The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (36 page)

“Her, too,” I heard an American agent say to another.

Wait.

No, wait!

Someone shifted my arms behind me, and when I realized what was happening, I shut down.

They were arresting me.

Sitting in a narrow single-cot cell in the Clark County Detention Center, waiting to be processed (my head wound had been tended to), all I could think about was Miss Moneypenny.

Would Jace cast her aside, too? Yes. Of course. Why would a man keep the pet of a woman who had betrayed him? I did not believe Jace was capable of cruelty to animals. So . . . I stood up and paced the cell again . . . he would take her to the nearest animal shelter, likely. I needed to inform B. I needed to make a call so I could reach B and get her to come here and rescue Miss Moneypenny.

We would go on the run, together, the three of us, to escape her debts. We would go to Mexico.

I clutched at the door with no windows, and banged on it with my fists. “Please! I am legally entitled to up to three phone calls three hours after my arrest! It is implicit in my Miranda Rights!!” I shouted again, as I had been shouting for over an hour. I had researched this, and drilled this into my mother for those occasions when she was arrested—the goal being that she called me.

I was frantic with worry for Miss Moneypenny.

I could not think about anything else, and I kept pounding on my door. Finally, I heard the metal-on-metal sound and stepped back, wiping my face clear of tears.

Two guards stood there. They ordered me to accompany them.

I complied, and ignored the leering stares. My cover-up was mesh. I had nothing else on but my blue bathing suit. I was led down several hallways of shiny, cream-painted cement.

When they opened up a door into a room, where the German Interpol agents were seated, I balked.

“I want my phone call!”

They shoved me forward, hard, and slammed the door behind me.

“Sit down, Miss Sykes,” said the tall agent. I wondered where Jenny was now. I hoped she was at home, sobbing over being fired from Interpol. Clearly their plans had gone horribly awry.

“Why did you arrest them? The courier was not even there!” I complained.

“Sit down, Miss Sykes.”

I sat on the edge of a seat, wincing as the cold metal met my flesh. I leaned back. The two German men watched me carefully. They both wore white dress shirts and black blazers. I thought of the insidious agents from the movie
The Matrix
.

“Why did you text us to come to the cabana at four p.m.?”

I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. Why were they asking me this? There would be only one reason: because I thought imperialist business was going down then.

“You know why I did.”

“Why don’t you explain it to us?”

I frowned.

“What am I under arrest for?”

They glanced at each other.

“Would you like a glass of water?” asked the one with deeply inset soft brown eyes. I shook my head. On second thought, “Yes, I would. Please.”

He nodded to the black man standing in the corner, wearing black pants and a blue dress shirt. I watched him leave the room.

Wait a minute.

“Why are there FBI agents involved?”

“Tell us why you texted us to meet you at four p.m.,” snarled the tall German man with no lips. “You’re in a lot of trouble,” he added.

Thank you for pointing out the obvious
, I thought, but did not say. I did not understand what had happened or potentially gone wrong. However, regardless, I knew I would have to inform them of what I knew anyway, from those emails I read on Jace’s computer, not only to rescue B, but, apparently, to help myself.

“I . . . I thought that’s when Jace was exchanging—”

The door flew open suddenly, and a familiar man appeared. I could not place the face.

“Don’t say another word!” he ordered. “James Warner. I’m this woman’s legal counsel,” he announced to the Interpol agents, putting his business card on the table.

Jace’s American lawyer! The man who had assisted with the new hotel for Giuseppe. “You’ll have to excuse us, gentlemen. I need time alone with my client before you interrogate her any further.”

The two agents remained stony.

“You never had a Red Notice, boys,” added Mr. Warner. “She’s covered by the constitution. Don’t give me time with her, she pleads the fifth right now, and game over, boys. Your choice.”

My heart was beating a mile a minute. Pleasure. Anxiety. Jace had sent me his lawyer! What did this mean? Perhaps he had not cast out Miss Moneypenny—yet. But what of B and her debts?

The men across from me were creating a great degree of negative energy, but, finally, scraped back their chairs, and left.

The second they were gone, I turned to Mr. Warner.

“Where’s Miss Moneypenny?”

An eyebrow rose. “Who’s—”

“My cat. Where’s my cat?”

