Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I

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Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Page 14

by Akeroyd, Serena


  He’s bought me magazines that cost three-quarters my monthly budget on books, a few shirts with designer labels and price tags that had my eyes crossing, a leather bag that shines in the dull glare of the overhead light of the airport, and a heavy watch with stones at the fifteen-minute marks that are honest-to-God rubies. In fact, he’s spent a small fortune on me, and I don’t entirely know why.

  The man’s motives are suspicious, to say the least. And the only reason I’m here, is because two days ago, after Jake made his proposition, he showed me the legal separation papers his attorneys had drawn up to dissolve the civil union he has with Zane, and which he’d already signed.

  He told me that unless I agreed to come away with him, he would send those papers to Zane, and the ball would start rolling.

  Now in all honesty, I didn’t expect to be taken to Paris. Certainly not in first class, nor did I expect to be showered with gifts.

  It might seem horrible of me to have accepted his presents, but Jake has a way of making you do whatever he wants without you even realizing it.

  One minute I’m telling him I can’t accept the watch and the next, I’m wrapping the damned thing around my wrist.

  I can’t explain it, but I’ll have to watch out for this tendency of his to get his own way through manipulation. But it will be a bitch to figure out how he does it, as I’m still in the dark.

  The charm Zane effortlessly oozes, so silently you don’t realize you’re being beguiled by him as he’s so gruff and brooding, is absent in Jake. He’s straight talking, blunt, very honest, in fact. So honest he’s unnerving. It’s strange, then, that I feel more manipulated by Jake than I do Zane.

  Weird doesn’t describe my confusion.

  He doesn’t speak all that much, but whenever he does, he’s very kind to me. And that in itself is disturbing. The man could have taken me to the Bronx, made me stay in a sixty dollar-a-night shit-heap motel that even stray dogs wouldn’t want to sleep in. Instead, I’m here.

  Whatever’s going on, I don’t understand it or the root of his motivations. I’ll just have to watch Jake, and see the way the dice roll.

  The crowds are enormous, as we head through Customs and push our way to the Arrivals exit. A man in a crisp black suit with streamlined, knife-point creases is waiting for us with Jacob’s name written on a board. Jake’s carrying my case, and he stops in the middle of the vestibule and points. I follow his lead and do so, until we’re both led to a car which is parked illegally outside. Within thirty minutes, we’re driven away from the lunacy of the airport and the red-faced policeman who’d tried to fine our driver, and into the city center. Something that is equally manic, thanks to the time: midday.

  The sights, the sounds, and the smells are all so different from what I’m used to. I know small town living and big city living and while this is huge, it’s so different to New York and Manhattan, and so much nicer. Even the highway is overloaded with greenery, dense, rich foliage that sparkles thanks to an earlier shower, something I haven’t seen since I left Georgia. We pass buildings that have endured two world wars, then soccer fields and industrial estates that are younger than I am.

  The air smells of rain and overhead, even though a grim sun peeks out between thick and woolly gray clouds, more showers are imminent. Even in such gloom, Paris sizzles and sparkles. I don’t know why or what it is, but the vibrancy is dazzling. NYC is the city that never sleeps, and being able to do anything twenty-four-seven is pretty neat. There’s always something open, be it a dentist or a bookstore. But Paris’s history-drenched ambience just blows me away.

  Cars buzz about like crazed bees, toots and horns scream as drivers wend their way in and out of the traffic, trying to get to their destination at Mach speed. Art Deco and vintage structures lead us to the Arc de Triomphe, which is ten times huger than I imagined. I open the window, allowing the stench of gas to fill my lungs as I stare up at the impressive arch.

  I’m not the only one.

  Crowds of chattering tourists raise their cameras and take snapshots of their day in Paris, the noise they emit, as loud as I’m sure it is, can’t be overheard in the thundering traffic.

