The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (26 page)

She returned straight away with it, and one of those Asian chicken noodle soups wrapped in cellophane, which she proceeded to make and to feed to me, in bed. I fell asleep listening to her humming a Beastie Boys song and cleaning up in the kitchen.

It had been one of the most pleasant moments of my life . . .

. . . until I woke up in Jace Knight’s arms.

I stared at the clock.

Saturday, 8:04 a.m.

I had told Jenny I was not feeling well when I returned from my driving lesson Thursday—watching over my shoulder, seeing not one sign of anyone following me. And I texted Jace to tell him I would not be FaceTiming with him or going into work the next day. When he called immediately, expressing concern, I reassured him that I had eaten something that was past its best-before date. It would run its course, and I reassured him that yes, no matter what, I would “haul arse” downstairs and into the car that would be waiting for me Saturday morning at nine a.m. to take me to the airport.

I strained to listen for any sign that he did not truly care for me. Having no idea what I should listen for, I obviously found nothing. He was excited about our weekend, and told me how much I would love where he was taking me.

I packed my old suitcase with my old clothes Thursday night. I wanted to be prepared for when Sullivan called—to go back to America.

Perspective is like a map: you cannot find your way anywhere without it. In Jace’s absence, my lustful blinders had been lifted, and Sullivan Blaise, the man I had thought was my nemesis, was evidently trying to help me. An officer of the law. How could I have . . .
forgotten
the facts of my situation, those that Sullivan had originally presented? How could I ignore what he had said now, how I was in danger? It took a while for those words to sink in. (I do not believe I shall ever find a way to process the fact that I now have a starring role in a pornographic film—I could only hope those men at ASIS would not distribute it to the public.)

Jenny was delighted to loan me her overnight bag, and I packed a selection of new clothes for this weekend’s outing in case Sullivan did not come through in time. She was very kind to offer to keep an eye on Miss Moneypenny, too.

The two bags sat packed by my bedroom door.

I checked my phone once more.

I greatly wished to hear from Sullivan before I had to leave for the airport. For I could not fight the effect Jace had on my mind, or my body, or my heart, and I wished to follow through with going home while I still believed it to be the most logical course of action (and before I threw myself in yet more danger or eroded my dignity further).

He did not contact me.

And I found myself being escorted, by Jimmy, onto Jace Knight’s private plane as it sat on the tarmac being refueled, heart beating in my throat.

“Charlie,” said Jace, standing up when I set foot in the passenger area. My heart slid back down into its proper place. He was taller than I remembered, and much younger-looking than thirty-four, in jeans and a T-shirt. There were dark lines under his eyes, a first, and I worried about his health. He was also less bronzed than usual, which suggested he had not spent much time relaxing under the Nevada sun.

He hugged my body to his, and I hugged his to mine. We drew in our familiar mingled scent and barely made eye contact before our lips met. And just like that, he was swirling through my veins. I was high on Jace Knight again.

I pressed away, smiling, staring up, elated, jubilant, giddy, to take in his smooth skin, his geometric-ness (and I never make up silly words), the glint of intelligence in those large, dark caves of safety. He flashed teeth, grinning, and sat me beside him, though I nearly sat in his lap so desperate was I to maintain contact. I needed someone to slap me.

“Can’t believe how much I’ve missed you,” he said warmly. His arm was wrapped around my shoulders and he pulled me toward him and kissed my head. “Everything feels much better now,” he added quietly.

“I agree,” I said, placing my hand on his thigh and feeling his warmth through his jeans. I really wanted to feel his leg hair on my hand, and to inch my hand higher—my God, he was my fix—and I glanced up at him.

But he was watching Jimmy and . . . six more men boarding the plane. Jace removed his arm and leaned over, saying “G’day” and “Cheers, mate” to the members of the private security op team introduced by Jimmy, shaking their hands. They were a rather robust armada of muscle. Nerves tingled. Extra security. Why had Jace upped the size of his protection detail?

I turned and stared out the window, ignoring their chatter, pressing my mouth against my fist. I watched the ground traffic coordinators motioning to one another. Perhaps I could . . . leave.

