by Lila Dubois
“Yes,” Alena said softly.
“Art that you think was transported by my company.”
“Right again.”
Alexander surged from the table and started to pace. Alena rose too—her butt still hurt, despite the pain killers she’d taken, so she might as well stand.
“I want to believe you—”
“You should, it’s the truth.”
“—but I can’t. Why would you need to come to me? Why wouldn’t you ask my team to search the records?” He ran his hands through his hair and this time the agitation wasn’t playful. “Damn it, you made me believe…”
Alena’s heart twisted and she rushed over to him, holding his face in her hands.
“Alexander, what I told you is the truth. Why you? Because you have a complete backup of your company records in your house, and your notorious desire for privacy meant the security inside was light. I needed to get into your house. If you want, later, I can take you through all the other options I considered.”
“I was the vulnerability.”
“No, you were the man I found so fascinating that I studied you until I figured out your sexy secret. And when I found it, when I learned about the Orchid Club, I realized we had something in common. I didn’t lie to you about being a sub. I was, in those years after college when I was still figuring myself out.”
Alexander placed his hand over hers, pressing her palm into his cheek.
“We were supposed to scene, be friendly, have some good wholesome non-sexual BDSM fun. My plan was always to set it up so you’d invite me to your home for something, and then I’d find a reason to spend the night. You had a history of offering hospitality.”
He stared down at her and she wished she could peek inside his head and see what he was thinking. Every word was the truth, and she desperately needed him to believe her.
The sun was setting, darkness falling, and the lights on the patio had yet to be turned on, leaving them surrounded by pale gold dusk. She could hear the sounds of the wildlife who lived on the preserve—different birds calling out as the sun set. There was also the sound of a car engine, the sound probably traveling from the main road.
“I would have gotten the information and left. You were never supposed to even know it had happened.”
“You’re not a hacker.”
“No, I’m not. I know enough to use the tech, not build it.”
He was silent, and she couldn’t stand it. There were so many things she needed to tell him and she hadn’t gotten to them yet.
“They, we, couldn’t go to you directly because your company would have locked down. A team of lawyers, a million lawsuits, counter suits, denials…and in the end the art would all still be missing.”
Alexander frowned. “All? It’s more than one painting?”
She thought she could hear shouting coming from inside the villa, but ignored it.
“It’s not paintings,” she said softly. “Not just paintings.” Alena stroked his cheek the way he had hers. “And your company didn’t just transport the art. You stole it.”
“What?” Alexander fell back a step. “We did nothing of the—”
He stopped with an “oof” of exhaled air as she threw herself against his chest.
She’d done it in response to the red sniper’s dot that had appeared on his shirt.
He’d said people were looking for her.
She’d hoped to have more time.
“Alexander, listen to me.”
Behind him, the villa glass shattered and men appeared, some vaulting over the railing of the balcony, some emerging from the villa through the empty window frames. They wore black riot gear, held massive guns, and were all heading towards her.
Alexander wrapped his arms around her, as if to protect her.
She was the one who needed to protect him.
“Your curator,” she frantically. “Absolon Blanchar is an art thief and he’s using your company to smuggle stolen artifacts out of the Middle East and into Europe.”
A black-clad man grabbed her by the arms, yanking her away from Alexander, who swung at the man. Two more grabbed him, and Alena’s heart clenched as they forced him to his knees.
“Don’t fight,” she called out.
“Get your hands off of her,” Alexander snarled, first in English, then again in German.
The man who’d pulled her back had already released her. A team of four was guarding Alexander. They forced him to put his hands on his head, and she was glad they hadn’t cuffed him.
“Alexander,” she stepped closer, brain scrambling to figure out what she needed to tell him. What, of all the things there hadn’t been time to say, was the most important.
“Ms. Moreau,” a male voice said from within the villa.
Alena glanced up, did a quick double-take at the sight of the man who walked out onto the patio.
Damn it, she should have seen that coming.
“Alexander, listen to me—there are two things I have to tell you.”
“Ms. Moreau!” The newcomer started walking faster. “Do not say anything more until we have a chance—”
“First. I love you.”
Alexander’s whole body jerked as if she’d pinched him, and then he smiled. It was an amazing, sexy, happy smile.
“Second…” Damn it, he was going to stop smiling, but she was out of time and he deserved to hear this from her.
“Ms. Moreau, please refrain—”
She took a deep breath, steeled herself to deal with the fallout from what she was about to do, no matter what that fallout was.
“I love you,” she said again. “And I don’t just consult for Beijing Guardian.”
The newcomer stormed up beside her, his blue windbreaker with bold white lettering across the back flapping he was moving so fast.
Alena glanced back to Alexander, winced apologetically, and said, “I also work for Interpol.”
The story continues in Vienna Bliss.
