The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (31 page)

I glanced up.

He was watching me.

I stood up, unsteady.

“What is it you want me to do?”

I stood in the Plaza lobby at six p.m., roughly twenty-two hours since the shooting, sleep deprived and badly shaken. Miss Moneypenny was in her soft-sided carrier, slung over my shoulder, oddly quiet. In each hand I held a suitcase full of old clothes and a garbage bag full of the new ones I had not taken to Uluru.

I paused, put down everything, and dug out my employee access card. I had no idea if it was programmed to get me into the penthouse suite. Obviously, I would prefer if Jace had not granted me special access—thus perhaps curtailing my intentions to betray him.

I ran through the drill one last time. One of the agents, it turns out, was an American diplomat—foiling my plan to head straight to the U.S. Consulate. Furthermore, the two agents patiently answered most of my questions regarding my new espionage task: they said they believed there were six members of the business syndicate Jace was involved in. These men were all reputable, legitimate business owners or moneyed elite—one was even connected to Danish royalty; another to a wealthy French shipping family. They provided names and aliases I should listen for, and described who the men were: the Dane and the Frenchman, a German, a man who called no single country home but owned more than three Swiss banks, another who was one of America’s wealthiest men, and Jace.

I made the same protest I had done on Jace’s behalf to Sullivan. “It’s hardly a crime for businessmen to meet with other businessmen.”

“You are correct,” answered one of the Germans. “But several of these men have criminal ties. More importantly,” he cut off my next protest, “combined, these men own holdings, real estate, and business stocks that could leverage a small nation.”

“We want to know why they are meeting,” added the American diplomat.

I pursed my lips. Efforts to convince them otherwise were clearly futile.

“It’s called counter-intelligence, Charlie,” said Jenny. “Think of it as a preventive measure. How do you think we’re able to predict things like terrorist attacks and such? We get someone on the inside.”

I made one last-ditch attempt.

“But it could be nothing more than a secret society, meeting to discuss political issues of the world for all you know!” I did not think my argument was entirely unsound. Jace had on one occasion expressed an interest in world affairs to me (that it was sports-related was none of their business).

“Charlie, each member’s a bloody kingpin, with businesses that specialize in different areas. Banking. Shipping. Property. It’s a syndicate, an imperial syndicate, okay?!” barked Jenny.

She turned around, took a swig of wine, and faced me calmer.

“The point is,” interceded the other man, the German agent, who had not yet spoken to me, “these men can’t be trusted not to have agendas, given their backgrounds. Obviously, we have identified a risk. That’s why we need proof of them meeting, together. We need to know what they are planning.”

He continued on to explain that I was the only potential human asset who had ever gotten this close to Jace Knight. Apparently, Sullivan Blaise had his facts wrong. Jace was not organizing this imperialist group; he was the newest member, the weakest link. Interpol wanted to know what his role was, and to gather evidence. Once I got “a drop” on any meeting location, they wanted me to inform them. Any additional information I gleaned straight from Jace was also welcome.

I swallowed.

I closed my eyes now, counted to three, and opened them.

Sighing, I picked everything up and headed to the elevators.

And I thought Sullivan Blaise was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I
still
wished desperately he had gotten me that plane ticket, up until Jenny told me, in the hallway, privately, that they knew he had met with me at B&L Driving Academy. She refused to tell me what had become of Sullivan.

I wanted to hate Jenny for turning me official sleeper-agent, but logic demanded gratitude. Without Jenny, I might never have learned of B’s troubles.

I had to help B. That is all my brain would process. Those threatening texts sent shivers down my spine.

Even after the German agent warned me off asking for Jace to pay B’s debts, I still greatly desired to tell him everything. But, what guarantee did I have he would help me after I confessed everything? And if he did help me, what kind of sway would Jace have with various American loan sharks? Plus, I was not sure I could help B with her addiction myself. No, after my mother, I knew I could not. Interpol promised they would take care of her and her addiction, as well as her debts. It was the most logical choice.

I had to spy on Jace to save B.

I stepped onto a busy elevator, and managed to insert my card with my arms full.

