The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (12 page)

Red sprouted in my cheeks as I quickly did up my blouse. “I, uh, would be happy to try to help, Mr. Knight. You have been very kind to me.” I could not meet his eyes for some horrible reason I did not wish to articulate (okay, because my pelvic region squeezed with arousal).

“I’m not sure you’ll appreciate this, Charlie, but a bloke like me, with my wealth, gets a lot of . . . attention. Female attention.”

I tried to concentrate because my mind was now wholly focused on my arousal.

“Now many of my associates surround themselves with the finer things in life, including sheilas. That’s never been my way. Meaningless relationships, that is. I care about what’s on the inside, too.”

I thought of Mr. Knight’s
sluzza
and felt my horniness abate. My chest tightened at the pronouncement that Mr. Knight had deep feelings for his lover. Why was he telling me this? Why did I care? It was not like me to obsess on such trivial matters and I admonished myself for doing so, and for losing track of what Mr. Knight was saying. “. . . so I confess I’m guilty of asking a few of my offsiders to provide a buffer in the past, which may not have helped my reputation on that score, but certainly made my life easier.”

“Buffer?” I asked, having caught up.

“Yeah. If we were hosting a . . . business event, they’d pretend to be my better half, to provide a buffer from husband-hungry bits and such. Now before you say anything,” he added quickly, perhaps noticing how my eyebrows had shot up above my sunglasses, “I’ll admit, I didn’t think through inviting you on this trip as I should have. Dead set—I had no intentions of ever asking something like that of you. I need you to believe that. But I realize now I can’t let these blokes get the wrong idea. You’re too . . . well, it doesn’t matter. So I’m afraid you’ll need to put up a good show of it the whole time. Even around Bennie and Simon. And I’ll feel better about your safety if you shack up with me, which will free up a room, too.”

My heart was beating wildly. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

“I’m sorry I’ve put you in this highly unprofessional position. But I’ve brought you here and now it’s my responsibility to look out for you. Are you upset with me?”

Upset? I was still working through the facts he had presented, which, for the record, were utterly absurd. “So you want me to pretend to be your lover and sleep in the same bed as you to protect my virtue?” My voice was higher than I would have liked.

“Yeah, but it’s just for show. And I am not asking anything of you behind closed doors. I would never do something like that. We agreed, ay?”

What does truth look like in a pair of midnight black eyes? I could hardly believe he held a straight face.

“We’ll only be a pair ’round others.” He stretched his arm out, and when I felt his heavy hand clasp my shoulder I nearly choked on my gasp. “So I might touch you, like this. Or like this.” He removed his arm and took my hand in his, gently rubbing my skin with his tanned, thick thumb. I watched his rough fingers caress me, and marveled at how the simple sensation made my nipples harden into tiny hard beads pressed up into my bra. I fought an urgent need to rub them against something or pinch them with my fingers. I glanced up at him rather like one might glance into an eclipse, and licked my lips. “And that’s the extent of it,” he said, his eyes alight, releasing my hand. The tingling lingered on. “Can you manage that, Charlie? It’s not so bad, is it? Like I said, you’ll be putting my mind at ease knowing I don’t have to worry about you. I recognize how highly unprofessional this request is, and I’ll not do it to you again, I promise.”

• • •

Mr. Knight’s request, which at first had struck me as being much more than I could handle, turned out to be easy enough to manage. Of course, I immediately identified this as possibly being one of Mr. Knight’s manipulative traps, which Sullivan had tried to warn me of.

I had no way of knowing whether Mr. Knight had really asked past assistants to act as a buffer and if so, whether he truly had not
planned
on asking me to do the same. I did not care.

The aspect I was having trouble with was his contention that the best way to protect me was to pretend to be his. That was laughable. I was a grown woman—I could fend off the advances of men. So was he really that chauvinistic? Or did he hope, perhaps, to get inside my body after all? I was shocked to no end by how much pride I felt at this prospect, even as I was disappointed he found me so naive, given that I was raised by a drug addict (though he would not know she was one of the greatest liars in New York State).