There were few times in his adult life that Alexander had felt vulnerable. As a child, awkward and stuttering, unsure where to seek comfort—his parents or his nanny—it had been a different story. Then he’d felt vulnerable because he’d felt inadequate. For him the self-assurance of youth had faded when, around age ten, he’d realized what would be expected of him.
When he’d stepped into his role as CEO of Wagner Global, he’d finally overcome two decades of gut-churning self-doubt as defensive walls of power and authority had been added to his already considerable insulation given by both his privilege and his wealth.
All that had brought him to this place, this moment.
On his knees inside his villa, his personal security on either side of him, their hands bound behind their backs.
Helpless.
Where there had once been a massive windows and a set of glass French doors that led out onto the patio there was now only empty frames.
The villa staff, all four men and three women, were huddled in the far corner of the room. They were unharmed, and looked far less alarmed than he might have thought. Then again, the people of Moldova were no strangers to dangerous situations.
Though he doubt any of them had ever been faced with an Interpol raid before.
Outside the sun had fully set. The exterior lights weren’t on yet, so it was the moon’s silvery light that lit the nature preserve, the patio, and the men stationed on it.
He’d counted twenty people so far, and from what Jakob had whispered several moments ago the security team had managed to take out four using non-lethal means before they in turn were overrun with teargas and rubber bullets.
Twenty, plus the four his men had injured. Two dozen men had broken into his home and assaulted his employees.
And there was not a damn thing Alexander could do to stop them. His obsessive need for privacy, his desire to be alone and isolated, was what would be his downfall. His own choices were the reason for the crippling vulnerability.
The agent in ch
arge of the Interpol strike team stood several meters away, the rest of the team spread out on either side of him, not dissimilar to how the RTW men were positioned on either side of Alexander. Of the three only Jakob was alert, kneeling, but with his toes braced as if he would, any minute now, spring up to defend them.
Ruslan and Finn were kneeling, but both men where hunched over. Ruslan’s eyes were red, and he occasional let out a deep cough. Tear gas, Alexander assumed. Finn was grimacing, and holding his left arm oddly, even accounting for his hands being behind his back. Perhaps he’d taken a rubber bullet to that shoulder.
Jakob was ready to leap into action, but the RTW security expert was not the only defender Alexander had.
Alena stood between him and the Interpol agents, facing them down, and every inch of her body radiated irritation. No fear, no worry. Just regal disdain.
“Who is she?” Jakob ask out of the corner of his mouth.
“She’s…” Alexander wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence
Alena looked back over her shoulder, her expression creasing into a worried frown. She glanced at Jakob, Ruslan and Finn in turn.
“Is she Interpol?” Jakob asked.
“A consultant.”
“Working for Interpol.” Jakob hung his head. “Fuck.”
Alena whipped back around and pointed at one of the agents in tactical gear.
“Release them, immediately, also, I expect one of you has basic First Aid. Fix whatever it was you did to those two.”
“You don’t give the orders here, Ms. Moreau.” It was the leader who spoke. His Scandinavian accent matched his appearance.
“Frankly, I think I might outrank you, Rolf.”
“You’re a consultant.” There was a slight bite of irritation in his words.
Rolf? Had he heard that name before. Alexander leaned to the side to peer at the man.
“And who do we think is more important to the operation?” Alena tipped her head to the side as if considering the options. As she did he glimpsed a hint of gold through her hair.
The lock on that damned collar.
“We came here to rescue you,” Rolf said in irritation. “You didn’t check in.”
“I am under not obligation to check in with my contact, who, by the way, isn’t you. I want Agent deGaul on the line, right now.” She pointed at each of the people arrayed in front of her. “You all ready to roll the dice and side with Rolf?”
“Agent Pedersen,” Rolf said softly.
“I think I’ll stick with Rolf.”
For a moment Alexander tuned out her back-and-forth with the Interpol agent. If she was bluffing, it was a masterful performance. Both her mention of dice and his own use of the term bluff reminding him of what she’d said in his office.
Alexander, it isn’t a game.
When he’d caught her back in Vienna he’d been sure he knew what was a truth and what was a lie. Everything about her had been a lie, and his own position as the injured party was an irrefutable truth.
That surety was gone now.
He’d a dozen questions about her revelation even before the raid. Now…now he wasn’t even sure where he should start an inquiry, if he were given an opportunity.
Agent Pedersen turned and said something in French to the agents beside him. Both stripped off their helmets and heavy tactical gloves, setting them aside. The first, a black woman, left the room, while the second, a woman with pale gold hair pulled low in a bun, plucked a knife from a small compartment on her vest and walked over to them.
She freed Ruslan and Finn first, then him and finally Jakob.
He rubbed his wrists and then climbed to his feet. Jakob jumped up and positioned himself at Alexander’s left side.
“Take care of the others,” Alexander said softly.
“I am a medic.” The black woman, now carrying a bright red duffel, walked passed him to the couch where the blonde had positioned the RTW men in need of medical care.
“I stay with you,” Jakob said.
