by July Hall
“Yes,” he hissed. He heard rustling sounds as she situated herself.
“I’ve got to be quiet,” she whispered. “I can’t scream.”
What a pity. Charles gave himself another long, slow stroke. “Tell me when you turn it…”
“Oh! Oh my God!”
“…never mind. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“Nothing. Just holding it.” Her voice grew even breathier. She’d gained a respite, but it was already gone, and she sounded like she was on the edge again. “It’s moving inside me, and the little rabbit…oh, the rabbit buzzes on my clit.” She gave a soft, breathless chuckle. “And it doesn’t complain when I try to move it wherever I want.”
That seemed unfair. The rabbit didn’t have any hair to pull. Charles was too aroused to care. “You’re close.”
“Yeah. Fuck. What about you? What are you doing?”
“Speeding up.” He began to move his hand more rapidly and squeezed himself tighter. “Touching my balls.”
“Do you like that?”
“Yes. Ah, yes.”
“Then I’ll do more of it,” she promised. “I’ll do whatever you want.” He moaned again. “Oh, baby…” Her voice caught on a whimper. “I’ll do anything with you, I want you any way I can get you. Tell me what you want.”
“Everything!” Hadn’t he told her so already? He flicked his thumb in the slit and began to smear the pre-come over his crown. “All you have to do is fucking look at me and I think about my cock in you or—everything.”
“You’ll tie me up?” she pleaded. “You’ll eat me out?”
Jesus Christ. She was going to kill him. “Yes,” he growled, “but this time I come first. I throw you on your back and I wreck you until I come, I don’t take care of you, I don’t fucking wait.”
“You use me,” she breathed. “You push me down and fuck me to pieces because you can’t help yourself. That’s what I’m there for. Oh, Charles…we’ll do it like that next time…”
His cock ached, leaked, he was about to burst. If she kept talking like that— “Sandra—I’m about to—”
“Because I was made for you to fuck.”
“Sandra!” He went off like a firecracker. He didn’t even care. He kept moving his hand, rubbing and squeezing like he hadn’t done in…he didn’t even know how long, but he remembered exactly how he liked it, how he could draw it out. It felt so good.
When he was able to think again, he had come all over his belly and chest and hand. Holy hell. He panted and licked his dry lips. He longed to bask in the afterglow, but there was something else to take care of first.
“Well,” he breathed. “Your turn, Miss Dane.”
There was a pause. Then she said, sounding sheepish, “Um…”
His eyes widened as he let go of his sticky, softening cock. “You didn’t.”
“I couldn’t stop myself. Sorry?”
This was unacceptable. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I told you I had to be quiet.” She exhaled, sounding very satisfied and not sorry at all. “Trust me. It was big.”
“Can’t you do it again?” he asked and then winced, because it came out like a whine. Pathetic.
“Don’t be greedy,” she scolded.
“I can’t help it.” He grimaced at the sticky stuff cooling on his skin and sat up, reaching for the tissues. “It’s in my nature.”
“Oh, come on, you had a good time. I know I did, anyway.” Her voice dropped into a dreamy purr. “Jesus, you’re sexy. I was serious. I’ve never met—whoops.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just pulled it out.” She sounded awed when she added, “Oh, wow.”
He chuckled as he cleaned himself off. “Same.”
“Yuck. Sex always looks so nice and neat on TV.”
Charles shook his head. “It looks sanitized. It might be inconvenient, but the filth is half the fun.” The best things in life weren’t free or even clean. They were dirty and savage. Sex, conquest, possession. That’s what it all boiled down to in the end.
“Yeah. Well—you might want to get some condoms, though.” She sounded hesitant.
Charles froze. “What? Why? You’ve got that implant thing.”
“Yeah, I just mean it’ll be cleaner, if—” She cleared her throat. “You know, if you ever want to try anal.”
His ears rang slightly. He was sure his eyes couldn’t get any wider.
