MasterStroke

by Ellis, Dee

  They walked downstairs, across the vast entry vestibule and through French doors onto a wide terrace. The grounds were quiet and soon they were at an enormous swimming pool bracketed by marble columns. The pool house was inside what looked like a Grecian temple.

  The water was so clear they could see the pattern of the mosaics on the bottom of the pool but it looked cold and forbidding. Sandrine turned into Jack’s arms. He held her tight and she breathed in his scent. When she looked up at him, their lips met and her tongue urgently sought his. She could feel his body respond in that wonderful familiar way; Sandrine was already comfortably aware of her own arousal and just how short a journey it was to not being able to think straight. At those times, any self-control that remained was easily over-ridden.

  When Jack mentioned there was another pool located nearby, indoors and almost as large, mirroring a classical Roman bath, a sliver of memory niggled at the edge of her perception but it slipped away before she could grasp it. There’s something I have to tell Jack. Damn, what is it? It annoyed her but, warm in Jack’s embrace against a chill breeze that had dogged their steps so far, it refused to return.

  There was nobody within sight. It was almost as if they had the entire estate to themselves. They continued to wander around the property, working their way downhill until they reached a large boathouse on the shores of the Sound. The doors were locked tight. Inside, through dust-encrusted windows, they could see the clutter of a nautical lifestyle – ropes, pulleys, barrels, an old wooden rowboat tipped on its side, oars, a workbench piled high with boxes and cartons, and other detritus.

  A covered porch encircled the boathouse. The waters of the Sound were growing choppy from a breeze strong enough to flick hair in Sandrine’s face. It was cold and she turned to hug Jack again. He was just as hard as before and she brushed her hand against the front of his jeans. The bulge pulsed and he groaned involuntarily.

  “You’re very naughty,” he said, his voice barely above a growl.

  “Just the way you like me.”

  “True. But this isn’t the time or place.”

  “When isn’t it?” she asked, an edge of innocence bringing a sardonic tone to her voice.

  “Naughty, naughty girl. Which, ordinarily, I’d enjoy. But not now. I’m working.”

  The pout was only half in jest.

  “Such a shame, Jack Lucas. You know exactly what you’re missing,” she said, scraping a nail along the length of the bulge in Jack’s jeans. He jumped. “And it doesn’t seem like there’s much to do at the moment. This is the perfect opportunity.”

  “I created a monster, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. It’s all your fault. If you’d left me alone, we wouldn’t be in this situation. But it is kind of fun, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. Sandrine could sense his inner turmoil. No man is strong enough to resist an opportunity to have sex. Especially dangerous sex. Jack wasn’t pulling away, he wasn’t taking her hands away from his hard cock, he wasn’t arguing passionately that he should be getting back to work. As far as they were both concerned, Marcus was safe, Sylvester and his men had fled the scene, and there was little left to do except turn out the lights and go back home.

  Jack took her by the elbow and steered her away from the boathouse.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “There’s something I’m sure you’d like to see.”

  “Of course, there is. That’s exactly what I’ve been talking about,” she agreed readily.

  “You’re sounding just like Mariel,” Jack admonished.

  Sandrine stopped and swung around.

  “Really? Am I? That’s terrible. I hope not.” A rush of anguish swept across her face. “Please, Jack. Tell me it’s not true.”

  She looked so plaintive, Jack could only burst out laughing. He almost doubled over and found it difficult to bring himself under control.

  “No, not quite. Don’t worry. I find it far more alluring coming from you than I would from Mariel.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now come on. I think you’ll like this.”

  “I’m not going to say anything else. I don’t want to sound like a hussy.”

  They neared a series of terraces that cascaded down the hillside from the mansion. Tucked inside an alcove was a small doorway.

  “The main doors are locked. We’re using the back entrance,” Jack explained as they stepped inside, closing the door behind them and slipping the lock.

  “Mr Lucas, if you expect a ribald reply such as Mariel Bould would make, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve learnt my lesson.”