Alena had half turned to watch all this happen, while still standing in the no-man’s-land between himself and Rolf Pedersen.
She took a few steps towards the couch, watched for a moment as the two agents helped Ruslan and Finn.
Then Alena turned and walked over to stand beside him, on his right.
Alexander frozen, his breath still in his chest. The cynical part of him wanted to declare this another ploy of some kind, another move in what she’d told him was, to her, a game.
Her fingers tentatively brushed the back of his hand, and Alexander’s breath released in a rush of air.
He took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. She squeezed tight.
Rolf looked at them. The other man’s gaze jumped from their hands to the scarf around Alena’s neck. the scarf that hid the collar Alexander had locked on her.
Rolf was looking at her, at them as if he knew what was under the thin piece of silk.
Alexander now knew why Rolf looked familiar. “Shit.”
“Recognize him?” Alena whispered.
“He was in Vienna.”
“Yes. The question is, was he at the club to watching you, or me?”
Alena stalked out of the ground floor parlor, which Rolf had taken over as a temporary command post. The agents who’d come with them had been given rooms in the Vatican wing of the house.
Ruslan, whose eyes were still puffy and red despite a milk bath, had spoken with the household staff. She hadn’t overheard what he said, what possible explanation he could have given that would make them accept that the people who’d only hours ago broken into the house and taken them prisoner were now to be treated as guests.
Alena walked briskly towards the stairs. Half way up she realized she had no idea where she was going. The second floor of this wing had the sitting room whose windows and French doors had been destroyed by Rolf’s overzealous morons, the gallery, and off of that Alexander’s office.
The room she’d used to shower, the room where her ransacked luggage was waiting, was in a completely different wing, and she had no confidence in her ability to navigate the twisting innards of the villa to find it again.
She could sleep on the bed in the playroom.
Or the couch in the office.
Until the day she died she’d remember every detail of both rooms. But it was the in the office that her life had changed over the course of a few hours.
She’d had more than enough emotional revelations and surprises for today—though at this point it might be near midnight. She was tired, hungry, hurting, and just wanted a bed. She didn’t want to walk back into Alexander’s that office and face the too-fresh memories.
Not that they were all bad. In fact, they were mostly good memories.
But they weren’t light and soft. They were heavy, spiky things that had ripped up her world and life as she knew it.
“Alena.”
She glanced up. Her indecision had stopped her on the mid-point of the staircase, and she had no idea how long she’d been standing here, staring vacantly at the carvings of a leaves worked into the rise of the treads.
Alexander stood at the top, his shoulders and head silhouetted by the lights.
“Alexander.”
He held out a hand. “Come to bed.” He paused. “If…if you’d like to.” He cleared his throat. “The first part should have been a question.”
A half-hysterical laugh of relief and amusement bubbled up inside her. Alena jogged up the stairs and into his arms.
She laid her cheek on his shoulder, tucked her forehead against his neck, and twined her arms around his waist.
Alexander’s arms slid around her back, and his cheek rested against her head.
They’d never held one another like this, a comforting, comfortable embrace that she associated with longtime lovers. Not two people who had, only hours ago, been exchanging emotional barbs that left one another the walking wounded.
Though she had some physical ach
es and pains she needed to deal with too. For the past two hours she’d been sitting across a desk from Rolf while they had Agent de Gaul on speaker phone. And as she sat there the pain medicine wore off and her ass started to throb. She hadn’t dared get up, not when the man sitting across from her was a Dom. The revelation about Rolf longstanding membership at the Orchid Club was something she’d need to think about, and would most definitely share with Alexander.
She hadn’t wanted to risk that Rolf would guess exactly why she needed to stand up, so she’d remained seated, even as the pain grew so intense that she bit the inside of her lip.
“I need to lie down, and I need aspirin.”
Alexander cursed in German, then kissed the top of her head. With one arm around her, holding her against his side, he guided them through was she was starting to think of as the Moldovan wing.
He brought her to a room whose door was tucked down a short, nondescript hallway. He opened it and guided her in.
She couldn’t help it, she held her breath as she waited to see if he would be inside with her, or on the outside the door locked behind him.
“I can send someone for your case,” Alexander squeezed her shoulder and then glided away.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight.”
“Let them sleep.” Alena leaned her shoulder against the wall by the door and watched as Alexander strode away.
It was an odd room and would have fascinated her if she was so distracted by pain and worry. It was L shaped, with the door at the bottom corner. After studying the view out the many windows, she r realized that this room probably spanned two wings. The long side of the L was in the Moldovan wing, while the short corner was situated within, what was from the outside, a replica of the Vatican.
“Do you have a map of this place? Or architectural drawings?”
“No,” he called out, voice echoing slightly.
Alena gathered some energy and followed him, whistling in appreciation when she saw the bathroom, which was the size of an apartment all on it’s own. There were marble vanities with carved wooden mirrors. Light fixtures of wood with opalescent glass gave the space a craftsman aesthetic.