The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (20 page)

“What did the drop-in say?” he commanded, getting up quickly and standing on his side of the bed. I knew Jace knew of Dmitry’s arrival Thursday “arvo,” so I assumed the use of the term “drop-in” was Australian slang.

I had to remind myself I was safe with Jace. He was nearly leaning over the bed, hands on his hips. I swallowed, but perhaps the term gulp was more appropriate. “You should prepare to experience negative emotion,” I warned him.

“I’m already experiencing negative emotion,” he growled. “No fuckin’ wonder you chundered earlier. Tell me what you heard.”

I glanced at his mouth and spoke in robotic tones to be sure to eliminate any extra emotional impact. “I could not make out that much, as he was intoxicated and generally speaks fast, possibly using a heavy amount of slang, or colloquialisms—”

“What did you fuckin’ hear?”

I caught my breath.

“Very well. On the ride back on the boat, he told his tall . . . gloomy associate that you were going to get what you deserved—he said that at least three times, which was what enabled to me to understand it with certainty—and that he could not wait to see you get it. You should also know that throughout the past twenty-four hours he has referred to you primarily as “fuckhead,” and I believe there may have been reference to “fucking your eyes out,” though I can’t be certain I understood that correctly. In addition to ongoing commentary about your colleagues, who I believe he respects even less, and other miscellaneous commentary, that is all I could make out.”

I stopped speaking and pursed my lips, as Jace was mentally no longer present. His eyes were no longer seeing me, and I wondered if that was how I look when I withdraw into myself and get lost.

He popped up, and I observed him pace. I breathed deeply, and fretted over what he might do next, unable to read him. The muscles in his stomach, chest and back were flexed. After a few rounds of this, he headed to the closet and yanked on a T-shirt and then went out to the veranda, where he pulled on the jeans he’d left there. I stood up quickly and darted to the door, placing myself in front of it. And I knew he was indeed absent because he was surprised to see me there, even standing up close.

After a moment or two, he said, “What are you doing?”

“I . . . I do not wish any harm to come to you.”

He held my gaze for a moment, and then scowled, cupping my face with his hand. “Nothin’ like that’s going to happen. You think I’d get this far if I wasn’t already twenty-six steps ahead of everyone? It’s not what you think, Charlie. But I have to be sure.”

I saw deep into his dark wells, maybe to the bottom, and shook my head. Dmitry was a very bad man.

“Right.” He kissed my forehead but still wore a scowl. “Get into bed, and fall asleep thinking about my cock in you. And when you wake up, it will be,” he said through nearly clenched teeth. “Can you do that for me?” He kissed the side of my mouth without emotion.

I stared up at him, uncertain.

He sighed with exasperation. “I have to go to work now, Charlie, the kind of work I fuckin’ hate, and it would put me at great ease, you would be doing me a massive favor, if I knew you weren’t in here thinking . . . rotten things. No, you’d be giving me great strength if I knew you were in here thinking good things about me. You’ve been beyond a great help to me, in ways . . . well, you’ve no bloody idea. So please, trust me, and go to sleep, ay? I’ll take care of everything. I always do.”

I nodded, without thinking, relieved to no end at the recusal. It was greatly onerous to manage my own feelings, never mind someone else’s. And I had had a lifetime of tending to another’s safety—without success. In fact, I was a colossal failure at that.

He waited, watching until I was under the covers, and winked before he stepped out, but the scowl told me it was just a front.

Nevertheless, I did as he asked, and fell asleep thinking about waking up with his member inside me. It was surprisingly easy to forget he was in a viper’s den just thirty feet away, or that tomorrow, it would all be over . . . and I made a note to myself to “let things go” more often.

As it turns out, I woke up before Jace and slipped out of the bed and into the shower, managing to get dressed and pack without waking him. (He is a heavy sleeper.)

When he did finally wake up close to the time we had to leave, he was extremely cross with me, and demanded to know why I had denied him a morning
shiny
. I said it was because he appeared to need his sleep, but truthfully, I could not bear it. I had awoken at eight, an hour before we needed to rise, in his arms, my face in his chest, his thigh strapped over me, and never felt so safe in my life. Knowing it was the last time I would feel his being on mine . . . I could barely open my eyes.