  They were standing on a small balcony overlooking the indoor swimming pool. It was magnificent in a completely over-the-top sort of way, a grotto with a vaulted ceiling of the brightest duck-egg blue, with the sun and stars and moon picked out in gleaming gold leaf, and flowing murals of a mythic Grecian aquatic paradise, complete with Poseidon and Zeus and oodles of compliant half-naked women. The chamber was longer than wider and big windows looked out over the Sound. Marble statues of classical nudes, male and female, were poised at intervals along the edges of both sides of the pool, counterpointing the wall murals of forests and satyrs and, not surprisingly, more half-naked women frolicking in Elysium fields.

  “From what I’ve been told, this was a popular venue for parties,” Jack offered.

  “I’m sure it was. Can we go swimming?”

  “I’m not sure we have that much time, darling. But we should have a look around while we’re here.”

  Behind the pool were showers and change rooms with separate entrances for male and female guests, lounge areas, small rooms that Sandrine guessed were for massages or resting, a large bar area that resembled an old-style nightclub, and much more. Towels, bathrobes, even bathing suits filled the shelves in each of the change areas and looked freshly supplied. The bar fridges were cold and fully stocked, some of the tables were littered with empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays, and the air smelt strongly of cigars.

  Sandrine wrinkled her nose.

  “It’s like they just left.”

  “It’s very strange. I hope it doesn’t mean there’s a leak in our organisation, that they were informed of the raid.”

  “Doesn’t look like we’ll find out tonight.”

  “No,” Jack agreed. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Sandrine took a seat at one of the clean tables. Jack cast an eye over the bar, checked the wine selection in the bar fridges, then grabbed a bottle of Russian vodka and two tumblers.

  “Even the ice is still fresh,” Jack noted as he filled the glasses, poured a solid shot of vodka and squeezed half a lime in each.

  Sandrine preferred white wine with only the occasional foray into Marcus’ single malt whiskey so she was a little hesitant. She took a tentative sip. The astringent bite of the vodka was tempered by the citrus. It’s quite good, she thought. Another sip. Very good, in fact. A third sip. I could get used to this. She nodded across the table to Jack.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Glad you like it. In summer, I’ll have vodka. In winter, bourbon. But today just seems like a vodka day.”

  The liquor spread a warmth over Sandrine and the few inhibitions she had dissolved. The longer she sat across from Jack, watching him as he sipped his own drink, the more difficult it was to ignore her increasing arousal. There was nothing she could do about it nor did she want to. The liquid fire in the pit of her stomach flowed through her. She was so wet she could barely concentrate. She ran a hand up her thigh and it took all her concentration not to rub the blossoming softness between legs.

  “Are you thinking naughty thoughts again?” Jack’s eyes crinkled with delight. He loves seeing me like this. It’s his own fault. If he didn’t look good enough to eat, I wouldn’t be so hungry all the time.

  “There’s nobody around to watch us now,” she replied in a husky tone.

  He nodded gravely.

  “No, t
here isn’t. What are you going to do about it?”

  She regretted wearing jeans and the thick sweater. She wanted something she could shrug aside. She wanted to be naked as quickly as possible so Jack could push that wonderful thick cock inside her. She needed to have her thighs pried open and her desire on full display. She longed for the feel of Jack’s massive hardness spearing inside her, hammering her with all the urgency and intensity she was feeling at that moment.

  He appeared off-hand, even bored, running a hand languidly through his hair, while staring her down. His eyes said so much. This is a challenge, she thought. He wants me to make the first move.

  Sandrine stood a little unsteadily. The room felt like a sauna, the alcohol disorienting her. She grabbed the edge of the table and tipped it sideways, sending the glasses bouncing across the carpet, and knelt before his chair. Jack didn’t move, his cool detachment infuriating her.

  She unbuckled his belt, pulled the zipper down and scooped the hot slab of his penis out almost in one movement. Gripping the shaft, she plunged her face down on it greedily as she continued to watch his expression. Still he appeared disinterested which irritated her further and she went crazy, her head a blur as she thrust repeatedly downward, working his cock deeper into her throat than she ever had before. The head, already huge, swelled further and his balls were hard and ready to erupt.

