The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (33 page)

Frustration.

I grabbed his hand, before he left the bed, probably to remove the condom.

“Jace, there’s something I want to say.”

“Don’t, ay. Save it,” he said, not unkindly. He rolled his head over to look at me when I wouldn’t release his arm. I turned onto my side, using both my hands to hold his arm in place.

Why did he want me to save it? Perhaps he wished to block me out in retaliation. That was fair.

“No, it’s important. I never . . . I never . . .” His face tensed. “I never told her how I felt. My mother. And then, I couldn’t,” I blurted out. A pressure was building deep inside.

“Charlie,” he rushed to say, a small smile, and pity, perhaps, filling his eyes. “There’s plenty of time—”

I shook my head and sucked in a quick breath. “All the same. I’d just as soon take this opportunity in case . . . You just never know when someone will leave you,” I whispered the last part.

His eyes drew all the dawn light pouring into the world and reflected it back at me.

“Charlie, she knew. Just like I know.”

I shook my head. “No, she didn’t. You don’t.”

“Charlie—”

“No. Let me speak.” I gathered it was killing him to listen. “She never knew. And I could never show her. Just like I am unable to show you, or B, or anyone. I simply do not know how.”

I fought the burn in my eyes. Tears were not the right expression of how I felt. “All I can do is tell you how the world, my world,” I whispered, “wouldn’t ever be the same, no, wouldn’t be as good, without you in it.”

He was smiling, and reached over to brush hair out of my face. “I feel the same way about you.”

I didn’t need to step into his cave to believe him.

“Now can I have a go?” he asked.

Facetiousness.

I nodded.

“Charlie, love, you don’t get it. She did know. Because you gave it, didn’t you?”

I nodded, even as I frowned. “What do you mean? Please explain.”

“The love we give is what you’ll have forever.”

I thought about his words, worked them out, and found them entirely true. Only I’d just told him, I never gave her any. She never knew. She died never knowing.

“Tell me about her,” he said, staring at me.

An electric jolt shot through me.

“My mother?”

He wanted to know? I glanced in his eyes. Yes. He did want to know. But when I withdrew inside, I felt protective. Why? Finding no logical explanation, I decided I should at least try.

“She laughed a lot,” I offered.

“Yeah?”

I nodded.

“Almost as much as she cried,” I added, recalling the beautiful, deep sound.

“It was loud and came from here.” I touched my belly.

“Only she could make me laugh at nothing significant, and she did it just by being happy herself. It was the most irrational thing.

“She described the world perfectly,” I added, “just never could fit herself into it. She had a clever proverb for almost every situation.” I thought about how when I was much younger, she wrote a lot, in a journal she kept beside her bed. What had happened to all her writings?

“Her favorite song was by the Black Crowes,
She Talks to Angels
. Once in a while she made the most amazing banana pudding. She called me Charlie, after her dead grandfather—‘The only man who was worth the dirt he walked on,’” I mimicked her voice. “But she only used Charlie when she was mad. Most of the time she called me ‘chicklet.’”

I forgot Jace was there. He was staring at me, and suddenly I felt like we were both holding onto each other, falling, midair, waiting to pull the parachute cord.

“Do you feel it?” he asked quietly, his eyes glassy. “Because I do.”

My mouth popped open in astonishment.

Yes, I did.

He was right. I
had
given it, because it was still there. My love.

“What do I do with it now?” I whispered.

His brow furrowed.

“What do I do with all the love I have for her now that she’s gone?”

He smiled.

“You feel it, Charlie, that’s all. You just feel it.”

Las Vegas is fascinating. More than thirty-nine million people visit the resort city every year, and it boasts twenty of the world’s largest hotels. As soon as we drove onto the strip, I felt I had landed at an adult version of Disneyland (not that I had ever been to the real Disneyland). We checked into the Bellagio and then strolled around the hotel, discreet bodyguards behind and in front of us. (I was worried this would draw attention but there were so many people and there was so much distraction, no one noticed.) I was stunned to discover Las Vegas hotels pump scent throughout the indoors and even the outdoor pool area. It was indeed sin city, an artificial, contrived kingdom, paved with marble and neon lights, a glorified pathway to vice.