He glanced at me skeptically.

Right. I needed to calm down.

I cleared my throat.

Before I could clarify, he said, “I was not advised about any cat. I am here, however, by request of Mr. Jace Knight, to represent you. Do you accept my counsel?”

I nodded quickly.

“Excellent,” he said, bringing his briefcase up to the table. “Now I am going to present some information to you before you make any decisions about how you intend to participate with Interpol, ASIS, or any other investigatory bodies.”

I closed my eyes and fought to understand each word.

“Other investigatory bodies,” I repeated his words. “Why is the FBI here? Why am I under arrest?”

“You are not, Miss Sykes. No charges were actually laid. The FBI was involved in a joint sting operation with the Australian Secret Intelligence Service that was set to go today at four p.m. at the Bellagio pool cabana where you were. The head officer was—” he pulled up the file “—a Sullivan Blaise. Seems he’d built up a rock-solid case against Mr. John Bennett from a mysterious source he refuses to divulge.”

I shook my head.
Flabbergasted
was not adequate. Sullivan Blaise arranged a sting?
Terrified
came next.

“It was not me,” I whispered. “I swear I was not the source.”

The lawyer patted my hand. “I know, my dear. So does Jace.” He leaned forward, and whispered, “It was him.”

My mouth popped open. Jace? He turned in his . . . family? I could hardly believe it. But then, yes, I could. Mr. Bennett, and I assume then, also Mr. Carlisle, had tried to have him killed. I thought when Jace said Mr. Bennett was taken care of, he meant, well, I didn’t like to think . . . didn’t want to know.

But what about the emails I read? Jace had asked his new organization, the “imperialists,” to send a delivery man to pick up a . . .

I stared at the lawyer, confused. Wait a minute. Those emails on Jace’s private account, the ones I read earlier today, the first two were outright incriminating. They divulged specific details about the intentions of his European imperialists. But the third . . . it was a
draft
.

A draft of an email from Jace, asking for someone to come to the pool cabanas at four p.m.

A draft he never sent.

A draft he wrote, so I would read it.

He knew.

He knew before I was arrested.

He set
me
up—leaving out his unprotected laptop.

Why? To see if I would I betray him, and . . . I had.

I grabbed the lawyer’s arm. “You don’t understand. They made me do it! My friend B, she’s like my sister, she’s in debt to some very bad people. Those men, the agents, they are going to let very bad men hurt her,” I said, choking up. “Please, you have to let me call her to warn her—”

“Miss Sykes!” he interrupted me. “That’s all been taken care of.”

I paused, face grimaced.

“Here.” He literally pushed some papers into my hand.

I glanced down. A wire transfer. From Knight Enterprises to Beatrice Moody. Dated . . . nine hours ago!

He knew about her?

“You don’t have those pressures to worry about, Miss Sykes—”

“No, it was worse! Money alone won’t fix it!”

“Miss Sykes, Jace wanted me to emphasize to you that he
has
fixed it for your friend, all of it. She’s safe. I’ll explain later. But right now you need to listen to me. Shortly, Interpol agents are going to walk back in those doors, and you will have a decision to make. I have been made aware that you do indeed have intelligence they would be very interested in getting their hands on.”

He was referring to those two emails, the ones that Jace
had
sent, and let me read.

“Are you listening, Miss Sykes?”

I nodded, elation washing over me.

B was free. Jace had freed B. Together, she and I, we would pay him back. We would arrange a payment plan, with interest.

“You are under no obligation to divulge any communications or information you may have acquired over the past twenty-four hours in the company of Mr. Jace Knight. Are you listening? I understand you may have been exposed to certain information during a period of time which is covered under spousal privilege.”

B and I would let Jace decide on an appropriate interest rate, of course, perhaps on par with market—

Wait. I clutched my stomach. The lawyer, he had said
spousal privilege
.

If only.

I glanced in his eyes, and shook my head, a weird soft pain spreading out down my limbs. “No, you are mistaken. Our ceremony was not legal.”

It was his turn to shake his head, and I watched him pull out forms. I read them closely. A marriage license? The form from last night, only it said Marriage Ceremony, not Vow Renewal Ceremony . . . why it
looked
like my signature . . . but . . .

“I did not sign these.”