  Sandrine wanted his cum, the essence of this wonderful man, and she wanted it fast. As she replayed all that he’d done to her, in his bed, in her own bed, in the games room, replaying actions and sensations over and over in her head, she lost control and tried all she could to make sure he did the same. A strange guttural groan vibrated through her throat and, finally, he began to react. She was delirious with joy, she’d found the key to shattering him and she gave herself fully to her sensual insanity. She was using her mouth to fuck him as animalistically as possible.

  He was swelling now, getting bigger and, as the salty pre-cum flowed, she was focused on only one thing.

  “Ahhhhh,” was all he could utter before his cum jetted forcefully from him. She thrust her mouth down deeply for the final time and his cock jerked convulsively, wedged in her throat, draining him, pouring down inside her as she swallowed every drop.

  “That was………..” his voice trailed off.

  She finished, licking the head lavaciously, intent on the matter at hand.

  What was he trying to say?

  “That was what, darling? What do you mean?” Sandrine was playfully absorbed in watching his cock twitch and gradually deflate but, when she looked up again, Jack was staring over her head, his eyes wide with surprise.

  “I think what he meant was, that was most satisfying,” the strangely accented voice behind her said. “Wasn’t it? Is that what you meant? It certainly looked entertaining from where we’re standing.”

  Shocked, she glanced around. A tall slim man with a deep tan, dressed in a pale grey three-piece suit, stood flanked by four other men, presenting a bizarre contrast in tank tops, cargo shorts and flip-flops over muscled heavily-tattooed bodies. They all pointed large handguns at Sandrine and Jack. Behind them, a panel in the wall that held a large mirror in a gilt frame was open wide.

  “Sorry to interrupt at this delicate time but, as you Americans say, stick ‘em up.”

  Chapter Forty One

  The room into which Jack and Sandrine were herded at gunpoint was an enormously long space, low-ceilinged with a stepped-down living area capable of accommodating a few dozen people. Decades before, when it had been built, it would have been called a conversation pit.

  It took a while to take it all in and a little longer for Sandrine to realise there were no windows yet the room glowed with luminosity by way of diffused skylights. It was, it occurred to her, like a villain’s lair in an early James Bond movie. It wouldn’t be surprising to find Blofeld stroking a long-haired white cat at the head of the dining table, she thought.

  Jack had an amused look on his face as he took a seat on one of the couches, a lean yet comfortable affair, vaguely mid-century Scandinavian in appearance.

  “Nice place you have here,” he said. “No wonder we couldn’t find you.”

  The man in the three-piece suit sat opposite. The others, who appeared ready for a beachside barbecue, arranged themselves around the room, guns pointed casually aside, seemingly relaxed and unconcerned but tense, their eyes alert.

  “Interesting, yes? We had no idea it was here but Rodrigo…..,” he waved a hand across the room at one of his men who nodded tersely. “…..discovered this by accident. It’s been useful in many ways. The house upstairs was far too cold; we’re from Brazil, not accustomed to the harshness of your winter. And, providence being a wonderful thing, we avoided your raid.”

  “You are Davi Paulo Roberto Ferreira da Cavalcanti?”

  “You can call me Sylvester. And you turned down a very generous offer for the sketch.”

  Jack shook his head wearily.

  “No, considering what that offer was for, I refused a pittance. It was an offer so insulting I couldn’t even take it to my client.”

  Sylvester stood, the mask falling from his face. Anger flashed, his eyes were wild and tinged with red, then he slumped, appearing crestfallen. Refusal was something he was not accustomed to at all. Sandrine was aware the atmosphere in the room had changed but she was unsure of the extent. Jack, what are you doing? Is it wise to antagonise this man? He looks unstable.

  Dark eyes bore through Jack who, for his part, played the game back at him. A game, that’s what it is. It’s what Jack talked about before. Then, slowly, a grin crept across his features, widening into a smile that showed gold amongst broken, yellowing teeth. The laugh, when it came, had an undertone of menace. It wasn’t one of humour.

