Page 16 of Bared

He paused to sliced his own hard stare into the mix. “Look, you guys can’t trust me with just half the details here. Unless you really don’t need me after all and just want to stroll inside for a look at the large-format paintings?”

When neither man told him to fuck off right away, he accepted the pause as a figurative opening of the secret clubhouse door. But stepping inside the clubhouse didn’t mean access to the decoder rings. Years of experience, infiltrating the clubhouses of his country’s darkest enemies, had taught him that truth.

In the years since then, his attentiveness for those kinds of details had served him well as a skilled floater for privately funded ops, helping him pocket enough side money to actually think about buying a second home. The talent also served him well for unraveling stubborn submissives, who eventually came around to thanking him for the fun in the end. But that was when they were actually headstrong instead of acting the feisty part just to get in his pants.

But nothing in his pants was important right now.

That much was proved out when Fox, encouraged by a new nod from Oz, dropped his arms and moved forward. The guy looked like he was stepping out of a cave and grimacing at the sunlight. Brick was tempted to tell him how thoroughly he related but decidedly bit back his words. Wasn’t his turn for the talking stick right now.

“I grew up with the Cimarrons,” he stated at last. “And there was a time when Jayd and I were so close, everyone predicted we might betroth.” He swung his gaze to Ozias before finishing, making Max notice how tightly that twisted the Aussie. “But that was before I accompanied Samsyn on a spec ops trip to Syria. We were chasing down gun runners who’d grown fond of using our old port as a stopover to Syria.”

The Arcadian finished that with a warm smile, prompting the same from Oz. “And I was in Latakia on a few days of R and R after my unit had sprung some embedded reporters out of Aleppo. And there, in a tiny bar, off a tiny street, in that little seaside city…”

“All right, all right,” Brick filled in before Fox could. “I got the picture. Magic, fireworks, everyone’s eyes turning into hearts.” In short, everything that was awesome and aces for other people, not guys named Max Brickham. At least not in this lifetime. Not with this twisted mess he was still trying to call a brain. “And I’m happy for you two—and I mean that—but let’s get back to basics. Like the subject of Princess Jayd Cimarron, and your tear to find her quickly and quietly.”

“Yes,” Fox emphasized. “As quickly and quietly as possible.”

“Though we’re not on a rogue tear here, mate,” Oz assured. “So don’t go there. We’ve come with Samsyn Cimarron’s full stamp of approval.”

Brick narrowed his gaze. “So you know that just leads to my next question, right?” The rhetoric invited his purposeful but fleeting pause. “If you’re sanctioned by your own government, why haven’t you just taken this to the Paris prefecture? Won’t the police’s resources be easier than scrambling your own team?”

“No.” Fox ramped his tone to an impressive growl. “No police. No public records. No cameras or recordings. Nothing that can tip off those Pura kimfuks to what we are up to.” He flung nervous glances over both shoulders. “It was even a risk to meet here, but the fountains and the crowds will drown anyone trying to tap us.”

“Tap us?” Brick’s perplexity rocked his whole head back. “For what?”

“To learn if we’re laying deeper Arcadian state secrets on you,” Oz said.

“Which we are,” Fox added.

“And if we sought you out because of what we plan to do about them.”

“Which we also are.”

Now Brick looked over his shoulder. “Secrets like what?”

Oz took a thick beat before answering. “Like the fact that Jayd Cimarron isn’t a full-blooded princess.”

“The hell?” Brick countered.

“It’s true,” Oz rebutted. “Well, true enough that the Pura faction went diving after a half-baked lead but gathered enough evidence to prove it as truth—at least in the court of public opinion. They uncovered some paperwork, along with a recording, implicating that Xaria Cimarron had an affair—and that Jayd is the product of that liaison.”

“Shit.” Brick’s astonishment helped him draw out the word.

“Naturally, they took all the evidence to Evrest—”

“To use for political leverage,” Brick went ahead and filled in.

Ozias lifted his head and smiled, acting as if he was enjoying the sunny weather. His snarl wasn’t so easily shrouded. “They had a whole list prepared,” he said. “And it included a demand for Jayd’s hand in marriage to one of their own guys.”

“Fuck.”

“Younger member of the party,” Fox supplied. “A real… How do you say it? A piece of work…named Trystan Carris.”

“Fuckstick-on-high works too,” Oz muttered during the moment it took Fox to summon a photo of said fuckstick to his phone’s screen. “But if you ask me, he’s as good as a Sopranos extra.”

“Solid confirm on that.” Brick grimaced while beholding the image. “But it wouldn’t make a difference if he looked like Reece fucking Richards,” he added, referencing the famous good looks of his most recent employer. “This isn’t the dark ages. Fundamentalism isn’t a license to treat a human being like property.”

“All right, all right. Easy, mate. I happen to agree with you, okay?”