The Island (3 page)

The woman was thin, older, her golden hair fading to gray. Her face was unremarkable. Shaw thought her accent was possibly Eastern European, but it had been tempered with something else. She had spent a lot of time in America, he realized. Probably one of Vornis’s many relations. Vornis didn’t outsource except when he couldn’t avoid it. He’d been a hard nut to crack for Shaw. It had taken years to exploit an opportunity to work with the man, let alone build up enough trust to be invited to his private island.

Shaw tucked the towel around his hips as he stood. “Thank you.”

She nodded and left, her cheeks flushed.

Shaw was used to that reaction from women. He didn’t kid himself that he was anything special, but he kept himself in good shape. He was twenty-eight, six feet two, and he had good muscle tone. He wasn’t some oiled, ripped gym junkie either who looked like his skin was about to burst. He kept in shape by running.

Shaw ran a hand through his hair and sat at the table. He removed the cover from the tray.

Dinner was lobster. Of course it was lobster. Nothing but the finest for Vornis and his guests. It was probably a local catch, and it wasn’t ruined with some chef’s idea of an exotic sauce. Lobster and coral trout and coconut crab, accompanied by a bottle of wine. Shaw checked the label. Apparently, Vornis didn’t trust the locals with that. The wine was French.

At home, Shaw usually put on the television when he ate. It always felt like a waste of time when he wasn’t doing at least two things at once. Here, he realized, he just wanted to watch the sun go down and listen to the sound of the waves against the beach. It was so relaxing, and so easy to push everything else out of his mind. Except that one thing that niggled: the boy. He was there at the edges of Shaw’s mind, standing in the rain. A beautiful, dumb thing, like a piece of art.

Shaw sighed as he ate. The food was perfect. The wine was perfect. The location was perfect. And the job was what it was. He was here to sell a stolen painting and make some contacts, nothing else.

He finished eating and pushed the tray away.

The woman was back almost immediately. Surveillance, Shaw wondered, or just good service? In Vornis’s position he’d keep a close eye on his guests as well.
If I were a hidden camera, where would I be
? Shaw knew better than to look for it.

“That was lovely, thank you,” he told the woman.

She nodded at him and placed a sports bag on the table. “Your welcome present from Mr. Vornis.”

“Welcome present?” Shaw asked curiously.

The woman pursed her lips together briefly and nodded. “Good evening, Mr. Shaw.”

She left.

Shaw leaned back in his chair for a moment before reaching for the bag. He tipped it up, and the contents spilled out onto the table. A silk scarf. A pair of cuffs with the key attached. Condoms and lube. A flogger. Nylon ropes. Plugs and clips. A
cattle prod?

Realization dawned. Shaw rose, a hard knot forming in his gut. He stepped out on the veranda.

The boy knelt on the wooden boards, his head bowed.

Shaw looked around, but the woman had already gone.
Shit, shit, shit.

Shaw leaned in the doorway and looked at the boy. The sunset made his skin glow. Shaw watched him breathe. He wasn’t even afraid. He’d been captured eight weeks ago and undergone God only knew what. He was probably beyond fear.

Shaw had thought he was like a dog, but that was wrong. He was less than that. He wasn’t even an animal anymore. He was just a thing, an insensible thing.

Shaw looked out at the ocean and then back at the boy. He didn’t want the boy, not like this, but Shaw had worked too hard to win Vornis’s trust. He didn’t know if Vornis was testing him now, or if it was simply what the woman said it was: a welcome present. Either way, he couldn’t refuse.

“Get inside,” he said to the boy.

The boy rose, still looking down. That was interesting. Did it mean fear and shame, or had it just been trained into him not to look men in the face? Shaw had never seen the attraction in fucking someone who wouldn’t look him in the face. Still, he didn’t doubt that Vornis got off in other ways. A cattle prod, for Christ’s sake. He was a sick fuck.

The boy shuffled inside.

Shaw watched him. He was attractive. He would have been more attractive if he’d actually had some spirit left in him, but he was attractive. He was young, his body all lean muscle. He hadn’t filled out yet. He was caught between gawky teenage years and adulthood, that phase that looked awkward on most guys and fucking gorgeous on just a few. Shaw exhaled slowly. Any other time, any other place…

The boy’s head was bowed. Dark lashes caressed his cheeks as he closed his eyes. Shaw mapped the boy’s face with his gaze. He would have preferred do it by touch.

