The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (35 page)

Someone snorted. I smiled weakly. “Sorry. I drank too much.”

Jace smiled but he was holding something back from me. And it struck me how I knew that, and how horrible it felt, and furthermore, how I did that—all the time!—to him. I held back truth, and it made him feel horrible. Now I felt even worse.

Was there no end to my suffering?

We headed back, slowly so as to not make me feel any worse, even though I already felt I had hit the proverbial rock bottom. No wonder my mother turned to drugs after drinking heavily. Back in the suite, I had only enough energy to strip and brush my teeth. I dropped into bed and Jace lay beside me, stroking my hair.

I could not be sure, as my sleep was intoxicated, addled and restless . . . but it is possible he whispered something to me before I went under. He may have said, “Don’t let me down, Charlie.” But in the dawn of my hangover, it was impossible to be sure I did not imagine it.

The way I found out about the meeting was shockingly straightforward. Midday, after we slept in and dined on Bellagio waffles (truly scrumptious), Jace mentioned he had to do some work after all, and typed away on his computer at the desk. He suggested I go for a massage in the spa, but I declined, not wanting to leave his side. Instead, I read a book on the sofa, with Miss Moneypenny curled into my side, and texted B to tell her I was in America on a trip with Mr. Knight.

She told me she had never been better. (I assumed she was lying.) I asked her for her new address again. When she asked why, I told her I wanted it so I could mail her a postcard. Then I checked the cost of flights from Vegas to Silicon Valley.

And that’s when it happened. Jace went into the bathroom, and left his laptop
open
.

I knew the password protection would click in as soon as the screensaver popped on—leaving me one minute to decide what to do. With B front and center in my mind, I crept quickly over to the laptop and found a personal email account I did not know existed in a strange email software program I had never encountered before.

Breathless, literally, I sorted through the most recent emails and read three, wrestling with the waffle climbing its way back up my esophagus.

In a nutshell, the exchanges discussed using a particular embedded European Union asset to help create an anonymous shell corporation in a location Jace was supposed to source, wrapped around an opaque legal structure designed to hide illicit financial gain. They were establishing a vehicle for a number of “beneficial owners”—all well-known politicians. The names of the members of the organization were right there in the “send to” header, perhaps aliases?

I raced through the final email: Jace wrote that he had identified a location, and asked if the source would agree to send someone to meet him at four p.m. today to pick up a hard drive containing a dossier on the location. He would be with his “wife” in one of the Bellagio pool cabanas.

I heard the toilet flush. I dashed back to the sofa, vibrating with shock and fear. I didn’t say a word, just pretended to read.

Jace sat back down at the desk, seemingly none the wiser. I stared at him over my e-reader, my mind whirring. My stomach had not settled; in fact, it had worsened.

Jace had insisted he wanted a better life. And I had hoped his new organization would be strictly a meeting of like-minded businessmen. But . . . after the shooting, he’d also said that he wanted to be untouchable and he spoke of making the best choices he could, given his circumstances. Perhaps he had to carry out a few clandestine operations to reach his end goal of supreme control and safety for us. I even hoped, I realized, that maybe doing this, moving higher up the echelon of “gray,”
would
protect him from law enforcement and from all sorts of other threats, especially people like Mr. Bennett—whom he could not seem to escape otherwise, and people like me. Maybe that was what was gnawing at these Interpol agents: if they did not get to Jace soon, maybe they never would. Maybe that’s why they were using an inexperienced girl to do their dirty work.

Yet, there I was: bringing them straight to him.

I was in real danger.

Again, I rued how I had not thought of my own safety.

Or Jace’s, come to think! Men like those mentioned in Jace’s emails, why, perhaps they would kill Jace for creating a risk. I closed my eyes tight.

Maybe I would tell him everything, after all.

A knock on the door.

Jace’s lawyers arrived. He passed them the envelope I’d signed for yesterday and they began poring over paperwork. A few minutes later, Giuseppe, Joe and their entourage of guards entered the room. I stood up, straight away, and sensing my anxiety, Miss Moneypenny bolted straight under the bed. I eyed her with envy.

