grunt aggravated her more. She continued to hide behind her paper until Mrs. Paddington announced that Sir James would see her.
Determined not to appear cowed, she stood and smoothed her pencil-thin leather skirt over her hips and thighs. Damn it, she was innocent, she told herself, raising her chin and stalking defiantly into Sir James’ office. She even managed to close the tall double doors with a polite, virtually silent click.
Speaker’s Corner, that bastion of English free speech, was just across Knightsbridge Road from Sir James’ offices. Despite not being able to see the Corner through the thick fog, she gained a grain of courage just knowing it was there. At Speaker’s Corner, anyone could say virtually anything with impunity. She prayed that same impunity would extend to Sir James’ office and to her.
With a tremulous sigh, part fear and part relief at being with her mentor, she crossed the carpeted room to his side, but maintained her silence. She would not let an apology convict her now.
“Tiffany, may I present Mr. Ian Soria? Mr. Soria, my daughter-in-law Tiffany Carter-Foster.” Sir James Foster slanted an indolent glance at the man standing near the windows, partly hidden by the drapes.
She felt the blood leave her brain, then return in a rush to heat her face. Merciful heavens, don’t let me faint, she prayed, as her nameless lover paced toward her like a great, dark cat.
Black sweater and slacks, black eyes now looking at her with glee simmering in their fathomless depths. That dark gaze made a leisurely stroll down her left arm and ended at her ring-less fingers.
“Tiffany has just returned from holiday in Austria,” Sir James offered. “I had expected her to look more rested, but our Tiffany will throw herself into things and damn the consequences.”
Would he give her away? Announce to her father-in-law just how wholeheartedly she had thrown herself into having sex with a complete stranger?
“Mr. Soria,” she said, surprised and grateful to sound her normal self. Her mouth felt as dry as the Sahara Desert while her heart galloped and thumped like a horse running at Ascot. What trick of Fate had brought him here? Now?
�
��I hope you enjoyed your holiday,” Ian Soria said in a gentle voice laced with an accent Tiffany couldn’t quite place. He took her icy right hand—which she had not offered—and chaffed it between his two warm ones. He didn’t even flinch, as if he’d expected her hand to be as cold as the Thames in March.
She looked up at him and caught a brief flash of… Anger? Spite? Hatred?
“I didn’t realize you were with a client,” TC said, extricating her hand with more reluctance than she’d anticipated. She didn’t like being touched, especially not by strangers. But Ian Soria’s warm grasp made her feel safe and oddly cherished. And, obviously, she didn’t mind his touch.
“I’m staying at the Savoy,” she said to Sir James. “Perhaps we can have an early dinner when—”
“No, stay. Mr. Soria’s business is with you.”
The words, Sir James’ cool voice, struck her like a fist in her belly. Ian Soria’s chuckle did little to dispel the feeling that prison lay but a few short steps away. In the week since she’d left him in St. Anton, she’d dreamed of meeting him again. But not like this, not with the theft of the century hanging over her.
“In your capacity as appraiser,” Sir James added.
TC expelled a slow breath of relief.
“I shall call for you at seven, for an early dinner,” Ian Soria said with a warm smile at odds with his imperious tone. He recaptured her hand and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles.
About to make excuses, TC heeded the warning look in Sir James’ gray eyes. “Seven,” she repeated.
The two men shook hands and then Ian Soria left. TC sank into a chair.
“How was Paris?” Sir James asked just as she said, “Who is Ian Soria?”
“Paris,” Sir James insisted.
“Cold,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and tucking her icy hands into her armpits. The apology she’d rehearsed stuck in her throat.
“A fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Tiffany,” he said just when her resolve failed. He turned to face her, his expression grave, his gray eyes the color of a winter dawn. As usual, he was impeccably dressed in a gray Savile Row suit and a white shirt with French cuffs fastened by dark pewter cufflinks. His tie was charcoal gray.
“I was incredibly, unforgivably stupid,” she blurted, hoping he would at least hear her out before he clapped her in irons. Or let those Interpol agents lead her away to prison.
His gaze flicked over her before he said, his voice bland yet rich with amusement, “Indeed.”
“I…I’m sorry,” she murmured, the apology given before he could demand it of her.
“Yes, I’m sure you are.” Again he studied her and she fought to remain still under his seemingly careless scrutiny. “But are you—”
“Guilty? No! Not of stealing Isabella’s Belt. Not of—”
“Arrogance? Vanity?”
She fidgeted under his suddenly stormy gaze, but refused to lower her eyes from his. “Of those failings I am guilty, Sir James. I thought—”
“You didn’t think at all,” he said.
Defeated by his disapproval, despite its gentleness, she hung her head. “You’re right, of course,” she muttered before turning away and pacing to his massive desk. “I gave in to an impulse.” Of more than one kind. “I wanted to prove to you that I…that I’m as good at security as William was.”
Heavy with approbation and remorse, the silence hung between them. TC rearranged his desk set, then straightened the picture of Sir James, William and her in its silver frame. They were decked out in wedding finery, William’s mother adamantly having refused to be photographed with the newly married couple.
The mailing tube she’d sent from Paris lay unopened on the pristine cream and black Zebra wood surface of Sir James’ desk. If the outer office proclaimed stability, his office oozed modernity.
Ignoring the tube, she raised her eyes to meet his condemning look. Before she could say anything he put warm fingers over her lips and gazed into her eyes, his own compassionate.
