CHAPTER TWO
Liv felt giddy, as if she’d drunk too much champagne, and happiness practically exploded inside her. She’d never felt as connected to another human being as she did with Dante—not since her sister. They were the perfect team, whether it was at work or in the bedroom, and they complemented each other in ways that only true soul mates could.
She’d never believed in such things before. Her life had been so focused on finding her sister that she’d rarely paid attention to men. She’d done her time at Scotland Yard, and then taken the job with Interpol—exactly what she’d aimed for all along. Only Interpol had the resources to find and eliminate human traffickers, and eventually she’d find out what had happened to her sister when they were children.
Dante was the first man she’d ever confided in. He knew her hopes and dreams, her reasons for doing the things she did. And he’d promised to help her however he could through his own contacts at MI6.
She was going to tell him she loved him. She was nearly bursting with it, and she couldn’t keep it inside any longer. Maybe it was naïve, but she thought he loved her too. Even if he didn’t, she couldn’t hold back her feelings. He deserved to know that she cared about him.
She couldn’t dim her smile as she made her way through the crowd and toward the huge double staircase that was a piece of art in itself.
“Excusez-moi,” she said, skirting an older gentleman and his wife, and then she repeated herself several times as she worked her way to the base of the stairs, where a small group had decided to congregate.
She’d just stepped onto the bottom stair when she felt a tug on her train. She glanced over her shoulder to see a tall man with his back to her, his dark, longish hair tied at the nape of his neck. She tapped on his shoulder, and when he turned she said, “You’re stepping on my train.”
He smiled, and she really got a good look at his face. He was handsome, several years older than she was, and he towered over her. There was a lot of muscle under his tuxedo, and she would’ve had to be dead not to notice that he filled it out just fine.
“I’m sorry?” he said, cupping a hand to his ear for her to repeat what she’d said.
Her brows rose at his accent. He was American.
“My train,” she said again, this time pointing to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, removing his foot and releasing her. “Can I get you a drink to make up for it?”
His smile turned flirtatious, and though she was flattered by the offer, there was only one man on her mind. She thanked him and declined, and when she turned to continue up the stairs, she bumped smack into another man—this one holding a now-empty champagne flute, since the wine had just decorated the front of her dress.
The man didn’t even notice. He just bulled his way through the crowd and kept walking. She glanced at the ornately scrolled gold clock and cursed under her breath. She’d hoped to reach the room long before Dante so she could catch her breath and let the butterflies settle. But there was no way she could make it within the allotted fifteen minutes now that she had to mop up some of the champagne.
Liv entered the washroom and groaned when she saw women crammed into the area, waiting their turns. By the time she reached the sinks and found a washcloth, ten minutes had passed. She cleaned the front of her dress as best she could, then made her way to the small lounge area where a vanity table held things like sewing kits, makeup samples, and hair supplies, just in case anyone had a mishap. She used the blow-dryer to dry the front of her dress, and was satisfied that the champagne hadn’t left a dark spot.
Her thoughts were on Dante and Simon Locke, in that order. Both men made her crazy in different ways. Quenching her thirst for Dante would allow her to focus on Simon. Capturing him had been her only priority for the past two years. She knew more about him than anyone else, and that wasn’t saying much. The man was brilliant. And she agreed with Dante. You had to respect a man with that kind of ability. But it wasn’t going to stop her from putting him in prison.
She had to admit, there was something that seemed off about tonight. A gut feeling. Were they wrong altogether in assuming that he’d hit the marquis’s collection? Or was she just doubting her ability to do the job? He’d outsmarted her at every turn. And it was frustrating as hell to always be a step behind. The last thing she wanted was to bungle this operation and look like a fool. It was hard enough being a woman in charge of the op.
The funny feeling in her gut had motivated her to call in more agents to work undercover during the party. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Dante. She just had to remember that her job wasn’t to protect the paintings downstairs. That’s what security was being paid to do. Her job was to catch Simon Locke and put him behind bars.
This job was a different MO for Locke. He’d never been shy about his talents. In fact, his profile showed that he’d be quite put out if there wasn’t front-page media coverage the next day. He liked grand gestures. He liked making the impossible seem possible. And it was rare that they figured out how he’d accomplished a heist. He was a magician, and there never seemed to be a wall too high or security too formidable for him to breach.
But to her knowledge, he’d never pulled off a job in front of a room full of people. Yes, there was a bit of a dramatic flair about the way he staged his heists, leaving a print of Coolidge’s Dogs Playing Poker in place of the paintings he stole. It would have been funny if he weren’t quite so good at what he did. But Locke was meticulous. Every detail planned from beginning to end. And there were too many variables left to chance when trying to steal a painting in front of witnesses. It seemed obvious he’d be going for the Picasso. It was by far the most valuable piece in Carmaux’s collection. But it seemed foolish to assume that he was after anything in the collection. Maybe he was using the display as a way to divert attention away from what he really wanted. Carmaux was a wealthy man, and there were many valuable pieces throughout the château.
The crowd had cleared somewhat as she exited the washroom, and she didn’t waste any time. She was already late, and she hoped Dante hadn’t gotten tired of waiting. She opened the door of the room to the right of the washroom, just as Dante had instructed, and entered the small library.
It was a cozy room, done in pale greens and gold, with floor-to-ceiling shelves that were filled with books. The room smelled of must and pipe tobacco. The chairs were oversize and comfortable, and a small round table with a bottle of sherry on top of it sat between them.
