by Linzi Basset
“Are you sure? About me wearing a rubber, I mean?” He asked in a cajoling voice. He loved the feel of her naked flesh surrounding his.
Joanne could feel herself floundering but knew it would be irresponsible. They’d already pushed the boundary once tonight.
“Yes, Maximilian. A baby is the last thing you want in your life.”
“Hm, shows how little you know me, baby,” Max said against her throat. Her stomach quivered in response as a vision of a baby boy with his father’s eyes formed inside her mind. With a deliberate sigh, he reached inside the bedside bed-side drawer and threw a handful of condoms on the bed.
“There. Happy now?”
Joanne didn’t know if she was. Not with the knowledge that he had them so close on hand. She didn’t need to be reminded about the other women who had shared this bed with him.
Max accurately read the stiffening of her limbs beneath his. He leisurely licked her bottom lip.
“Sheathe your claws, Joanne. I’ve never brought a woman home with me. I only fuck at the club. This is just where I keep my stash. Now . . . enough talking. We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”
Chapter Six
“What do you mean he’s gone? Find him! Jarrah knows better than to be late for the showmanship of the army to the royal delegation,” Sheikh Juhayman bin Muhammad barked angrily.
Hamal shifted his weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other. He opened his mouth but thought better of it, instead he pivoted to do his leader’s bidding.
Juhayman glowered at the men who stood waiting in the courtyard, in perfect formation, ready to begin their impressive routine of fighting skills. Jarrah knew how important this day was to him. The new King Abdullah bin Faisal, was looking to bring new blood in the Ministry of Defense. Since Crown Prince Khalid Saud, had been incarcerated in the United States, the entire House of Saud had fallen to pieces after the death of his father, the reigning king.
Juhayman, as a third cousin to the recently appointed king, was first in line for the esteemed honor. The council of ministers had traveled to his compound to evaluate the skills of his army. He was well aware that the delegation was going to Nadqan next. His hated cousin, Sheikh Lufti bin Qara, was equally eager to grasp the position Juhayman coveted. The rivalry between the two of them had been going on for the past fifteen years. Juhayman had no intention of allowing Lufti to take away this opportunity. King Abdullah had no siblings and the two cousins standing between Juhayman and the throne were already in their seventies; too old. Which was why he had to find favor of the king and his entourage.
“We can’t find him anywhere, Zaeim Alsahra',” Hamal said upon his return. Juhayman had earned the title of ‘Desert King’ early on when he conquered the renegade tribes and now ruled the biggest group in the nomadic tribes. Hamal stood with his eyes lowered, waiting for Juhayman’s fury to erupt. “And there’s more.”
“Talk, Hamal! You’re wasting valuable time. What’s the delay?” Juhayman paced the room, his white robe swirling around his legs. His anger was visible in the taut lines of his body as he spun around to face Hamal and Akil, Jarrah’s two leading commanders of his army.
“Bahal reported that Jarrah brought a visiting sheikh to select concubines for the night. He took twelve.” Hamal hesitated as the look in Juhayman’s eyes turned cold. “He can’t find them anywhere, nor the Sheikh Zayed bin Rashid from Dubai.”
“There is no one visiting from Dubai, Hamal! Only esteemed ministers from the king’s council!” Juhayman roared. He swiped the table clean with one fell swoop. Crystal glasses shattered to pieces on the floor.
“I never trusted Jarrah, Zaeim Alsahra’. It has to be him who took the women, with the help of . . .” Akil stuttered as Juhayman’s eyes turned to him.
His voice sounded deadly. “With the help of whom?”
“The prisoner he brought with us yesterday. We can’t find him either.” Akil took a step back as Juhayman charged closer.
“And you only tell me this now!”
“We’ve been trying to find them, Zaeim Alsahra',” Hamal tried to appease him, but it only served to anger him more.
Juhayman’s nostrils flared as his anger boiled inside him. He could see his dreams dwindle in front of his eyes. Jarrah had turned his army into a well-oiled machine, but their loyalty had been to him, not the two men in front of him. He took in a deep, calming breath.
