The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (17 page)

“Ah, you are adorable! Has anyone told you that?”

I pulled back. He had not only complimented me rather enthusiastically, but had placed a hand on my leg.

That constituted a pass. I was certain. I needed to set him straight once and for all.

“Perhaps it is not clear—” I pushed at his hand, but it was clamped down firm “—but I belong to Jace.”

“Belong?” he answered, pushing his lips down, making a face that suggested he was impressed, though I did not think he meant it. His hand slid up my leg.

Of course he could and had misconstrued my meaning. I had meant that we belonged
with
each other, not to each other, for clearly that is how I felt. Should I attempt to clarify?

Joe leaned over a little and, staring at my face, said, “I like that you know your place, huh? It is also fortunate for me, everything that is his, is mine.
Capisce
?”

Anxiety swelled in me. What was he talking about? How on earth could he think, a) I had meant Jace owned me, and, b) that he would share me?

Jace’s legs came back into view and I released the breath I’d been holding, looking up at his dark shadow, backlit by bright sky.

Joe sat back, legs spread wide, staring up at Jace, grinning, hand on my thigh. I pushed at it again.

“Charlie tells me she will love Italy.”

He removed his hand but draped said arm over my shoulder and my mouth popped open to protest—as I am certain what he said could be easily misunderstood—but nothing came out.

Jace stepped closer and his eyes narrowed on Joe, who laughed strangely.

“No? You do not think she will like it?”

An additional strange feeling hit me, beyond all the others, and I realized it was because there was silence. Everyone on the boat was listening. Jimmy had appeared behind Jace, and he had been shadowed by one of Joe’s men. Dmitry had stopped his storytelling. His Goon had stood up and both were stiff, watching Joe and Jace.

I was winded.

No one was saying
anything
.

“The deal I made with Giuseppe stands,” growled Jace.

“And me? What do you give me?” Joe snarled back, standing up quickly and stepping so close to Jace I was surprised he did not step back, for I could not stand that kind of proximity with a stranger, and certainly not one as hostile as Joe. Dmitry had stepped up and stood beside Mr. Carlisle.

“That’s not my problem,” ground out Jace. “Don’t like it, let’s ring your daddy, right now.”

I glanced at Joe, as I assumed the reference to “daddy” had been a derogative one. He reminded me of a cobra, watching his lithe body, hunched over slightly, and I worried he might suddenly lash out and bite Jace.

Jace laughed then. Out loud. Only I was certain it was not sincere. Then he turned to me, reached an arm out, and I took it quickly, rising. “I’ll show ya where we’re headed, Charlie,” he announced lightly. We headed down the steps into the cabin area, where today’s two tour guides and the boat captain were waiting to do their presentation.

Short on oxygen, I leaned against Jace as we stood near the corner. My unsteadiness was not caused by the ocean’s sway, but because of the situation we were in.

A boatful of vipers.

I should be angry at Jace for putting me here. Certainly that’s what logic dictated. But with his hands wrapped around my waist, holding me tight to him, I just wanted to . . . protect him. For I was a viper too, at least if Sullivan Blaise had his way. Furthermore, I had experienced Jace’s world, such as it was, and I could not blame him for wanting a buffer, whether it be in the form of aggressive long-time associates, like Mr. Carlisle, or a simple girl from Niagara Falls with an above-average IQ who had mated with him for her own terrible reasons.

Sympathizing with him was a practical response, and the right way to feel. Besides, he had whispered in my ear, “Don’t be scared. Trust me.”

Of course B says when someone asks you to trust them, that means you should not. I thought of how I felt staring into Jace’s eyes last night—and my body relaxed against his as I accepted what he said as truth. Then I wondered if I was in fact driven entirely by emotion, perhaps lust, as well? But I reassured myself that even if that was the case, it would only last today, or until I was removed from his physical presence at the end of the trip. And that as long as I felt good feelings, whatever the source, it was correct and proper and appropriate. He gave me a quick squeeze as Joe and the rest of the party filed in. It took some concentration to pick up on the information they were imparting about the reef.