I pressed the penthouse button and it lit up. My brain shorted, then after a blip of nothing, it restarted.

Logic. I could rely on logic. I pushed aside my emotions.

I needed to prepare to see Jace—in his home.

I wondered what it was like. He had wanted us to come here instead of Jenny’s, apologizing for its impersonal state needlessly. He had lived in the Plaza rather than buying his own place, he told me, partly out of nostalgia (it was his first hotel purchase) and laziness. Like the proverbial painter whose house’s walls are bare, he had not bothered to buy his own personal property.

Jenny’s team of Interpol agents said he was home. And this was confirmed when two rather foreboding men stopped me after I stepped off the elevator into the foyer outside his front door. They demanded to know who I was when I said I was there for Jace Knight. One of them spoke into a device on his wrist, and I thought I heard my name.

He must have been given approval because he stepped aside just as the double doors were thrown open. I did not have time to be nervous.

Jace stood there, arms out, holding the doors wide, staring at me, skeptically. Right away I felt the adrenaline jack up inside me. I tried to stamp it down with a rational intrepidity.

His eyes narrowed, taking in my bags. He was wearing loose track pants and a T-shirt. My mouth opened . . . but nothing would come out. I closed it. I wavered.

No. I could not go through with it.

I stepped back.

His angry cast cracked. He stepped forward quickly . . .

And I found myself tucked into his body and squeezed so tight it hurt. Miss Moneypenny, who had been caught partway in her carrier, protested, and he shot his hard gaze at me.

“Jenny asked me to leave her apartment.” I stared at his mouth, unable to remember the rest of the lie Jenny told me give Jace.

“She has, has she.” His lips were in a thin line.

Silence.

Jace was highly intelligent. Surely he would see through the lies. How could he let Jenny Williams infiltrate his organization in the first place? How could he let me infiltrate his heart?

“Well, then, I’ll have to promote her,” he said, yanking Miss Moneypenny from me, telling his “mates” to bring in my stuff.

They took it from me.

That was easy.

I followed him, allowing my emotions to go to the one place that felt normal: How would Miss Moneypenny react to new surroundings yet again?

I could not even take care of her properly.

I rubbed my hands together and glanced around. Jace’s suite seemed dark because of the heavy cream and dark blue curtains, nearly closed.
Opulent minimalist
best described the look. Marble floors. Marble kitchen island. Brass finishings. Black leather. Wood tables.

Five men closed in, and one said, “Boss.”

“Right,” said Jace, putting down Miss Moneypenny near me. The one who spoke stepped aside and a short man, with curly hair and glasses, pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He did not look at all like a bodyguard, but rather a librarian or a scientist. Upon second glance, I realized he was not holding a cell phone; the device was bigger, shaped like a brick—like the one Dmitry’s men had used in Port Douglas. The man ran it all over my suitcases and the garbage bag, and then, eyeing Jace, who nodded, ran it over my body.

“Checking for bugs.” Jace answered my questioning eyes.

The blood drained from my face.

His mouth lifted in one corner.

“Bugs?”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ government's been up my arse for years.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Learned all I need about counter-intelligence from Dmitry’s ex-KGB boys.” My heart was in my throat, beating wildly. This was not only shocking news, but odd that he would mention Dmitry without snarling. Surely he suspected him of the assassination attempt?

“She’s clean,” said the man.

“Of course she is,” Jace said, winking at me. My heart skipped a beat, and then the butterfly army in my stomach resumed a skittish fluttering.

“Thanks, mate. That’ll be it for tonight, boys.”

The man nodded, and they all left.

He bent down to let out Miss Moneypenny.

“No. Just wait. Please,” I gasped, regaining my footing. It was all too much. I could not do this. I needed a moment.

Jace glanced at me—
cross
.

I shivered.

I had put on black dress shorts and a pale yellow silk shell, both insufficient given the air-conditioning. Buying extra time, I had straightened my hair and even applied makeup before packing up my belongings and coming here. I might have also wanted to look attractive, in case I had my work cut out for me.

And the way he was looking at me, maybe I did.

