by Dee Brice
When Tiffany returned with paper plates and napkins—no Limoges today—he poured coffee into Styrofoam cups and eyed the yellow legal pads and mechanical pencils she laid on the table.
“There has been a new development in the case.”
She glanced up at him, but continued laying out plastic utensils. “Are you going to tell me or make me guess?”
“Two staff members were discovered in the bank’s vault. They had been murdered.”
Her trembling hand flew to her slender throat and her face paled, turning so white he thought she might faint.
He stared at her hands and remembered how strong a grip she had. Once she had accepted the inevitability of doing so, she had shaken his hand with firmness. Had she strength enough in those slender fingers to murder not one man but two? But he also remembered how gently she had touched him when they made love.
“H-how were they killed?”
He shrugged and lied. “I do not know. The French police and Interpol are keeping that information to themselves.” But you know, do you not? he asked silently, remembering how her hand had gone to her throat.
“Are we going to use the whiteboard?” he asked, willing to move on now that he had seen her reaction. Just something to add to his list of things he knew about her.
“No. No matter how well it’s erased, it retains shadows. If someone wanted to, and had enough time, he could figure out what had been written. And, yes, I’m paranoid.”
“So long as you admit it,” he said in a flippant voice that brought her gaze to his face.
“Which is more than you’ll admit,” she muttered under her breath.
“What shall we work on first? Our suspect list or what we can construct of the timeline?”
She stared at him as if trying to make sense of what he had said. Then, with a sly smile, she sat in the one leather-bound high-backed chair. She slid a legal pad and pencil toward him.
“Let’s start with the suspect list,” she said in a take-charge voice. “At this point, it’s short.”
In a world where women were relegated to secretarial duties regardless of their own rank or competence, Damian could forgive her the obvious power play. Besides, he found it easier to think when he put pen to paper. Something about seeing words on foolscap lubricated his mind.
“All right,” he said in a cheerful tone that made her frown. Perhaps he had capitulated too soon, had relinquished his manly status too easily. “Top of the list— Person or persons unknown.”
“Followed by Emilio Santana and his wife. And add a couple of columns while you’re at it. ‘Motive’ and ‘Alibi.’ And don’t get your knickers in a twist about your godparents. We—at least I—have to list them for now.”
He grumbled, but did as she asked. “Right. The motive for person or persons unknown is money.”
“As it is for the Santanas.” She held up her hand before he began to tell her how wealthy his godparents were. “There are probably better reasons, but we’ll go with the obvious first.”
“Next? Oh yes, you. By your own admission,” he added when she stabbed him with a glare.
“Right,” she said from between her teeth. “Motive, money.”
“Sir James Foster. Same-ol’, same-ol’. Although I cannot imagine him robbing the hand that feeds him.”
“Charles Cartierri,” she added as if conflicted, but willing to do her duty come fire or flood.
“Why?” He made a mental note to take a deeper look at Sir James’ friend.
“Money, of course. But… Charles has always loved emeralds. They’re his gimmick to lure exclusive clients into his shops. Anyone, even I,” she muttered bitterly, “can design magnificent settings for diamonds. Even the cheapest diamonds have their own glitter that can outshine their settings. But an emerald… It takes a special talent to ensure the inclusions add only depth and brilliance to the setting. Only a true genius can design a setting fit for an emerald.”
“Dios, you sound envious.”
As if startled out of a trance, Tiffany looked at him. “I guess I am.” Sighing, she went on. “Despite Interpol’s interest, I don’t believe the theft was an act carried out by terrorists,” she said, seeming to tally a point for herself when his head jerked upward to reveal his surprise.
“No?”
“No.” Raising her index finger, she forestalled his questions. “For one thing, the Belt isn’t a religious artifact that has worldwide significance. And how many people know or care that it’s historically valuable to Colombia?”
“And?”
She raised her middle finger, barely restraining a smile when his lips quirked. At least she hadn’t given him the finger. “Second, were the theft an act of terrorism, I think whoever was responsible would have waited until the Belt was on public display—a gathering of dignitaries for the unveiling or a weekend when common citizens and their children were waiting in line to see it. And they’d have blown the exhibit room to smithereens. The murder of innocents seems very important to terrorists.”
“Which brings us back to our short suspect list.” He tapped his pencil on his legal pad.
“Three,” she went on, ignoring his comment, “the theft has no direct economic impact on Colombia or France. Therefore, the theft was an act of greed, nothing more.”
“Which, I think you will admit, leads us to another possible motive. If the thief is not out for monetary gain, then he or she could be out for revenge against…?”
“Person or persons unknown?” she suggested as if she could see the speculation in his eyes before he lowered his gaze to his notepad.
“If you had Isabella’s Belt, what would you do with it?”
Nibbling on her full upper lip, she seemed to consider his question. “If I weren’t interested in keeping it for myself or selling it to some private collector for his eyes only? I’d break it up, which would tremendously reduce its value.”
Her pause made him say, “What?”
“The Belt’s center stone, the cabochon, would have to be broken apart, as well. Cut into smaller stones I mean. Destroyed.”
“Dios! Is that what you think the thief will do?”
