by Nic Saint
“What a stupid question,” she scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. “Only a lawless man like yourself could wonder about such a thing.”
“But then you seem to have developed a certain fascination with the other side of the fence, haven’t you?” he offered, and was curling a lock of her hair with his fingers as he spoke.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder and took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I hate and detest you with as much vehemence as I ever have.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he offered, his voice deceptively soft as he took a step closer.
She realized she’d backed herself up against the wall, the Westlife poster framing her face. He placed two hands on either side of her head and leaned in, and she found her heart beating a little faster.
“Confess, Detective Fox,” he said while a slow smile crept up his handsome features. “You are fascinated with the criminal world.”
“I am not,” she insisted, trying to stare him down as he moved ever closer to her. Her breath caught when he brought his face mere inches from hers.
“Have you ever… made love to a thief?” he murmured as his lips brushed hers, the warmth intoxicating. She nearly swooned as she caught a whiff of his male scent, enveloping her in its musky attraction.
“I never will,” she stated bravely as the kiss lingered at the corner of her mouth.
“Are you quite sure?”
He was pressing her up against the wall, his hardness pushing into her softness, and she could feel the now familiar desire flood her body, swirling in her soul. Oh, she wanted him, he was right about that. No doubt about it, she wanted him bad. The last vestiges of self-control quickly slipping from her grasp, she muttered, “We can never get involved, Tom. You know that.”
“All I know is that I find it very hard to stay away from you, detective.” His arms wandered up her sides, then suddenly jerked her against him. The proximity and sudden heat made her feel faint, a shiver starting at the soles of her feet and traveling up, exploding in her chest.
“It would never do,” she repeated, then succumbed to the heat of his embrace and the wetness of his kiss, her lips opening before he’d even reached her mouth, her tongue searching with as much insistent longing as his, and then her fingers snaked up his broad back to reach his neck, then entwining into his hair and enticing him to deepen the kiss.
This time, she had no defense, and when he ripped open her blouse, the buttons springing to all sides, his hands were kneading her exposed flesh, then slipping her bra down so her breasts spilled out, her bare flesh revealed under his hands, flesh on flesh, her softness clasped between supple fingers.
She arched her head back as the heat spiraled through her, and her leg inched up and snuck around his buttocks, pulling him closer. She wanted to feel how hard he was for her, how much he wanted her, and she wasn’t disappointed when his groin pressed up against hers, sex on sex, his manhood yearning to spring loose from its confines and plunder her womanhood.
She reached down and when her hand found his zipper, she unleashed the snake that coiled there, and then she was holding him in her hands, all that hotness and hardness pulsing beneath her fingers, and this time it was his turn to gasp in sweet agony.
“Do you really want me, Tom?” she sighed.
“You know I do,” he muttered against her lips, then dove in again, wetness on wetness. And then his lips were wandering along her neck, burying themselves in the hollow of her throat and tracing a path down to her breasts, nipping and licking the smooth velvet skin until he’d found her nipple, and when he nibbled, she whimpered.
God, this was so wrong, her mind said, but her body told a different story. And then she was shimmying out of her skirt, and when his hands pushed down her panties, the smooth velvet of her wet folds exposed to his hot hand, she knew it was too late for second thoughts. This was happening—this was really happening!
“Hey, what the hell is going on here!”
The voice cut through the haze of heat like a knife through butter, and color flooded her cheeks when she saw Jennifer Crocket staring at them from the door, her eyes ablaze and her face flushed with an anger that was highly uncharacteristic of the fun-loving teen.
“What does it look like, Jenn?” growled Thomas as he turned to stare her down.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” the teenager demanded sternly, and stepped into the room, staring at the couple and their state of undress as if it were the most horrid thing she’d ever seen. “You know as well as I do, Tommy, that you’re mine. To do with as I see fit.”
“You wish,” countered Thomas.