“Yes, you did.”

I rubbed between my brow, where it ached from frowning. I felt light, lighter than air. Focus! I thought back on last night, and earlier, which seemed a million years ago.

Wait. At the Wedding Chapel, it’s true I had skimmed the forms, not bothering to read them carefully since I thought it was all just pretend. And, frankly, I was not my usual astute self due to all the pressures I was under and the alcohol I had drunk. But a marriage license? When would I have signed . . . oh! The government official who hand-delivered what I thought were property documents: I signed what I thought was a proxy document. But could Jace really have arranged a marriage license in such a way? I remember one of his guards passing the official an envelope of money before he left. I suppose a clerk had witnessed me sign the license in person. Still, such a feat would have required a good deal of planning and confidence on Jace’s part.

I thought back over the evening, confused. So . . . he had tricked me into pretend-marrying him by shaming me for wanting to marry him in the first place when that’s what he wanted all along? Wait.

I was . . . married . . . to Jace Knight?

“Do you understand what spousal privilege is, Mrs. Knight?” asked the lawyer. I was so stunned I did not realize the agents had returned to the room.

Jace had lied to me.

I glanced at them, and back at my lawyer.

The Germans appeared resigned.

Had they known I was in fact married?

I couldn’t believe it. Somehow, Jace knew I was trapped, and he’d put a plan in motion to save me? So . . . he wasn’t testing me?

No wait. He
was
testing me.

He was giving me a clear choice here and now: betray him—for I had very real information on his new imperialist organization from those two legitimate emails and I didn’t
have
to reveal it now as the agents could no longer threaten me with B’s demise—or be free to love him forever. Goosebumps spread. He had taken a huge risk, even put his life in my hands, possibly, showing me what he did in those emails.

He trusted me. He believed
in
me.

“Do you wish to invoke that right at this time, Mrs. Knight?” asked Mr. Warner, growing impatient.

Jace was waiting outside the Clark County Detention Center for me. He was leaning against a black limo, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, face tilted to the sky, deliberately increasing his skin cancer risk.

I stumbled when I saw him, and Mr. Warner helped steady me. As we walked toward him, the lawyer whispered to me through a smile, “If this wasn’t your choice, young lady, there’s no stopping you from filing for divorce.” I glanced at him, surprised, as Jace stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Warner, thanks again, mate. Appreciate it.” The lawyer shook Jace’s hand, glanced at me one last time, and departed.

I stared at Jace’s throat. I was in a trance. No. I was in shock. The kind that makes all your limbs numb.

“I’m experiencing some very intense emotions toward you,” he finally said, quietly.

I glanced up into his eyes, worried. “Where’s Miss Moneypenny?”

He frowned deeper. “At the hotel. Where else? Jesus H. Christ, Charlie.”

Oh dear.

I needed to prepare to endure some very negative emotions indeed. I could not face the pending impact; his eyes, they were meteors.

Silence reigned down.

Words failed me.

“Should’ve told me about Sullivan Blaise,” he unleashed.

I flinched.

He knew about Sullivan Blaise? I gawked at him. “You knew?”

He blew air out of his nose. “Not nearly soon enough, Charlie. You should’ve told me. If I’d known sooner . . .” He shook his head. “Didn’t pin it on him until I saw him on Bennie’s security, because he’d tried to get on mine too. All this time, he was playing you against me!” he growled.

Uh-oh. I stepped back.

“I’m goin’ to kill him,” Jace continued. “He just confessed to me what he’d been doing to you!”

“You used Sullivan to turn Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle in,” I whispered, watching Jace’s face grimace.

“Yeah. Sent every last piece of evidence I had on them both to your pal Blaise—totally fuckin’ clueless he was up your skirt!”

Oh! Wait. Was Jace angry at me? His jaw was ticking.

“He wasn’t up my—”

“And then I invited Bennie and Simon to be my guests here. Since they’d only come to Vegas with enticement—and were not likely to try another hit off home soil. Your boy Blaise pulled in the FBI since it was going down local. Then, when all’s said and done, the fucker tells me, he was ‘looking out for you’ from day one! More like turning you against me, scaring the shit out of you. That’s why you wanted to get yourself sacked, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?! I knew something was up in Port Douglas!”