Chapter Eight
M athias gritted his teeth against the growing panic. It lodged in his throat and rendered silent the caustic remarks, the protective objections. He had no one to blame but himself. He had actively, willingly chosen this—to peel it all back. To lay himself bare.
Rayan slid his hands to the backs of Mathias’s thighs and pressed down, shifting his hips so Mathias could feel the pulsing heat of his cock pressed against him.
The blood thundered in Mathias’s ears. He felt cornered, defenseless.
As if sensing his fear, Rayan brought Mathias’s palm to his chest. Mathias could feel the man’s heart hammering beneath his fingertips. So, it wasn’t just him.
Rayan leaned in to kiss him, and his mouth opened around Mathias’s own, sending a flood of warmth through Mathias’s insides. He brushed his lips against Mathias’s cheek, and when Rayan spoke, it was a whisper close to his ear. “I’ll go slow.”
The ease with which Rayan moved—his hands firm but gentle, the lines of concentration appearing on his forehead as he pushed against him—allowed Mathias to release his grip, to finally relinquish control…
Mathias jolted awake, breathing fast. Rayan lay in the dark beside him, his face serene in sleep. Mathias sat up to discover he was painfully hard.
The fuck was that?
He got out of bed and walked to the shower, more than a little unnerved. As he stood under the hot water, his erection refused to diminish. He reached down, practiced and efficient, the remnants of the dream lingering in his mind even after he came.
Mathias dressed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He flicked on the coffee machine then went to the front door to check for the newspaper. He spotted it poking out of a lavender bush by the roadside.
“The little shit,” Mathias muttered as he went to retrieve it.
René was the infuriatingly unreliable paperboy who delivered to their street. Mathias had tried bribes and threats, but nothing seemed to encourage the dough-faced kid to do his job properly. Mathias was at the table, reading the salvaged paper, when Rayan appeared in the kitchen.
“You’re up early,” Rayan said, padding to the coffeepot and filling a mug.
Mathias kept his eyes trained on the international news section, in no hurry to reveal why. “I like to keep things interesting.” He scanned an article about immigration reform in Greece.
Rayan came to join him at the table. “It’s here before noon. René’s outdone himself.”
“I swear, that kid…” Mathias said.
“If you make an example of him, we’ll have to move again.”
Mathias gave him a warning look, and Rayan smirked into his coffee.
“Anything of interest?” Rayan asked.
“Parliament’s proposed another round of tax hikes.
What they get away with under the banner of public good…
It’s glorified protection money.” Mathias had been forced to become more acquainted with that particular racket now that he ran his business aboveboard.
Fortunately, he had a creative accountant.
“Still sore about that?” Rayan teased. “Thought you’d have embraced your new civic duties.”
Mathias ignored him. “There was some story about the upcoming election in Canada.”
Rayan stilled. “Piper’s running again?”
“You should read what they’re saying about him—like, he saved the country from itself, cleaned up its nasty image,” he scoffed. “Canada, the poster child for peace and prosperity.”
“It’s not all peace and prosperity,” Rayan replied carefully.
“No, not all of it.”
Rayan lifted his cup to his mouth and took a measured sip. “Do you ever wonder what the Feds are up to these days?”
Mathias sometimes thought about where things had landed after they’d left—not with Inspector Allen’s investigation but with the inquiries that would have undoubtedly followed. “Not really. And we’re too far removed for them to take much interest. They have enough on their plate as it is.”
“Right.” Rayan’s forehead furrowed, and he stared down at his cup.
“You miss Montreal.”
Rayan gave a wistful shrug. “Yes and no. I feel like I gave it up long before I left.”
Mathias studied the man. He briefly considered mentioning Charles and the postcard from De Luca but decided against it.
He had no intention of involving Rayan in the lingering dregs of their past. It would only plant a seed of unease, and for what?
He had no interest in resuming contact with the family.