The girl raised her chin defiantly. “Do you really want me to tell Daddy that you broke into his safe yesterday? I told you not to mess with me, Tom.” She pointed at his pants, now pooled around his legs. “Get dressed and leave Glynis in peace. She’s got enough on her mind right now. Isn’t that right, Glynis?”
She gave her a stare that chilled her to the bone. The girl might be only eighteen, but she had the death ray stare down pat, Glynis thought. She felt so exposed and embarrassed right now she could have died.
She pushed Thomas away from her and started yanking up her panties and skirt, then buttoned up her blouse only to find all the buttons had been torn off.
“Get out!” she yelled, suddenly berserk. “Both of you! Get out!”
“See, Tom?” said Jenn. “What did I tell you? You really shouldn’t get involved with her.”
Mortified, Glynis watched as Thomas slowly retreated from her room, his eyes still dark and fixed on hers.
“This isn’t over, Glynis,” he growled.
“Yes, it is,” she cried, hot tears stinging behind her eyes as she drew her blouse across her exposed bosom. “It is over!”
He merely shook his head, then softly closed the door.
Collapsing onto the bed, she broke into desperate sobs. When had her life turned into an episode of The Bold and The Beautiful?
Probably the moment she’d decided to make Thomas Spencer accountable for his actions. Perhaps her father had been right. This is what you got when you played with fire. You got burned!
CHAPTER 18
“I don’t think you understood me very well, Tom,” spoke Jenn with a sharp tone in her voice. She was standing hands on hips as Thomas paced the floor of his room. “You’re mine. You’re my lover and no one else’s. And most definitely not that cop!”
Thomas turned on her as if stung. “We never said anything about being lovers!”
“Well, I just decided to change the terms of our deal.”
He eyed her sternly. “I never agreed to this, Jenn. You forced me into this.”
“Yes, I did, and if you don’t like it, you’re free to return Daddy’s diamond.”
Thomas glowered. “You know I can’t do that.”
“And why is that, you think? Because you let that stupid cop come too close, that’s why! You allowed her to take advantage of your moment of weakness, and now she’s got you by the balls.” She suddenly streaked forward and placed a hand between his legs, inducing him to raise his eyebrows into his fringe. “These are mine, Tom. You’re mine. You won’t deny me the pleasure because you can’t stay away from that stupid cow.”
He resisted the urge to shake her like a rag doll. “I won’t tolerate such language about the woman who—”
“Stole your heart?” she asked, cocking her head. “Forget about it, Tom. You’re mine now, and no cop is laying her grubby hands on you, is that understood?”
She literally had him by the balls, Thomas decided with a pang of concern.
“Understood,” he growled. In spite of himself, he felt something stir down under, and from the smirk gracing Jenn’s face she felt it too.
“Are you happy to see me, Tom?” she muttered as she moved closer.
“I, erm…”
Before he could voice a rebuttal, she’d clasped her lips on his, and her sweet perfume assa
ulted his nostrils so strongly, he forgot all else. Then her tongue slipped into his mouth, and he tasted youth and bubblegum. It wasn’t a bad experience, to be sure, but after the moment he’d shared with Glynis, he so wasn’t interested. Too snooty, too young and, most of all, too dangerous.
He pulled away, and she gave him an annoyed smirk. “I will have you, Tom, don’t doubt if for a moment. I’ve decided you’ll be my first.”
Abruptly, she released him, and he watched her sweep from the room.
He was glad, and thought not for the first time that he really had to find a way to get rid of her before she ruined everything. Glynis was a cop and could land him in jail, but Jenn was her father’s daughter, and could land him at the bottom of the Thames.
Even though she was of age, Lord Crocket wouldn’t take kindly to the man who’d bedded his daughter, especially a man with his reputation.
Oh, Christ, he thought as he sank onto the bed. What situation had he landed himself in this time? He was half in love with a cop, the worst kind of person for a thief to get involved with, and was being hounded by the virgin daughter of one of the most powerful men in England.
Yep. He’d really done it this time.