The ache that I had felt after hurting his feelings last night was nothing compared to this. I had asked him to have sex with me, knowing it would end my employment, and he had agreed. What did I expect? Certainly not to feel such intense emotion at our pending separation. To have had sex one more time would only make matters worse, of that I was sure.

I was quite pale and ghostly as I disobeyed his orders to wait in the room while he took a shower; when I heard the water running, I slipped into the living room. I realized he was thrown by my cold behavior, and I was confused as to why he did not think that avoiding each other was the best strategy for the end of a personal and professional connection. Julie and Peter were present already, cleaning up the empty beer bottles and dirty plates. A naked woman was on the sofa, one of the Australian girls, just rousing as I came out. She got up, definitely hungover, perhaps experiencing memory loss, as she seemed bewildered, found her clothes and left without a word to anyone. I did not encourage her to seek help for her addiction, knowing all too well that was a decision only she could make.

I nodded at Joe, who emerged from his room a few minutes later, alone, with wet hair and freshly-pressed clothes. He greeted me with nothing more than a nod, thankfully. Security details slowly convened while we waited for Jace. I worried Joe would speak to me, but he simply busied himself with his phone, glancing at me now and again.

I had on the black skirt I wore on the way here with an old Dr. Who T-shirt I usually wear to sleep in. I would not be wearing my silk blouse ever again, and I had no other clean clothes. When Jace emerged with his suitcase and shirt—barely pulled on—I nearly toppled off my barstool from the glare directed solely at me. He dropped his bags at the hall and came over, yanked me off the stool and commandeered me out of The Bangalow.

Outside, he hissed, “What’s your fuckin’ problem now, ay?” And while I felt frightened, I suggested I get him a coffee as he apparently woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The trip was technically over. We were no longer . . . anything. His fingers dug into my arm, after I had called him Mr. Knight, and after another focused blast of rage from him, no, I admitted to his mouth, I could not look him in the eye. He let me go. He cussed under his breath as we all clambered into waiting vehicles, except Dmitry and his women who had left in the middle of the night. I carried on in this “cold-hearted cunt” fashion, forcing myself to treat him as a striking stranger in the airport and on the plane. It was better than to pretend otherwise, and I was baffled by Jace’s desire to delay the inevitable.

Joe had decided to stay on in Sydney and was catching a ride back with his bodyguards, as were Mr. Carlisle and Mr. Bennett. I was pleased to be relegated to one of the plane’s rear solo seats. Jace’s silent ire had spread to at least a five-meter radius. I was surprised how I could read it so well, and checked several times inwardly in case I was imagining it. (I was not.)

After we landed, as soon as we were ushered through the hangar and back into the airport, I headed off in the opposite direction without a word. Unfortunately, I had to wait in a long line for a cab, with other exhausted arriving travelers who could not afford private cars, and worried, needlessly, that Jace would come for me. My chest felt ready to explode as I finally got into a cab. I added worry about the extra expense—and arrived back at my apartment with a headache.

Acting estranged was the right course of action, I reassured myself continuously. We were no longer employee and employer. He had appeased my desires, in the moment, as requested. And, that was the arrangement. He had made the conditions clear. Perhaps, he wished to touch me physically on the journey back. But I could not be faulted for wishing to protect myself starting as soon as possible, since I had not anticipated the sensation I was experiencing: regret. 

I was shocked by how badly I wanted to redeem myself in his eyes, and reveal how this ending was in both of our best interests. After all, my goal had been accomplished. I was now officially free from Sullivan Blaise, and thus, so was Jace.

I thought about this as I stroked Miss Moneypenny upon my return at 8:16 p.m. Saturday evening, sitting in my condo hallway. I had missed her greatly, and she had missed me, and we spent a good ten minutes providing one another with concentrated affection. It occurred to me that I wasn’t describing emotions with color anymore, and that’s when the pressure that had built up in my chest tore out of me, in a terrible surge of . . . disappointment. Yes, that is what it was. Disappointment, because I would never feel Jace, never be “in” his eyes again. He had given me something, a greater awareness of myself and what life could hold, and now it was gone.