“Don’t you want to know where I’m taking you?” asked Jace, after everyone was seated, hand on my skin, plucking, pinching, rubbing softly. I was wearing a sleeveless tank top and capri pants he had bought me. He rubbed my arms and smoothed my hair and kissed me . . . always touching me. When he pulled back I saw his dark flat brow connect in the middle.

“What’s wrong? You still off?” he asked.

I cleared my throat and slapped myself mentally. “No. I just, I get nervous . . . flying. But yes, of course, I would like to know. Where are we going?”

“Uluru. Ayers Rock,” he added, giving the English name of the red rock formation in Australia’s outback. “Never been myself, if you can believe it, always wanted to, but had other things to do. You’ll love it . . . supposed to be the most peaceful place on Earth, Charlie, second to being with you. At least, I hope it will be,” he added, hesitantly, watching me.

“I’m sure it will be,” I said, smiling at him, coaxing my nerves steady with the hopefulness in his face. His words, that I was a peaceful place for him, swam around in my head.

“We’re even now,” I said, the smile gone from my face.

He glanced down at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

“That’s two gifts you’ve given me.”

His smile grew forced.

“Right,” he said, slowly staring straight ahead.

I had thrown him.

Maybe on purpose.

Guilt pinched me so hard I winced.

How could I ever doubt his affection for me? I could feel it right then, how I had hurt him by pushing him away with my comment. Why did I do that? No, it was not about feelings. It was about trust. For the first time ever I realized trust is not a feeling. It is a behavior. He needed to show me I could trust him. Then maybe I could find my own faith.

And yet, as unfair in the moment as I realized I was being, worse, I simply could not find the motivation to draw him back.

I wanted to leave as much as I wanted to stay.

I hated feelings more than ever (choosing the only thing I could identify behind my self-induced torture to focus on). If I could have them removed from me in an operation, I would start saving up money now.

Thankfully, Jace took a last-minute call before take-off, which was full of hushed murmurings and ended with him growling, “I’m on fuckin’ holiday for the first time in two years and if anyone bothers me again they’ll be fuckin’ sorry.” It was Mr. Bennett, I was sure.

Of course, I had not helped his mood either.

“So where are we staying in Ayers Rock?” I said just as he hung up, generating excitement around the notion he was on vacation, and therefore, perhaps, truly free of all potential risk. I rubbed his hand, allowing the sensation to permeate my being.

His eyes flashed at me, then he smiled, evidently relieved, and told me about the plans he had made for us, animation spreading across his beautifully handsome face.

• • •

Most people don’t realize how big Australia is: it took us three and half hours to fly from Sydney to Ayers Rock—a total distance of 1,345 miles.

Jace had booked a resort called Longitude 131°—exclusively. After learning that, I was immediately tossed into a stew pot of remarkable ego-boosting feelings.

This was about me. He had done this for me.

That became crystal clear as we drove toward the majestic, unusual geological formation in a line of four-wheel-drive vehicles, red desert dust plumes ballooning behind us. Jace pointed to a lonely, narrow line of fifteen white-tented buildings set in the gateway to the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. He told me this was the closest accommodation to the park.

I glanced at him, not quite believing. He was watching me, wanting me to be pleased, wanting to see my amazement. I gave him my best alien impersonation. He shot me a broad grin.

When we closed in, it became clear the fifteen tents were actually square one-bedroom buildings, with tent-like wooden roofs covered in white tarps, elevated atop the rust-red dunes. We would be sleeping in the desert without actually camping (a great relief; camping was clearly for our ancestors and a necessity I am certain they did not relish). We would watch the sun set and rise on the mysterious rock formation from a large, crisp white bed through floor-to-ceiling windows.

The resort website I had looked up on the plane boasted that it offered unheralded peace. I believed it to be true. As we stepped out of the vehicles and were greeted by five members of staff—the manager, the chef, two housekeepers and concierge—I felt an unusual sensation bathe my being along with the heat of the sun-baked earth.

When I mentioned this to Jace, alone in our air-conditioned “tent,” he agreed with me.

