by Julia London
Chapter Thirty-Two
Flynn arrived with a full bouquet of flowers, a bottle of pricey champagne, and a bag of gourmet brownies. He might not be able to talk his way back into her good graces, but he was not above trying to charm his way in.
The last twenty-four hours had been excruciatingly slow and surprisingly painful. For years, Flynn had considered himself a worldly man what with all the traveling and consorting with the very wealthy that he did. It wasn’t until he had been charmed by Iris that he began to realize that what he wanted most from life was a woman who loved him completely, with all his bloody faults, and a family to come home to.
That, and a career as a homicide detective, but that was another long and convoluted tale.
When Iris had betrayed him, he had managed to convince himself that it was better this way, that his expectations had been too high—he couldn’t really expect a woman to love him and him alone, completely and forever. It was too easy for people to move from lover, wife or husband, to the next thing. It seemed that those sort of long-term, loving relationships were few and far between, really.
Even his parents, who had been married for ages, didn’t seem to really like each other. He supposed the best he could hope for was several jolly good flings in his lifetime.
But then he’d met Rachel, and a belief had sprouted within him. A belief so foreign to him that he couldn’t even name it—but he felt rather desperate not to lose it and knew, instinctively, that if he did lose it, it might possibly be lost forever.
So he screwed up his courage and bounded up the steps of her porch, rapping with great determination on her door.
He heard her coming down the stairs, heard the locks being undone. The door slowly opened, and there she stood, as gorgeous and curvy as ever. Her hair was long and unbound, curling with abandon around her face. She was wearing a long black skirt and slippers that had been fashioned to look like Holstein cows. She wore a simple, figure-hugging black sweater and the lavender shawl about her shoulders and a crystal pendant around her neck.
He had never seen a more attractive sight in his life, and he was rather surprised by how quickly his heart lifted in his chest when she smiled timidly. “Are those for me?” she asked, looking at the flowers in his hand.
“They are.”
She pushed open the door, stood aside to let him in. Flynn offered her the flowers, and when she took them from him, he couldn’t help himself; he caught her by the waist, and kissed her, like a man who’d been marooned on a deserted island for years. When he at last lifted his head, she was looking at him with such brilliance that every ounce of testosterone boiled up in him demanding more.
He kissed her again. A full, deep kiss, one that conveyed how much he hungered for her. Rachel responded warmly by curving into him, pressing her body against his.
When she pulled away, her smile was dazzling “I’ll just put these in water,” she said, and turned and walked to the back of the house.
Flynn set the champagne aside, shut the door, and shrugged out of his overcoat. With his hands in his pockets, he stood just beyond the archway that led to the dining room. Rachel returned a moment later, carrying a large crystal vase, and with a smile, set the flowers on the table and began to arrange them, leaning over the table, her long curls falling over her shoulder.
Everything that happened then was a blur of white hot emotion. She was like a magnet, drawing him to her, and he could not resist. He moved behind her, put his hand on her hair, stroking it, deliberately moving it aside, so that he could kiss her neck.
Rachel sighed softly when his lips touched her flesh.
“I missed you terribly, Rachel,” he whispered.
She responded by leaning her head to one side. “You missed Thanksgiving,” she murmured.
“I’m a sodding bastard,” Flynn said into the fistful of hair he had grabbed up in his hand. “I deserve to be beaten mercilessly and fed to lions.”
“It so happens I have a pair in the backyard,” she said, and turned around, put her hands to his chest. “But weren’t you going to ‘tell’ me something?”
“Tell you?” he muttered absently, and pressed his lips to her forehead.
“That . . . you can’t see me, or you’re leaving, or you’re sorry, but you just don’t feel the same—”
“What?” He laughed incredulously, laid his palm against her cheek and smiled down at her. “You’ve got it all wrong, love.”
“You said you needed to tell me some things,” she said, folding her arms across her middle.
Nothing was ever easy, was it? “Right you are,” he said, sighing. “I needed to tell you that I’m daft. That I made a horrible mistake—not once, but twice. First, in that I should have told you that I feel quite strongly about you—”
“Here we go,” she muttered, dropping her gaze.
Flynn slipped a finger under her chin and forced her gaze up. “I do,” he said in all seriousness. “Look at me now, will you, all atwitter, bearing gifts, begging for mercy. Why would I do that if I weren’t absolutely mad for you?”
“Really?” she asked, trying to look skeptical, but looking more hopeful.
“Really. Fantastically so. And the second thing I had to tell you was that my work crisis was a horrid fate of timing, but I should have called.”
She smiled timidly, punched him playfully in the chest. “You should have.”
She was forgiving him too easily. “There are more things I am certain I should tell you, really . . . such as my grades were absolutely abominable in history.”
Rachel laughed.
“I’m quite serious. My mother used to cry huge crocodile tears when I couldn’t name the order of the monarchy. And when I was a small boy, I was a bit chubby, and the other lads called me Sir Fatalot.”
That earned him a gay laugh, and Flynn kissed her neck, put his hands on her waist, sliding them up beneath her sweater, tugging her camisole from her skirt, so that he could touch her skin.