  “Yes, your client, I understand now. You are a businessman like me with a reputation to uphold. Sergei Agapov, he told me you are like this.”

  Jack sat quietly, waiting, watching. It was a moment that could go either way. While Sylvester gave every indication of being moderate, it was more than obvious that he hadn’t survived as long as he had, as a gang leader in one of Brazil’s most dangerous slums and later as an arms dealer, without a mind that would be equal parts tactical and unpredictable, and just as deadly in both modes.

  Sandrine held her breath. Jack appeared totally at ease, his gaze wandering the room, then easing his head in a loose circular motion that gave the indication of easing a sore neck. She was momentarily confused by his apparent indifference but it dawned on her that he was checking the positions of Sylvester’s men.

  No, Jack. You can’t. There are too many of them and they all have guns. This is crazy. Her mind raced and she sensed an anxiety attack approaching.

  Sylvester’s laugh was high and girlish, edged with hysteria. His face was clammy and his eyes frightening in their intensity. Is he on drugs? Cocaine, perhaps?

  “Sergei was right, Jack Lucas. You are a hard man, a tough negotiator. You are trying to do well by your client.” Sylvester launched himself across the conversation pit, sliding the last few inches along the shag pile carpet on his knees, gripping Jack’s thighs tightly, laughing that strange high-pitched laugh. “You and me, we’re not so different. I respect what you are doing.”

  He stood and screamed a stream of Portuguese so fast and inflected even his men appeared to have difficulty understanding. One in particular paid close attention, nodding frantically, head down, not looking at his boss, completely silent.

  “A drink,” he said to both of them. Spittle was flying from lips that held a bluish tinge. “We’ll drink and cut a deal. We’ll haggle. You want the highest price. I want the lowest. We will not stop until we’re both happy with the price. Then you will deliver to me that most beautiful of ladies, the one I’ve wanted for so long. Will you do that, Jack Lucas?”

  Sandrine’s eyes were wide with apprehension and her mouth was dry. Jack merely looked on as if this was a regular part of his day.

/>   A bottle of liquor the colour of cognac was placed on the coffee table with three shot glasses. Sandrine glanced enquiringly at Jack.

  “Cachaca. Brazilian cane spirit,” he said, shaking his head in warning.

  It smelt like something that jet aircraft would use as fuel. The tiniest of sips confirmed that view.

  “Brazilians sometimes call it tiger’s breath,” said Jack.

  Sylvester laughed hugely at Sandrine’s sour expression and the coughing fit that followed.

  “Holy water, as well, it is better known” Sylvester added, downing the shot and pouring another. He waved the bottle towards Sandrine, laughing. “This is the good stuff, pretty lady. Aged ten years. The cheap rubbish you’d never drink straight, that’s for the caipirinha cocktail, you need the lime and sugar to make it less like poison.”

  Sandrine waved off the offer. It’s foul, there’s no way I’m having any more.

  Sylvester shouted another command and, a few minutes later, a bulbous wine glass and an opened bottle of vintage Bollinger were placed before her.

  “Now, Jack Lucas, drink. Another one. Then we bargain.” Jack knocked back his glass and Sylvester lurched forward with the bottle. The dark liquor splashed across his hand, soaking the carpet but Sylvester either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He put the bottle down and picked up the champagne, pouring it in such a way it foamed out of the glass and onto the table. Sandrine left it where it was, paying far more attention to Sylvester than she knew was prudent. She didn’t want to be caught staring but his behaviour was so frenetic and bizarre, so dangerously unpredictable, that it was hypnotic, like watching a car accident in slow motion, unable to turn her head.

  Is he really crazy? Sandrine knew nothing about Sylvester other than what Jack had told her. He gave her the creeps, that was for sure; he was well-mannered and smooth but with these people you could never judge on appearance. Sylvester had the dark handsome appeal of a male model while his troop looked like they’d just competed in a jail volleyball tournament.