Masquerade: Her Billionaire - Venice

by Lisa Marie Rice

  It was true, she realized. Lying in Cal’s arms, feeling his body next to hers — almost around hers — shot heat and strength through her. She’d employed the oldest trick in the world while being tortured. The one she’d turned to instinctively though she knew soldiers were taught it as a technique — distancing herself from her body. She’d flown right out of it and hadn’t come back fully yet, until now.

  But here she was. Her body ached, was sore. She was exhausted. But she was in it, a part of it, and that was all because of Cal.

  How long had it been since she’d lain with someone like this? Feeling a body against her back, so close she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breath tickling her hair?

  A long, long time. She’d had a few sex partners, but she didn’t cuddle after sex. Didn’t sleep in anyone’s arms. In bed, she was all business and once that business was over, she was out of bed and dressing or in the shower hoping the guy du jour would be gone by the time she came out.

  This felt like surrender, the best kind of surrender. She could let herself go because Cal would catch her.

  “I think we’re safe here,” he murmured. Though he had a deep voice, she was sure they couldn’t possibly be heard up on the street.

  “I think so too.” And because she felt safe for the first time since those men kidnapped her at Palazzo Maltese, she was able to focus on the bigger danger. The danger to the world. “Do you think your friend can mobilize the troops?”

  “I don’t know about the troops, but Farris is friends with someone high up in the Polizia. I think they cross-trained. The other guy is special ops, too, or was. It’s a fraternity. Unless they’ve already whacked the Chinese President, he is now going to be protected.”

  “Thank God.” She closed her eyes. “I’m so glad I was with you. I don’t know if I’d have known who to call, who to contact. I might have lost time or even, God forbid, contacted the wrong people. Made things worse.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Damned right it’s a good thing you’re with me. I told you before, I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He buried his face in her neck. “Right now, I don’t think I can let you get far enough away that I can’t touch you.”

  She smiled. Closed her hand around his. “That works out just fine. Because I want to be close enough to touch you, too.”

  He tensed. Lifted his face from her neck. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I meant that — what’s the word? Not literally.”

  “Metaphorically.”

  One hand dropped down to the hem of her dress and began sliding upwards, bringing heat with it. “Yeah. Metaphorically. I meant that metaphorically.”

  His hand was sliding up her thigh. He reached the top of her thigh-highs, lingering.

  “Mm.” Anya felt heat all through her. Her lungs were on fire. It was hard to talk. She swallowed. “I didn’t.”

  “Hmm?” Cal moved, covered her mound with his hand. She was completely naked, open to him. He waggled his hand and she opened her thighs. He kissed her ear and she shivered. “You didn’t what?”

  “Mean it metaphorically.”

  Cal’s hand slid over her sex, one finger outlining her opening. Anya could barely breathe. She moved her hips in time with his finger, wanting to be touched …

  “God. I can’t follow. Mind’s blasted.” His voice in her ear was low and hoarse.

  Right …

  “I want you to touch me,” she said breathlessly. “All the time. In every way.” Anya took his hand, put her finger over his and positioned it …

  There!

  Cal circled his finger, with just exactly the right kind of pressure, as if he knew her body perfectly. Which, of course, he did. He dipped his head and caught her ear lobe between his teeth and bit lightly, delicately, but firmly. Like a stallion nips his mare. Just as he entered her with two fingers.

  Anya convulsed, clenching around his fingers, her body out of her control in a white hot fever of pleasure so intense it wiped out the memory of the torture. Pain was a thing of the past, what existed now was pure pleasure, her sex clenching tightly around his hand.

  She drew in a deep breath because the pleasure had to express itself somehow and his hand covered her mouth. “No noise,” he whispered.

  Oh God. No of course she couldn’t make any noise. For just a second she forgot why she couldn’t make noise, why she couldn’t express her pleasure with a cry and the ban made it somehow more intense. With no release other than that of her body, it became deeper and hotter, these tiny convulsions deep inside her.