“This is your opportunity to show what you’re made off, Hamal. The army is yours now. Make them understand that from this moment on, you are law to them. Make sure they realize that if they fuck up in front of the council members, they will face the firing squad. And you, Hamal, will be right there beside them.”
Hamal felt power surge through him. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He should’ve been in charge a year ago when instead, Juhayman had been taken in by Jarrah. Now, it was his time to rise to glory.
“They will not fail, Zaeim Alsahra',” he said. He straightened his shoulders and tipped back his chin.
“Then go. You have thirty minutes to prepare them. Do not fail me, Hamal.” He turned to Akil. “In the meantime, Akil, gather a troupe and take the wolves. I want Jarrah and that bastard spy found.”
“Er . . . Zaeim Alsahra', they’re gone too,” Akil mumbled.
“They’re gone?” His voice sounded like a whip in the acoustic of the room.
“The wolves. We can’t find them either.”
Juhayman’s rage exploded like the crashing of a tsunami wave to the shore. His meaty fists pummeled Akil’s head until he fell to the ground in a bloody mess. The roar that escaped from his lips echoed over the compound like that of a trapped tiger, ready to rip apart anything and anyone in his path.
He kicked at the curled-up form of his lackey. “Get the fuck out of here. I don’t care what you need to do but find that motherfucker. Find him, Akil, or I will feed you to the pack of wolves roaming the desert!”
Juhaymal’s hands were shaking as he lifted a bottle of water to his lips and took a large swig. He struggled to bring his fury under control and started pacing the large reception room. He had to calm down before he faced the council. He wasn’t about to lose his reputation because of a traitorous bastard like Jarrah.
“He dared to steal from me. My women, my wolves and the honor I bestowed upon him. He took it all! No one makes a fool of me. No one! He’ll pay, and I won’t rest until I find him. I will skin him alive when I do. Jarrah Farooq will not escape my wrath!”
* * * * * * * *
“You’re early today, Mr. Burgess,” the security guard said as he opened the boom gate entrance into the underground parking area of Crown International—the headquarters Paul operated from under this assumed name. He’d appointed a very competent CEO, a managing director and a senior management team to run the day to day operations of the companies which allowed him some leeway with his time.
“Yes, it’s a busy day,” he retorted with a brief nod. He usually only arrived in the late afternoon but today, he needed to get out of the stifling government office. He drove to his allocated parking bay and eased the luxurious car to a stop. His sigh sounded heavy in the interior of the car. He was tired. Keeping up with his duties in the presidential office, and running his business, which was imperative if he wanted to maintain his cover as the ‘Bossam’ of the Sixth Order Syndicate, was taking its toll on him.
The time was approaching for him to make a decision. It was either his position in the presidential office or the Sixth Order. But, before he could take the plunge and walk away from a very high-powered position, he needed to have control of Sixth Order. No, he wanted Dexter Powell and Mr. Z to offer him the third seat as leaders of the syndicate.
He switched off the engine at the same time the cellphone in his jacket pocket vibrated. Dexter Powell’s name flashed across the screen. Paul frowned. It was uncommon for Dexter to phone outside of their usual scheduled timelines.
“Burgess,” he said shortly.<
br />
“We have a problem,” Dexter opened without preamble.
“I’m listening.”
“Someone is interfering in our sex trafficking setup in Saudi Arabia.”
“Again? I thought with the Saud’s capture everything was under control.”
“They weren’t our only customers in Riyadh, Burgess, as you well know. It seems that some of the women who had been bought for the desert sheikhs have managed to escape.”
“Who informed you of that?”
“No one, Burgess, but I keep my ear to the ground, which is what you’re supposed to be doing.”
“I’ve heard nothing, nor has there been anything in the media about rescued women returning to the States, which means it might have been a covert op that was kept very quiet . . . or a private one . . .” He pondered aloud, his mind swirling with thoughts. His stomach roiled as one possibility rushed to the surface.
