Training Her Curves - London (A BBW Billionaire Domination & Submission Romance) (4 page)

But I did know whom I could call -- Simon's accomplice in this entire charade.

Rick Wells.

********************

"What do you mean, you haven't started the painting yet?" I asked, fresh terror in my voice. "I opened the package, I saw enough to know that it was me even if I didn't see the face and why the hell would someone else send me a nude portrait?"

Silence followed my question, the void between words long enough to drag up another anxiety producing thought from the dregs of my overactive imagination.

"Did someone else see the files or the film?"

"I've explained it a dozen times, Riona," Rick patiently answered. "All of my sensitive work, including the film development and storage, takes place in a secure location. The files and undeveloped film from your shoot are locked up right next to those of a member of the royal family -- just don't ask me which country's royal family, princess."

"So the only people who know what the shoot looked like are you and St. Simon?" We were only two minutes into the phone call and this was my second attempt to indirectly force his admission that my rope master was, in fact, Simon. He hadn't fallen for the first try.

"Stop trying to trick me," Rick said, spotting, and deflecting, my second attempt. "You read the confidentiality agreement, you know I cannot and will not name the other party to the photo shoot."

"Just tell me I'm right," I snapped. "I've already given you all the proof!"

He chuckled, the sound throaty, masculine and completely annoying. "Princess, the sum total of your proof was a painting you thought I'd done and sent to London. Now you know I'm not the artist, so you have no proof. As I see it, that leaves you with two options. You can keep trying to dupe me into revealing the third person's identity and, be warned, I will hang up the next time you try."

"And the second option?" I groused.

"Second, ignoring whether Simon may or may not be your rope master, I can answer a few questions about my good friend."

That last little bit of his reply shocked the oxygen out of my lungs.

"You and Simon are friends? Good friends? Why don't I already know that?"

Another chuckle, exactly the same as the one earlier but less annoying now that he had piqued my curiosity. "If you knew, then Dylan would know -- although big brother probably already does know but doesn't want it thrown in his face all the time. Ever been stuck between two friends, princess?"

I puffed air into the phone, freshly irritated at his continued use of "princess." He was only doing so because he figured (correctly) there was no way in hell I was going to be the one to end this conversation, not when he had all the information and I had all the questions.

"First I would have to have two friends at the same time," I said, my voice suddenly fragile at the reminder of what a lonely childhood I had experienced. My brothers were my friends, and I was at times stuck between their competing interests, but they had always been careful in handling such situations. As often as not, my care was their competing interest. I had been stuck, as well, between Marjolein and Dylan, but that was an easy choice: I knew Jo-Jo would be the best thing that ever happened to my overly uptight brother, so siding with her was the same as siding with him -- in the end.

"Poor princess," Rick said, his tone devoid of any actual sympathy. "What's your choice, hang up or interrogate me about Simon."

"An interrogation is in order," I purred, the smile on my face matching the smile in my voice. "Is Simon adept at rope bondage?"

"Ground rule number one -- I will not answer questions designed specifically to identify Simon as your rope master. Ground rule number two -- if you keep asking such questions, like was Simon in New York three weeks ago -- I may or may not lie when responding. Or, again, I may hang up on your sweet little butt."

I could hear the smile in his voice and it made my shoulders sag. I flounced backwards on the bed, its insanely plush stuffing trying to tease me away from the game at hand.

"Fine," I sighed, knowing deep down I was a terrible, and very obvious, player at the game anyway. I had always been more interested in the arts growing up -- the visual ones, at least. Music was okay, reading fiction was an occasional diversion. The only thing that could get me to sit still was making something with my hands. It didn't matter if it was illustrations, dresses, or decorating a room. It only mattered that it had some permanency in the real world, a quality sorely lacking before my father's death.

"Do I get as many questions as I want?" I asked, hoping I hadn't just wasted one of a very small, finite number of available queries.

"Depends, Ree."

