by Rea Thomas
“So now,” she growled, “you’re going to tell me who you fucking are and how you found me.”
His cheek twitched and he glanced quickly at the flute on the bed. The linen was entirely unraveled.
“I just want the flute,” he said, his voice placating.
“Who are you?” Lisabeth stepped back, far enough away to make lunging at her difficult, close enough for her to fire a warning bullet at his feet, if required.
“Vikram Singh.” The name sounded familiar—another thief, she thought.
“Why do you want the flute?” They both looked at it this time. “I have someone waiting on it. It’s already sold.”
Lisabeth hummed, drawing her lips into a pout as she reflected on this. He was watching her and she wondered if he expected her to simply shrug and concede he could have it.
“You got into the temple first, before the guards arrived. I was too late.” He sounded angry at himself—she saw the irritation when his jaw clenched. “Again.”
“Again?” she prompted.
“You got to the Maharajah’s Dagger in Rajasthan before me.”
Lisabeth recalled the jewel-encrusted weapon she had sold to a collector in Saint Tropez. It had been worth more than she’d let it go for, but by the time she had taken it across three continents, she was happy to be rid of it.
Vikram glared at her, then at the flute. She almost felt bad, knowing the only piece she had truly coveted from the temple chamber was The Lotus Star diamond, which she had obtained as planned. Relaxing her shoulders, she tossed the gun into the safe and slammed the door shut. Its disappearance brought about an immediate release of tension to the room. Vikram’s broad shoulders loosened.
“How did you find me? Does anyone else know you’re here?” Lisabeth withdrew the flute from the bed, resealing the linen cloth around it.
“I called Frank Davis—he knew your name. After that, finding you was easy. I have to say, I’m surprised you don’t use aliases when checking into hotels. And no, no one else knows.”
Lisabeth smiled slowly, clutching the flute in case he had any ideas about snatching it when she was distracted. “Lisabeth Baker is an alias, as I am sure is Vikram Singh.” He shrugged, neither in confirmation nor denial. “What are you willing to trade for the flute?” Vikram straightened, visibly outraged. She clicked her tongue as if speaking to a particularly dimwitted child. “Come now, you didn’t think I was going to just give it away, did you?”
Vikram’s lips became a sneer and it pleased Lisabeth to see how much it annoyed him that she had turned the tables so swiftly. The hunter had become the hunted and it was not received well.
“What do you want?” he growled lowly, narrowing his eyes, almost as though intense focus might cause her to spontaneously combust.
“Split the profit?” she suggested. “Sixty-forty to me?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Vikram’s fists were bunched tight.
“It’s mine now. There has to be a decent profit for me.”
He frowned. “Forty-sixty to me,” he offered begrudgingly. “Or perhaps you would like to select something of equal value from my collection as a trade?”
Lisabeth was curious. She thought he must have promised the flute to a dangerous client, one whose disappointment might result in a bullet to Vikram’s head. It wasn’t unheard of in their world. Or perhaps the flute was worth more than he was letting on. Whatever it was, she would decide the terms under which he obtained it.
“Fifteen million and it’s yours,” she declared.
“It’s only worth twenty. That’s seventy-five percent to you? I don’t think so.”
Lisabeth smiled.
“It’s an easy five million for you, given I did all the leg work because you were too slow.” This pissed him off, she realized, and she found she rather enjoyed it. He was even better looking now there was no gun between them, and she decided he was nowhere near as threatening as she had first assumed. Vikram Singh did not enjoy negotiating with her.
She peeled back the linen and stroked the flute, running her fingers over the encrusted diamond and ruby band, stroking it as though it were a precious golden phallus. Lisabeth had wanted only to tempt him with a glimpse of the smooth golden length and the sparkle of the gemstones—she did not expect the smoky arousal that took possession of his eyes. Dark lashes fanned across his cheeks as he blinked and swallowed.
