Chapter 46
COLE
Iget to the Georgetown house shortly after sunset. Nilsson greets me at the door as if I’m returning from a business trip to Geneva, or maybe the Cayman Islands. “Do you have any luggage in the car, sir? Anything for me to bring in?”
“No,” I say, closing the front door on the August heat and humidity.
“And Miss Kate,” Nilsson asks, with a purse of his lips that borders on accusing. He takes her duffel from my hand. “Is she returning this evening as well?”
“She should be here in a couple of hours. She had business to take care of in Baltimore.”
“Very well,” Nilsson says, but I feel as if I’ve done something absent-minded and wrong, like leaving my umbrella on a train. He unbends enough to add, “Anna left supper for you in the kitchen.”
“How did Anna know I’d be back this evening?”
“She has been following the most curious story online.”
“What story?” I ask, even though I’m certain I already know the answer.
He tells me everything—Nikolai Tarasov, confessions to terrible things, a government interview leaked to the public. There was a mob and a chase and Tarasov narrowly escaped on the subway.
“People are posting online,” Nilsson says. “Trying to track him down. Someone saw him on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Someone else posted video from Union Station. They say he was at Dulles Airport, or at a rest stop on 95. Nobody knows for sure.”
“And Anna thought that story had something to do with me?” I ask, doing my best to sound surprised.
Nilsson eyes me steadily. “Call it woman’s intuition.”
I wonder how much Nilsson and Anna actually know and how much they merely suspect. Whatever the answer, I’m certain my secrets are safe with them. “And Mrs. Lynch and Mrs. Watson? Have they been following the same story?”
“Mrs. Lynch took her supper in bed this evening, sir.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.” The last thing Kate needs is to come home and find her grandmother in a crisis.
“I do not believe it is. Mrs. Watson did not seem concerned.”
I nod as Nilsson follows me to the kitchen.
“Oh,” I say, as if I’ve just remembered some minor detail.
“Good news, Nilsson. Jacobson informed me his team has reassessed the threats against us. It will be safe for everyone to return home tomorrow. We’ll be back to a pair of armed guards at each gate. ”
“That is excellent news, sir.” Nilsson’s tone is the same he’d use if I told him scientists discovered a cure for cancer. Or that a meteor would annihilate us by dawn.
I take my plate—cold roast beef, a corn salad, and thick slices of perfectly ripe tomato—into my office.
It only takes a moment to confirm the update Nilsson provided on Tarasov.
The pakhan hasn’t been located yet, by police, the rampaging mob, or the far more deadly bratva.
But it seems inevitable he’ll be found, sooner rather than later.
I keep updates streaming to one of the monitors on my office wall. Settling into my chair, I begin sifting through correspondence that has piled up over nearly a week.
There are a lot fewer messages than I’m accustomed to. My client list is a shambles.
But Gage Rider has written as owner of the Atlantic Aces, inviting me to an off-season dinner he hosts for owners of major- and minor-league hockey teams. The invitation includes a PS at the bottom: “Sending my best to you and Kate. The next time you’re in New York, I’d love to give you both a tour of security updates at the club. ”
He’s not responsible for the actions of a madman. But I appreciate his willingness to address the matter head-on. And I wonder if there’ll be a day, even years in the future, when Kate will be willing to set foot inside Kynk again.
My accountant has couriered over a stack of spreadsheets, a thorough analysis of the tax obligations that will come due in a little over two weeks.
He’s worked some magic, applying a chunk of the debt I acquired with the Albany team.
He’s done more, selling various stocks for an intentional loss.
Nevertheless, I’ll feel a bite—to the tune of nearly one hundred million dollars.
I brought that on myself by lying to Alix Key at the freeport. I’m the one responsible.
But the payment won’t come close to bankrupting me. And there’s still a chance I can reduce the hit if I move forward on a foundation with the Andersons. Plus, I took more than sixty-five million from Tarasov today, off the books, completely untraceable.
“You look so serious.”
Kate is leaning against the doorframe. She’s lost weight over the past month. Her cheeks are gaunt, and tendons stand out in her neck.
I hold out my hand and she comes to me, climbing onto my lap and burrowing close to my chest. As I wrap my arms around her, she clings tightly, like she’s trying to mold our two bodies into one.
