The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (24 page)

Years ago, I learned that B is an extremely vulnerable person. She puts up a strong exterior to protect herself. It is a learned behavior of people with a psychological condition called “attachment disorder.” Of course I have never discussed this with her; I simply know this from my own expansive research into the possible sources of my mother’s ailment.

“Charlie!” She waved to me, smiling brightly from the screen. She was wearing her black and gray painters-smock blouse, and the familiar sight of it twisted my heart. She’d cut her bangs on a diagonal again. The head of her dragon tattoo, the one on which I had modeled the origami sculpture I had given to Jace, was visible up her neck.

Jenny put the TV on mute and leaned in.

“Hello!” I waved back. “This is Jenny Williams,” I said.

They both said hello to one another. And . . . stared at one another.

There was an awkward silence, where everyone was evidently straining to smile.

“So it’s nice of you to take in Charlie,” B said finally.

My empathic abilities were improving because I had picked up on a clear and present tension. What was going on here? Were they not “hitting it off?” Why not?

When introducing people, I had read it helped to share personal information. “Jenny works in bookings at Knight Enterprises,” I blurted out. “She cooks a mean curry, takes Judo class on Tuesday nights and is highly organized.”

They both glanced at me, for a moment, and B’s eyes were back on Jenny.

“I don’t mind really,” said Jenny. “Been good fun, so far, hasn’t it, Charlie?”

“Yes.”

I thought of something else to say to fill the silence.

“Jenny’s apartment is located in a popular neighborhood and has quite a few amenities within walking distance.”

“That’s good,” said B. “So how was your first driving lesson?”

I blinked. After work today, I had managed to circle the B&L Driving Academy parking lot once before requesting a reprieve. I tried to explain to the teacher, a sweaty middle-aged gentleman named Sam Cooper (who refused to turn on the air-conditioner), “While I am a fast learner, I require a gentle pace for practice.” He simply shrugged and said, “It’s your dosh.”

“It was a good start,” I said, applying Jace’s philosophy to life. My lessons were set for the next six Thursdays and Sundays, and I looked forward to mastering them.

We chatted awkwardly about Sydney, Jenny’s job, how we got to work every day (I was getting a ride in with Jenny) and the gift that Jace had given me—a personal shopper to take me out all day on Saturday to acquire a new wardrobe. Jenny said she would have been insulted by such a gift (the thought had not occurred to me, and I quickly brushed it aside, as Jace would not care about the state of my wardrobe), whereas B said she felt it was a spectacular gift and showed how well Jace knew me, as I would never accept anything impractical.

After more bouts of stiff conversation, we signed off, and I smiled at Jenny and thanked her without feeling grateful.

“She’s quite a character,” said Jenny, more to herself than to me a few minutes later. “Where does she work again?”

I felt my back straighten. “B is an extremely proficient computer engineer. She was recruited by the federal government before she finished college.”

Jenny raised her eyebrows. “Impressive.”

I said goodnight shortly after that, feeling out of sorts by Jenny’s disposition toward the people in my life. When B emailed me later, we wrote back and forth about this, and she explained that there can be all sorts of reasons why people react certain ways around other people, that she and Jenny did not need to be best friends. She also respected where Jenny was coming from regarding Jace, and pointed out that Jenny likely had little exposure to people who came from varied backgrounds, including those who had grown up under rougher circumstances. She said Jenny may be unwittingly prejudiced against them.

B repeated how she had already told me she approved of Jace, despite what she knew of his background. (She had read it online and asked me about it.) I felt a sharp pain in my side, like a cramp, at the fact I had hidden the whole Sullivan Blaise business from her, and that perhaps if she had known of the accusation, she, too, might react like Jenny. But then I reassured myself it was all behind me. Plus, I
had
to hide it from B: she was extremely protective, and I would not be able to stop her from digging deeper into debt by jumping on a plane to come rescue me.

Anyway, Jenny was “on it.” Specifically, she had asked every day if I had had any Sullivan Blaise visits, which I thought was caring of her, and I reassured her I had not. Clearly, Sullivan and his superiors had come to their senses, I told her.

Jace was not involved in an international crime syndicate. It was as I had originally thought—utterly absurd.