Lisabeth thought of the men who had tried to seduce her in the past few weeks—a collection of haphazard hopelessness that left her wondering if suave was a word unheard of in any of the country’s languages. Their techniques ranged from downright sleazy to cripplingly shy. The in-between spectrum had not been any better either.
Vikram was different; his appeal was not limited by roguish good looks and a firm body. There was something deeper, perhaps determination or ruthlessness, which Lisabeth found titillating. It might have been the prolonged absence of physical intimacy in her life—after all her career choice wasn’t conducive to a long-lasting agreement by any means. She made it a rule to stay in a single place no longer than two months.
Maybe he felt the same, she thought. Their lives were remarkably similar, driven by solitude and a necessity for unyielding concentration.
Lisabeth cleared her throat.
“Okay, Vikram,” she said. “Here’s what I want.”
Chapter Three
Vikram splashed a handful of cold water over his face and straightened, lifting his eyes to the mirror above the basin.
It wasn’t often he was surprised by people, but he supposed he had always known Lisabeth was a woman who could—from the moment she’d stole off into the night with the Maharajah’s Dagger.
Admittedly even his previous encounter with her hadn’t prepared him for her proposed trade-off—five million dollars and two nights.
At first he had stared at her blankly, recognizing only the decrease in her profit requirements. His mind caught up quickly and he feared his expression might have been comical at first. Lisabeth Baker had smirked at him, twirling the precious flute in her fingers like a baton, daring him to take it. She’d reveled in amusement at his stunned silence. He felt foolish now, water dripping from his chin as he watched his doe-eyed expression in the mirror. His exit to the bathroom had been swift, half owing to the erection pressing against his jeans, for he’d never been propositioned in such a manner before
It occurred to him that she could have hightailed it out of the room as soon as he had shut the bathroom door, but when he had excused himself Lisabeth had laughed with such genuine mirth he believed she would still be there, if only for her to continue enjoying his discomfort.
“Take your time!” she had called after him.
Two days of what? Was she an aficionado of bondage? Domination? Now, he thought with a smile, if she wanted him to tie her to the bed, he didn’t have too much of a problem with it. Even dressed in jeans and a T-shirt Lisabeth was enthralling.
Naked… His cock hardened again as his imagination drew its own conclusions.
If he was honest, recent solitary nights had been spent with her on his mind—even though he had caught only her shadow and the briefest flash of her face as she had turned her head, peering into the darkness of the museum. He couldn’t deny how his imagination had twisted her agile body into countless forms since Rajasthan. Mostly while he had brought himself to orgasm, dirtying the sheets of another anonymous hotel somewhere.
Not unlike his current locale, in fact.
Even in his most lewd fantasies, however, Lisabeth had not negotiated a deal that involved him being complacent to her every whim. His mouth went dry, blood pumping noisily in his ears. She had perfected the come-hither look, he thought, recalling a few moments before as her slender fingers had caressed the length of the golden flute, touching it with the sacred reverence it deserved. Vikram wondered if she’d show his cock the same sense of wonderment.
Despite his pretense, to himself and to Lisabeth, that he’
d retreated to the bathroom to ruminate over whether to accept her proposal, Vikram knew somewhere in the back of his mind he had always intended to agree. In fact, if he truly thought back to some of those lonely nights—and one particularly bleak, rainy night in Kolkata—he would remember the decision to eventually, one way or another, have the nameless woman in his bed, at least once.
But ultimately it didn’t really matter whether he wanted her; the flute had been sold to Nikolai Volkov, a Russian art dealer living in Kuwait. Vikram had been to his home, an homage to many pieces of art and antiquities that cost millions—including a priceless Fabergé egg obtained by Vikram himself, once belonging to a Russian tsar. Dealing with Volkov was great when things ran smoothly; there was a fortune to be made and the flute was to be the ultimate in his collection. Vikram knew how unforgiving the businessman could be should things not run smoothly.
Vikram understood that his own private wealth, accumulating respectable interest in a few numbered bank accounts, would easily be sufficient to make him disappear if the need arose. It was his family in Punjab who would be vulnerable. Volkov had ways—and Vikram’s professional alias was flimsy to men of his stature.