Miss Moneypenny, rather alarmed at my sobbing, froze under my touch. I let the tears fall softly and quietly so as to not alarm her further.

After I got that out of my system, I splashed cold water on my face, heated up a microwave meal, cleaned the litter box, and, with great difficulty, shoved one of the living room chairs in front of the apartment door. And then, for good measure, I added the heavy nightstand from my bedroom.

Sullivan Blaise would not be making a late night visit tonight! Or, if he did, I would hear him in time, and I would shout out that I had been fired, I had heard and learned nothing, and that if he bothered me again I would call the police! Or, perhaps I would threaten to call his superiors. Yes, that would be better. I googled ASIS and found a number for the main switchboard; however, I fretted no one would pick up during the wee hours of Sunday morning.

Before I went to bed (sufficiently assured I would be safe), I closed all the blinds, regretting deeply that this would be my last night in this home. Tomorrow, I would pack up my belongings. It was a good thing I had kept the cardboard boxes, dismantled by the door, for recycling day. The extended-stay facility took walk-ins so there was no concern there. And I would begin the job search one more time, perhaps removing some of my criteria, as I would need to find something quickly.

Having buried my feelings sufficiently, for the briefest moment, I tried to look forward to making yet another fresh start, back to the way I knew how best to manage the world. Black and white, gray and pink, and green and orange. Simple decisions. Rules that I understood. No more expectations or obligatory outputs or no-win scenarios. Yes. That was a great relief. Life was much easier detached, and while this was a hard truth, it was a peaceful one.

• • •

I woke up rather groggy. My first instinct was panic. Was Sullivan Blaise present? No.

Daylight. I must have slept in—how peculiar.

Miss Moneypenny stretched out on the end of the bed, where she was waiting patiently, and pranced up to my face to unleash a series of, quite frankly, adorable head butts, delighted she would be receiving breakfast shortly.

I was stunned, after putting on coffee, to see that it was ten a.m. I opened up the blinds, let in the daylight and sighed.
Disappointment
. It was a terrible feeling.

And there was something else there. I peered in briefly, and too late, it sucked me right into the rapid freezing cold river of . . . emptiness. It was like someone had dug out the insides of me and hid them from me.
I felt despair at the thought of never seeing Jace again
.

I buried my face in my hands, lest Miss Moneypenny pick up on my emotions again. Apparently, even cats are better empaths than me. I sniffled. She would have a hard enough time with yet another move today.

A sudden, vile thought crept into my mind: Had Jace felt what I was feeling last night, and if so, would he have sought comfort? Had he gone to his
sluzza
, the lawyer, last night?

I was wracked by terrible, pulsating rage, and then
need
for Jace, so blistering it scoured my very soul—if we have such a thing—and then . . . it hit me so hard I nearly stumbled: the chemicals in my brain that send out pleasure signals had been triggered by Jace Knight! In my research into the biological processes of addiction, I had come across studies that showed the same thing happens when we are physically attracted to someone as when we take drugs. I was addicted to Jace! And now, why, I was in withdrawal! I shuddered with horror—I had witnessed this countless times with my mother when she hit drugs heavily after I turned sixteen and she no longer faced the risk of losing custody. She would try to dry out, but she suffered to no end.

“Hellooo? Charlie, you home?”

Jenny. I had not heard the key in the lock. I tried to steady my breathing, which had gone quite shallow at the thought of me being chemically dependent on Jace.

The door was butting up against the furniture. I sniffled, wiped away my tears, and rushed over—shocked with how desperate I was to see another human being. I was still in my pajama bottoms and a thin tank top, and briefly rued the complete disorder that was my life.

“Hi,” I shouted, trying to sound normal. “Just a moment.” I yanked on the nightstand, shoving it aside, and pulled on the chair.

“Good-oh, you’re home,” she shouted through the barely open door. “I missed yesterday’s visit and wanted to make sure the little fluff wasn’t starving. Why’s the door blocked, Charlie?”

“I, uh. . .” I sniffed, pulled the other chair out of the way, and the door opened up.