• • •

After a week of Jace’s absence, I could officially say I missed him. We connected almost every night via FaceTime, usually for a short period of time, since, as I mentioned, I do not care for small talk.

I was pleased to witness he was still amused by me, and that my brain’s pleasure centers could be trigged by even his virtual presence thousands of miles away. On Monday, he asked me to show him the new wardrobe that had given him so much grief. (I had felt the clothing was ridiculously expensive and the shopper had called Jace to complain I was resisting.) As I stood to undress, he uttered a few instructions such as “Slowly” and “Pause right there.” My pulse increased as he took off his own pants, gripping his penis—which looked even larger on the screen—and rubbed it.

“Touch yourself,” he instructed, his voice growing increasingly gravelly.

I imagined he was touching me and vice versa, and soon we were both panting and moaning—

I orgasmed much shorter and quicker than I would have liked, though he immediately followed.

“Perhaps we should work on ways to prolong my pleasure?” I ventured, languidly.

“I’m up for the job,” he quipped.

At my Plaza desk, I closed the Knight Enterprises customer service inbox (the department forwards only the problem customers, as Jace liked to personally deal with any disappointments in his hotel chains), and stretched my back. I seemed to be plagued by erotic memories since I had begun mating with Jace—it was a wonder I got any work done.

I had another half-hour until I left for the day, and I was sorely tempted to tackle Jace’s financial statements. He kept boxes tucked against the rear wall filled with printouts of his daily statements dating back to his entry into the hotel business. I had cleared out quite of bit of junk from the wall of filing cabinets in my office area, and I intended to file the statements there.

I entered his office—glanced at his empty desk chair for a moment—and began sorting through the boxes to find the earliest date.

When I informed Jace yesterday of how his absence made me feel—bored and restless—he told me he would come home as soon as possible.

“Have you found a property to purchase yet?” I asked.

He said he was narrowing the search and thanked me for the dossier on the tourism market in Las Vegas. He added that it was once again on par and I had gone into even greater depth than the consulting company he hires, using the words, “You’re so fuckin’ smart it scares me.”

Since a compliment should be reciprocated, I told him I was very impressed with his ability to manage and execute such huge financial decisions.

“My massive advisory committee is a big help. But you know what, Charlie? It’s just money. There’s no problem in life that can’t be solved by throwing some at it.”

“That only applies when you have it,” I corrected him.

“There’s always a way to get some.”

“In theory, that may be true, but the outlay may come at too great a cost.”

“When it comes to money, pride, principles, and integrity are just theory.”

I asked him, if that were really so, why he held on to these Knight Enterprises spreadsheets, which clearly showed his hotel chain’s legitimate profits over the years.

He changed the subject.

I believe I won that battle.

I heard men’s voices and straightened up, my chest clenching as I picked up on a familiar voice, and spun around. Mr. Bennett and—oh my goodness, Joe, the Italian!—were entering the office space, with a few bodyguards in tow.

“I agree with you all the way, man,” said Mr. Bennett.

“
Bene
. You’re either with—”

“Mr. Bennett,” I said, interrupting Joe. I took in Mr. Bennett’s crumpled appearance, but my eyes shifted quickly to the cobra. But wait. Blood drained from my face.
Blue eyes. There
. Walking in behind two Italian bodyguards I remembered from Port Douglas.

Sullivan Blaise stood to the left of the door, legs spread apart, hands clasped in front of him. I stared agog, though he completely ignored me.

Was he . . . was he on Mr. Bennett’s security detail now?

I glanced quickly at Mr. Bennett, who had been watching me staring in horror at Sullivan Blaise.

“You know each other?” asked Mr. Bennett.

My face turned even more pale as I realized my error.

“I—”

I glanced quickly at Joe, whose face was highly animated. He was smiling at me, glancing between Mr. Bennett and myself.

“We went on a date, when I first moved here,” I blurted out. I could not lie—Jace had told me that repeatedly.

Mr. Bennett swung his head quickly over to Sullivan, who rubbed the bridge of his nose and half-smiled.