The boy’s mouth quirked. Not a grimace or a smile or any expression at all. Just a twitch. His top lip made a perfect cupid’s bow. His bottom lip was full and marred with teeth marks. The boy chewed his lip, his eyes still closed, and Shaw wondered where his mind had taken him. A long way away, if he was lucky. What tiny corner of the world was home for him? Who missed him?

Careful. Focus.

Shaw took a step back.

When Shaw had first seen him in the rain, he’d thought the boy’s skin was unblemished. Now he saw it wasn’t. His skin was marked with narrow welts across his back, bruises from rough handling, and tiny red scorch marks from the cattle prod. Black shadows rimmed his eyes. His arms hung slackly at his sides, and Shaw saw the track marks. He’d been drugged into oblivion. Probably the only way Vornis could get him to make any sounds at all was through torture.

“How old are you?” Shaw asked him quietly.

The boy looked up briefly. The light caught in his brilliant green eyes. They were unfocused. His head dropped again.

Christ, it was almost easy to look him in the eye and see nothing human looking back. Shaw knew that trick. He knew it, and he used it, because it was smarter to dispassionately evaluate the boy than it was to acknowledge just how fucking wrong this was.
Stay buried, Green-eyes. You wouldn’t like it out here.

Shaw resisted the urge to raise his hand and trace the boy’s bruised jawline.

He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two at the outside, Shaw thought, and that was a generous estimation. There was no way in hell he was CIA. He didn’t have enough muscle, and he didn’t have enough years. This kid should have been serving his country by getting blown to pieces in the Middle East, not launching an attack on Vornis’s Colombian compound. Something wasn’t right here.

Shaw allowed himself a cynical smirk.
Nothing
was fucking right here.

“Get in the shower,” he told the boy, nodding toward the bathroom.

The boy shuffled down the steps, and Shaw followed him down.

Shaw watched as the boy fumbled with the button on his fly. Even now he wasn’t breathing heavily. He finally popped the button. Shaw heard the rasp of a zip, and the boy’s cargoes pooled at his feet.

He was lovely, all angles and planes. Shaw felt his breath catch in his throat as his eyes trailed down the boy’s chest and abdomen, following the narrow path of hair from his navel all the way down to his cock. It was lean like the rest of him, a good length, and Shaw wondered what it would look like thick and engorged with blood. His own cock twitched when he imagined getting on his knees and tasting the boy.

Any other time, any other place…

Even any other fucking bathroom would do. Shaw’s apartment in Sydney or the one in LA. The bathroom with the full-length mirror or the one with the spa? Or, Jesus, even the bathroom at Shaw’s favorite pub in King’s Cross, with the suspiciously sticky floor, the stalls that didn’t lock properly, and the condom machine that only worked when you punched it just right. Shit, yeah, the fun he could have with this boy in a filthy stall, a back alley, or up against a parked car. Dirty, cheap, and as hot as hell. Shaw could paint that vivid fantasy anywhere but here, because the boy had no choice here. Shaw was a lot of things, but not that.

There’s a line.

Shaw ripped his gaze away from the boy’s cock. If he’d seen any indication at all that the boy was turned on, he wouldn’t have hesitated, coral floor or not. But Shaw wasn’t a monster.

His stomach churned, and he tasted bile. Not a fucking monster.

Shaw dropped his towel and stepped past the boy into the shower. He turned the tap and felt the warm water against his skin. It wasn’t as relaxing this time, not with the naked boy standing right there. Shaw reached out for him and pulled him under the water.

He held the boy by the shoulders and looked into his face.

The boy blinked water out of his eyes. Something like confusion passed over his face, and then a flicker of what might have been panic, and then he was blank again.

“What’s your name?” Shaw asked him under the noise of the shower.

The boy sighed and turned his face up to darkening sky. The first stars were appearing.

Shaw gripped his jaw and angled his face back down again. “Listen, Green-eyes. What’s your name?” He wondered if there were cameras in the bathroom as well. He pulled the boy closer, loving the feel of the boy’s skin against his and hating that he loved it—
not a monster
!—and put his mouth on his ear. “Name, rank, number.”