“Charles?” she prompted, sounding a little timid. “I mean, I’ve never done that, but maybe you like it?”
“I’ve tried it,” he said, shaking his head and trying to get his wits together. This wasn’t a memory he liked to dwell on. “It was uncomfortable.”
“Oh.” Her voice went very small. “For her? I can’t imagine you wouldn’t be careful.”
“For both of us, actually. We were careful, but I’m sort of…” He sighed. “Too big.”
“Oh!” she said again. This time, there was clear laughter in her voice. “Tight fit, huh?”
“I thought it was going to break off.” She laughed again. He could imagine how it might sound funny. “I thought the idea was hot as hell, but in practice…well, there you are.”
“She might just have been nervous,” Sandra pointed out.
“She might have been.” Except Eleanor had never been nervous about a thing in her life, and nothing had put Charles off sex more than the tears that had sprung to her eyes. They’d stopped immediately and had never spoken of it again. He hadn’t even considered suggesting it to a partner since.
Still, though, the fact that Sandra had offered was…quite something. She was tender and generous and brave. And willing to be a secret, when any sane man would be proud to have her on his arm, would shout from the rooftops how lucky he was.
Perhaps soon. Charles had to be patient. He couldn’t cause a scandal—or a rift in the family—before Stephen’s wedding. And Sandra had to be on board as well. She had to be ready.
If she ever would be. Just because he was madly in love didn’t mean she had to be, too. For some women, his wealth would more than compensate, but Sandra didn’t see the world that way.
He loved her for that too.
“Italy,” he murmured, already able to picture it. Other than the helipad, his villa was only accessible by a country road lined with cypress trees. The terrace looked out over rolling hills and vineyards. Both Montepulciano and Siena were within an easy drive. It wouldn’t be as picturesque as in the summer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and everybody else would be flocking either to the tropics or the slopes.
“Yeah.” She sounded a little drowsy, post-orgasm. “That’ll be fantastic. But, uh…I was also thinking maybe I could see you before then.” She laughed awkwardly. “Or even before the wedding in December, if that’s not too crazy. Got a space in your schedule? Maybe this week?”
“For you? I might manage it.” Charles smiled. “I’ll beg off early one night this week.” Stephen would be more distracted now. “We can have dinner.”
“At your place? I mean, yeah, of course at your place. Sure. Yeah.”
Good, that was settled. “I’ll let you know.” He paused. It was late. They were both tired. The work-week began tomorrow. He should hang up. Definitely. “So…well, yes.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Right.”
After a prolonged pause, Sandra said, “No, I like you more.” Unable to help himself, Charles snorted. Sandra giggled. “You hang up first.”
Yes, he was definitely pathetic. But as Charles told his beautiful lover goodnight and hung up the phone, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
This was starting to feel personal.
Sandra glared at her cell phone. She knew she was being unreasonable. She’d decided on Friday to find one of the rarest artifacts in the entire world. Today was Tuesday. It made sense that she wouldn’t have succeeded yet. But she had a fire under her ass about this, and each dead end was starting to feel mor
e and more like an insult.
The latest dead end had come from Christie’s. Sandra had been so hopeful. With Arnaud’s help, she’d gotten in touch with an associate who was apprenticed to the auction house’s ceramics division. The associate had said that they were in possession of a piece that might be just what Sandra was looking for. But, upon closer inspection, the bowl was Guan ware—also imperial, also rare, but not what Sandra needed.
A knock landed on her office door. She looked up to see Arnaud. He took in her expression and sighed. “False alarm?”
“Yeah. She meant well.” Sandra rubbed her forehead. “I should have realized the price point of three million was a little low.”
“What a world,” Arnaud said. He leaned against the door-frame and crossed his arms. “What’s your next step? Always have a next step.”
Sandra sighed. “I was thinking about going to China with a shovel. There’s got to be something they haven’t found yet, right?”
Arnaud shook his head. “Keep working. I’m looking, too. I thought I knew what it was like to work with a wealthy client who wanted the impossible. This puts all of them to shame.”