After greetings were conducted, and everyone was seated, Jace presented the concept for the new hotel he had created for his “investor.” I sat quietly in a corner chair, aware of Joe’s eyes on me. I thought the presentation was terrific, and, clearly, Jace had spent many sleepless nights arranging everything so it was in perfect order to be set in motion under Giuseppe’s control.

After Jace was done, I waited with bated breath until Giuseppe nodded his head.

“It is a good,” he said quietly, sitting up with great difficulty. His guards had to help his large body forward in the sofa. Jace was fighting a smile (of pride), as he passed him the paperwork. The two men in suits stepped in and began reviewing it.

Giuseppe’s lawyers.

I felt distinctly out of place as Jace poured drinks for Giuseppe, himself, and Joe.

I took the opportunity—not being watched for once—to text my Interpol number.

Four p.m. Pool cabana.

All I had to do was hit send, and finish this path I had been put on.

My phone buzzed, startling me.

It was B.

Maybe I’ll come to Vegas!

My heart dropped. That was the last thing I needed. Plus, she could hardly afford such a trip. Where was this coming from?

No. Stay there. Please.

She texted back:
???

I thought quickly, on the spot.

Third wheel.

Not nice, but necessary.

:(

Without thinking on it any harder, I clicked “send” on the text I had drafted for Interpol.

An offended friend was better than a dead friend.

Ninety thousand dollars. How could she have let that happen? How could I not have seen the signs of a gambling addiction?

“Charlie!”

Jace was talking to me. Everyone was staring at me.

“Yes?”

“Say goodbye to Giuseppe and Joe. You won’t be seeing them again.”

I stood up quickly and extended my hand. Giuseppe acknowledged me for the first time with a warm smile. Joe eyed me intensely. It was clear he envied Jace. And I worried what would happen one day in the future, when Joe took over the family business.

After they left, I told Jace I hoped never to see Joe again. Jace snorted and agreed. He did not appear as excited as I expected him to be about being a free man. And when I pointed this out, he said he should have never let himself get so deep in the first place. I think he would have liked to keep that hotel for himself.

When a second knock came, I assumed it was them returning for something. My stomach backflipped as—shock upon shock—Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle entered the room with their own entourage, Mr. Sullivan Blaise included.

I watched, mouth hanging open, as Jace greeted Mr. Bennett like they were best friends.

He was pretending.

I closed my mouth. Why?

He was setting him up. He had to be.

Anxiety swelled in me. I
felt
Sullivan’s gaze on me and I met it. He gave away nothing.

Why had Jace invited them? What did he have planned?

They were dressed in swim trunks and T-shirts. He was slapping their backs, thanking them for coming. Jace turned to me and told me to go put on my
cozzie
.

Frozen in time, I had to mentally slap myself in order to function. Slowly, I trudged over to the bathroom, which contained a dressing room area and a double set of closets, feeling like I had aged three decades in three minutes.

“Last time I’ll ask anything of you like this,” I heard Jace say softly behind me. He must have followed me into the washroom.

I nodded, staring straight ahead, my eyes blurred.

How could we pretend to relax around men who had tried to have us killed? Why did he not warn me of his plan?
What was his plan?

Actually I did not want to know. I did not deserve to know.

I heard him close the door.

I pulled my dress over my head, and undid my bra and slid out of my panties.

His arm wrapped around me from behind, his hand near my breast, on my heart. I was surprised he was still in the room.

“Remember,” he said in my ear, “I once told you it takes a strong heart to withstand real power.”

I felt mine break then, under the weight of his judgment. It was too late. I had been too weak. I had failed him and worse, I had betrayed him. There was no going back.

I nodded. Tears rolled down my face.

He released me and left me to change.

• • •

It was 3:46 p.m., according to my phone. I could barely swallow. I could hardly breathe. The Bellagio pool certainly was a poor replica of the Italian Riviera, what with its tall wrapped cedars, oversized stone fountains and plastic white lounge chairs. Everywhere—as far as the eye could see—lay glistening flesh, on display. I shook my head.

I jumped when Jace curled over me.