Shaw felt the boy’s body stiffen suddenly and knew he’d gotten through past the drug for just a second. That was what the military trained into them, wasn’t it? Name, rank, and number. He hoped it was second nature to the boy.

Shaw drew away and saw the sudden, awful fear in those brilliant green eyes. He didn’t know if it was because Green-eyes realized exactly where he was and what was happening, or if he was just terrified he’d be punished for not being able to answer.

“Tell me your name,” Shaw said.

The kid’s jaw worked silently for a moment, but nothing came out.

“It’s okay,” Shaw said. “Doesn’t matter.”

And it didn’t. Shaw needed to back off. Jesus, Vornis would kill him if he found out he’d been prying. He’d killed men for less. Shaw was just here to sell a stolen Cézanne and make a few valuable contacts.

Fucking jetlag. That was all. Jetlag messing with his head. Jetlag and the wine he’d had with dinner.

Shaw turned off the water and reached for his towel. He wiped himself down quickly, did the same for the boy, and dropped the towel on the coral floor. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him back upstairs.

It was night, but the moonlight was brilliant. It softly illuminated the entire bungalow. Shaw could hear the sound of the waves rolling endlessly on the beach and the wind rustling in the palms. There was no one waiting at the door, so Shaw supposed Big Brother had decided he wasn’t done with the boy yet.

Shaw didn’t allow himself time to hesitate.

He collected a condom and the lube from the table, even though he had no intention of needing them. He pushed the boy onto the bed and drew the mosquito netting down. It reminded him suddenly, ludicrously, of a bridal veil.

The boy lay on the bed, his eyes half-closed.

Shaw crawled in on top of him and pulled the sheet up. He kept his face impassive as he looked at the boy lying underneath him. Jesus, he was beautiful, but Shaw was no fucking rapist. He’d done a lot of things in his life he regretted, but he wasn’t going to do that. The boy with the brilliant green eyes had enough bruises.

Showtime.

Shaw unwrapped the condom, squirted lube into it and tied the end off. The oldest trick in the book, if nobody looked too closely. And really, who would?

Shaw hoped the sheet and the mosquito net would provide enough camouflage for what he was doing. Or not doing. He knelt between the boy’s thighs and positioned himself. Then, before he could remind himself that this wasn’t his smartest idea, Shaw grasped his hard cock in his hand and hunkered over. The boy raised his knees and spread them. Shaw moaned, bit his lip, and began to stroke himself.

Shouldn’t, he told himself. Shouldn’t, but the boy was beautiful, he was right there, and it had been a long fucking day. No harm, no foul. The boy wouldn’t even remember it.

It was awkward, uncomfortable, and, feeling the heat rise off the boy’s body, Shaw wanted nothing more than to fuck him. He raked his eyes over the boy’s body, ignoring the bruises, and his cock leapt in his fist.

Shaw groaned again, and the boy’s eyes flashed open. He looked far too fucking comfortable for someone who was supposedly getting raped. Shaw jabbed him in the abdomen with his forefinger, and the boy gasped and arched. That was more like it.

Fuck, he wished it was real. Shaw wanted to taste the boy, to pinch him and tease him, to shove his cock inside him and watch him squirm. He wanted to see his face when he came.

He jabbed the boy in the abdomen again, and the boy’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. Shaw remembered the pull of gravity as the chopper came in to land. He remembered the rainforest: green, green, green, before it opened up into a hundred different nuances. It had seemed dull and uniform before it had revealed itself to his gaze. And what was underneath was beautiful and dangerous.

Shaw jabbed him again.

The boy arched again, and this time he cried out.
“No! Please, no!”

Shaw met the boy’s gaze. Clever, despite the drugs. He still had a brain after all. And that was a crying shame. Shaw tore his gaze away from those green eyes and back to the boy’s body: smooth pecs, the dip of his sternum, the ridges of his abdomen. The boy’s body deserved worship, not torture. Shaw stroked himself more quickly, worshipping the boy’s flesh the best way he knew how.

No harm, no foul.

The boy whimpered and began to twist back and forth.

Well, give Green-eyes a fucking Oscar. Shaw felt his balls tighten and contract, and he jerked his hips forward as he came, his semen splashing across the boy’s abdomen. His thighs ached from holding himself away from the boy, and it wasn’t acting when he fell forward on top of him.