Mr. Bennett moved his mouth down, raised his eyebrows and shrugged, clearly holding Sullivan in a new regard. “Best we don’t tell Jace, ay,” he said to Sullivan, who nodded without looking at me. Mr. Bennett added, to me, “I don’t want to lose my newest security member.”

Security member. So Sullivan was spying on Mr. Bennett now! No wonder he wasn’t bothering me.

“Charlie, it is a pleasure,” said Joe, adding to my distress. He crossed the room quickly, and I stopped myself from backing up farther. He grabbed my hands with both of his, and kissed them several times, saying I was a
bella ragazza
, holding out my arms so he could look at me. I suppose he noticed the designer dress I was wearing. I now understood how well-tailored garments can elevate one’s confidence.

Mr. Bennett wandered around the chair side of Jace’s desk, and his eyes were boring holes in me. “You want a drink, Joe?”

My body stiffened at the realization that he expected me to act as his assistant. What was going on? I knew Joe was staying at the Plaza while he “fucked around Sydney.” (Jace warned me I might see him in the lobby coming and going—I could not understand why Jace would host such a vile man at his hotel but did not dare ask.) I wanted to tell Mr. Bennett that Mr. Knight probably would not like them using his office, but then I remembered how Jace had said he was like family.

I owed it to Jace to be polite. Perhaps . . . they were using his office for some business. I sucked in air. Whatever business they were discussing, I did not want to know.

And Sullivan was here to spy, so I certainly didn’t need to.

“I was just leaving for the day,” I announced, tugging my hand away from Joe’s, experiencing an awful sensation of heat on my skin, like a sunburn or an anaphylactic reaction.

“Now ’ang on,” grunted Mr. Bennett, adding, “I’ll walk you out,” while eyeing Joe.

I felt a pair of blue and a pair of golden brown eyes on my back. Outside the office, Mr. Bennett grabbed my arm and I was hit with distasteful cologne and rank breath. “I don’t know what you heard, but—”

“I heard nothing,” I rushed to say, quietly, hoping Sullivan Blaise could not hear me. “And even if I had, it would be none of my business. Those are the confidentiality rules set by Mr. Knight. I know Mr. Knight considers you his brother, so the rules would apply to you as well.”

His face bunched up in the middle. “He said that?” he asked quietly, releasing my arm. His beady eyes searched mine. “About being his brother,” he clarified.

“Yes, he said you are his family. He is bonded to you for life.” Mr. Bennett’s face was frozen on mine, as if cramping.

I worried momentarily that I had “overshared,” a mistake I have absolutely no ability to gauge and therefore avoid. Of course, I know not to share things when people tell me not to; however, there is a whole array of things you are just supposed to
know
that you are not supposed to share. It’s baffling.

Mr. Bennett smiled slightly then, and I was relieved. I smiled back.

“Go home then, love, ay, and don’t mention I was here. We’re, uh, planning a surprise for him.”

I nodded, hesitantly, grabbed my purse and my laptop, scurried out of the Plaza and waited for Jenny, who showed up ten minutes later in her car.

She had had to work a few minutes late. I could barely contain the information flying around in my brain. I needed release. As soon as I shut the passenger door, I blurted out what had happened, namely that Sullivan Blaise was now spying on Mr. Bennett, which explained why he was not bothering with me anymore.

Jenny quickly pulled over in a satellite parking lot for the hotel. After I reassured her I was okay, I told her my additional dilemma, how Mr. Bennett had said not to tell Jace he had met with the Italian.

Jenny (being very calm in a crisis, I noticed) said, “First things fuckin’ first, you can’t tell anyone, not Jace or Mr. Bennett or anyone, who Sullivan Blaise is.”

“But—”

“No! Charlie, think about what Blaise is thinking right now. You’re a liability, a major fuckin’ liability, right? You need to find a way to tell him you’ll keep your gob shut.”

I cried a little then, as, I confess (feeling stupid, and I never feel stupid) the thought had not occurred to me. No, I had been feeling relieved, assuming I was off the hook. But here . . . not only was I no longer any use to Sullivan Blaise, and therefore easily gotten rid of, as Jenny pointed out (I could not be sure, but I wondered if she thrived under pressure), he was likely gathering boatloads of evidence from Mr. Bennett, who did not strike me as being smart about protecting himself.