Another sigh. I didn't know a lot about Simon to begin with. He barely existed on the Internet despite his wealth. Dylan wouldn't talk about him. Our phone conversations hadn't gone beyond design and were almost always antagonistic. His logic in emails seemed inhuman and his voice on the phone calls ridiculous.

"He's smart," I started, hesitantly.

"Genius," Rick corrected. "Holds over one hundred patents, but you would have to know all his holding companies to realize the number and variety as he always creates a company to hold the patent. But all the work is his."

I absorbed the information, but didn't know what to do with it.

"Sometimes, on the phone, he sounds a bit...flamboyant. But just his voice." When Rick said nothing, I tried to explain a little better. "Dylan said that Simon is like some book character called the Scarlett Pimpernel, how it's all an act to deceive."

That earned a small guffaw from Rick, followed by more silence.

"You disagree?" I poked.

"Not at all," Rick answered. "I'm just trying to decide how much to tell you."

I shot upright into a sitting position. Rick's voice had taken on a dark tone, one that sent chills, the bad kind, down my spine. "Is he dangerous, would he--"

A low growl of warning cut off any further speculation on my part.

"Do you really think I would place..."

His words trailed off. I knew if I puzzled over them long enough, I would figure out something important, but Rick didn't give me the time to think.

"If I were going to pick a character from a book to be Simon, it would be Evan Tanner."

"Help a girl out," I half-whined. "Big brother already highlighted how poorly read I am beyond vampires and warped billionaires."

"A Lawrence Block character," Rick laughed. "
The Thief Who Couldn't Sleep,
to be exact. Except, the metal that invaded Tanner's brain and obliterated his sleep center was battlefield shrapnel."

Brain...invaded...shrapnel? What the fuck?

"Wait, you're saying Simon barely sleeps and he has a piece of metal in his head?" Now I was officially astounded -- although chronic insomnia went a little way in explaining and exculpating the irritating hours he sometimes called or messaged.

"It was a bullet, long since removed, and he never sleeps," Rick corrected. "How do you think he has a hundred patents?"

My pulse had alternated between dipping low and racing fast throughout the conversation. The word "bullet," especially with all my existing anxiety over Mishka's disappearance sent my heart rate through the roof. As hard as the organ was pounding, it was certain to break out of my chest at any second.

"You're saying someone shot--" I stopped, suddenly incredulous. "Are you lying? Or, rather why are you lying? He's fucking perfect to look at. No way has his head has been physically injured by a bullet and his body--"

I decided to shut my mouth before I praised Simon's looks too much. Well, I already had, but I didn't need to go on. "Tell me, Rick. Is this a game or a con the two of you are playing?"

The words were harsh, my tone even harsher. Tears welled along the barrier of my lower eyelids but I would not allow myself the release of crying.

"If you think it's either," Rick answered. "You should leave the hotel immediately and hop the next plane home, princess. Good--"

"Wait," I shouted, knowing his next word would be "bye" and I'd lose whatever chance I had to find out more about Simon and decide if this was all an ill-considered joke.

"I'm afraid," I confessed to keep him on the line, my tears finally falling fat and hot against my cheeks. I couldn't tell Rick that I had an excellent reason for being paranoid at the time. Dylan had counseled that any information about Mishka was on a need-to-know basis, the cloak and dagger aspect of our search designed to keep him safe if his identity hadn't already been compromised. "And you're not really helping me be less afraid."

I sniffled then swiped roughly at my cheeks to erase the tears. "Just tell me what I need to know."

"I can't tell you everything you need to know," Rick cautioned. "And I probably told you too much already, but I did so out of friendship."

"Forgive me for saying so," I sniped softly. "But you don't really feel like my friend right now."

"I mean Simon," Rick answered, his tone drifting toward melancholy. "You already ruled me out as a friend earlier when you said you have never had two at the same time."

My lips pinched together in a pout he couldn't see. Now I felt like the asshole in this conversation. "Hyperbole," I whispered, knowing he wouldn't believe me.

"No, princess," Rick corrected yet again. "You lived in a tower so long growing up that you decided to carry it with you wherever you go. I would like us to be friends, but I know we're not. Maybe someday."