“Be right back,” he whispered, leaving the cabana before I could say a word.

But . . . it was 3:54 p.m.! I checked my phone, watching his departing brown shoulders, as he wove through the chairs on a path to what I assumed was the men’s washroom.

Where was he going? The man, the “imperialist” delivery man, was supposed to be here any minute.

Mr. Bennett was chatting up our Bellagio pool waitress, who was clad in her uniform of purple bikini with a thin purple veil wrap. Sullivan was standing behind him, wearing sunglasses. I wondered if his eyes were on me, reading my panic, and I glanced left, only to be hit with Mr. Carlisle’s deceptively astute stare from inside the sheltered cabana area, which contained a table and chairs, a small wet bar, and a television.

He had noticed my panic. I tried to smile, but, considering it pained me, no doubt I had failed to present a carefree front.

I sipped my virgin piña colada from the patio table where I watched for any sign of familiar Interpol agents, just as I had been doing for twenty minutes. Would they be the same ones who had given me this assignment? I had no idea. Who would come to get the hard drive? What if Jace did not return in time? Would this contact, this courier Jace had asked for, show up and wait for him? The agents might rush in or raise a red flag too soon . . .

Calm down!

As the countdown began, I focused more and more on the only path that could lead from the washroom back here.

I hoped ardently, suddenly, that Jace would not return. Yes, that would be a good thing!

Mr. Carlisle had stolen Mr. Bennett’s attention away from the waitress. He must have said something about me, because Mr. Bennett eyed me from his lounge chair. “How’s it goin’?” he asked.

I pointed at myself questioningly.

“You look . . . tense, love.”

I glared at him, eyebrows raised.
You think, attempted murderer!?
I wanted to shout.

The gall.

Sullivan uncrossed his arms.

Mr. Bennett smiled at me knowingly.

The Bee Gees crooned over the pool speakers.

Mr. Carlisle stood up suddenly.

He reached for something behind his back. Before he could pull it out, I heard, from my left, “Everybody freeze. Interpol. FBI. On the ground now!”

I glanced around my shoulder, preparing to stand up, when a large hand grasped my shoulder, holding me in place.

It was the German agent. “No. He’s not here. He didn’t come yet!” I protested.

Both Mr. Carlisle and Mr. Bennett, whose faces were bright red, animated, turned their eyes on me—with shock, quickly replaced by murderous intentions. Oh, dear.

“You fuckin’ little cunt,” snarled Mr. Bennett, who sat forward.

“Freeze! On the ground now!” repeated the agents, half a dozen or so, who moved forward, despite my protests. I realized, as a woman in the cabana next to ours screamed and dropped her drink, glass shattering, they were brandishing handguns. “Down. Now.” All the men in attendance slowly gave over just as all hell broke out—the woman had shouted, “Gun!”

I tried to stand up, but I was slammed backward by the table as Mr. Carlisle lunged for me, fighting off the agents trying to handcuff him. He managed to scramble over to me, grabbing a shard from a dinner plate. I screamed. Sullivan dove across the ground and grabbed his hand before it made contact with me, then slammed Mr. Carlisle’s chin into the pavement. He growled in pain, and grew limp. The other agents quickly handcuffed him and everyone else.

“Sullivan, no, tell them, they got the wrong men!” I gasped.

“You all right?” he asked, ignoring me, grabbing the back of my head, feeling for something, staring down into my eyes.

I tried to pull away, and turned—

My stomach plummeted.

Jace! He was staring at me from halfway across the grounds between cypress planters.

I knew what he saw in that moment and how wrong it was—me being held protectively, tenderly, by Sullivan Blaise.

He was far enough away that I couldn’t see into his eyes, but I knew. He sent me his emotion across the pool. He knew I had tried to betray him. Somehow.
He knew
.

Speechless, confused, terrified, I watched him turn and walk away. No! I fought Sullivan’s hold on me. I needed to . . . explain. I needed him to understand. To forgive me! I wrenched violently away from Sullivan’s embrace, and he pulled a hand away. A flash of red caught my eye.

I glanced down. His hand . . . it was bloody. I must have hit my head.