“What happened with Malloy?” I ask.
For a moment, I think she won’t answer. But then she says, “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“I have to tell Granny… And Breagha too. But a few more hours won’t make a difference.”
She’s the mob princess. She knows what’s best for her clan. “But you’re safe?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says.
For now, fine has to be enough.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I say.
She wriggles closer. “Not yet.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“I slept on the drive back.”
“For what? All of an hour?”
But she walks her fingers up the front of my black T-shirt, cupping my bristled chin with her palm. “My,” she says slowly. “What a rough beard you have.”
Something tightens deep inside my gut. We’ve both just survived the longest four days of our lives. Logic says we should go to bed and start to unpack all the wreckage in the morning.
But Kate has never brought out my most logical side. I rub my cheek against her soft, smooth neck. “The better to burn you with, my dear.”
She makes a sound that’s half-sigh, half-moan, arching her throat to give me access to more skin. I scrape my cheek against her again, marking her like a wild animal. She squirms even closer, reaching between us to get at my belt. When I close my teeth on her earlobe, she yelps.
“Hush,” I say. “It was too late to send everyone home tonight. Nilsson and Anna are still in the room off the kitchen. Your grandmother and Mrs. Watson are upstairs.”
She slips her fingers past my waistband, twisting her wrist to find my already enthusiastic cock. “Then we can’t stay here in your office. And we can’t go upstairs to our bedroom. Whatever will we do?”
“I could gag you,” I suggest. “And take you right here, on my desk.”
Her pretty pout makes me groan. Or maybe that’s my reaction to her fingernails scraping across my balls. “That would keep me silent,” she says. “But what about you?”
I swat her ass to remind her who’s in charge, and I force her hand out of my pants, back to her side. But I help her off my lap. And my fingers are tight on the back of her neck as I march her down the hall, to the doorway that leads to the soundproof haven of the dungeon.
I kiss her when we reach the golden-oak floor. I want to taste her. I want to feel her open under my lips. I want to hear every greedy moan rise at the back of her throat. But mostly, I want to see if she really is strong enough to bear all the things I long to do tonight.
She’s steady on her feet. No swaying—yet. No trembling—yet. Just the ripe, ready invitation of my perfect sub, opening as my kiss gets deeper and deeper.
I pull away first, which makes her whine. “Out of those clothes,” I order. “Now.”
She tilts her head to a coy angle and fiddles with her top button, but I don’t intend to let her write any sort of script. I turn to the armoire to remind her I’m in charge.
I don’t need to take as much time as I do. I already know what I want from the drawers—a blindfold, to keep her guessing. An O-ring gag, so I can still use her mouth. A pinwheel, its spikes extra sharp, so I can trace every inch of her body and leave a trail against her milk-pale flesh.
When I’ve gathered the gear, I turn back. And she takes my breath away.
She’s naked, as I ordered. But while I was at the armoire, she crossed the room. She stands facing the far wall, her legs spread and her arms stretched over her head. Her back arches beneath the tangle of her hair, just enough to raise her ass.
I can still make out the three sharp lines where I caned her, more than a month ago.
They’re not angry anymore, not weeping with the heat of fresh wounds. Instead, the crimson I first brought out has mellowed to the burgundy of fine wine. The slashes match the ladders on her thighs, the scars she gave herself over all the years before I knew her.
Leaving behind all the tools I chose except for the blindfold, I cross the room until I can feel the heat rising off her body. I plant one hand by her face and lean in with all my weight. “What do you think you’re doing, my dear?”
“Whatever you want,” she says, her words muffled against the wall. “Sir.” But she arches her back dramatically as she says it, rising on the balls of her feet to push her ass toward my crotch.
I’m the one in charge here. I decide what we do and how we do it, when she comes, and how many times. But she’s sending me a message. She’s telling me she’s not afraid of what happened in Kynk. She trusts me to keep her safe here, even if I choose to fuck her tight puckered rosebud again.
I don’t want her ass.
I slip the blindfold over her eyes, tying it tight at the back of her head.
When she turns her cheek to the wall, I take advantage of her still-arched spine.
I slip my hand between her thighs, launching three fingers to find her hot, slick entrance.
I tap her clit as a form of warning, and then I fuck her with my hand, driving hard, driving fast, using my body to pin her against the wall.