“Tell me everything you can about Isabella’s Belt.”
“It’s a fake,” she replied without hesitation, relieved that he hadn’t turned the conversation to his departed guest. “Only in the historic sense, I mean. Isabella of Castile died long before the Belt was ever heard of in Europe. Its name was given, I suspect, because someone liked the subtle alliteration. ‘Bella’s Belt’.”
“Yes, yes. Describe it,” Sir James commanded, his tone surprisingly impatient.
Sensing he wanted more than physical details, TC closed her eyes and let legend take her captive. “Fabèrgé proclaimed it barbaric, Cartier exquisite. Gauguin, in his time, wished he could bestow it upon his models. Lautrec tried to paint it adorning his dancers. Legend claims it cannot be painted, that its purity and beauty can be appreciated only when worn by…”
“Go on.” Sir James’ breathing sounded harsh in the quiet room.
“By Venus rising from the sea.”
His snort of disbelief shocked her as much as his intensity. She eased away and took up a post by his windows. The fog seemed to thin a little, allowing glimpses of yellow fog lights that pierced its denseness. But she felt as if she was drowning in the mists within the warm, still room.
“Is that how they intend to display it at the Musée de Luxembourg? Did they mold Botticelli’s Venus and hang the Belt around her hips?”
TC cringed inwardly, but managed to keep her body still. “No, they molded Queen Isabella instead. It was late in the day when I met the curator to check the general security. As you know, they hadn’t opened the exhibit yet and— Well, as you also know, I’ve been a little busy since the theft.” Every muscle in her body tense, she waited for his disapproval. When he remained silent, feeling as if she had gained a stay of execution, she drew a deep breath for courage and turned to face him. “I swear to you I had nothing to do with stealing Isabella’s Belt.”
“I believe you, Tiffany. But will Interpol?”
His sly expression startled her, evoking an involuntary gasp of fear. Her gaze darted to the mailing tube, then back to her mentor’s face. “Why is Interpol involved? And h-how do they even know I was in Paris?”
“Interpol is involved because the Belt might be sold to finance drug running or terrorism. And surely you spotted the newly installed security cameras,” he jibed. “The ones you insisted be installed even though they only record the exhibit room and nobody monitors them. They certainly captured you in that ridiculous fedora. Honestly, Tiffany, you should learn to dress down when doing reconnaissance. At least remove that ghastly red feather from your hat.”
Feeling somewhat better now that she apparently had his support, she joined in his teasing laughter and then swept a hand over her body. “It’s a little difficult to hide a body of this size.” What he would think when he opened his Paris present, she didn’t want to consider.
“Or beauty,” he countered, taking her hand before pressing a light kiss into her palm. “I am sorry about William.”
The turn in the conversation, his very unpredictability, unsettled her. Aside from a little lighthearted flirting, the gentle bantering of an experienced roué with a young and still basically innocent girl, his condolence was the most intimate thing he had ever said to her. And his stepson’s death must have affected him deeply, as well.
“He’s at peace,” she said.
“But you aren’t.”
She hadn’t realized her restlessness showed. She had attributed her sudden longing for a permanent home and family as nothing more than maturing. Although expected, William’s death had left her standing at a crossroad. She raised her hand dismissively, puzzled by the weariness the gesture revealed. She hadn’t realized she was so tired, that more than her body needed rest.
“You need to go home,” Sir James observed, his voice seeming to come from a great distance.
I don’t have a home. She had never had a home, even with William. She had lived in his house, eaten his food, en
tertained his guests, but it had never been home to her. She never had felt as if she belonged there. Admiration and respect she’d had from him, but not his love. Once, that had been enough for her, but not anymore. God, she hated feeling maudlin!
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m more tired than I thought, that’s all. And,” her lips twisted wryly, “I’m scared. For the first time since you hired me, the possibility of going to jail seems real.” Once more feeling deeply, ominously chilled, she paced to his fireplace and held out her hands. “If Interpol suspects I’m even minimally involved…”
“No matter what happens, Tiffany, I’ll stand behind you.”
His hand on her shoulder offered warmth and comfort, but she felt colder than ever. She barely restrained the compulsion to cringe away and bare her teeth in feral defense against him and everything he represented.
“Ah, but will Bijoux?” she asked flippantly, turning quickly, hoping to surprise him into revealing again that disquieting unpredictability, that greed for Isabella’s Belt so akin to lust.
“You seem to forget, my dear. I am Bijoux.”
Meant to reassure, the calm statement fed her fear. He was her sole protection and her greatest danger. He knew everything about her, from her first theft to her foolish appearance at the Musée de Luxembourg. Soon he’d know about the surprise she’d sent him along with the Luxembourg security plans she had mailed from Paris.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, her voice a stressed whine.
Taking her arm, he led her to a chair. Seating her, he returned a moment later with a cup of tea, fragrant and steaming. Her hands trembled when she held them out and he placed the saucer on her palms. With him towering over her like a vulture waiting for its food to die, she felt hemmed in, trapped.
“Sir James?” she demanded, hating the quaver in her voice, the speculation in his cool gray eyes.
“For now, my dear, we wait.”
“Wait?”
“Don’t borrow trouble, Tiffany,” he advised in a gentle voice that frightened her even more.
“How can I help it?” she wondered aloud, putting aside her cup and saucer and surging to her feet. Sir James settled at his desk. She paced to the windows and stared out morosely, not expecting an answer, but terrified by his silence.