  Cal held her tightly through it, curling his body even more closely around hers, judging the moment when he could lift his hand from her mouth. She was breathing fast, but remained perfectly silent.

  “That’s my girl.” He kissed the side of her face. “I’m so —”

  The sounds of running feet, men’s voices, harsh and low.

  Anya stiffened and Cal loosened his hold on her.

  “Cal!” A male voice called out.

  “Yo,” he said, unhooked the tarp and stood up. “We’re here.”

  The possible assassination of the President of China and the possible cancellation of the Mediterranean Accords were a Big Deal. Cal was an engineer but he wasn’t a dummy. Thousands and thousands of people had worked hundreds of thousands of hours on this and billions of dollars had been spent. One billion was going to flow into his own bank account.

  But that meant less to him than the fact that Anya was barely able to stand upright on her feet. He had long ago passed the point where more money meant anything to him. He had enough for ten lifetimes. What was important was the woman at his side.

  Farris had brought a few guys from the Phoenix security team and they had brought a couple of Polizia di Stato officers and a few soldiers kitted out in full commando gear. The soldiers and Farris’s guys stood in a semicircle on the calle level, backs to them, weapons trained, eyes front while Cal flipped back the tarp covering the passenger part of the gondola and helped Anya out.

  It hadn’t been easy not making love to her on that smelly gondola carpet. He should be given some kind of medal for his self restraint. But it was worth it because though her face was drawn, and she was a little shaky, there was color in her face again. Just a little rosiness under the skin that was pale from fatigue and pain.

  If he could give her that moment’s pleasure, man it was worth it. And they’d have plenty of time for real sex. The rest of their lives, in fact.

  But for the moment, there was still business to attend to.

  She was putting up a brave front but her hand trembled and her jaw was clenched. Goddamn. He tried to put his arm around her but she gave a subtle shake of her head and took his arm, as if they were at some goddamned ball.

  She needed his arm and leaned heavily on him, but it looked better than him half holding her up.

  It flashed on him what her role had been, a woman negotiating peace in a man’s world, where everyone hated everyone else.

  Never show weakness. That clearly had been drummed into her. Never show weakness, always put up a strong front.

  He wanted to say that it wasn’t necessary. These were his men and Italian police officers and soldiers. No one would think less of her if she showed weakness and if they did, Cal would punch their lights out.

  But she was adamant that she wanted to walk under her own steam as much as possible, head held high.

  Farris walked by his side and the Phoenix men surrounded them, the Italian officers forming a looser perimeter, one taking point, one taking up the rear. The soldiers had melted into the background but Cal knew they were there.

  “I want to get Anya to a safe place where she can rest. She’s been tortured.” Cal shot a glance at Farris and saw his jaw tighten.

  “Fuck,” Farris said softly and Cal shook his head at him, frowning. The fuck? You didn’t say fuck in front of a fucking lady.

  “Sorry.” Farris dipped his head.
>
  “You can say fuck, whoever you are. It’s very apt. It wasn’t pleasant.” Anya was shaking but her voice was steady.

  Cal indicated Farris by backhanding his chest. Not gently. “Anya, this is my head of security, Joe Farris. Joe, Anya Voronova —”

  “Deputy Director of Peace and Jobs,” Farris said smoothly. He stuck his head a little forward and spoke across Cal. “Very pleased to meet you. You guys did good work on the Accords.”

  “Thank you.” Anya gave a slight smile.

  Cal shot him A Look.

  “What?” Farris shrugged. “Unlike you, I paid attention to more than the technical issues. That’s what you pay me for, to be informed. While you were in the desert studying pipelines, these guys got down and dirty with the negotiations. So, hats off. Whoa.”

  She’d stumbled. Cal put his arm around her waist and glared at Farris who’d put a hand out. Glaring at Farris was a total dick move and Cal knew it but he couldn’t help it.

  No one was touching Anya but him.

  Farris held his hands up. Not touching her.