“I am experiencing some extremely negative emotion toward you,” I mumbled.

“Well then.” He stood up. “I can say the same, Charlie,” he said firmly, putting his fists on his waist.

Oh. He was angry at me?

“I do not understand,” I said, stilled by his negative emotion, indeed, directed at me.

“You did a runner,
again
,” he said, one of his hands reaching out, clenching into a fist tight. He closed his eyes, shook his head, lowered it and took a deep breath before continuing. “I didn’t have a fuckin’ clue where I stood with you. I still don’t. Do you know what that feels like, Charlie? To care for someone who keeps doing runners? Do you?”

The space between us crackled. I had not anticipated this reaction.

How could I? It was out of line. Clearly.

“I almost died because of you!” I shouted at him—emotion bullying its way out front. “What other reaction could you possibly expect?”

He stepped forward and I braced for his . . . energy.

It was like the gust of a lion’s roar.

“I expect you to stand by my side, that’s what I expect. You said you believed in me. And then, at the first sign of shit, you fuck off. That’s bootsie, Charlie.”

“First sign of shit?” I asked, breathless, eyebrows raised. Emotion had seized my entire entity. I was nothing but raw, pulsing feeling. And I knew I needed to check myself, because rational thought had never been more vital to my survival—to B’s survival—than in that moment.

I withdrew inside myself and mentally slapped myself a few times. When I emerged, Jace’s beautifully handsome face was no longer fierce—but forgiving. He had been talking but I had missed most of it. “Christ, you think I ever want you in that kind of danger? Charlie.”

He stepped forward, but I gasped and put out my hand. “No. First we talk. No touching until we talk!”

He half-smiled.

“Alright,” he acquiesced, hands out, fighting a full smile. I wanted to wipe it from his face.

“You knew something bad was going to happen,” I accused. When his eyebrows raised. I added, “The guns.”

“No, I didn’t. I was just prepared, Charlie. Like I always am. Thinking ahead.”

“Who is number nineteen?” I demanded, much louder than necessary, my face red with . . . fury.

His face bunched up.

“You’re bent up about that?”

I did not say anything.

“None of your bizzo, but I’ll tell you anyway. One of my lawyers. Just another backup plan for emergencies, Charlie.”

“Have you been inside her body?”

His face pulled back and then his eyes narrowed. “What kind of question is that?”

I withdrew inside myself again, smacked by the sudden realization that the figurative green monster had taken hold of me. Sullivan had told me his
sluzza
was a lawyer. Why did I care?

Because. Because. Because.

“Look, Charlie, I’m not making apologies for protecting myself. I pay her with dosh, for the record, for her skills and her discretion only. Nothing else. And she came through for me. You owe her heaps of gratitude, actually.”

I found what he said to be true, logically, but my rage inside was only stoked further by his gratitude toward her—plus, my own pride reared up. I had helped, had I not? Why was he not thanking me?

Wait, what on earth was wrong with me?! Here I was betraying him, and at the same time looking for praise. I clutched my head. He was talking. I had not been listening.

“. . . obviously I picked a place I thought we would be safe in. I’m fuckin’ pissed off, Charlie, as you can imagine. No, actually, let me be clear with you, I’m psychotic over what happened, and the motherfucker’s going to pay!”

I glanced at him, anxiety and . . . heartache made me nauseous. Yes, I had a sickness of the heart. Not cardiovascular disease related, but feelings were somehow constricting my arteries, making it harder and harder for my heart to pump blood to my body.

“You know who did it?”

His face darkened. “Yeah.”

“Dmitry,” I whispered.

He glanced at me.

“I heard men shouting Russian,” I explained. In fact, I thought it was Dmitry, Bennie (which was the only way Blaise could have known) and Joe, possibly, conspiring.

Jace shook his head.

I was confused.

“They were Russian, alright. But Dmitry would never send in men who gave away who they were. No, it wasn’t him.” He shook his head. “Trust me when I tell you, if it was Dmitry, neither of us would be standing here right now.”

“But, in Port Douglas, at the reef on the boat, he said he wanted you to get what you deserve.”