“My mother would have loved it here,” I told Jace, staring out our hotel room window at the Bellagio fountains. He smiled and returned to checking email on his phone from the edge of the bed. Jace had booked us in a medium-sized corner suite, nothing too lavish, he said, under false names. I feigned surprise, and he explained that if the city hotel owners knew he was here, he would be stuck doing dinners, fending off pain-in-his-ass socializing and false generosity the whole trip. Rival owners and developers would panic if word got out he was opening up a competing paradise, which would no doubt gouge their profits. Plus, he said he “wouldn’t put sabotage past the fuckers.” The bodyguards he’d brought (Jimmy was still recovering) were booked in rooms across from and beside ours.

The flight had been long, but oddly enough, not nearly as terrifying for me as the one coming over. I have no idea if that was because I was with Jace, or because I had bigger terrors to fret over than crashing into the ocean. Either way, the day sped past as we actually worked. As far as I could ascertain—and I have access to his email—Jace had not booked any meetings with nefarious “imperialists” in Las Vegas. I was worried either way—finding no evidence would not help B, finding evidence would hurt Jace. Then we dined aboard his plane (I took a pain reliever for my low-grade headache), and arrived the previous afternoon thanks to the time difference. We would go to bed much later than my usual bedtime, but not far enough off to disrupt our sleep routine. Jace was a pro at navigating the perils of jet lag . . . although I was learning he could occasionally forget details. For example, he failed to inform me, before he slipped downstairs to play a few hands of poker, that he was expecting a delivery from Clark County government offices. I assumed the envelope contained papers related to the property purchase. Fortunately, Jace had had the foresight to notify them that his assistant was a suitable proxy. While it took a moment for the tall, suspicious official to confirm this, which had me flustered as Jace’s cell phone was going to straight to voicemail, in the end all I had to do was show proof of my identification in order to sign for them, which I promptly did. One of the guards passed the official an envelope of money before I left, which I assumed contained the hand-delivery fee.

“Government documents arrived while you were downstairs. They are on the desk,” I informed Jace.

“Thanks,” he said, joining me at the window, and wrapping his arms around me. I shivered, thinking of how safe I had felt in Uluru, and how I had fooled myself. Still, I loved being near to his body, resting against it.

“I never realized how much I care for physical affection. We are compatible in that regard,” I told him, forgetting that I should not be building our bond.

He laughed. “You make it sound like there aren’t many ways we
are
compatible.”

“There aren’t,” I blurted out, eager to put some distance between us again. I rotated in his embrace. “You are almost ten years older than me, you are ego-centric, and we share none of the same interests,” I added the last comment quietly, because his face had fallen. He’d stepped away from my body.

My face flushed with . . . something awful.

“I apologize. I believe I may have just been insensitive.”

He glanced up at me from under his brow. Perhaps he required more mollification.

“I was wrong. We both like engineering design, Tom Cruise movies, and sex.”

He blew air out of his nose, rubbed his face, and looked at me with a penetrating gaze—a challenging one.

“Your ego’s bigger than mine, to be straight,” he added.

My mouth popped open. He nodded. “Your pride puts mine to shame. You want to know why?”

Rhetorical question.

“Because you’ve never been humbled,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

Oh. His eyes were narrowed on me with resolve.

“I thought you were going to show me how to play poker now,” I stated, starting to get the butterflies.

“Not until the ‘old fella’ teaches you a lesson.”

My stomach somersaulted. He had taken off his shoes and was closing in. Unease grew into anxiety.

Also, he looked determined.

When he started undoing his pants, a moment of irrational panic burst in me (I did not believe he would hurt me, of course, but I did believe he intended to express his dominance), and I dashed to the bed. My goal was to throw myself across it to get to the washroom and lock the door. I squealed (and I never squeal) as he grabbed hold of my calf and yanked me back, face down, pulling the bedspread with me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

He manhandled me. “I should’ve been smacking your arse regularly to remedy your insolence,” he rumbled—perhaps sincerely!

I gasped with relief as he wrestled me to the edge of the bed and I could put my feet on the floor. But . . . he held me there with his strong body, and yanked up my skirt.

The cool air flowed over my exposed derriere. I made a last-ditch effort, squirmed and grunted and yelped, and then the palm of his hand made contact with my flesh. I heard the smack and felt the sting but I couldn’t believe he had just spanked me.