“I think… If the thief is ‘unknown’ that’s exactly what he will do.”
“And if this person is known? What then?”
She shuddered. “Then we may never know who stole the Belt or why. The only thing we might learn—aside from the obvious—is why those poor people were murdered.”
“What is the obvious?”
She looked at him with clear green eyes empty of any emotion. “Because they got in the way.”
It was Damian’s turn to shudder.
A few minutes later, he found himself distracted by Tiffany standing and stretching. Not even her baggy sweatshirt and jeans could camouflage her sleek body or keep him from remembering every sigh, every pulse of her hot, sweet cunt, every scream of pleasure he had torn from her.
Shit! He wanted her again. If she was involved with the theft and murders, this might be his last chance to have her. And, by damn, he would have her. Here. Now. On the table, on the floor. In the chair. He would use her lust against her and his conscience be damned.
Standing, he gathered up the Styrofoam cups and paper plates, then made his way toward the wastepaper basket near the door. Good. An inside lock. He turned it, then slid his fingers down the light switch and plunged the windowless room into total darkness.
Tiffany gave a startled yelp, which helped him locate her. Yes, there by that high-backed chair.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Turn on the lights.”
“I cannot find the switch,” he said, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull his pant leg over his shoe. He should have shed his loafers first.
“What are you doing?” she repeated, her voice suggesting she was moving toward him. Good, he would not have to grope around in the dark to find her. Her hand collided with his chin, then moved down his now-naked chest. “Are you—why aren’t y
ou wearing your shirt?”
She jerked like a scalded cat when he touched her.
“What do you think I am doing?” he said, ignoring her question, grateful that her baggy jeans allowed him to slide his hand under the denim and find her clit without impediments. “Aye chingala, Tiffany, our minds must be on the same frequency. You are not wearing underpants and neither am I.”
“Stop it. Don’t… You horny son of a bitch,” she half laughed, half moaned.
“Do you know how I know you are not wearing a bra either? No? I shall tell you. Your breasts jiggle and your nipples get hard and poke out.”
“Do not,” she insisted, her voice a breathless rasp.
“Do,” he said, pulling her jeans down and her sweatshirt over her head. “Just like they are right now.”
He was not done with her. Not yet. “Stay where you are. Just like you are.” He found the computer screen and turned it on. In the dim light he could see that her nipples jutted like thick, round pebbles in her puckered areolas. Her breasts looked swollen.
“Do they hurt?” he whispered, filling his hands with her lush, firm fullness and then gently kneading them.
“N-not anymore.” A breathless laugh escaping her lips, she tangled her fingers in his hair. A light pressure urged his head down her neck to one rigid peak. “They’d feel even better if you sucked—ah yes, like that.”
As he laved and stroked each nub, she began an assault of her own. She teased his nipples with her nails until they rose as if to challenge hers in size and sensitivity. His groans flowed over her as she skimmed one hand down his chest to stroke his swollen cock.
Unable to take more of her tender ministerings, he backed her onto the table. “Lie down,” he whispered with a firm hand on her shoulder. She lay there, a feast for his eyes and hands. Her sighs music to dine by.
“I love looking at your cunt. Even when I am not touching you I can see how much you want me. Smell how much you want me.” He nuzzled her clit, then slid his tongue into her and lapped her slick folds. “Taste how much you want me. Tell me, Tiffany. Say the words.”
“Fuck me, Ian. Fuck me with your tongue, your fingers, your cock. Just fuck me.”
“Dios, yes!” He sucked her throbbing clit and slid his fingers into her juicy heat. She bucked. He raised her legs over his shoulders, eased one finger into her tight anus and groaned his pleasure when she climaxed in waves of liquid heat. Unsteady, he groped for a chair, then pulled her onto his lap, almost coming when his mouth found those hard, jutting peaks. He shifted her body, spread her legs until she straddled him and his cock touched her moist opening.
“God, you are hot!” he groaned, his tongue flicking from one stiff nipple to the other and back again. “Ride me, Tiffany.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you are crazy for me.” He held her hips and buried himself to his balls. “Come on, spread your legs for me.”
“The chair arms are in the way,” she panted, her voice revealing her frustration.
Finding her calves, he slid them over the arms of the chair. But she had nowhere to put her knees, to ride as he wanted her to ride. But he liked this position just as much. Liked the way her cunt muscles milked him when he drove into her, withdrew and drove deeper. Liked the thought he was in complete control of her body and what happened next. Yes, he liked that very much. But more, he wanted her hips grinding against his as she grew more frenzied than she was now.
Still impaling her, he stood, found the table and laid her on it once again.
“Oh, God!” she moaned, writhing and locking her legs around his hips.
“Say it, Tiffany. Say the words and I shall give you what you want.” He flicked his tongue over her nipples. “Come on. Tell me what you want.”
“Fuck me,” she whispered.
“Louder, querida. Scream it for me.”
She screamed. Her climax sucked his cock deeper and he spewed his cum into her spasming core. Groaning, he lay against her, his racing heartbeat matching hers.
