Simon nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “Antoine has a very calming, rational demeanor.”
“Unlike some people, right, Chicken Little?” I said, smiling just a bit.
“Hey, I’m just trying to look out for you,” Simon said, holding up his hands in defense.
“I know, I know,” I said. “And I appreciate it. But, rest assured that I would never let a casual sexual relationship interfere with getting my son back, or with our business. Not for even a second.”
I could tell Simon was about to speak, and I could hear his thoughts loud as can be. She’s a fucking reporter! But he thought the better of it and simply shoved a forkful of steak into his mouth instead. I didn’t tell him I’d taken her passport and hidden it. I didn’t tell him that, if I had my way, Cassie’s journalist skills would be put to good use.
Cassie
I took Patrick’s card reluctantly and shoved it in my pocket. I walked quickly down the street, this time not feeling the weight of someone’s eyes on my back, and headed into the hotel lobby. I went straight to my suite and deadbolted the door; I didn’t know where Brad was, but I didn’t need him keying into my room while I was doing my research. My head was reeling from Patrick’s line of questioning; I didn’t know why the FBI, or NCA, whatever, would be so interested in the Legacy Suites, but now I was more convinced than ever that there was something secretive in Brad’s life.
I thought back to how I’d answered Patrick’s questions—giving the briefest answers I could while, at the same time, asking a return question. He was onto my game and didn’t give me much to go on… but I at least had more to work with than I’d had earlier.
I started my search with looking up his partner, Simon Pyle. Like with Brad, there wasn’t anything obvious, nothing like a record, jail time, or any news article suggesting anything other than that Simon was, while not a billionaire, certainly wealthy enough to do his share of charity work, which he did. Lots of images of him and his life partner, Clive, at all sorts of charity fundraisers. I tried to get a feel for his areas of interest, but his charities were broad and varied. I moved on to Patrick Shim.
Patrick was a highly decorated investigator with the NCA, formally the SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency. He was single, thirty-one years old, and, according to an article written about him after he’d won some sort of cop award, exceptional in his athleticism, his loyalty, and his intuition. I clicked on a thumbnail picture and, when it came up in full, I let out a low whistle. The article was about him rescuing a child from a potential drowning in a community pool. He was in a bathing suit, as European as they get, and I could see almost everything. His body was lean and tight, muscular, with the curve of the “V” moving from his hips to below the fabric of his bathing suit.
“Damn,” I said. Then I shook my head and clicked the X, closing out the picture. “Stop acting like a teenager,” I warned myself out loud. I refocused with a breath and turned my research back to the written facts about Investigator Patrick Shim.
There was a knock at my door. I jumped, quickly Xing out of Chrome and shutting the top of my laptop against the bottom.
“Coming!” I called. I walked to the door and unlocked it, then opened it to Brad.
“Why did you bolt the door?” he asked, looking at me with a combination of worry and suspicion.
“Um, just force of habit,” I said. “Whenever I’m alone. Safety, you know?”
He leaned in and kissed me. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Safety first.”
“How was your meeting with Simon?” I asked. I thought about Patrick’s card in my pocket, realized I would need to program the number into my phone and then get rid of the card before Brad found it. Or, I thought, I could just get rid of the card and forget the conversation I’d had with Patrick had ever taken place. It was all crap anyway. The questions he’d asked were fishing questions; he had no evidence of anything, just suspicions that Legacy Suites was somehow involved in “potentially illegal activity.”
“It was business as usual,” he said easily. “How was your morning?”
“Boring,” I said. “I went for coffee, then came back here and did some writing.” And got accosted by an FBI agent who implied that my passport was stolen, not lost, as an attempt by some blackmailing agency to keep me in the country and possibly kidnap me and ransom me to get you to pay up. “The article about Legacy Suites, London is really shaping up.”
“That’s great,” Brad said, pulling me in for a kiss. The warmth of his lips, the pressure of them against mine, pushed the entire morning out of my mind. I put my arms around his waist and pressed my head against his chest. His heartbeat was slow and regular… hardly the heartbeat of a criminal. I vowed to toss Patrick’s card the first chance I got. If he wanted to spend his time on a wild goose chase, that was his business, but I wasn’t going to help him.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Oh?” Brad pulled back and looked at me.
“Let’s order room service, get naked, and lock the doors for the rest of the day and night.” I trailed my fingers down his chest toward his belt, which I tugged lightly.
He grinned and mussed my hair. “Someone feeling a little frisky, huh?”
I returned his grin with my best innocent, sex-kitten smile. “Rawr,” I said, letting my voice drop into a growl.
“Let me make a quick phone call. While I’m doing that, call downstairs and order two of whatever you want. Tell them to add a bottle of Dom Perignon and a bowl of strawberries.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, winking. I went to the living room phone while he disappeared into the bedroom. I made the call to room service quickly, then I walked toward the bedroom. Brad had closed the door, but I could tell he was still on the phone. I could hear his voice muffled through the door, and he didn’t sound happy.