And he was still contemplating his options and the twists of fate when his door snuck open, and Glynis’ poodle came trotting in. Looking up in surprise, he watched the fluffy white creature stroll leisurely to his bed and then look up at him with soulful eyes, then place its head on his knee in a gesture of supplication.
He patted the dog’s head absently. In return, the sweet mongrel licked his hand. He eased back onto his pillow, thinking things through.
As he now saw it, two things needed to be done: to appease Jenn and get her off his back, he needed to return her father’s diamond, which Glynis had stolen and kept as security until he retrieved her mother’s pearls. Basically, if he got the pearls, Glynis would return the diamond. Only then could he get rid of Jenn.
His plan of campaign clear in his head, he rose from the bed, ready to put his plan into action. The sooner he got this whole mess sorted out, the better. And perhaps when this was all over and done with, he could woo Glynis the way she should be wooed: as a gentleman caller, not a gentleman burglar.
Determined to get his woman, he went in search of Sir Hugh Fox, now the most vital part of the plan.
CHAPTER 19
Rostislav Mamykin was a patient man. As the owner and proprietor of a multi-billion pound empire, that was a given. You don’t acquire and maintain a consortium of that size by flying off the handle at the first sign of trouble.
The gardener had just tendered his resignation, the maid had mislaid the sheets for the guest bedrooms, and his wife had announced her intention of leaving him alone on the eve of one of the most important social functions of the year. And still Rostislav maintained his calm equanimity and poise, intent on dealing with these minor problems one at a time without getting ruffled or agitated.
He was a large man, barrel-chested and with a penchant for starchy foods that had added to his paunch since arriving in Britain. He’d easily doubled in size since securing a spot on the Queen’s Honours List and adding a Sir to his name.
“Just buy her the ticket, will you?” he told his secretary. “And arrange for an escort. I don’t want Ludmila to get entangled with some bronzed playboy while she’s down under.”
Australia was the country Ludmila had her heart set on, having tired of England’s fickle weather and the Belgravia manor’s humidity in the cold winter months. Time and time again, she’d begged him to leave this tiresome country behind and move to Australia, land of sun and fun.
He’d declined, having decided a long time ago that Britain was his new home and refusing to budge on a matter of principle.
Besides, he liked it here. The Brits had embraced him as one of their own, and with the vast amounts of money he spent to establish himself as a member of the rich set, the least Ludmila could do was play along and be the good little helpmeet he’d chosen her to be. The ex-model was bored. That couldn’t be helped. But he’d be damned if he allowed her capriciousness to ruin his plans.
Rupert scribbled something in his notebook and nodded efficiently, as only a British secretary could. Arriving from Moscow all those years ago, the oligarch had decided that if he was going to integrate himself in British society, he should surround himself with British people. Hence the British secretary, the British maid, the British cook, housekeeper and gardener, the extremely British butler and the British law firm of Poole, Poole, Poole & Poole to do his bidding.
He liked how well it had all played out. Now if only he could land himself a British wife, all would be well.
He’d tired of Ludmila. The fifth Mrs. Mamykin had proved as much of a disappointment as Laila, number four. She’d do well to find herself some toy boy and retire to Australia on the alimony he might bestow upon her. Perhaps it was time to replace wife number five with wife number six, and this time marry into the society circles he so admired and enjoyed.
“And fix that matter of the linens. Ask Bertha to fire the maid who mislaid them and get me the best champagne for the party. Apparently the wrong batch was ordered, and now we can’t get our hands on enough for tonight.”
He was hosting his annual ball, and nothing but the best was good enough to impress the notables. Even the Queen’s nephew and his wife were coming, so it was imperative everything run as smooth as silk.
“Go! Go! Go!” he urged Rupert.
“Of course, sir. Right away, sir,” spoke the man deferentially.
That’s what he liked about the British, he thought as he watched the obsequious secretary depart. They were so polite and so civilized. When in Russia, his personnel had never treated him with such obedience. But then again, he hadn’t been the person he was now. Back in his motherland, he’d been a small business owner, selling the first cell phones in street shops all over Moscow. Then, when the Soviet Union collapsed, he’d managed to muscle in on the aluminum market, snatching up big chunks of that formerly state-owned industry.
