Chapter Twenty-Two #2
I assume that’s hyperbole. “Come and get you. Wherever it is you hide, I’ll find you.”
“Mmm.” She crosses one knee over the other, her coat falling open and her dress rising high on her bare leg. “I’m so glad ‘obsessed’ isn’t the right word.”
“It’s moot anyway,” I say, resting my elbows on the arm of my chair and linking my fingers. “You like the way I treat you.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Keep fighting yourself, Tink. It’s the most entertainment I’ve had in months.”
Her lips press thin, her eyes flash, then she swivels her chair away from me to gaze out of the window.
I reach across, grip the arm of it, and turn it back until she faces me again.
She stills, catching her breath, hands knotting in her lap.
Her eyes flick to mine then lower. I lean across the small gap between us, ensuring she doesn’t miss my words.
“I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t go a single day without begging for my cock,” I tell her.
“I’m going to train your body until you’re wet for me, anytime, anywhere.
I’m going to draw out every morsel of your sexuality and force you to face it, until you accept that the only time you’re happy is with my cum inside your body. ”
Her hand flies to the arm of her chair, gripping it with white knuckles, and her shoulders draw inward for a moment.
Then she straightens again, recovering so quickly, showing her strength.
“It’s comforting to hear you value me for my mind,” she says dryly, the delivery spoiled by the tremor in her voice.
“Oh, I do.” I lean back. “It’s no fun whatsoever to fuck you unless I’m also inside your head.”
She bites at her lip, and her chair gives a faint creak of leather as she shifts.
“How wet are you right now?” I ask casually.
Her forehead and cheeks flush red. “I’m not.”
“Some people appreciate show-don’t-tell. Why don’t you…” I gesture toward her bare legs.
She nods past me. “Why don’t you open that door and jump out.”
“That wouldn’t show anything.”
“It’s more of a safety thing,” she replies, tone acerbic. “Lovely aircraft, I’m just not sure it can carry both of us and your ego.”
I rest my elbows back on the arms of my chair and don’t try to keep the smile off my face, watching her as she meets my gaze, chin tipped up in challenge.
“Mr. Reyes, Miss Callahan.” The pilot’s voice comes from the cabin’s speakers. “We’re starting our descent now. If you’d care to look out of the window, you’ll see Mr. Fournier’s estate beneath you.”
I don’t care to at all, but Vicky does. She turns her chair and leans to the side, peering down at the ground below, then lets out a soft whistle.
“Don’t jump now,” she says. “You’ll mess up the landscaped garden.”
“Noted. I’ll try to refrain.”
The helicopter turns as it comes in, giving me a view whether I want one or not.
Fournier’s house is much as I would expect of a man like him: a lodge commanding the ridge overlooking a lake, dark timber and stone under a steep roof to shrug off Montana winters, with glass walls to enjoy the views.
It’s almost tasteful in a too-much-money way, restrained despite its size.
“We could live here.” Vicky gives her opinion.
“Sure. I might have to work longer hours.”
She grimaces. “No thanks. I’d rather have you and a one-bed apartment in Brooklyn.”
It’s said without rancor, without irony or any of her usual bite. A momentary lapse, as she gives me a genuine insight into her feelings.
She loves me still, as I always suspected.
But she’s wrong about the one-bed. My Vicky deserves the best I can give her, and the fresh opportunities the Company presents will allow me to offer her just that.
“I think I’d like somewhere with a swimming pool,” I say, my mind conjuring up images of her nude in the water, or relaxing on a recliner in the sun as I put lotion on her body.
“We live in New York,” she points out.
And there it is again. We.
She doesn’t seem to have noticed.
The ring I’ve given her glints on her hand, back where it belongs, marking her as mine. As does her language, now.
The helicopter touches smoothly, and I’m already finished with this trip.
“Let’s get this meeting done and back to the hotel room,” I say, keen to be alone with her. I get up from my seat and reach for the door, but Davis beats me to it, opening it from the outside.
“Up there, please, sir,” he says, gesturing. “Thank you for flying with us; we will return you when your meeting is concluded.”
I climb out of the helicopter then help Vicky down, and we walk through the gardens and toward the house, taking the flight of stone steps he indicated.
Inside, the house opens into a cavernous timber hall with beams the size of tree trunks crossing the ceiling. Hardwood floors and thick rugs keep the lodge theme, and the head of a moose is mounted over the fireplace, its antlers easily five feet wide.
We’re met by a woman and two uniformed staff. “Mr. Reyes, Miss Callahan, welcome to Montclair. My name is Anna and I’m Mr. Fournier’s personal assistant. You may leave your coats here. If you’d come this way, please?”