• • •

It was 8:10 p.m. before we clambered back into the limo from the port, smelling of suntan oil, high on sea air, and wind-burned. I struggled with my land legs for the first few minutes, and clung to Jace, wholly richer for having braved the ocean. My ears were plugged but, as annoying as that was, I was beyond grateful to him for giving me this experience, and I had already thanked him twice. I was also grateful Dmitry and his Goon had taken a different car. They were extremely intoxicated. Mr. Carlisle and Mr. Bennett and a bevy of bodyguards who met us at the pier were in our car, as well as his Russian girl, who had fallen asleep.

I had had two glasses of wine, which made me feel extremely silly, and then mildly tired.

I was busy texting B a photo of me in the water that Jace had taken with his hi-tech underwater camera. I appeared not unlike a fish myself in my bright blue wetsuit, goggles and breathing tube, smiling next to a giant, bright yellow butterflyfish.

I had found the experience as I imagine someone might feel flying into space. I had dropped into another planet. The small section of reef where we snorkeled was beyond
awesome
. After all, it was the largest structure on this planet built by a living organism. Schools of brightly-colored fish, strange, prickly creatures, and, well, simply too many species to identify swam around me neither frightened nor curious. Just accepting. It occurred to me that they must have thought I was another fish. They studied me silently. I felt exhilarated, and then, terribly sad.

I found I rather enjoyed the company of these fish more than humans, and reflected on how I am not unlike one of them—in a giant bowl, skittering around people staring bug-eyed, wondering,
who are you?
,
what are you about?
and,
what does it all mean?

I texted B the photo and wrote
Wish you were here.

And I felt a pang of longing to see her smile, and hear her derisive snort.

Jace was draped over my shoulder, having answered a few work emails, including dealing with an urgent situation in St. Lucia, I gathered, involving a hotel renovation. Since we had made love (I had decided “coitus” was indeed insufficient), he had barely taken his hands off me.

“Who’s B?” he asked. Oh, he had been reading over my shoulder.

“My best friend.”

“Why do you call her B?”

“She hates her name.”

Silence.

“Beatrice. But do not ever call her that.”

“What’s her surname?”

“Moody.”

My phone buzzed with a response.

Hm. Wet ‘n’ wild with the boss. Did he go fish yet?

I heard Jace chuckle and I glanced at him. “Double entendre.” I rolled my eyes. His fingers rubbed my shoulders, nearly pinching them. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You can tell her I plan to go deep-sea diving later.”

I gasped.

“I am certain she would describe that as corny.”

He flashed me his white teeth, even whiter against the fresh tan he had picked up today. I had offered him sunscreen but all he said was, “That stuff will kill you.”

“Hey,
huggy bear
!” shouted Mr. Bennett, and Jace’s body jolted along with mine. The Russian girl was obviously passed-out, as she didn’t budge in spite of the shouting.

I tensed—Mr. Bennett was very upset. His eyes were bugging out of his head at Jace, and I wondered if he had asked a question I had not heard. “Yougoin’ ta fuckin’ dosomethin’ about this?!?” He spoke so fast I barely made out the words.

Jace kept right on stroking my arm, which I found distracting rather than enticing, given the sudden hostility.

Lightheaded, I tried to breathe properly, as I thought about what Mr. Bennett’s problem must be. If I was not mistaken, based on what I had overheard between Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle, Jace was on this trip to make some kind of deal with Giuseppe. If a deal went down, I was hoping it had occurred last night before dinner when I waited in my room, or after I was sent home from the restaurant so I would not be privy to details. However, Jace’s colleagues also indicated they had another agenda, something they needed Jace to do—something that Mr. Carlisle had expressed concern that Jace would
not
do—and it was all connected with why they invited Dmitry.

“Not now, ya wet patch,” murmured Jace.

“Fuck you. We discuss this right now. He’s fuckin’ leaving in less than twelve hours.”

I was breathless with worry. Being in an enclosed space with riled-up men was deeply disturbing to me. Also, I did not wish to accidentally gain knowledge. Furthermore, Jace was severely angry. I do not know how I knew this, I just did.

“Bennie, don’t spit the dummy,” grumbled Mr. Carlisle.

“You haven’t been
in
for three fuckin’ years, Jace. Dmitry needs to deal with me. Ya need to tell him that.”