  We move on to the Champs-Élysées and it’s far more beautiful than I ever thought possible. Carefully pruned horse-chestnut trees line the roads filled with cafés and luxury shops and businesses… the entire street oozes money and class. Every inch of me longs to explore it, and it’s only then that I realize that this is an impromptu tour of the city.

  Jake’s silent but deadly organizational skills are as big a threat as Zane’s effortless charm. You never know when he’s going to blindside you next, and once again that feeling of being enticed into God-only-knows what, makes yet another appearance.

  They’ve been coming more and more often these last few hours. Can you understand why I’m starting to feel manipulated?

  He’s treating me like a welcome guest, someone he’s trying to impress and please. Not the bitch who is fucking his husband.

  What the hell is going on?

  With the threat of legally separating from Zane, Jake has managed to make me cross the Atlantic. What else will he try and make me do? And why?

  There has to be a reason for what Jake’s doing, for his behavior toward me. There has to be some ulterior motive for his actions and I simply can’t figure out what that reason might be. And when I don’t, or can’t understand, I’m uncomfortable and have to seek answers to the many questions floating around inside my head.

  “What are we doing here, Jake?”

  Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t the first time I’ve asked him this question, and I expect it won’t be the last. This is the seventh variation of the same request I’ve made over the last day or so. He’s yet to answer.

  But that doesn’t stop me from asking.

  And aren’t I shocked, when he finally deigns to explain?

  “I’m here on work and I need your help.”

  Blinking, I turn my head from the majesty that is Paris and toward him. He’s staring at me in that way of his that is neither creepy nor lecherous. In a way, it makes it all the more disturbing. I feel like he’s trying to look into my soul, trying to see who and what I am.

  Every now and then, I’ll feel his eyes on me and sometimes, I’ll bridge mine to them, otherwise I ignore the prickling sensation and carry on with what I’m doing.

  I wish I knew what he was thinking, what his intentions were when he does this. To freak me out? To intimidate me? He does neither, but I feel awkward. Until Zane, I’ve spent the majority of my life outside of most men’s radar. Especially good-looking ones. And while Jake is a seven in comparison to Zane’s ten, he’s still hotter than any guy who has been in my vicinity in the recent past.

  Not only is he stacked, he wears a suit. Constantly. I haven’t seen him in anything else. And he wears this cute little waistcoat underneath with an old pocket watch. The buttons aren’t pulled taut against a bulging belly. They neatly rest over the lean length of his stomach. The expensive fabric, the cost-a-fortune tailoring, all of it translates to one thing.

  My interest.

  Even though I don’t want to, I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for a suit, and Jake fills his so nicely.

  So lusciously.

  I hate to say it, I feel treacherous for even thinking it, but… yum. Hardly articulate, but hell, what’s a girl to say about her boyfriend’s husband? I shouldn’t even be pondering such thoughts, when in one breath, I’m devoting myself to the crusade of saving Zane’s marriage and then in the other, I’m drooling over the spouse in question.

  But when it hits you in the face, smack bang in the middle, there are few ways to escape.

  And denying or hiding from the truth has never been my way. Regardless of how much pain it can cause me.

  This situation is already complicated without my having noticed how handsome Jake is. Although I did want to know what Zane saw in Jake... Maybe this is just one of those characteristics that turned him
gay? Hell, maybe Jake manipulated him into it. He's obviously skilled at getting what he wants from the people in his circle.

  And his saying he wants my help indicates this is the reason for his relaxed attitude with me. This instantly makes the hairs at the back of my neck spring up.

  Sucking in a breath, I shift my thoughts to the man at my side. “What do you mean, you need my help?”

  “Did Zane say anything about my career?” As soon as he finished uttering the words, a smirk crossed his lips and he shook his head. “Yeah, because I can imagine you did nothing but talk about me, when you were together.” He blows out a breath, breaks eye contact, and turns to stare out of the window.

  Even though we’re driving past the Eiffel Tower, it doesn’t hold my interest. Jake, all of a sudden, has every ounce of my attention.

  Every now and then, these little breaks in his control make an appearance. These, at least, are real. Honest. And they make me react in turn.