“Fix it!” he said. “The shipment arrived on time and intact. What more does he want?” There was a pause. My heart was in my throat; I knew I shouldn’t be so close to the door, but I couldn’t step away. “He can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice softer but with the same anger. “We’re following his orders to the letter; he needs to hold up his end of the deal.” Another pause, then Brad’s voice became quieter, more muffled, as he walked into either the bathroom or the closet. I stepped away from the door and walked to the tv, turning it on with the remote and sitting on the couch.
Twenty minutes later, the food arrived. Brad hadn’t yet emerged from the bedroom. I debated whether or not to knock on the door, and decided against it. I ate some of the pizza while it was still hot, and took a few forkfuls of pasta. I flipped channels, then turned the tv off. As I did, Brad emerged.
“Sorry about that,” he apologized, his voice contrite. “I didn’t expect that call to take that long. Did you eat?”
“I started,” I said. “Who did you call? Is everything okay?” I asked the questions gently, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“Oh,” Brad sounded distracted as he grabbed two slices of pizza and dumped them onto a plate. “It was just Simon. Some unfinished business from this afternoon.” He popped the cork on the Dom and filled two champagne flutes, then handed one to me. “Nothing to worry about.” He smiled easily. “Cheers.”
He clinked my glass, then he grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the couch.
“Tonight I’m the hungry one,” I said, turning to him and advancing on him.
“I thought you just ate,” he grinned.
“Not the right thing to satisfy my appetite,” I said. “I’m more in the mood for sausage.” I undid his jeans and he tugged them down. His cock was hard and stood out from his body. He slid down until he was horizontal on the leather couch, and I dropped down onto him, my mouth taking his cock fully. I began to slid my lips up and down his shaft as he groaned, grabbing my hair with his fingers and guiding my head in a smooth, rhythmic motion.
“Oh, Cassie,” he moaned. “Your mouth feels like melted wax pouring all over me.” He moved his
hips and I began to flick the head of his cock with my tongue while I stroked his shaft with one hand and cupped his balls with the other. I gave his balls a gentle squeeze and swirled my tongue around his head, feeling the skin of his cock tighten and stretch.
With each motion, I grew wetter, the sensation in my pussy spreading throughout my body. I wanted him inside me. I sat up and stripped off my clothes slowly; he watched my every move. Fully naked, I laid back on top of him and slid myself onto his awaiting cock. He filled me, and I began to ride him, moving forward and back, arching my spine and grinding down hard against him. He grunted, a sigh of intensity escaping his lips, and I pressed harder.
“God, Cassie, you’re gonna break it in two,” he moaned, his hands on my hips, loving every second of it.
“That’ll mean twice the pleasure,” I said.
“Twice the pleasure would kill me,” he panted. “Oh fuck!” I shifted my knees and pushed him deeper into me, clenching my muscles to massage his cock from top to bottom.
I dropped forward onto his chest and continued thrusting against him, though, from this angle, my clit was getting a good amount of attention. Instantly, I felt my orgasm rising.
“I’m gonna cum,” I whispered. “I’m gonna cum hard tonight, oh my God, so fucking hard.” Each word was punctuated with a breath and with a dramatic increase in my arousal until I came, feeling hot liquid rushing through me, his and my own, in our mutual climax.
Afterward, we laid on the couch sipping champagne.
“Want to go to the bedroom and do it again?” he asked, his fingertips lightly trailing down my back to my ass. He gave it a squeeze and a light slap.
“Um, yes, yes I do,” I said dreamily, my eyes closed.
“Let me jump in the shower,” he whispered into my ear. “Then we can see if you can break the world record for multiple orgasms in one night.”
“Challenge accepted.” I smiled and slid off of him, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. He stood up, looking down at me, and extended his hand.
“Come on, sexy,” he said. I grabbed his hand and we moved into the bedroom. We showered, fucked some more, then showered again.
When I woke up a few hours later, the first strains of light pushing through the curtains, Brad was sound asleep. I put on the white, fluffy robe provided by the hotel and stepped out into the living room. The strawberries were in the bowl, untouched, and I began to eat them as I watched the sun rise.
I stood staring out the window for the better part of a half hour. I glanced back into the bedroom and made sure Brad was still sleeping; he was. I got my coat from the back of the chair, where I had tossed it the day before when I’d come home to do my research. I found Patrick Shim’s card in the pocket.
My original intention had been to toss it. But, something was keeping me from throwing it away, from pretending the conversation with Patrick had never taken place. I thought about Patrick, about standing across from him on the sidewalk as he asked me questions and provided me with more questions than answers.
I might not want to help him out… but maybe he could help me. Maybe, if I talked to him again, I could get him to tell me more about Brad and whatever he was involved with.
Maybe.
I grabbed my phone, dialed his number, then held the phone to my ear, trying to ignore the anxiety snaking its way through my stomach into my chest.
After the third ring, a sleep-blurred voice answered. Patrick. “Hello?” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s Cassie Young. I need to meet with you.”