  Luckily Anya missed him being a fuckhead but Farris sure didn’t.

  “The police are waiting for your statement, Dr. Voronova. We’re headed for the Questura, Police Headquarters, which is right —”

  Cal stiffened, turning his head to Farris. “Man, let’s not do this now. Anya’s been kidnapped and tortured and I’m not going to have her be subjected —”

  “Cal.” He whipped his head around to see her beautiful, aggravated face. She pushed away from him a little, removing his arm from her waist, pushing her hand into the crook of his elbow again. “This thing is bigger than the two of us and certainly bigger than any tiredness I might feel. My friend June might be in trouble, and the Accords are definitely in trouble. If they break down right on the eve of signing, the world will become even more dangerous than it already is. It would be catastrophic. There’d be a degree of distrust that would be like a powder keg just waiting to blow up.” She looked across Cal at Farris, nodding her head. “Of course we’re headed for the Questura and I am taking it as a given that security around Hu has been ramped up.”

  “Absolutely. As a matter of fact, I am told that he is now in a secure location. I don’t know where and I bet there are only a few people who do know. I also know that he’ll be taken to the Doge’s Palace for the signing tomorrow under the tightest security that can be devised. Trust me, no one wants the Accords derailed.”

  They turned a corner. Phoenix Security operatives — men he knew and trusted — had already been around the corner and given the all clear. There, about a hundred feet down a sizeable street for Venice, around fifteen feet across, was a little square with a building at the end of it. The building was squat and red and had QVESTVRA, in old-timey Roman script, written across the façade in big brass letters.

  Sounds of revelry came from far off but the square itself was empty. It took Cal a moment to remember that it was still the night of Mardi Gras. It felt like a century had gone by.

  The road and the square had been cleared of any civilians. Soldiers lined the street. Hard-eyed, submachine guns at port arms, fingers lying alongside the triggers. Those fingers would be inside the trigger guards at the faintest sound of danger.

  Cal glanced at Anya and she had on her grim effort face, the one she’d had when she aced her philology test though she’d studied through the flu and a temperature of 101°. There’d been no talking her out of it then, and he sighed to himself as he realized there was no talking her out of this now.

  So — he was going to help her.

  “Come on honey,” he said as they approached the steps up to the narrow glass doors of the entrance.

  She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it?”

  “Would it do any good? Me trying to talk you out of this?”

  “Nope.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, then.” And stretched out a hand, After you. They couldn’t go through together, it wasn’t wide enough. But right past the doors, he took her arm.

  The Italian security detail remained outside the glass doors, but Farris and the Phoenix operators came through. Inside the marble-lined lobby there was a man waiting for them in a gray suit, with gray hair and gray eyes and an unmistakable aura of power. Institutional power.

  Cal was familiar with the type. He’d dealt mainly with Energy and Infrastructure Ministers but he’d also dealt with his share of top cops. The desalination plants were destiny-changers in many countries and their security was a top priority.

  The man sized them all up in one cool glance, instantly separating the security forces, including Farris, from Anya and him. Then, in a microsecond, figuring out who was most important, discarding him, and zooming in on Anya.

  Impressive.

  He walked toward Anya, not waiting for her to come to him. “Doctor Voronova, a pleasure. I am Vincenzo Ambrosini, the Questore of Venice.” He offered a hand that was callused, very odd in a man who was wearing a suit worth a couple thousand bucks. “I understand you are Deputy Director of Peace and Jobs. Your NGO has done excellent work.”

  Anya straightened, visibly trying not to sway.

  “Dr. Ambrosini,” she said. She tightened her left hand on Cal’s arm while extending her right hand.

  Nothing escaped the chief of police’s notice. He stepped back and swept his hand toward a marble-floored hallway. “Please, let us sit down. I understand you had quite an ordeal. Let me lead the way.”