  “He told me he loved you, Jake. But, no, we didn’t talk about you a lot.”

  His self-derisive smirk softens and he chuckles a little. The man’s character is certainly disarming. His moods are almost mercurial but considering his marriage is on the rocks, he’s surprisingly proactive. After all, what’s this whole deal about if he isn’t working his way toward something?

  I’m here for a reason, Zane’s whizzing about like a blue-assed fly looking for Jake, and at this moment, the man scorned is the only one in the know.

  “I’m an investigator.”

  “You’re a cop?” Startled at the idea, my eyes wander over the expensive suit and I immediately draw a line through that career option. No cop earns enough to wear that kind of attire.

  Apparently amused at my assumption, his lips flatten into a grin. “No. But I work with them sometimes. Primarily, I look for stolen goods that have been insured by the various insurance companies I consult for. Zane based a few of his stories on my cases.” The grin quivers. “It’s how we met.”

  I’d love to know more, even though it should have been a taboo subject. But I’m curious, so interested to know the ins and outs of Jake and Zane’s peculiar marriage that it should be wrong.

  He told me that he knows about and condones Zane’s extra-marital activities, because he’s glad to have him. And I’m as pathetic as he is, so we’re in good company. But it’s hard to imagine this man, this boxer-brute being so weak, where his partner is concerned. It just goes to show the devastation Zane leaves behind in his wake. The man’s capable of turning up down, of making black white. Is it any wonder we’re both lost?

  It would be easy to ask what makes Zane so special. Special enough to forget your principles, to forgo beliefs that form your foundation. All I’ll say is, Zane is a knockout. Looks wise, yeah, but personality wise is where he ensnares you.

  He accepts me, flaws and all. He likes me, my shyness, my wallflower ways. He gets that, he gets me, and embraces those facets that should make me go under a guy like Zane’s radar. He doesn’t judge. He listens then will make a remark, an informed answer in reply to your words.

  He might come across as selfish, as greedy, but Zane is a giver.

  In the short time I’ve known him, I feel like a different woman.

  Because of him, and the way he makes me feel, I am more accepting of who I am, and no matter where this goes, if heartache does lay at the end of the road, I will always thank him for making me see myself in this way. I’m not beautiful, not model material, and I don’t really measure up to my friends’ beauty, but that doesn’t define my worth anymore. None of that matters now.

  Only I can decide my value, and Zane, in the short time I’ve known him, taught me that. That crazy beautiful man fell for me for a reason. I’m special. Unique in my own way, and that’s on me and nobody else. I forged the Mona standing here today.

  The thought empowers me, encourages me to ask, “And you’re here on a case?”

  “I thought I could kill a few birds with the one stone.”

  Great choice of words there. I know it’s an old proverb, but kill? Really?

  “I hope no blood will be shed,” is all I say, and he grins at me again.

  “No. No blood. But I do need your help if you’re willing.” Settling back on his seat, he half-turns to me and says, “I’ll be busy and out a lot of the time, so you’ll be left to yourself and your own devices if you choose not to help. But if you do, you’ll see more of Paris and France.”

  The idea holds merit. I’m picturing myself with Faye Dunaway nude talons, and Jake as my Steve McQueen… I wonder if that’s the kind of thing Jake gets involved in. Thomas Crown kind of cases. Instantly, my brain starts to sizzle with interest. And curiosity has me biting, when it might have been more prudent to stand back and leave well alone.

  “What’s the case?”

  “A jade bi has been stolen from a museum in Copenhagen. It was the only piece targeted and it was removed from the country last week. I’ve been assured that it has entered France.”

  “And you want to track it?”

  “Yes. No artifact, no commission for me.” His brows arch in surprise. “Do you know what a bi is?”

  I should be annoyed that he thinks I’m an idiot. But I’m too used to being considered one that I don’t let my irritation show. I’m a cleaner, therefore I must be dumber than a jackass.

  Go figure.

