Her voice is just above a whisper. “Please. Don’t make a big deal about it.” She’s looking around, cringing as she sees all eyes on us. Everyone here likes their fucking, but throw in a beating and you can almost smell the adrenaline rush.
Pulling Red and Black Mask up by the back of his collar, I smile pleasantly.
“Do ya’ feckin’ know who I am?” he shouts, face red with fury and maraschino cherry juice.
“Yeah, you’re the arsehole who just lost your membership.” I nod to Gregor, who’s the head of my security and trying to stifle a grin. “Take care of it.”
“Aye, sir. On it.” He’s ready to take the rapidly deflating Dom out back. This one’s getting the special goodbye after he harassed this girl. Rules are rules, especially in a sex club. “Did you want me to shove my boot up his arse, or just give him the old curb stomp? He’s got some pretty teeth.”
The Red and Black Mask guy starts bleating some shite. “I own half this town!”
Gregor gives him a brisk shake to shut him up.
“I trust your judgment,” I say graciously.
Mask Guy is flailing in Gregor’s grip. “One phone call to the Chief Constable and I can-”
Turning back to the pretty blonde who’s trying to disappear into the woodwork, I attempt to give her a friendly smile. Based on how she takes another step back, it’s not working. “Miss, come up to my office. We can talk in private.”
It’s as if a switch flipped on. She stands straight and nods to me regally. “Of course.”
Fainter now, from the Mask Guy; “I can shut down your-”
Sweeping my hand in the direction of my private lift, I clear the path of gawkers. But as a gentleman, I guide her ahead of me. Perhaps less as a gentleman and more because watching her heart-shaped arse sway back and forth is the most enjoyable moment of my evening thus far.
“Just in here,” I say, opening the black, glossy door to my office. “Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”
She seats herself cautiously on the couch in the corner area where I conduct more casual meetings. And occasionally, fucking. It’s comfortable there, unlike the hard and unforgiving chairs in front of my desk.
“Oh, thank you no,” she says, smoothing her dress over her knees. It’s a dark blue and her blonde hair gleams against it. All of her seems to catch the light, her luminous skin, and her eyes…
Bloody hell, they’re beautiful, a light brown like coffee with cream, and right now looking at me, all fierce and determined.
“You’re the only one not wearing a mask,” she says, brows drawn together. “I would have thought…”
“Thought what?” Now, I’m curious. She’s speaking as if we know each other.
“In your line of work, I mean…” she says delicately. “Not that I’ll remember a thing!”
This is goin’ off the rails. And I’m here for it.
“What if I dinna want you to forget?” I ask, straight-faced.
“This is a one-time thing,” she says firmly. “Believe me, I do not want to remember you. Let’s talk business.”
“Talk.”
“I have the appraisal papers and proof of ownership here…” she takes a bundle of papers from her bag and hands them to me. “The statue is mine. You can see the valuation is for ten million Canadian dollars.”
Flipping through the documents, I look at the image of the statue. Two figures, entwined. The statue is made of marble, and the skill is unparalleled. I can see the indents of the man’s fingers into the woman’s marble flesh. Their gaze is fixed on each other, a mix of passion, desperation, and a little madness. I traveled through France and Italy twice when I was younger on art tours that our mother insisted on to help “civilize” my brothers and me.
Which was a futile effort.
“This is a Rodin,” I say, flipping back to the appraisal. “An original.”
She looks a little puzzled, “Well, yes. Did you think I would really approach someone like you with a fake? I’d have to be insane. I know cash is king, but I can’t get that kind of money without alerting my uncle. This is a priceless, irreplaceable work of art, and worth nearly double your original fee.”
Looking at the image of the sculpture again, my finger follows along the lines of their bodies, how his thigh is thrust between her legs, the sense of need palpable.