Vikram dried his face, took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.
* * * * *
Lisabeth locked the flute away and busied herself while Vikram afforded himself the privilege of pretending he really had a choice. That he was a stubborn man of ego and pride indicated to her that pushing those buttons would result in the kind of forty-eight hours she so desperately needed. Libido was, at times, a distracting thing.
Admittedly it wasn’t her style to ask for sex—especially as a nonnegotiable business deal, but something about Vikram Singh had reminded her just how long the dry spell had been, and there was only so many times a woman could fantasize her way to climax before the orgasmic thrill was dulled by realizing physical intimacy couldn’t be replicated. Not even by the most fertile mind.
Vikram was the archetypal figure of masculinity. She had been with men who were considered sexy by hordes of women, owing to power, money and status. The confidence of the modern man was almost more important than his physical stature but Lisabeth preferred six-foot-something of testosterone any day. Standing in the modest hotel bedroom, Vikram had been wound tighter than a cuckoo clock and Lisabeth’s physical yearning had come alive, eager to see what would happen when all his pent-up energy came undone.
The running water ceased and Lisabeth smiled. It had taken him fifteen minutes to brood in the bathroom, weigh up his nonexistent options and come to the realization that whether he liked it or not, he was at the mercy of any and all of her sexual whims for the next two days. Lisabeth was impressed by his stubborn disposition; she had expected him to fold in five.
Vikram returned to the bedroom, his jacket now removed.
She sat back on the writing bureau and crossed her legs, allowing him to pretend she was genuinely interested in hearing what he had decided. To her surprise he had taken command of his emotions, and his expression was stony.
“All right,” he said. “Five million, two nights.” His tone was businesslike. “When do we start?”
Vikram set his jacket aside and stood before her. She thought he looked like an artist’s model, waiting to take his clothes off for a nude drawing—and a fine model he would make too. Without the added layer of his jacket she could admire the hard breadth of his shoulders, how every muscle was sculpted—even those still concealed beneath the black tank he wore. Lisabeth reflected on his physical prowess, aroused by the idea of being under him, on top of him.
“You’re such a romantic,” she replied blithely, half mocking him. “I was going to light candles too. Now you’ve gone and ruined it.”
Vikram sighed—a heavy, long sigh that conveyed his impatience and displeasure at being a slave to her whimsy. His bicep twitched, fist clenched. “Get comfortable, Vikram. There’s no rush.”
Lisabeth slipped off the table, enjoying herself. Payback, she thought, for his arrogance and bravado at the breakfast table earlier.
He stood still when she brushed past him, allowing herself the privilege of touching his bare arm, pleased to discover the sinewy flesh was as hard as she’d imagined. His head turned sideways, golden eyes staring down at her with a mixture of contempt, frustration and lust. Her heart began to race when his fingers encircled her wrist in a tight clasp, drawing her close enough she felt his breath fan in slow, even bursts across her cheeks.
“Five million and two nights, Lisabeth. They were the only conditions laid down. Don’t fuck around with me.”
Lisabeth could feel the stirrings of arousal pulse between her legs as she watched the tautened spring tighten to almost breaking point. Just a little more…
“There’s no gun now, Vikram. Put away the bravado and play nice.” Pulling her wrist from his grasp, Lisabeth took a single step past him and resisted the urge to cry out when every ounce of brawn and bone thrust her against the opposite wall. The thud of their bodies contacting the stone reverberated through each of her limbs, his weight pinning her in place, taking her breath away. She felt a momentary flicker of fear, which passed quickly but not before he noticed, acknowledging it with a smug, mirthless chuckle of hollow pride, announcing his victory in obtaining the upper hand.