“Enough! Can the tantie!” snapped Jace. He had stopped stroking my arm. Mr. Bennett finally backed off, shaking his head, leaning back in his seat.

“Sorry, mate. I’m up shit creek, right.”

“Trouble is,” said Jace, leaning forward, “you can’t pass along respect, Bennie. How many times have I told you the key to people is listening, and not to just listen so you can fuckin’ open your gob, but listen to understand.”

Oh no
.

Stop talking
.

Mr. Bennett opened his eyes wide and then narrowed them. “I have! You know I have!”

“I’m not talking about
that
,” he said calmly.

No. Please stop talking
. I rapidly tried to build a mental wall around myself so I had a safe place to be objective about all this—hoping no one would explain what
that
was.

“I’m talking about bringing him something he can’t get from anyone else.” Jace pointed to his forehead. “That’s the way you need to start thinking instead of using your todger,” he added, staring at the Russian girl.

I had opened my mouth, but nothing was coming out. Instead I stared wide-eyed between them, praying one would discontinue the exchange.

Mr. Bennett was pursing his lips. “Like what?” he whined, flopping back in his seat.

“What about you, Simon?” Jace turned to Mr. Carlisle. “What’s your say?”

My heart was beating as I am certain an Olympian sprinter’s would have after running the fifteen-hundred meters.

Mr. Carlisle stared at Jace calmly, and I realized he was thinking. And, it occurred to me, he was likely much smarter than one gives him credit for, perhaps because of his droopy eye.

Mr. Bennett was back on the edge of his seat, looking back and forth between the two. He appeared even more disgruntled. “What the fuck—”

“Well,” carried on Mr. Carlisle, “Dmitry needs somewhere to hide his dosh and we’ve got that property out in—”

“Mr. Knight!” I exclaimed, reverting to professional boundaries. “I am not feeling well!” I exclaimed, clasping my head.

Startled, as though he had forgotten I was there, he removed my hand to check my head quickly and took in my face with concerned eyes. I heard Mr. Bennett suck his teeth in frustration.

Better a broken train of conversation than life in prison for you and me in witness protection!

“You don’t feel hot,” he said quietly.

“I think, I think I am dehydrated.”

“Here,” said Mr. Carlisle, passing me a water bottle. I made eye contact with him, as I said thank you, and decided that those eyes were indeed highly astute. And then I did feel a wave of heat stroke, nausea and dizziness from nerves and exhaustion and fear. The color was swamp-mud green. Plus, the edge of that damn afghan had drifted into view. “I think I might vomit.”

Jace tapped the glass. “Pull over, mate.”

“No, no. I can hold it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

No one said another word the rest of the short drive, though Mr. Bennett tried, but Jace threatened to kill him, and I think he meant it.

I rushed into The Bangalow and weaved through the Russians, who appeared to be getting revved up to party some more. I caught a glimpse, and it appeared Peter and Julie had not only cleaned up the suite but laid out food. The tinny scent of tomato sauce, yes, it must be, reached my nostrils and I covered my mouth. I noticed Joe’s golden brown eyes were on me, of course, always always always—I’d nearly been given to him!

I ran down the corridor into the bedroom and I didn’t even close that door or the bathroom door, barely lifting the lid of the toilet before ejecting the contents of my stomach.

Dizzy, wretched, I wondered if death would be so cruel.

A few moments later, relief washed over me.

It was over. I could let go of the terrible sensations.

Something wet and cool touched my forehead, and I opened my eyes. Jace was passing me a wet washcloth. I flushed the toilet and wiped my face with it, leaning back on my heels.

“Feel better now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You sick or something?”

“No. I think it was the change of routine,” I offered stiffly.

No.

I knew what it was.

Lies, debauchery, crime. A higher-class, much, much more dangerous version of the same life I had had in Niagara Falls. My mother might have said, “Same shit, different smell.”

How had that happened?

Mr. Knight.

In that moment, a tsunami of blackness swallowed me up. I despised him and his history, his life, his colleagues, his lies. For he was lying. What was he doing with these dangerous men if he was just a wealthy hotel developer? He should be just that, a legitimate businessman and nothing more! Shouldn’t he?