He rubbed the spot where the sting spread.

I had gone still, on my forearms, staring down at the patterned comforter.

He had just spanked me.

But . . . he was not actually teaching me a lesson. I decided this was more of an erotic game than dominance.

Wasn’t it? Anticipation, fear, and excitement made my mind fuzzy.

My clitoris tweaked, and my inside walls clenched tight.

He bent over me and brushed my hair out of my face. “Now’s when you’re supposed to fight harder, Charlie,” he whispered, massaging my cheek. “God, I’ve been dying to do this since I first met you and
you
told
me
how our professional arrangement was going to be,” he whispered huskily. “I wanted to bend you over my desk and smack your arse right there in my office.”

I flinched as he spanked me again, only a burst of erotic pleasure followed it, and I moaned. He rubbed my clitoris right afterward, and, oh! I groaned as he stuck a finger in my—

“Such a fuckin’ sweet cunt.” He yanked aside my thong, and replaced his finger with his cock. I sighed real loud, and then gasped in horror.

“Jace!” I shouted as he pulled his member out and pushed it back in, creating an intense swell of ecstasy. “Condom!” I choked out.

He froze.

“You didn’t put one on!” I added, since he had clearly lost his senses again. I attempted to scramble back up the bed, this time for real, to get away from his penis. It leaked semen, for Pete’s sake!

I whimpered because he held me down.

He hissed, and pulled out, finally!

I flipped over.

His face was . . . angry. “Why are you mad?”

His lines softened. “I didn’t pick up any.”

“Then why did you initiate intercourse?”

“Crikey, Charlie. Sometimes the moment just strikes you!”

We glared at each other, and then burst out laughing at the same time. We decided to satisfy one another with other methods, and when we were done, cuddled facing each other. Jace stared into my eyes up close. He called this “horizontal time” and while I’d never mentioned how safe it made me feel, I think it gave him something equally emotionally beneficial.

After a little while, when we both worried about falling asleep, he reminded me again about the fundamentals of poker. Then we got ready. After I dried my hair, I asked him if I should be booking any meetings for tomorrow. I did so innocently, forgetting entirely for that moment that I had a mission.

B.

My stomach squished, guilt suffocated my happiness and then anger set in. The only time I had had with Jace that was not clouded with lies and betrayal was our first meeting and the first day at work. I found my hands were in tight fists. I unclenched them.

Focus, Charlie.

I knew Giuseppe was arriving from Italy overnight. Jace intended to show him the property where he wanted to build, and present the hotel concept.

What I needed to know—in order to end this once and for all—was when he was meeting with his “imperialist” syndicate. He stood at the sink beside mine, shaving, silent.

Impatience. Yes, that was what I was feeling.

“What about the new organization you mentioned? Should I book anything with them?” Miss Moneypenny wandered into the bathroom and I took the opportunity to escape his piercing, silent stare, by bending down to pet her.

“Let’s keep this trip personal, Charlie. Pretend you’re not my offsider. I can take care of business.”

I stood back up, glancing briefly at him. Oh—don’t show guilt!

“Okay,” I whispered, heading to the closet.

What would I do now? I would have to be patient, bide my time, never leave his side. He would not be able to meet them without me knowing. Interpol had given me several numbers to call when I gathered information; hopefully they were prepared for a last-minute ambush. They said they would always be close at hand.

I swallowed and took a couple of deep breaths, staring at the clothes I had hung up.

I thought of B. I should have seen what was going on much sooner. She talked about money so much. I simply assumed that her answers to my inquiries after her concerns were honest. I did not think she would have reason to lie
because
I trusted her. It was not clear to me there was a solution to avoiding such a mistake in the future. As I contemplated how this damaged my trust in her, I concluded that Jace would most definitely experience distrust of me in the future for the exact same reason. Both B and I had lied to the people we cared about, and there was no difference between our motives—both were outside our control. Mine was nosy authorities. Hers was gambling addiction. I attempted to reassure myself that I had already forgiven B because of my pink for her, and that perhaps Jace had enough pink for me that he would do the same. But it did not provide consolation, because I knew I could not place hope in something as irrational and unpredictable as affection. He may never forgive me, and he could not be faulted for that either.