Sandra tried not to look guilty. Charles hadn’t asked her to do this; she’d volunteered. The timesink at the firm was her fault. Instead of attracting new clients, Arnaud was chasing wild geese with Sandra, losing potential revenue.
He didn’t have to know that, though, and he’d been delighted when Sandra told him about the wedding invitation. Besides, if they really did find the Ru ware bowl, made the impossible possible…then the sky was the limit for the firm. This gamble could really pay off in the long run.
As if reading her mind, Arnaud said, “Don’t look like that. Imagine getting our hands on that kind of treasure. We’d be the toast of the town. If you want your dreams to come true, look no further than Arnaud Diallo Designs.”
His look of determination put a smile on Sandra’s face. “I’ll call Kristen so she can cheer us on,” she said. “She told me that she knows you can do this. I think she believes you’ve got super-powers.”
Arnaud looked pleased. “How perceptive of her. I wouldn’t have thought she’d take an interest in this.”
“Oh, yeah. She even wanted to come to the museum with me. She asks every day if we found the Holy Grail yet.” Sandra rolled her eyes.
Arnaud chuckled. “I bet she’d go with you to China if you asked. Sounds like her idea of a good time. A secret mission to…” Then he blinked, and his eyebrows drew together in a frown. “A secret mission.”
“Huh?”
Arnaud looked thoughtfully into the distance. “We’ve had no luck with auction houses,” he said. “We need to go to the source. We need to find people who own the Ru ware bowls and see what they want.”
“Well—I’ve thought about that,” Sandra said uncertainly. Of course she had. It was the first logical step. But it turned out that some owners of rare goods weren’t all that willing to advertise their possessions. “It’s hard to track them down, and I’m betting they’ve already got plenty of money. Why would they sell?”
“Maybe they don’t want money. Have you ever heard of rare trading, Sandra?”
She shook her head.
“There are certain services that provide it. When you’re as wealthy as the Magisters and their ilk, money no longer impresses you. Things do. Rare things that nobody else has, even the other super-rich.”
“Okay,” Sandra said slowly.
“So maybe he doesn’t need to pay,” Arnaud says. “Maybe he needs to make a swap. Something priceless of his, for something priceless of theirs.”
Sandra tried to run a mental tally of what she’d seen in both his homes. Charles had plenty of stuff, some of it dating back hundreds of years, though maybe not thousands. She’d seen a Botticelli. A Louis XV chair that, according to Warrick, Louis XV had actually sat in. A chess set that had once belonged to Napoleon.
There was undoubtedly more. She was willing to bet the Magisters kept some of their private hoard in storage, like museums did. She’d ask Warrick for a list of everything.
“I’m on it,” she said. “I mean, I can find out what he’s got. But how do we find out who to trade with? You can’t just Google ‘Ru ware owners.’” She blinked and opened her laptop. “Or maybe you can.”
“Or maybe you know the assistant head of Chinese ceramics at Sotheby’s, where that last one was sold for twenty-five million,” Arnaud said.
“And maybe you could talk to that person and ask…uh, him?”
“Her.”
“Ah.”
“Precisely.” He studied his fingernails and gave Sandra a half-smile.
“You’re going to flirt your way in?” Sandra asked.
“She’s a beautiful woman and recently divorced,” Arnaud said. “I don’t have to tell her that Sotheby’s won’t get to be the middleman. I can just promise her a cut of our fees.”
“Which you intend to raise accordingly,” Sandra said.
“Exactly. If this is what Charles Magister wants, then this is the price he pays for getting it done.”
Charles wouldn’t object to Arnaud charging a single red cent extra. Even if he decided not to buy the bowl, word of mouth would still get around that they’d found it. And he’d handsomely reimburse the firm for all the time spent. He’d probably be delighted to, considering all the money he kept wanting to spend on Sandra. At least the hints about buying her an apartment had stopped for now.