“That can’t be all,” she murmured, her hands dropping to the table, bracing herself against it.
“I can’t abide sushi.” He pressed his mouth to her neck as she giggled. He let his hands travel up to her breasts. “And I cannot,” he said, filling his hands with her heavy breasts, “resist you. I adore you completely . . . .” He buried his face in the crook of her neck as his hands splayed across her breasts, pinching the nipples between his fingers, feeling them grow and harden in his hands.
Rachel sighed softly and dropped her head against his shoulder as he continued to knead her breasts.
“I have thought of little else but you these last two days. I want to be inside you again, Rachel. I want to be deep inside you, fill you up completely.” With a gentle push, he spread her legs apart with his knee and pushed her sweater and camisole higher, stooping down to take her breasts in his mouth, nibbling their peaks.
She sank her fingers into his hair, pulled his head down. Flynn kissed her mouth, pulled her sweater above her head, carelessly tossing it onto the table as he stood back to admire her. They were perfect, those breasts, and he could not resist taking them in hand again, feeling their dense weight in his palm. But then he slowly turned her around, so that she was facing the table away from him, and let his hands slide over the silky skin of her back, then around her waist, to her belly, and slipped into the waistband of her skirt, to inside her panties.
Rachel sighed again; her head dropped forward. She was wet, and the feel of it kicked him into male overdrive. His body was on fire now, desperate to make love to her, to feel her squeeze around him.
She leaned across the table, her arms spreading along the table to steady herself. Flynn managed to undo his pants, dropping them to his knees. He snaked an arm around Rachel, pulling her to him, and leaned over, his mouth on her ear, her neck. “You drive me mad with desire,” he muttered as he pulled her skirt up with his free hand. “I can’t see you without wanting to shag you.”
“Oh,” she moan
ed as his hand slipped deeper into her panties. “Keep going.”
It was all the invitation he needed. He pushed her panties down and lifted her skirt. She was bent over the table now, her hips soft and inviting. Flynn positioned himself between her legs, stroked her again until she was slick, and guided himself into her. Rachel instantly arched her back, threw her head back with a long, breathy sigh, and then groaned again, grasping at the table as he began to move in her, his cock sliding in and out, his hand caressing her sex.
It was not a long encounter—she was soon bucking against him, urging him faster, rubbing against his hand—and Flynn could hardly contain himself. She was hot and tight around him, squeezing against him with each thrust, and her hand, which now covered his, was urging him harder. He could feel her body tensing beneath his, could see the arch of her neck and the thrust of her hips into his, and felt himself sliding down the slippery slope to an astounding orgasm.
By some miracle, they slid together, landing in that pool of ecstasy at almost the very same moment, each gasping and crying out as their bodies shuddered against each other.
They remained bent over the dining table for a moment, spent and gasping for breath, their clothing in disarray. It was Rachel who started to laugh first, giggling beneath him, then turning her head to smile at him “I accept your apology,” she said, and Flynn laughed, too, pressed his face against her nape, inhaled the sweet scent of her hair, his hands warm and tight around her until she moved, to get up.
They resumed their dress; Rachel shook out her skirt, smiling at him so happily that he had a pang of conscience as she slipped the camisole over her head.
He couldn’t resist her; he kissed her again as she pulled the camisole down. “There are some things I’d like to explain,” he said, zipping his pants.
“Right,” she said, gathering up her sweater to put it on. “And I want to hear it all. But at the moment, I’m ravenous,” she said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got some leftover turkey and dressing.” She paused to pull the sweater over her head and fish her hair from the collar. “But the dressing burned.” She put her arms around his waist, hugged him tight for a moment, then let go. “I’m just going to get it out and heat it up,” she said, and disappeared once more into the kitchen.
Flynn arranged his clothing, combed his hair with his fingers, and glanced at the table.
It took only a fraction of a second to spot the thing he most dreaded—a museum piece. He supposed he hadn’t noticed it earlier, as her sweater had covered it, but there was no mistake—there, next to the flowers, was a hand-blown glass bowl, gilded and hand painted. Venetian, about three hundred years old. Worth, he’d guess, about fifteen hundred dollars. “Fuck,” he whispered.
The phone began to ring; Rachel came through the kitchen door, her smile luminous as she passed him to get to the phone, her eyes bright and full of emotion that he understood explicitly, for he felt it deeply.
Only his heart was in his throat.
She grabbed up the phone. “Hello? Hey, Dagne!” she said brightly. “Listen, I—” Her smile disappeared; her eyes went wide, and she suddenly looked at Flynn. “Get out! What station? Are you serious? I mean, are you . . . okay, okay, I’ll do it right now,” she said, and laughing, clicked off the phone and grabbed up the remote to the telly. “My friend Dagne,” she explained. “That nut is on the news!” The telly flickered on; Rachel changed the channel to a local news program and gasped. “It is Dagne!” she cried excitedly, and pointed.
Flynn walked into the living room and looked at the newscast. A local news reporter was in some cavernous coliseum, where all sorts of people were milling about.
Rachel laughed. “It’s that show—you know, the one where they travel around and people bring their antique heirlooms and find out if they are valuable or not,” she said excitedly.