  Farris came with them as they trooped down the corridor to the big wooden door at the end of the hallway. The Questore opened the door and ushered them in. Several very comfortable looking chairs were arranged in a semicircle around a big, elaborately-carved keyhole desk.

  “Please,” he said, indicating the chairs. “I’ll order us some coffee. Four espressos?”

  Cal had pushed two of the chairs together so they were touching, helped Anya sit down, then sat down himself. Anya smiled. “I’d love some tea, if I may.”

  The Questore looked utterly blank. As if the concept of tea were foreign. Manners, however, won out. “Of course. I’m sure we have a tea bag somewhere.” He stuck his head out of the door, gave an order in liquid Italian, then closed it and sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers.

  “Dr. Voronova, I understand full well how exhausted you are, but —”

  “This is a time-sensitive issue, Dr. Ambrosini,” Anya said, her voice a little firmer. “My exhaustion has nothing to do with it. Lives hang in the balance, not to mention the fact that the Accords are at stake.”

  The Questore’s grey eyes turned stony. “The Accords. Losing the Accords would be a tragedy.”

  “Yes.” She narrowed her eyes until only a dot of glowing pale blue showed. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “No, Doctor,” he replied, “that’s not going to happen. It would be a disaster, possibly ending in war. Excuse me.” He rose at the soft knock at the door.

  A uniformed officer walked in carrying a tray with three espressos and a cappuccino cup with a white paper square on a string coming out of it. Her tea. The water wasn’t hot and the tea bag was turning it a pale yellow color like piss. Cal was really glad he’d gone for the espresso.

  The Questore sat back behind his desk. “First of all, I’d like you to know that the President of China is now in a secure place under armed guard. So, Dr. Voronova, do you want to tell me what happened?”

  Cal watched her carefully. She was very pale and looked stressed but other than that she was composed, voice steady. It was impossible to tell that not an hour ago she’d been tortured.

  “I was at the reception this evening at Palazzo Maltese, representing Peace and Jobs since my boss had a meeting in Cairo. He’ll be arriving tomorrow —” she glanced at her watch. It was two am. “Today. The reception was a little boring and I was tired. At around 8 p.m. I went up to the second floor — first floor to you. I knew speeches would be
starting around nine but I thought I’d sit and rest for a while. While there, I saw Cal.” She looked at him, gave a faint smile. “Calvin Burns. Head of Phoenix Enterprises. We knew each other in college but hadn’t seen each other for ten years.”

  Her voice was cool, collected. No one could possibly know that they’d fucked like minks. Not by tone of voice or a flicker of eyes in his direction or change of color. She’d spent years on diplomatic missions and it showed. She was very good.

  “While we were talking, catching up on old times, we both received text messages at the same time. It had been prearranged that texts would be sent out to the main parties when it was time for the family photo.”

  Cal knew — because he’d been told — that the family photo at big events frequented by politicians was a photo of all the participants and it was that photo that went into the history books.

  Frankly, Cal didn’t give a shit about the history books.

  The Questore looked at him, head cocked. Was he supposed to say something? “Our phones got mixed up.”

  Anya smoothly glided over how their phones got mixed up. “The lights went out. That was when several men broke into the room where we were talking. It was a blur. I could hear the sounds of fighting. Cal brought down two of the men, then they sprayed him with a gas. It smelled like chloroform. I could see that he was down when they switched on the flashlight function of their cells. They forced me to wear one of those Venetian porcelain masks but with no eyeholes and no nose holes for breathing. When I hesitated to put it on, one of the men punched me in the stomach, then stuck a gun in my side. They made it clear that if I called for help they’d shoot.”

  They’d punched her in the stomach? What the hell? That was the first he’d heard of it. Of course he’d been lying unconscious on the floor.

  “What?” Cal had been completely thrown by the image of Anya doubled over from a punch in the stomach. He wished he could go back and break the rest of their bones. His head buzzed with rage.

  “How many men?” the Questore asked him. Cal realized he was asking for the second time. He had to shake his head to come back into the moment.