Cassie
As I rode the tube to the restaurant Patrick had said we would meet at, every cell in my body was asking me what the hell I thought I was doing. I thought about our brief conversation just a few hours earlier. I’d woken Patrick up, and I’d felt badly about that. I realized that it hadn’t occurred to me that Patrick actually slept… or ate… or did anything else except work. I was intrigued by him, a mystery to me, and I knew absolutely nothing about him. I didn’t know anything that would lead me to be intrigued, except that he worked for the NCA. I still didn’t know if he had any hobbies, but now at least I knew something more about him: he was still sleeping at five in the morning.
It had been my idea for us to get together again; I’d told him I needed to talk to him, but I hadn’t said why. Of course, he knew it was about Brad; that was the whole reason I’d discovered Patrick following me. He was investigating Brad, and I was an easy target for questioning. That was, until he’d found out I was a journalist and knew all of his interrogation techniques. During our brief phone call, he, surprisingly, hadn’t asked any questions. Perhaps it was his sleepiness, but he’d just told me that yes, he could meet me. He’d given me the name of a restaurant and the address, and he’d told me what time to meet him.
Now, as the tube carried me closer to the station he’d mentioned, I shook my head. Meeting Patrick was a terrible mistake. I saw his image in my mind, the picture I’d seen online of him in his bathing suit pressing in at the corners of my vision. I shut my eyes; there was no way I could think of him that way. I needed to put any thoughts of Patrick as anything other than an NCA agent out of my mind before they could take root. More than they already had, at any rate. I was with Brad, and my meeting with Patrick was one hundred percent business.
Business about Brad. My instincts were still highly activated, though I hadn’t yet found anything that tied Brad directly, or even indirectly, to any sort of questionable activity. I kept this in the front of my mind as I stepped off the tube and walked quickly to the restaurant. I watched for Patrick with every step, but, when I walked into the bistro he’d suggested, a small corner café that served what smelled like absolutely delicious pastries, he was nowhere to be found. I scanned the patrons and, not seeing him, realized I had a chance here to back out, to disappear. I could text him from the hotel and let him know I couldn’t find him, or something had come up, or anything. I didn’t need to go through with what I was beginning to think was a huge mistake.
“Cassie!” Patrick shouted. I turned and my stomach sank as I saw him running down the block toward me.
I waited until he got closer. “Hi,” I said reluctantly.
“Hey,” he said, arriving at my side. “I’m sorry I’m a little late. I had to run into the office for an hour and do some paperwork.”
“You’re not late; you’re early,” I said, looking at my watch.
“I’m late if I arrive after the person I’m supposed to be meeting arrives. You’d be surprised how many people call me and cancel meetings.” He gave me something of an amused expression that suggested he was, somehow, inside my head and knew exactly what I’d been planning.
“Surprised, yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “Should we go inside?” I figured I might as well get things over with.
We ordered coffee and pastries, and then sat at a table near the plate glass window overlooking the street.
“Listen,” I said. “At the risk of being like, apparently, everyone else who calls you, I think this might have been a huge mistake.”
Patrick regarded me with smoky eyes; they were a gunpowder gray with flecks of blue, and they seemed to stare right through me. I felt my breath catch in my throat. My stomach began fluttering, though I wasn’t sure if it was happening because I’d called to meet Patrick, or because of how he was looking at me, or both.
“I don’t think it was a mistake,” he said slowly. “I think you had some time to think about our conversation from yesterday, and you maybe have some suspicions you’re not quite sure what to do with.”
I started to object, but he shifted in his seat, leaning closer to me. His eyes bored deeper, and I caught a whiff of a scent—shampoo, cologne—and I had to shift, too, because I was, to my horror, becoming aroused.
He continued. “I know he’s your boyfriend and you care about him. And, I know that you don’t want to say anything—anything—that could get him into trouble. But, have you thought about the p
ossibility that Brad is a victim as well?”
“A victim of what?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You tell me.” He sat back. His shirt collar was open one button more than it likely would have been if he’d been sitting at the office. I could see, even from that small amount, the smooth skin of his chest beneath the stubble of his unshaven face and neck. I blinked slowly.
“I don’t know anything; I told you that.”
“So, then,” he asked, taking a sip of coffee, “why did you call to meet you this morning?”
I played with the remaining bits of my pastry on the end of my fork. “I’m honestly not sure,” I said. “I mean, it’s possible, I suppose, that I thought about what you said. And it’s possible, I suppose, that I started to think about some things Brad has said, or things people around him have said, and I maybe think that being safe is better than being sorry. Is that possible?” There was a testy quality to my voice that I didn’t much care for, but I knew I needed to show some strength here.
“It’s very possible,” Patrick said. “So, why don’t you tell me what things Brad has said that you’ve been thinking about?”
I shook my head. “That’s the thing,” I said, “it’s nothing specific. It’s just…”
“A feeling,” he finished.
I looked at him sharply, but his eyes were neutral. He took a sip of coffee as if we were two friends just hanging out and getting caught up.
I said nothing, so he continued.
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