“I can feel a solitude I have never experienced before,” I added, standing on the wood plank floor in front of the screen, having opened up the great windows to listen to the sound of the desert. And I withdrew inside. “It is indescribable,” I heard myself whisper.

Because Longitude 131° was located on the non-tourist side of the rock, we were truly away from most of humanity.

Silence. My favorite sound.

This was my new favorite place.

Jace stood behind me, arms wrapped around my waist. “It feels . . . sacred,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I agreed, straining to make eye contact with him. “That’s it.”

He squeezed me tighter and kissed the side of my neck.

I knew—glancing back out at the open, wide expanse of red-dust land, dotted with a scattering of short green sprays of shrubs—that there were no cameras on us, that there were no threats surrounding us. We were truly alone. We were truly safe. And I realized how I had never really felt safe before. Not like this. Not even when I fell deep into his eyes.

I turned around, quickly, inhaling his scent, running my hands over his body, up on his shoulders, his chest, down his arms, heaving for air.

His arms loosened around me, sliding down. He was giving over—perhaps sensing in that moment that I needed him to, badly.

Yes. It was my turn to express a feeling to him.

When I glanced up and took in his serious, knowing face, watched him lick his full lips, my mind started buzzing with static, my vagina clenched and my chest expanded with a deep, dire
burn
.

Yes. I needed him to understand, to experience the flames of the fervor, the angry, ardent zeal to consume his body, to own him, to hurt him even, to squeeze him, pinch him . . . my eyes flitted over his face, his arms, his chest. I needed to . . . what? What had come over me? I was ablaze with lascivious fury.

I
wanted to fuck
him
.

I
wanted to possess
him
.

Yes. That is it!

I pushed him back, hard.

His brow knitted, but anticipation lifted his mouth, and in the upturned corners was a challenge. Yes, he wanted me to try.

I backed him up toward the bed, pausing to yank off my top, leaving my sheer white bra on. When he hit the edge, I wasted no time, rabidly shoving up his top, reaching, and he helped me lift it over his head, staring at me the whole time with . . . excitement. Yes.

I dropped to my knees before him. He made a soft noise, not a gasp, but a heavy, raspy breath.

I rubbed my face against his jeans longingly, where his penis was growing erect, and his hands cupped my head softly.

I bit his cock lightly through his pants. He made another breathy moaning sound. Yes.

I wanted to make him weak, weak with need, weak with pleasure, and I wanted him to suffer . . . from the weakness . . . because pleasure was not real without the burn—the burn of desire I was feeling.

“Charlie,” he uttered, a hitch in his voice. Oh, he was weak already and it fed my own wet, aching burn. My hands were gripping his hard butt, and I ran them up and down his thighs, rubbing my face side to side on his lustful instrument, bringing my hands up, undoing his jeans, raising my eyes up to his.

Reverence rained down on me, fueling my certainty.

My cock. He was
mine
.

I pulled his pants and underwear down quickly, freeing his penis, which fell down like a tree. The scent—woodsy, fleshy—made my clitoris clench up tight. I slipped my finger into my pants, under my thong, and rubbed my budding nerve plexus, briefly, to appease it, and I sucked in air, moaning, releasing my clenched jaw. More. I needed more.

He leaned over to remove his boots and take off his pants. I closed my eyes from the relief of the pleasure spreading out inside from my fleshy bud, which I rubbed light and fast, but . . . I opened my eyes again, quickly, not liking not seeing him. I might go crazy from the sexual frenzy smoldering inside. Yes. To have him. I stopped rubbing myself only to finish removing my pants, frantic, on the floor, getting back to my knees as he stood back up.

I ran my hands up his strong calves, taking in a breath to gain back control of myself, admiring his knees, his bulging thighs, loving the sensation of hair under my fingertips. Man hair.

“Charlie,” he said again, and I glanced up.

His head was tilted sideways, and there was a look of pain on his face.

Oh. I was teasing him.

I let my gaze fall on his cock. And I stared at its bulging veins, smooth skin, folds . . . the vulnerability . . . the mystery . . . the power.

My power.

“Charlie,” he hissed, his hand spread over the top of my head, tremulous with a need to control.