“What’s wrong, Lisabeth? Nothing witty to say?” His cock was hard against her belly. He likes it rough, she thought, twisting her hips. His fingers caught her chin, hand pressed against the column of her throat. If he wanted to, she realized, he could break her neck in a second. “What did you say?” he asked in response to her muffled whimper. She cursed her weakness at how his indelicacy brought her to a submissive, murmured plea. “What do you want?” he pushed, his unanswered taunts resulted in his fingers tightening to a vise-like grip around her jaw. “No rush, haan?” His voice was gravelly in her ear, a betrayal of his outward control, a testament to his growing desire.
The thrust of his hips brought forth a moan that emanated deep in her belly, rising to the base of her throat. Vikram’s free hand slipped under her T-shirt, his palm testing the weight of her breast, thumb and finger roughly pinching her taut nipple through the layer of her sensible sports bra. Lisabeth’s back arched in response, her pride relegated to some far-off part of her brain, superseded by the desire to be thoroughly fucked. It had really been far too long.
When his hand released her, Lisabeth sucked an unsteady breath into her lungs, half relieved. His fingers knotted in her hair, twisting the strands until her head fell back in compliance. Any misconceptions she still harbored about being in control were relinquished as his mouth closed over her exposed throat. Her fingers tore at the flimsy tank he wore, pulling and stretching the material. He undid the button of her jeans with deft precision, his fingers inside her panties and caressing her wet pussy within a second.
Her own fingers were nowhere near as steady as she fumbled with his jeans, her wrist brushing the length of his cock with each failed attempt. Lisabeth cursed the coordination that had abandoned her in her desperation to wrap her fingers around the hard length of him.
Vikram’s teeth nipped at her throat, at the tender flesh above her clavicle, his tongue pausing to taste the thunder of her pulse. Even if her slick wetness had not been indication enough of her desire, the wild staccato of her heartbeat surely gave her away. Fingers teased the wet entrance to her body, the soft strokes near torture when every inch of her skin was tingling, frustrated. Ten thousand nerve endings had awakened in her clit, drawing the tender nub out of hibernation. He seemed to enjoy watching her features twist in pleasure, reveled in the moans of encouragement.
Lisabeth tore at his jeans, relieved when she felt the waistband slacken. Vikram’s body went stiff, his mouth stilling on her throat when she took his cock in a fist. He voiced his approval at her long, slow strokes in a language Lisabeth did not understand. His accent thickened, voice lowered. She rocked her pelvis, yearning for relief. A single finge
r dipped inside her in half-compliance, caressing the soft, wet flesh. She said his name in a rolling plea. Lisabeth hadn’t moaned a man’s name in such a long time, her own voice sounded foreign.
There were many things she wanted to do to him—spend hours exploring every nuance of his hard body, taste his skin with her tongue, make him beg for mercy. Perhaps he already was, she thought. His voice continued to ramble in a stream of his native tongue, his eyes closed. Lisabeth’s thumb stroked the smooth, slick flesh at the tip of his cock in swift, precise circles until his resolve disintegrated. Vikram stepped back, the movement so abrupt Lisabeth stumbled forward.
He tore her jeans and panties down her legs, then his pants, before grasping her hips. Lisabeth’s surprise was muffled by his mouth hard on hers. His kiss was fierce and unromantic, teeth nipping her lower lip until she thought he might draw blood. She slipped her legs around his waist, arms around his neck. The ease with which Vikram held her aloft ought not to have been a surprise, yet somehow his strength continued to impress her. His cock brushed her thigh, upward until she felt a gentle nudging at the opening. Lisabeth wanted him inside her, filling her and stretching her, each thrust bringing her closer to orgasm. She expected him to ease into her and savor the slick, hot warmth. Instead, he plunged into her pussy with a firm, hard stroke.
“Oh God!” Her voice was a startled cry, a mixture of unprecedented pleasure and a sting of pain at being torn open with such thoughtless abandon. Vikram braced his hands on either side of her head, hips thrusting back and forth. Lisabeth slipped one hand between their bodies, teasing her clit with two fingertips. Her thighs flexed, the coil of her orgasm tightening at the bottom of her belly.