Mathias folded the newspaper and finished the remainder of his coffee. “I’m heading to Belgium this afternoon to drop off a piece for a client.” He would have sent Elise, but the client had called earlier in the week and specifically asked for him. “He’s somewhat particular.”
“Heylen?”
Mathias nodded and stood to deposit his empty cup in the sink.
Jacob Heylen was a Belgian shipping magnate obsessed with Napoleon Bonaparte.
He’d spent years painstakingly decorating his three-story Gothic townhouse in Bruges’s historic center with furniture sourced from the era of the French emperor’s reign.
Heylen owned JFH Logistics, one of the largest international container-shipping companies in Europe and, despite his questionable taste in antiques, was a shrewd businessman.
Which put him in a different league from the majority of Mathias’s clients, who solicited art as a means to ease their wealth-imposed boredom.
Mathias reached for his jacket draped over the back of the chair and shrugged it on.
He felt Rayan’s hand on his waist and turned to pull him close.
As the man kissed him, Mathias was struck by a flash from the dream—the bold press of Rayan’s hands on his thighs.
When they parted, the headiness he’d tried to shake earlier had returned.
“Will I see you tonight?” Rayan asked, nestling his face against Mathias’s neck.
“I’ll be back before then.”
“Good.” Rayan released him with a smile.
It was less than an hour to the Belgium border and then another forty minutes to the bustling coastal city of Bruges.
Heylen had arranged to meet him at the JFH Logistics headquarters building by the port.
One of his assistants was waiting for Mathias in the underground carpark with a furniture trolley, which she used to transport the nineteenth-century wooden cabinet he’d brought up the elevator and into Heylen’s office.
Heylen couldn’t keep his hands off the thing when they arrived. He made a series of appreciative noises as he circled the piece Elise had unearthed at an estate sale in Bordeaux on their recent acquisition trip.
“It’s remarkable,” he gushed. “I don’t know how you do it, Beauvais.”
Heylen had certainly compensated him handsomely for his trouble.
Mathias made a game of these sales, cranking up the figure Elise gave him by at least half.
And still the man paid, not batting an eye.
Mathias wanted to see how far he could push, but Heylen had yet to negotiate.
He was the human equivalent of a blank check.
“Sit, please,” Heylen said, ushering Mathias toward a plush seating area in the corner of the top-floor office, which boasted sweeping views of the port below. “Have a drink. You’ve come all this way.”
Mathias sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs, and Heylen took a bottle of top-shelf whiskey from a nearby bar cart and poured two generous glasses.
“I’ll be honest—I had somewhat of an ulterior motive in asking to see you today,” Heylen said, handing Mathias his drink.
I wasn’t born yesterday. Mathias had a sneaking suspicion Heylen’s insistence on him making the trip out had nothing to do with neoclassical symbolism.
He accepted the glass and leaned back in his chair. “Is that so?”
Heylen took a swig and placed his drink down on the small table between them.
“Tell me what you did before this. You’re too savvy to be some humble antiques trader.
I’ve worked with plenty of people over the years, and I know talent when I see it.
I ask for something, and you get it faster than anyone else.
And you charge an arm and a leg for it as well.
I like that. You know your worth. You let the business come to you, not the other way around. ”
Mathias brought the whiskey to his lips. It was smooth and rich, the way he liked it. He gave a shrug. “Business is business, no matter the industry.”
“And is this a hobby of yours? You made it big, retired early, and now you don’t know what to do with your time?”
Mathias stared back at him. “Let me worry about the why.”
Heylen gave him an amused smile then stepped over to his desk, where he retrieved a piece of paper and handed it to Mathias. “Out of curiosity, what would you make of this?”
Mathias narrowed his eyes. “So, in exchange for the drink, I perform like a circus monkey?”
“No, no. Think of it as an information exchange between one importer and another.”
“I’m pretty sure what I import in a year, you write off on a single shipment.”