Truly, I cared little how Mr. Knight’s intentions fell—honorable, dishonorable (none of us are perfectly good)—because I had my own agenda. He had given us the means I needed to set us both free from this terrible situation, and get myself fired.

So when we returned, I moved my belongings into his suite on the main floor. We agreed he should prepare for dinner first, as our Italian guests were set to arrive soon, so I gave him privacy by attempting to read a book on the veranda.

I could not actually focus on the words on the page as my mind was fixated on the tiny bed in our room. As it turns out, king-sized mattresses are not common in Australia. In fact, their so-called full beds are smaller than an American queen. How on earth would I sleep with someone else, such as him, in such close proximity?

Although, if I followed through with my plan to get fired, we would not be doing much sleeping. My nether regions clenched. I closed my eyes to collect myself. I intended to take advantage of his possible manipulation to manipulate him myself: I would “throw myself at him” if need be, ensuring we had sex. This way, a) he would think I was a needy, empty vessel like these other women he dislikes so much he needs a buffer to avoid them, and b) my mission would be accomplished—he would be forced to fire me as our agreed-upon arrangement of my employment excluded coitus.

Of course, I did not relish how he would feel about me after we used each other—likely losing respect for one another—but it did not matter. This was clearly the most logical course of action.

Staring out at the jungle, the birds conversing with pleasure, I was also perfectly honest with myself: sparing Mr. Knight from ruin and me from deportation were not my only motivations. I was deeply, sexually attracted to the man. I touched my cheeks—aflame. While I had tried to fight these feelings, or hide them or simply not act on them, it was beyond my capacity. B was right: I needed to
get some
, specifically some of
him
.

And why shouldn’t I have him? I could not fight or ignore my desire. I would only fail. Furthermore, I had worked through a quick probability formula and estimated the odds of finding someone else I was so attracted to within the next three years (the time frame I had given myself to marry in order to procreate) were far too low. Obviously, I had planned to give my virginity to my future husband, but I could not hold out, based on those odds, for an equal match in the arousal department. No, I would likely end up settling on someone less distracting, as I could not imagine getting through day-to-day activities efficiently in this current state. Plus, B had reassured me countless times that men prefer, indeed expect, women to have sexual experience. So why not lose my virginity to someone who aroused me greatly?

Finally, if all was lost anyway, because I could not go on being his employee
and
be attracted to him
and
betray him—and that really was the bottom line—what did I have to lose? A job? I would find another, surely. At this point, sacrificing a career with Knight Enterprises was worth the cost of protecting him, extricating myself from being a human asset for ASIS and satisfying my deeper urges without any ethical hindrances. I sighed deeply, finalizing all of this in my mind—

I jolted at the voices of Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle, who had entered the kitchen. I had arranged for food preparation services and housekeeping; however, the staff, Peter and Julie, had departed for a break before the Italians arrived.

“Crikey, look at all the grub,” said Mr. Bennett. I worried that he would eat all the food before the guests arrived. “Pass me a bottle of the amber fluid, mate,” said Mr. Carlisle. I heard the fridge door slam, the opening of two beer bottles and the removal of cellophane on the appetizer platter.

“Here ya go, mate.”

Silence ensued and I wondered if I should make my presence known.

“You need to fuckin’ chill out, mate.”

“Ya but you heard the bludger. He says he’s done. That’s why he set this up with the wops. To deal himself out. We shouldn’t have invited Dmitry, Bennie. Jace is right pissed off we did that.”

“Quit your fuckin’ grizzling. We need Jace’s backing, and this way, we’ll know where he really stands.”

Perhaps I should
not
make my presence known. They had lowered their voices for this exchange. How would they feel knowing someone had overheard? I was frozen with indecision (and I am never indecisive).

“What do you make of the yank? Bringing her and all?” asked Mr. Bennett. My stomach dropped. They were discussing me. I listened on, unblinking.

“Aw, Bennie, you heard him, right, stay the fuck away from her. He’s funny ’bout this one. Said we’re not to talk shop around her either.”