Her voice hoarse, she moaned as her climax rolled through her again and again and again, each feeling stronger than the last. Until she felt like her body had shattered into a thousand pieces—each a pussy filled with Ian’s pulsing cock.
“Merde,” she said, feeling her lips curve into a sated smile. “I’m depraved. Utterly and completely depraved.”
“No, just utterly and completely well fucked,” Ian said, a note of triumph in his deep voice.
“Well fucked indeed,” she agreed, then moaned.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing much. I don’t think I can even sit up, let alone stand.” A laugh followed her confession along with a blush over her entire body.
“Let me help you.”
“Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Soria. If you touch me again, I swear—”
“You will fuck me again?” He sounded exhausted and at the same time hopeful.
“Oh hell! Why not? If you can, I can. I think.”
When he picked her up, she yelped.
“Unlock the door. Hurry!”
She couldn’t help laughing as he jogged out of the conference room and down the hall. “Where are you taking me?”
“To Sir James’ office. I have always wanted to fuck a beautiful woman on a knight’s desk.”
“We’re going straight to hell,” she muttered darkly.
“Possibly. Probably. No doubt. But think of the fun we shall have getting there.”
* * * * *
Hours later, sitting in the front row of the theater’s dress circle, TC squeezed Ian’s hand. She’d heard about the spectacular end of the show’s first scene, but still was unprepared when the crystal chandelier flew from the stage directly at them in the balcony, then quietly settled into place high above their heads. The moldy-looking drapes of the gutted Paris Opera House, whisked away by unseen hands, revealed a proscenium of burnished gold figures romping in Bacchanalian disregard for propriety. A backdrop of Corinthian columns rose from the stage floor while an elephant, both realistic and mechanically comic, rolled to center stage.
TC had never cared much for the music. She thought it repetitious and dissonant, but she was caught up in the magic of the staging, in the way set pieces appeared and people disappeared. It was like a circus, only better. And part of her mind, that part trained at an early age to calculate angles and weights and stress points, wondered if any of these wondrous tricks could be adapted for more nefarious purposes.
“Tiffany?” Ian said from what seemed like a great distance.
Realizing the play was over, that the rest of the audience was giving the cast a standing ovation, TC surged to her feet and shot Ian an apologetic look.
“How’d he do that? Disappear, I mean, while it looked like he was still in the chair?”
Ian laughed. “Shall we find out?”
She put her hand in his and eagerly followed him through the departing crowd. The stage manager seemed as delighted with her as she was with the sets. He took them through virtually every change in the show, explaining at length the precise balance required for the battens, which held and weighted the painted canvas backdrops in place when they were lowered to the stage. How the teasers hid the stage lights and kept the audience from being distracted. At last, he gave her permission to wander around the stage while he and Ian continued to talk.
Smiling to herself, feeling like Dorothy must have felt when she found herself behind the wizard’s curtain in Oz, TC tried to see everything at once. Looking up, she could see the bottoms of various scenery curtains and, high above, the catwalk. Under her feet, the stage floor felt surprisingly firm. She’d expected it to feel spongy, but supposed it would have to be especially sturdy to handle all the scenery and people transported from beneath the floor.
Then all hell broke loose. From overhead, something whizzed past her head. She ducked, sidestepped and fell. Like Alice through the rabbit’s hole, she tumbled downward and landed with a thu
mp that knocked the wind out of her. Just before she blacked out she thought she heard the stage manager yell, “Bloody hell, who released that star cover?”
* * * * *
Feeling more helpless than he ever had felt in his life, not knowing what to do with an injured, pigheaded Tiffany, Damian called home.
“Bring her here, m’ijo.”
“There is a problem, Mamacita. Mrs. Foster is—only possibly, ¿comprendes?—a suspect in the theft of padrino’s valuables.” He could not—would not—reveal the murders. Even if he could, his brother’s murder was still fresh in his family’s memory—especially his mother’s. He wanted his parents’ honest opinion of Tiffany. Warning them of her possible involvement in theft should put his parents on guard, but not to the point of overt suspicion and accompanying rudeness.
“I see.” He could hear the shrug along with amusement in his mother’s voice. “Bring her anyway. I shall inform your papa that we are about to host yet another of your strays.”
Damian heard his father’s bellow, followed by his mother’s muffled voice saying, “A wounded sparrow, my love.”
His father came on the line, his gentle voice belying the gruff words. “Should I lock the twins in the tower or exile them to Spain?”
“Neither, Papa. I think the twins will be good for Tiffany—er—Mrs. Foster. She is a little prickly just now, but—”
“Doesn’t want to come down to Devon, eh?”
“I think she would rather take another beating.”
“Another? Damian, you didn’t—”
“She fell, Papa. An accident.” He hoped.
“You hope.” As always, his father knew Damian very well.
“Yes, Papa, I hope.”
“So, it’s Ian Soria to the rescue. No references to insurance fraud or to your other employment?”
“No, Papa. Thank you.”
“Drive carefully, son. We’ve had rain and the roads are treacherous.”
* * * * *
A change in the sound of the Jag’s engine awakened TC. Ian had insisted on driving down from London. She knew the train would have gotten them here sooner. But given her battered appearance, she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be seen with her in public.