Heylen chuckled, returning to his seat. “Humor me.”
Mathias looked down at the sheet in his hand. It was a list of tariffs based on port locations. He glanced over the numbers, mildly interested.
“Well, you’re getting gouged by the Dutch, for one. And the Finns are usually open to volume-based negotiations. They’re not giving you nearly enough of a discount for what you’re bringing in.”
Heylen’s grin widened, stretching across his face.
“See? I knew it. I always trust my gut when it comes to these things.” He waggled a finger in excitement.
“We recently bought out a local competitor—nobody too impressive, but big enough to make a dent in our EEA revenue. Bruges is home to the second largest port in Europe. The sheer number of containers that pass through here, you wouldn’t believe.
I figure, with the new business under the right leadership, we could increase regional profit by at least forty percent.
But there’s the rub—finding the right person for the job.
” Heylen leaned forward in his chair. “I have a feeling you’re the kind of man who could take a role like that and hit it out of the park. ”
He can’t be serious. “I don’t work for other people.”
“I can understand that. I’m the same way.
” Heylen picked up his glass and took another sip.
“What if I made you a partner in the new business? We’re talking a fleet of three hundred, moving five and a half million containers per annum—oil, coal, timber, you name it.
The commute’s not too bad. You can come in when you want and run the rest from a satellite office.
I don’t need you down the hall. I need you managing—broad strokes, big decisions.
The rest you can leave up to the team. And who knows?
Perhaps at some point, we’ll open a branch in Calais. ”
It was almost amusing how committed the man was to courting him.
“I haven’t even mentioned the pay.” Heylen pulled a pen from his breast pocket and jotted a number down on the back of the tariff sheet. “That’s an indication of the kind of money you can expect.”
Mathias glanced at the figure. That many zeros, and it might as well be play money. He gave a low laugh. “You don’t know me. You’d hand over half your business to a man who sources your furniture?”
“I’ve had nine prospective CEOs come through my office in the past two weeks, and not one of them picked up on the fact that we’re overpaying close to twelve million in tariffs—you being the notable exception.
” Heylen’s expression turned contemplative.
“You get to where I am, Mathias, and you realize you don’t have to do everything by the book.
I’m sick of dealing with people who look good on paper but can’t deliver.
Do you know what we used to do back before it was all about keeping the shareholders happy?
Take a gamble and see how it panned out.
Hell, it’s my business. I can go out on a limb if I want to. ”
Mathias downed his glass and got to his feet. “I appreciate the drink, Heylen. You go on and bring that home to your wife. Give me a call when you’re after another cabinet.”
“Think about it, Mathias,” Heylen called out as Mathias walked to the door. “It’s there if you want it.”
Despite his purported lack of interest, Mathias found himself mulling over the offer on the drive back to Calais.
He didn’t give a shit about the money, but Heylen’s clout was impressive.
JFH Logistics held a twenty percent share of the international container-shipping market, and Heylen would have connections that spanned the globe.
The idea of partnering with the man played to Mathias’s ambition, the part of him that had always wanted to see how far up in the world he could move.
His phone rang, and Elise’s number appeared on the screen.
“Chief, there’s been a small problem,” she said when he picked up.
“What kind of problem?”
“They’re holding the shipment from Dubai.”
Mathias sucked his teeth. “Which shipment? A little more information so we don’t have to sit around playing twenty questions.”
“The pair of Bronze Age vases. The dealer in Dubai dispatched the order three weeks ago, and I received confirmation that it landed in Calais yesterday, but the freight company won’t release it.
When I called, the ship’s master was gone, and I couldn’t get a clear word from anyone.
We’ll have to go down in person to sort it.
Otherwise, they’ll probably send the whole shipment back. ”
Mathias knew that by “we,” she meant him. Elise struggled to navigate the delicate workings of bureaucracy at the best of times.
“I’ll stop by the port when I’m back in the city,” he said and hung up without waiting for a reply.