The moment he’d made his fortune, he’d left the country, not wanting to subject himself to the spite many people directed at him and other oligarchs for profiting from the collapse of the workers’ state. Petty jealousy, he reckoned.
Once in England, he’d further risen to the top of the heap, where he now sat, officially the richest man in England, with connections in the highest circles.
He placed his hands atop his desk, feeling magnanimous all of a sudden to his errant wife. He’d allow her that brief fling. Pictures would be discretely taken, and he would be able to divorce her without losing too much money. Even though she’d signed an ironclad prenup, she was a cunning little bitch and would demand unto half his fortune. Splashed on the covers of the British tabloids in a compromising position with some hapless tennis pro, she wouldn’t have a pretty leg to stand on. He’d sustain the embarrassment with equanimity, knowing his fortune was safe.
He pressed the buzzer, and Rupert came trotting back in. “Yes, sir?” the little man intoned, pressing his spectacles higher up the bridge of his nose. Pale and spindly, he resembled a stork, Rostislav sometimes thought.
“I’ve changed my mind, Rupert. If Mrs. Mamykin wants to have fun in Australia, we shouldn’t discourage her. Hire that private detective who did such a great job for us with Laila, will you? Tell him I want full coverage.”
Rupert blinked. “Full coverage, sir?”
“Yeah, you know. The works. Tabloids. Gossip sites. Both here and overseas. I want this affair to become the talk of the town.”
“The end of the affair, sir?” ventured Rupert.
“Exactly,” chuckled Rostislav. “I’m sick and tired of these models, Rupert. My next wife better be one from my own set. And a decent one this time.”
“A British wife, sir?” Rupert inquired, who knew his employer well.
Rostislav nodded. It wasn’t often that he discussed his personal affairs wi
th his loyal secretary, but he felt that in this case he needed all the help he could get, seeing as his last five marriages had ended in such marked disaster.
“How would you go about it, my dear fellow?” he asked, bringing his hand to smooth over his long gray hair. He liked to wear it slicked back along his wide scalp, enjoying the feel of it under his thick fingers.
“How would I go about finding you a wife, sir?” said Rupert.
Rostislav frowned. His secretary wasn’t usually this dense. “Of course, man. That’s what I’m talking about. I want to find a British wife and I’m asking you to help me find one.”
The secretary hesitated, wavering between the reservation induced by his position and the desire to speak freely. “Well, you could always employ a matchmaker, sir,” he suggested.
Rostislav frowned. “Matchmaker? You mean one of those infernal busybodies who try to hook people up?”
He’d known one or two of those. In fact, at the last party he’d hosted some older woman answering to the name Rose Beckham had tried to link his lot to some Duchess or other. A cross-eyed middle-aged specimen that hadn’t blown him away, to be honest.
“I hear Rose Beckham’s services are most satisfactory, sir,” Rupert informed.
He snorted. “Rose Beckham. I know that blasted woman. Tried to set me up with some spinster last month. No, thank you. I want a wife, not a museum piece.” Then he sighed, knowing Rupert always knew best when it came to these matters. He waved an impatient hand. “Set it up. But tell this Beckham woman to keep it discrete, will you? No need to announce my intentions to the world.”
“Of course, sir. Very well, sir,” intoned the secretary before taking his leave.
“Oh, Rupert!” he called before the doors closed.
The secretary popped his head back in. “Yes, sir?”
“Tell her I want a virgin this time.”
“Pardon, sir?” said Rupert with pretty astonishment.
“You heard. Tell her I want some young ingénue. Inexperienced. Easier to mold, you understand. Make her do my bidding. Listen to my every word as if it’s the gospel.” He harrumphed. “Sick and tired of women arguing all the time and telling me what’s what. I will have a servile woman this time, Rupert, or I won’t have any. Tell her that, will you?”