I take Vicky’s coat for her, and she looks so delicate and vulnerable in her pale blue summer dress. Yet her chin is up, her spine straight, uncowed by the wealth and largesse around us. We leave our outerwear with the staff, and follow Anna through the house.
Vicky’s hand slips into mine.
“Mr. Fournier has asked that we meet in his study, sir,” she says, leading us past several rooms. I glimpse a circular dining table with a dozen chairs, a library with stone floors and dark wood paneling, a games room with a snooker table.
Anna stops before a wooden door at the end of a hallway, knocks twice, opens it, then stands back, inviting us forward.
The room beyond is expansive, a leather sofa suite in one corner almost incidental, a meeting table with half a dozen chairs opposite.
An antique mahogany desk dominates the center of the room, and the man lounging in his chair behind it is Bastien Fournier.
Unexpectedly, Van Wyk is here too, leaning casually against the wall, and a large man stands just inside the door, his suit stretched tight over exaggerated biceps and shoulders.
“Ah, Alexander.” Fournier snaps his chair upright as he rises, walking around the desk to come and meet me, smile easy and hand outstretched.
I release Vicky’s hand and step forward. “Thank you for inviting me.”
We shake, appraising each other. His grip is firm and brief, his eyes alight and intelligent, almost playful.
“I like to get to know all our newest members,” he says, taking a half-step back. “Find out what makes them tick. Test their loyalty.”
Vicky gives a surprised gasp behind me, and I spin. She’s in the grip of that oaf of a bodyguard—or whatever his role is—held to his chest, his big meaty hand around her throat.
My fists clench. My pulse jumps. I take a step toward him, and his hand tightens on her neck.
Her eyes widen in fear, and a yelp slips from her.
But I see the moment it’s replaced by anger, face hardening, indignation tightening her jaw.
She knows she’s a pawn, and she hates it as much as when I manipulate her. And I’m the object of her rage.
That’s my Vicky.
Van Wyk pushes off the wall, straightening, his stare fixed on me, flat and hollow.
“Make sure you take Victoria, hmm?” The memory of DeLuca’s voice rings in my ears.
It’s a game, I tell myself. A test. Loyalty, Fournier said.
But they’ve made a mistake if they think they can touch Vicky.
In an instant, my rage races through hot to ice-cold, emotion stripping away, survival kicking in. I let out the breath I’m holding, and composing myself takes no more effort than that. Appearance is everything, and when I turn back to face Fournier, my expression is as neutral as I can make it.
“Am I supposed to ask, ‘what’s the meaning of this?’” The words come out as dry and disinterested as I could wish, masking my fury. I hope.
Fournier laughs. “Nicely played, Alexander.” His head tilts. “Or are you so very indifferent to the fate of your fiancée? Is that why there were two girls at the ball that night?”
Van Wyk’s posture doesn’t relax. He’s barely a dozen feet to my left, hands empty but held ready, his balance poised. Fournier’s almost in arm’s reach, not that it makes a difference. With Vicky held by that gorilla of a man, there’s nothing to do but wait for the next move.
“My Chief of Staff was available and curious,” I reply indifferently. “I thought it hardly mattered.”
“Did the kiss hardly matter?” he asks. He looks to Van Wyk. “Have we got the wrong girl?”
Shit.
“I’m certain we haven’t,” Van Wyk drawls.
“Well, let’s find out.” Fournier leans against the edge of his desk, his attention back on me. “Are you familiar with the old custom of feudal lords, taking the wife of their vassals?”
My jaw tightens, and it’s involuntary. I know he’s noticed; his eyes are on me. He’s watching for a reaction, and I’ve just given him one.
He wants to find my weakness, and he has. Maybe two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have cared so much. It’s impossible to be sure; Vicky was still mine, even then. But now… everything’s different. She has my cum inside her, in this very moment.
“Vaguely,” I bite out.
Fournier waves a hand. “There’s no actual historical merit to it.
It’s myth. Fiction. Yet not a bad idea, I’ve always thought.
It’s such a wonderful test of a man’s devotion, don’t you think?
” He gestures past me toward where Vicky is held, but I don’t turn to look.
“And when the wife in question—forgive me: fiancée—is as lovely as this one…” He trails off, letting the words hang in the air, watching me closely.
“No.” The word comes out sharp, and I don’t care. “The answer’s no.”
“That’s what so many of them say,” Fournier replies, rubbing his eye with one fingertip like he’s bored. “They change their mind when presented with the alternative.”
It’s clear he wants me to hand him the line. “Which is?”
Van Wyk takes a pace forward without any direction from Fournier. His karambit is in his hand, and I didn’t see him draw it. He unfolds the blade with a flick of his thumb, and it locks into place with a snap, gleaming and curved.
“Does that answer your question?” Fournier asks.