The newscaster was saying that several local people had come down with family heirlooms and would be featured in a future program of the antique show. And then he stepped aside, and Flynn recognized Dagne Delaney . . . but more importantly, he recognized the thing that made his heart seize—the valuable Joseph Badger portrait, Colonial Woman.
He could not believe what he was seeing—it was impossible that they would think to bring that prized portrait to some antique show! Apparently, the host thought the same, because he looked at Dagne with some shock, then took the picture from her—whatever he said was lost in the drone of the newscaster—but Flynn watched as he rubbed a corner of the portrait with his finger. At last the newscaster shut up and turned around to listen.
“Where did you say you came across this painting?” the man asked Dagne.
“A friend of mine has a lot of stuff like this in her house,” she said proudly.
“Then she is one lucky woman, Miss Delaney. This would need to authenticated, but if you will look at the lines, here, and the particular style, and here again, the use of monochromatic colors, and the type of oil paint . . . well, it’s obvious that this is a piece that is quite old.”
“Really?” Dagne asked, looking horribly confused.
“Right,” Rachel said laughingly. “Really old—like 2001.”
“And do you see the name here that I’ve uncovered?” the host asked, and Dagne leaned forward, so far forward as to obscure the camera’s view, then leaned back, nodding like a child.
“The name is Joseph Badger. Joseph Badger is one of America’s most treasured artists. He painted in the pre-Revolutionary era.”
“Okay,” Dagne said, still looking perplexed. A crowd had begun to gather around, and the announcer held up the portrait.
“If this is an authentic Joseph Badger portrait,” the man said, “it is likely quite valuable.”
“Valuable?” Dagne repeated, looking shocked. “Like . . . how many valuable?”
“I’m not an art dealer, but I’d guess upward of a million or more,” he said, and pandemonium broke out in the coliseum.
“A million,” Rachel said, frowning. But then she shrieked and fell onto the edge of the couch, one hand over her mouth.
Flynn’s thoughts were rattling his brain, but the one thought he was able to grasp was that he had to recover that painting. “Has she a phone?” he asked quickly, motioning vaguely to a beaming Dagne, whose face now filled the screen.
Rachel did not immediately answer; Flynn grabbed her elbow. “Has she a phone?”
“Yes!” she said, and looked at him strangely before leaping to her feet and lunging for her bag. Maniacally, she began to sift through it.
Flynn grabbed up the phone, dialed Joe.
“Yo,” Joe said lazily on the third ring.
“Meet me at the Delaney flat,” he said. “And don’t let her out of your sight.” He hung up, whirled around; Rachel was dumping the contents of her enormous bag onto the dining table. He strode into the dining room and grabbed the Venetian bowl, dumping the apples carelessly onto the table.
“What are you doing?”
Flynn put his hand on her shoulder; she looked up at him with a mixture of confusion and anxiety. “You must do precisely as I say, Rachel. You must call Dagne and tell her to stay put. Tell her she mustn’t leave her flat! And Rachel . . . you mustn’t leave this house. Do you quite understand me? I’ll be back later, but you cannot leave until I’ve spoken with you again.” Rachel blinked up at him with big blue eyes clouded with bewilderment.
He did not wait for an answer, but was out the door, determined to retrieve that priceless painting before anything happened to it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Flynn’s sudden phone call and departure hardly registered with Rachel, because Myron’s monstrous deceit had slapped her hard the moment she heard the man say the painting was a Joseph Badger original.
How could she have been so stupid? So goddamn blind?
The glass bowl, the torchères, the figurine, the goddamn tea service, for Chrissakes! How long had it been going on? How long had he been using her?
Bastard! She threw the phone across the room. Her mind was a whirl, her heart on fire. She was reliving every conversation she’d ever had with Myron, recalling every little thing he had ever “given” her. Given, her ass—he’d stolen those things from the RIHPS! Fury prevented her from working through how he’d done it, or how much he’d taken—at the moment, she wanted nothing more than to kick him square in the nuts, then drive the point of her new Donald Pilner boots up his ass.
She picked up the phone and dialed her cell again. By some miracle, Myron answered. “Yo.”
“Myron! You goddamn bastard, I know what you’ve done!” she cried, aware of a cacophony of sound behind Myron somewhere.
“What have I done?” he responded angrily.
“You stole those things, Myron!” she cried, tears suddenly leaking from her eyes. “And you used me to hide them!”
“Oh fuck,” he said. “Look, Rachel. Don’t worry about it. They are never going to figure out where the shit is—how’d you figure it out?”
“How? How? Dagne took a Joseph Badger portrait to the Antique Road Show—”
“Goddammit, that is the painting I was looking for, you idiot!”
She choked on her own rage. “You’re going to call me names, you lying, thieving prick?”
“Shut up! It’s not that big of a deal! I used your place to stash some stuff, so what?”
“So what? she shrieked, incredulous, as tears streamed down her face. “You have made me an accessory to your crime! A criminal! Don’t you even care?”
“Your dad has truckloads of money—he’ll buy you out of any trouble. But there’s not going to be any trouble, Rachel. Look, I don’t have time to argue with you. I gotta go.”