The tears started flowing again. My breathing hitched as I opened my mouth to speak. "I should go," I said, the words wet and clogged.

"If you mean home, then you'll never know why Simon's mother shot him."

Mother? Shot him?

The phone fell from my numb fingers, bounced off the bed and slid to a spot under the dresser. I scrabbled onto the floor, urgently telling Rick not to hang up because I had dropped the damn cell. Retrieving the device, I whipped it up to my ear, banging my wrist in the process so that I was yelping and trying to speak at the same time.

"You realize you're fucking killing me, right?" I asked.

"Maybe, but I bet you're not crying anymore," Rick chuckled.

Someone needed to kick him in the balls, but my legs wouldn't stretch from London to New York.

"Barely," I shot back. "Now tell me what happened. Why would a mother do that? Was it an accident?"

"Not an accident," Rick answered with a dark tremor. "She shot his father first, through the head, then Simon, also in the head, and then she shot her ear off. I presume she intended to end their lives and hers, but only his father died. She was institutionalized, never to speak a coherent word again. She died two years later when Simon was twelve."

My heart felt so heavy I couldn't move. "I've searched Simon's name..."

I didn't want to directly accuse Rick of lying again, so I stopped talking. Silence didn't keep my mind from spinning. Surely something like that would have made the papers.

"He was sent to live with a cousin on his father's side," Rick answered. "She and her husband didn't have any children and they gave Simon their last name, in part to shield him from the press."

"Oh," I answered weakly. Marjolein and I had often joked about Simon's repetitive name in the past, particularly about how much his parents must have disliked him to name him Simon St. Simon. Now I knew he had been born with an entirely different last name and that it was only his mother who hadn't liked him. Or, rather, she had been quite sick in the head.

All this information, if it was true, was making my chest hurt and my stomach sick.

"I need to go," I said, certain I was about to puke all over the floor because I had a long crawl to make it to the bathroom.

"Please tell me you only mean you want to end the call," Rick said, his tone holding a pleading note for the first time since our bizarre-turned-macabre conversation had started. "Please tell me you aren't leaving London."

"I need to throw up," I said, one shaky arm clasping the edge of the nightstand so I could try to push up onto even shakier legs.

"Understandable," Rick said. "I'm here if you want to talk afterwards."

With that, he hung up, and I was uncertain whether he meant after I puked or after I met Simon at eight -- If I met Simon at eight.

********************

The urge to puke produced nothing more than painful dry heaving over the porcelain toilet. Fifteen minutes after Rick ended our call, I wheeled my luggage into the bedroom. Normally, I would have unpacked everything to save time throughout the duration of the trip. Uncertain I would still be on the hotel's premises by the time eight o'clock rolled around, I only removed the items I would need for a shower.

I felt stained by the conversation with Rick, corrupted both by my own curiousity and by dark, oily knowledge that continued to cling to my skin. I pulled out a shea sugar scrub and a Brazilian nut body lotion for after my shower. Taking the items into the bathroom, I heard a heavy knock at the suite's door.

Panicking for a moment, I shot a glance at the clock next to the bed even though I subconsciously knew that I was hours away from the appointed time. The clock indicated it was a few minutes before four. Breathing a little more easily, I left the bedroom and called out for the person knocking to wait. The visitor continued knocking, confirming just how soundproof the rooms were, which was great for when our guests were screaming out in ecstasy but not so great when someone was knocking insistently and the guest possessed short, chubby legs and was emotionally exhausted.

I yanked the door open to find Jordan, the bellboy who had carried my luggage up earlier, outside my door with two wheeled carts, each possessing covered trays and silver tea service sets. Exertion colored Jordan's cheeks and he gave a quick bow in my direction before he started to wheel one of the carts into the room, the other remaining in the hall.

I could smell warm, baked goods and a hint of melon and strawberries. My stomach didn't know whether to be hungry or continue on with the sick dread that Rick's revelation had produced.