“Either is likely. Thirteen women returned to the US. They’re kept somewhere in a safe house, but we’ve been unable to find out where. I imagine that’s why it’s being kept under wraps from the media.”
“How does it affect us?” Paul asked.
“Apparently, Sheikh Juhayman bin Mohammed, who is the top candidate for the Ministry of Defense position there, is furious about the loss. He demands retribution, especially against the commander of his army, who seemed to have been involved in their escape.”
“So, he wants us to find the commander?”
“Yes, and if the slaves are still with him, return them as well. Riyadh has been very lucrative vein for our trafficking business, Burgess, therefore we will find the commander who assisted in their escape. I’ve sent you an encrypted folder with all the details. Jarrah Farooq is the commander’s name. There’s also a report of unauthorized aircrafts in the area on the night of their disappearance, which indicates that he had outside assistance as well. It’s all in the file. I expect a progress report in two days’ time.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll―”
Dexter cut the connection. Paul cursed. It was a direct snub. Dexter had given the instruction and whether or not Paul liked it, Dexter expected him to jump at it—no explanation. He was still only a game piece to them―a resource, which caused anger to simmer under the surface. He needed more. It was time that his commitment was acknowledged and rewarded.
He took out his iPad from his briefcase and searched the home affairs database. Nothing popped up about rescued human trafficking victims. Neither did the FBI and CIA searches.
“I won’t be surprised if Rhone Greer and his interfering friends were involved. I’m going to have to dig deep,” his voice turned hoarse. He would have to be very careful in his quest for information. This was one case that could very easily blow his cover if he pushed the wrong buttons.
The thought that had flashed through his mind earlier came back to haunt him. He had taken a huge risk a year ago and a little voice warned him that it just might have come full circle.
Chapter Seven
Joanne tried to slink out of the bedroom. She hesitated in the doorway when a sleepy groan sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and sucked in a deep breath to calm her rising libido.
It was unfair for a man to have such a gorgeous ass. Damn, but he felt so good under my hands last night.
Her eyes were glued to the enticing curve of Max’s gluteus maximus that flexed when he turned on his side. The temptation to crawl back into bed and caress the strong lines of his muscled body kept her feet rooted to the floor.
Get a grip, Joanne. Don’t forget that he broke your heart and that last night was nothing more than sex.
With a regretful and appreciative glance at his naked body, she forced herself to leave the room.
She roamed around Max's house, surprised at the size of the place. It was suburban, a grand old Bel Air Chateau style mansion with gorgeous landscaped gardens, fountains and a little dock on the Potomac River bank. The interior décor was stylish, with period furniture and a muted color scheme that showcased the design of the house, with ornate chandeliers, a breathtaking fireplace, and sumptuous chase lounges; yet it was inviting with the comfort of a home being lived in. It was the complete opposite to the lifestyle he used to live while in L.A. His home there had been ultra-modern industrial chic place; suited for a bachelor.
Max used to be a high flyer in those years. To be honest, she’d believed he still was. He had owned the most luxurious penthouse in Santa Monica, drove a Porsche and basked in the attention he got from the opposite sex. His sense of humor, confidence and overall sex appeal was the flame to their moths. Max had never needed to chase any woman. They fell into his lap. Literally.
Joanne had believed that he would realize he’d made a mistake and make up with her. He never did. Instead, he moved to DC with Rhone and Keon to set up their business and open Club Devil’s Cove—leaving her behind in L.A., lost and alone.
That was when she’d realized what a fool she’d been to wait for Max, hoping they would find each other again. It had been the reason she’d grasped at the opportunity to get out of the country. A chance to find who and what she really was without him always encroaching her mind.
She shook off the thought. It was in the past. The morning was too beautiful to allow bad memories to spoil her first day back in the States.
She wandered toward Max’s study. She stood in the doorway and glanced around in awe. He’d always been a gizmo freak. This room was a personification of exactly who and what Max had become; an IT expert—or more accurately—a master at his craft.