The white marble fireplace took up almost the entire south wall, but it was May and there was no need for a fire. She smirked as she noted the small Rodin sculptures at either end of the mantel—they were, in fact, hideous, just as Dante had said. She went to the one on the left and carefully pulled it toward her.
The snick of a catch being released seemed loud in the quiet room, and her pulse raced at the thought of being caught. It only heightened the anticipation of what was to come.
The bookshelf to the right of the fireplace stood slightly ajar, and she pulled it open and walked through to the other side, closing it behind her with a rather loud finality. The room was dark except for the soft glow beneath the round poker table in the center.
As her eyes adjusted, she started to feel her way around the edge of the room, groping for a light switch, but there was nothing. No light switches. No doors. Just a circular room in the middle of Carmaux’s home that had probably been used for any number of things over the past three centuries.
“Dante,” she said, but there was no reply.
Her hand ran over the smooth wood of a long bar, and she navigated her way around the barstools, careful not to trip. It was truly a man’s room, and she could imagine Dante in his element here, a stack of poker chips piled high in front of him.
She saw the outline of the switch plate behind the bar and leaned across to turn on the light, but a hand grabbed her wrist. She hadn’t heard him. Hadn’t felt his presence. But she’d recognize his touch anywhere.
“There’s no need for light,” he said from behind her, kissing the nape of her neck.
She shivered. “What if I want to see you?” she asked, stifling a groan as he bit down on her shoulder. She’d have to let her hair down to cover the mark when they left.
“You don’t need to see me,” he whispered. “You’re going to feel me.”
She tried to turn around, but he held her wrists so they were trapped against the bar. She could feel the urgency in him, almost a desperation.
“I want to touch you,” she said, the plea in her voice unmistakable.
“If you touch me now, this will be over before we get started. Keep your hands flat against the bar. Don’t let go.”
She turned her head and tried to catch a glimpse of him over her shoulder, but he stood just out of sight.
“Dante,” she said, her heart thumping wildly in her chest as she felt him lift her dress slowly, the velvet a caress against her legs. This wasn’t at all what she’d planned when she’d imagined telling him she loved him for the first time. This felt so . . . one-sided.
“I’ve never stopped wanting you,” he said. “I want you more now than I did when I first saw you. You’re like a drug, and I keep coming back for more.”
His fingers skimmed the insides of her thighs, and he chuckled as he felt the holster strapped around her thigh. He pulled the small pistol from the holster and set it on the bar.
“We don’t want any misfires,” he whispered. And then his fingers continued their journey, working their way up higher until he grazed the bare flesh that was damp with arousal.
“I told you,” she said.
“Some things you have to find out for yourself. You’re so wet for me.”
“I always want you as much as you want me,” she said, biting back a moan as he lightly traced her vulva, spreading moisture to her clit. “Please, let me touch you.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be able to go through with it,” he said, and she felt his hands disappear and the skirt drop back to the floor.
“Go through with what?” she asked, panting. “Please don’t stop.”
“I couldn’t,” he assured her. He lowered the zipper at her back, and the dress fell in a puddle to her feet, leaving her in nothing but the sapphire necklace and the glittering strappy heels on her feet.
“Step out,” he ordered, and she did as she was told. He kicked the dress to the side, and she tried again to catch a glimpse of him over her shoulder, but it was no use.
Her legs quivered and her fingers curled around the edge of the bar. Her breasts were heavy, wanting the attention he usually paid them. And then she heard the sweet sound of his belt being unbuckled and the teeth of his zipper as he lowered it.
There were no passionate kisses. No lingering touches. This wasn’t like any other time they’d made love. It was primitive. Desperate. And she braced herself as she felt him probe against her, holding her breath as he pressed deep inside her.
Her muscles flexed around him and he groaned, his breathing heavy against her ear, and he placed his hands on top of hers, twining their fingers together. And then he began to move, his thrusts slow but steady, growing in intensity and strength until the bar shook beneath their bodies.
“I can’t hold back,” he said, kissing the side of her neck. “Not tonight.”
She was incapable of speaking, the feel of him all-consuming. His hands released hers and cupped one of her breasts, tweaking the nipple hard enough that she’d probably be sensitive for a couple of days. But she could feel the orgasm building inside her. And then he abandoned her breast and his fingers trailed down her stomach, down farther until they were pressed against her clit.
“Come on, baby,” he panted. “Come for me.”
He didn’t move his fingers against her. It was just a steady pressure, holding her in place as he pistoned in and out of her, the speed and ferocity of each thrust gaining in intensity.
“Oh, God,” she said, her hands clamping tighter around the bar. She wasn’t sure her legs would hold her. She wasn’t even really sure she was still standing. All she knew was that she’d never felt pleasure that intensely before.
“Now, damn it,” he growled, and she felt him grow impossibly harder, impossibly bigger.
And then she screamed as the orgasm was ripped from her body, a pulsating explosion that would’ve brought her to her knees if he hadn’t been holding her upright. She felt the liquid heat of him fill her as he called out her name.
She couldn’t control the tears that fell on her cheeks. The moment was too powerful—too intense. And she couldn’t hold back her feelings any longer.
“I love you,” she said, still gasping for breath. “I love you, Dante.”
He kissed the side of her neck and then lowered them both to the floor, their bodies still joined.