“And even when he’s not trying, he still commands a huge amount of respect.”
“Imagine if he was trying?” Nikolett looked over her shoulder at Nyx.
Nyx winced, but the expression faded to calculating. “You’re saying that when he’s with you in private, he drops that mask.”
“Yes.”
“Orders you around, takes control during sex?”
Nikolett swallowed. “Yep.”
“That’s…incredibly sexy.”
“Oh yeah.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“Okay with it?” Nikolett’s foot was starting to hurt. She rolled over the back of the couch, landing on the cushions with an “oof.”
Nyx snickered, but much to Nikolett’s pleasure didn’t rush over to check on her the way anyone but Nyx probably would have.
“I’m more than okay with it.” Nikolett kept her voice low, fairly certain she was blushing. “Giving up control to him is…” Nikolett closed her eyes, remembered pleasure washing down her. “I crave it. I trust him in a way I shouldn’t.”
“Trust him with your body. But do you trust him with your heart?”
Nikolett pressed hand to her mouth, using the pressure to stop the quivering in the muscles at the corners of her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t trust him with my heart.”
“First, there needs to be a primer that explains your relationship, because you and Eric have too much history.”
“True.”
“Second, this means we know what we’re looking for in your spouses.”
“It…does?”
“Yes. You need a new, worthy opponent.” Nyx grinned. “It’s your turn to be Superman. We need to find you a Lex Luthor.”
The Spaniard read through the letter he’d been working on one more time. Satisfied that the threat and the blackmail were clear despite the pleasant, flowery language that would make the authorities think the letter writer was female, he printed it out on expensive linen paper made by a company in Denmark, and which he’d bought along with a large box of other stationary at an estate sale in America. If his target opted to turn the letter over to authorities, they’d waste a good amount of time looking for a woman who’d purchased this paper from that particular shop.
He picked up the stack of glossy photos, printed at a generic photo kiosk, and slid them into a plain envelope. Even if the target opted to turn the letter over, he doubted they’d hand over these pictures—taken from the target’s own secret hard drive—to the authorities.
Slipping the letter in on top of the photos, he sealed the envelope, slipped that into a large cardboard sleeve, and scheduled a courier pickup. The envelope would bounce around Europe from courier company to solicitor to national mail and finally back to a courier who would deliver it.
With that done, he wrote a quick message to his broker in his home country of Spain and closed out that project’s digital file.
Now that the work was done, he could reward himself.
The Spaniard pulled up a folder of still images and videos his people had pulled from various airport security systems.
Nikolett Varda.
Her hair shone gold in the afternoon light in the still image of her walking across the tarmac at a small airport on the Isle of Man. Her head was down, her shoulders hunched over the crutches tucked under her arms. She looked…weary.
The Spaniard frowned. Her people weren’t taking good care of her.
She deserved to have someone take care of her. Someone to make her laugh and smile. Someone to carry her or push a wheelchair rather than making her use the crutches.
The next page in the file was a short text report. Since she’d returned from the Isle of Man, she hadn’t been outside her fortress-like home.