Joanne glanced over her shoulder toward the staircase. This was his domain; his sanctuary and she had a feeling he didn’t allow anyone into his space. Curiosity got the better of her. Her legs were shaking as she walked deeper into the room. She was trespassing, and she imagined the walls and furniture glaring at her in reproach. The soft light from the early morning sun cast a warm glow to the interior of the room. The walls were painted burnt orange and highlighted with reds―Max’ favorite colors. The furniture was rustic and dark; the sofas were liberally dotted with vibrant cushions.
“Oh my god,” she exclaimed as her gaze found the large, colorful oil painting of the South African artist, Portchie, on the main wall. “He kept it.”
She walked closer and gently traced the three children on the canvas, each flying a kite, with a dam, a windmill and a farmhouse in the background. The painting was a riot of colors—yellow, red and blue. It was one of the oil paintings from Portchie’s Simple Joys Collection. It portrayed family, friendship and tranquility. Joanne had been honored to meet the artist during a trip to South Africa as an intern. She’d been drawn to the painting because it had reminded her of the carefree years of following her brother and Max around.
She still recalled how Max had teased her when she brought the painting to his house, the day she moved in with him. It had stood out like a sore thumb amongst his modern, abstract paintings.
“Really, baby? Where do you intend to hang that? In the bathroom, I hope,” he scoffed.
“Pfft. This painting has more meaning than all the circles and squares you have hanging around your house. No, Max, it will have the honorable spot right in the entrance hall.”
“Over my dead body!”
In the end, she’d won the battle. Thinking back, he hadn’t put up that much of a fight. That he’d never returned it to her with the rest of her things, but kept it after she’d left, had been a surprise.
“Max will always be an enigma, that’s for sure,” she mumbled and turned to his desk. She trailed her fingertips over the edge of the dark mahogany wood. It was a massive monstrosity, which still managed to look cluttered with four computer keyboards and other equipment covering the surface. The desk faced a wall of television monitors. Six in total.
“It still amazes me how he . . .” Her voice trailed off as she suddenly found herself looking into her own eyes. She picked up the silver picture frame with a photo o
f her.
“Tilt your head, luv. The way the sun catches your hair makes you look like an angel from heaven. My angel. Perfect!”
That had been the day he’d asked her to be his permanent sub and move in with him. He’d taken her to a secluded lodge in the mountains. It had been idyllic. They’d been dating on the sly for four months at the time.
“Yeah, only I had been too naïve to understand that he meant a non-exclusive D/s relationship.”
She sighed deeply. The sound conveyed profound sadness. Her hands suddenly felt cold. She rubbed then vigorously. She was more shaken at finding her photo on his desk, right there, than she cared to admit.
“What does it mean? Why? Why Max? Why keep my photo close to you when you didn’t want me?”
The night of debauchment they’d just shared flashed through her mind. She didn’t want to admit it, but maybe that was all it was, maybe all it had ever been to Max. Sex, dominance and what he used to call, her sweet submission. Her heart skipped a beat. It hurt, thinking about it.
“I can’t live through that again. I have to get away,” she said while she mulled her thoughts over. She needed to gather her thoughts. Her life had come to a standstill a year ago and she had to decide what she was going to do in the future.
“I can't allow him to take control of me and my life. Not again―definitely not like he had before.”
She'd been too young to realize that she'd been completely floored by his dominant side. She had enjoyed being sexually controlled. Max had taught her how to channel her emotions and needs to find the true woman inside.
Am I ready for it? To have Max in my life, day in and day out again?
She was already heading toward the garage when the question slipped past her lips. She couldn’t face Max. Not this morning. Not until she had her emotions under control.
Joanne had loved Max since she’d been a little girl. It was something that had never faded, not even after they’d broken up. She doubted it ever would. He was it for her. Her soulmate, the one who fed her desires, her needs and challenged her every emotion, thought and action.