“Yeah, but did you see the bazoomas on her? They’re real, too.”

My eyes flashed wide from embarrassment, and I swore never to wear that blouse again.

“I’d like to fuck those and then that mouth of hers.”

Blood drained from my face. I shuddered in revulsion at the prospect and struggled to breathe properly.

“Those stress heads, when they break, they beg for it. You wouldn’t believe it, remember the time down in . . .”

He proceeded to tell the story of how he had had sexual intercourse with an uptight schoolteacher whom he had met at a gas station coffee bar someplace called Winkie. I was horrified in the way one might be upon accidentally channel-surfing onto porn or a violent scene in a horror movie.

An article I read in
Cosmopolitan
said that men like to brag about their exploits, but in fact, women tend to share more explicit details about their sexual dalliances. True to point, Mr. Bennett’s story lacked details that B shared—for example, if his testicles were shorn and how unsymmetrical they were—and focused instead on how he had made the schoolteacher crawl across the motel room floor to him.

I wondered, indeed, if it was a true story. A motel room floor would be so unsanitary that surely any women in her right mind would never do such a thing. Then I wondered if I would ever want a man’s penis so badly that I would snap, like the schoolteacher had. I pictured myself crawling on The Bangalow bedroom floor toward Mr. Knight—after all, it had seemed spotless—and shifted in the patio chair, longing to apply pressure on my aching vagina.

Perhaps I should have had sex long before now. Something was happening to me. I wanted to believe it was because I was attracted to one man in particular but momentarily fretted that I was so aroused I would lose control and end up pleading with any eligible passerby, before overruling such ridiculousness. Arousal was not a mental disorder. I unclasped my fingers from the lawn chair and massaged my chest where there was a mild ache from pent-up . . .
who knows what
emotion was burning there.

I would have to apply great resolve to manage my base urges and tried to do so by thinking of origami folds and the bills I needed to pay when I got home.

Feeling somewhat reassured, I waited until they moved into the living room and I heard Mr. Knight join them before I rose up and entered the kitchen.

Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle both stopped talking when they saw me emerge through the patio door, and glanced at one another. I deflected Mr. Bennett’s penetrating stare. Mr. Knight walked over to the kitchen, told me the room was all mine until dinner, and that he would come and get me when it was time to leave. I understood that to mean he wanted me to remain inside. I asked to be sure, and he said, “Would you mind?” and I said “Certainly not,” and followed his instructions to a tee, not glancing at his colleagues as I passed by them in the living room.

Safely ensconced behind closed doors, I headed to the en-suite, undressed, stepped into the shower, and promptly masturbated to the image of Mr. Knight watching me crawl across the floor. He stood there, all bronzed skin and undulating muscle, holding his penis in his hand—try as I may, I could not imagine what it looked like—watching me as I watched him watching me—

I came in a short, sudden burst of electric shock, nearly slipping on the mosaic marble tile.

Horrified, I punished myself with a blast of cold water before stepping out. Then I reassured myself that I should have no problem executing my get-fired plan as apparently I was beyond all self-control.

I dried my dark hair bone straight, angrily, and applied nighttime makeup as the girl at the makeup counter in the Buffalo Macy’s had showed me. She assured me I did not need false lashes because mine were already too long. So I did as she said and kept the mascara light. She knew her stuff. My light gray eyes were even more prominent than usual. I finished with shiny lip gloss and applied dabs of perfume behind my ears, the way my mother used to put it on when she would go out to rave (when she was much younger and long before she lost her positive physical attributes due to weight loss and other drug-related side effects).

I had packed two dresses for the trip, anticipating that I might be expected to attend two dinners. I picked the white tiered-fabric dress with black straps that outlined the front of the bodice and waist. It was a B castoff. I put on my light pink bra and thong. B had forced me to buy new underwear—all thongs—three years ago, unable, as she said, to endure my hideous panty-lines another day. I had held out for months, arguing that underwear should be, at the very least, sensible. Now, however, I had a greater appreciation for her argument that it should have sex appeal. I applied lotion on my bare legs before strapping on my black high-heeled sandals.