“In the meantime,” Arnaud continued, “get back on Alexios’s penthouse. You’re at a dead end on this for now, and I’m going to try to work some magic.”
Sandra forced herself not to check out the rear view as he left her office. He had some magic, all right. He’d charm the daylights out of half the people at Stephen’s wedding—including some men, now that she thought about it.
Maybe Sandra could learn from that. She should start working on her holiday smile.
* * *
“Not bad, Uncle Charles,” Bradley said. “Not bad.”
“Same to you,” Charles said, wiping the sweat off his forehead while Bradley bounced the ball against the floor of the squash court. It was the truth; his nephew had evidently been practicing. Well, it was a better form of exercise than hookers.
The thought made Charles tighten his grip on the racquet. “Let’s go again,” he snapped. Bradley served, and they began their second round.
Squash was a dangerous game to play with Bradley. They were closed together in a small room. The game involved lots of darting back and forth past each other, trying not to trip and avoiding the urge to shove.
Once upon a time, Charles had used this as an opportunity to educate Bradley. As always, the boy hadn’t been grateful. He was used to being coddled by his mother and neglected by his father. He hadn’t wanted criticism or instructions for improvement.
“Couldn’t you tell him he does at least one thing right?” Rosalie had pleaded once.
“I’ll be happy to when he manages it,” Charles had replied. He had tried, in the beginning—certainly he’d given Bradley more encouragement than he gave incompetent employees. But nothing seemed to make a difference. Bradley’s clumsiness and terrible attitude on the squash court had baffled him. The boy was athletic. He’d rowed lightweight crew and played soccer at Yale. Why he couldn’t try harder in the one sport Charles tried to teach him was an utter mystery.
But he was trying today. Charles had to give him credit for that much. Bradley wasn’t as good as Craig, but he was making an effort. He volleyed with more precision, and his footwork had improved. He seemed more focused than before.
“So,” Bradley said as he struck the ball, “Mom’s busy with the wedding plans, huh?”
Then again, he couldn’t have learned that much if he thought to have a conversation in the middle of a match. “No idea,” Charles grunted, leaning forward into a drop shot, sending the ball ricocheting back into the corner. Bradley cursed and scrambled after it.<
br />
He always scrambled. The way to win at squash was to dominate the ‘T’ in the middle of the court. You held the position while your opponent ran around trying to pick up your shots. Bradley let himself get chased off toward the walls, the corners, the back of the room. He didn’t fight, he didn’t think.
And he misused his youthful energy. He went for power instead of accuracy and wore himself out sooner than a man twenty years his senior. By the end of the match, Charles was ahead by several points, and Bradley was red in the face.
Still…he had improved. And he’d been showing up on time at work, paying attention at meetings, doing his damn job for once. Rosalie had said he was more considerate of her as well, taking her out to lunch or calling to say hello. Last, but certainly not least, his lab tests had come back completely clean, as he’d sworn they would.
So perhaps an olive branch was called for. “You’re getting better,” Charles said as he wiped his face with a towel.
Bradley smiled, but it looked strained. “You still kicked my ass,” he said.
“That’s because you let yourself get backed into corners, and then you make unwise decisions,” Charles said. He pointed his racquet at the left corner. “Right there? That’s where I had you. You should have fought your way out with a boast shot and tried to get back to the center of the court.”
“Yeah, well.” Bradley’s mouth tightened into a line. “Something to remember for next time.”
Next time? Christ, when Bradley was in school, he’d acted like playing squash with his own uncle was torture. Now he was suggesting another match. Once, Charles would have been pleased. It showed maturity.
But now, he wasn’t eager to spend more time with his nephew, for a whole host of reasons.
“Next time,” he said.
They hit the showers and then dressed in the well-appointed changing rooms of the Union Club. The Magisters had been Union men for well over a century, staying loyal when rival clubs splintered off. Robert Cliffe had belonged only to the Cornell Club. In hindsight, disaster had been inevitable.