  “Disks, sometimes made from glass or jade, usually for burial purposes in ancient Chinese culture as they represented Heaven. Those the kind of bi you’re talking about?” I mockingly ask, paraphrasing an article I’d once read.

  “Well, considering I had to research them before I accepted the case, I’d say that was a pretty accurate summary.”

  I shrug, both peeved at his impression and smug at his reaction to my answer. “I read a lot.”

  “I’ll bet.” He shakes his head at me and I see a glint of respect lurking within the topaz of his eyes. I hate that I want more of it. That I want his full respect.

  And how likely is that? Really?

  Why do I even want it? I didn’t realize I had masochistic tendencies until this very moment.

  “They’re pretty common, as far as I can remember. What’s so special about this one?” I revert to the original subject, hoping that my thoughts will meander down more interesting and less confusing paths.

  “Let me show you.”

  He leans over and reaches for the briefcase that has been at his side throughout the journey. Upon opening it, I can see the anal-retentive neatness of the compartmented case.

  If I had a briefcase, it would look just like Jake’s.

  Papers in one section, all neatly banded together with different colored binders. Pens, expensive ones too, all slotted neatly into the holders. His cell is tucked into the pocket and each of the subsequent slots hold more papers, this time in different shades, which is obviously a way to cross reference the information with nothing more than a glance.

  There are plastic boxes, thin and transparent, that contain smaller pieces of paper and with a quick glance, I see they’re hand-written notes. His super-sleek laptop sits in a different section and the charger is coiled perfectly and in a way that minimizes space consumption.

  Zane is a product of his environment. Neat and tidy, but subconsciously so. As though cleanliness is ingrained through practice.

  For Jake, like me, it’s a necessity. I can tell from the way each pen in its holder is precisely the same length and all in a neat column. We’re anal-retentive and proud of it.

  We’re here. We’re anal. Get used to it.

  He rifles through the colored binders and selects one, carefully restoring the case to its earlier precision and closing it, before placing it on the ground.

  A color print photo is on the top and a part of me is both impressed and skeptical. From the long distance shot, it looks like a hundred other bi I’ve seen in Chinatown. A violent shade of green, although this one does have gold striations in
it, smoothly polished to a high sheen and held between two metal arms on a long stand with a heavy wooden base.

  On another close-up, I see there are etchings and raised Chinese letters on the surface, and as Jake peruses the pile of photos, I can see detailed close-ups of the work.

  Chinese symbols that make no sense to me. Some housed in a raised box.

  A bi is like a jade version of a CD disk. A friend at school once gave me a small bi for a birthday present. Something my xenophobic and racist father couldn’t stand. Not that the dumbass knew what a bi actually was. He just saw Mei give it to me one day, when he came to collect me from school.

  It was unfortunate she’d waited until the end of the day to give it to me, but the instant he’d seen it pass from her hand to mine, that was it. He point-blank refused to have anything from a foreign country in his house.

  The household had been completely dominated by him, held under his iron-rule to the extent that I couldn’t point out all of our electronic goods were from Asia. Anyway if I’d done that, the TV would have gone in the trash. Something no teenager wants.

  More than anything, he couldn’t stand that I had an Asian girl for a friend, the jackass. He demanded I put a halt to the friendship, and I lied and told him Mei and I had fallen out. We hadn’t. We stayed friends until her family moved away.

  The small jade disk with its leather thong bit the dust alongside anything else my father disapproved of, but I still remember it and still think fondly of Mei, even though we lost touch a long, long time ago.

  Over the years, I’ve learnt friends are what make life on Earth bearable. The thought makes me feel guilty, because I never actually got in touch with Marina and Eddie. Ignoring them and hiding myself away has been inordinately cruel of me. They’ve got me through some tough times and I have a feeling that the future is going to be harder than anything I’ve ever experienced. Especially if it’s Zane-free.

  “What’s so unusual about this bi? It doesn’t look special, different with those raised symbols, but not special,” I mutter, forcing myself to concentrate.

 

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