Chapter 49

 

“Come on, you two, some of us have got to be off on time.” Joey was standing by the back door of the gallery with his jacket on.

“Okay, okay,” Rachel said quickening her pace. “What you in such a hurry for? On a promise are we?”

He rolled his eyes. “Well if I was, at this rate, she’d be gone by the time I got there.”

April followed Rachel out of the door. She’d got used to walking with Rachel to the bus stop each evening after work. Joey always came in his car. She watched Joey swipe his badge on his lanyard and then key in a number and close the door behind him.

“I wonder why Dylan’s still there?” April asked. “It’s late for him to be hanging around, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Joey replied, as they made their way towards his car. “Ingrid said he has a conference call to the US. I think they are about six hours behind us.”

“Wonder if Ingrid’s part of the conference call?” Rachel giggled, “probably giving him a blow job while he’s on the phone.”

“Lucky bloke if she is,” Joey grinned as they reached his car.

Rachel squeezed his arm, “Have a great night. Make sure you do everything I would, won’t you.”

Joey opened his car door. “I’ll do my best,” he winked, “see you both tomorrow.”

 

Rachel linked her arm in April’s as they made their way towards the bus stop. This had become their routine four out of five nights after work. Thursday nights, they headed straight for the pub with Joey. It was usual for Rachel’s bus to arrive first which was good as April wasn’t going home on her bus, not yet anyway. Dylan wanted her to return to the gallery, so they could go over the plan to move the Portillo. She’d given it a few days before agreeing she would transport it across to France. Tonight was about finding out how.

She still couldn’t ascertain if he was happy she’d agreed to move the painting or not. His response had been indifferent which unnerved April slightly. She expected him to be pleased. After all, that’s what it was all about. Wasn’t it?

Rachel curtailed any further thoughts on Dylan’s reaction.

“Lucky woman whoever she is that’s getting to spend tonight with Joey. I think he’s dead fit, don’t you?”

“Yeah, he is rather.”

“But you’re not interested?”

“No.”

“Even though he likes you?”

“I don’t think he does,” April dismissed, “not like that. Anyway, he’s not my type.”

“What’s your type then?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe someone a bit more polished.”

“What, like Dylan?”

“Well, he is good looking, you can’t deny that.”

“So, you wouldn’t knock him back if he tried anything?”

“Who would?” April replied, and then nudged Rachel’s arm playfully. “I’m only joking. He’s nice on the eye, but he wouldn’t be for me. I think Joey’s nice too, he’s just not what I’d go for. Anyway, I’ve told you, I’m not interested in any blokes at the moment. I just want to get the next few weeks over with, then move on.”

“I can’t believe anyone that looks like you isn’t with someone.”

“I’ve had a bellyful of them,” she painted a pained look on her face, “it was a bloke that got me into this mess in the first place. I’m not going down that road again . . . not for a very long time.”

Rachel frowned, “What about . . . you know, sex, don’t you miss that?”

“A bit. But not so much that I want to get involved right now.”

The red number eleven came into sight. “Ah, here it is,” Rachel turned and gave her a hug, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep, you will. Unless someone comes knocking who wants to take me away from all this.”

“You and me both,” Rachel grinned as the bus stopped in front of them. “Or failing that, we might win the lottery.”

“Now there’s something to dream about,” April smiled. “See you tomorrow then, bye.”

April waved her off and watched as the bus pulled away. Once it was completely out of sight, she made her way back to the gallery with a smile on her face and a thudding heart.

Tonight, she’d know the whole plan. Everything she’d worked for was coming to fruition.

 

April sat opposite Dylan in his office with the desk separating them. He handed her three photographs.

“These are the paintings you’ll be taking,” he passed her another photo, “and this is the van.”

She looked at the picture of the van. “That looks rather nice to be transporting paintings.”

“It has to be. It’s specially equipped with air suspension to mitigate the damaging effects of shock and vibration which can easily be transmitted to a painting on a road journey. It has temperature and humidity controls inside to keep the environment at eighteen to twenty, as close to a museum environment as possible.”

She shuffled the pictures of the three paintings and frowned. “They must all be so expensive if you have to go to all that trouble?”

“They are, but that one there,” he pointed to a portrait of an Indian lady in a stunning headdress, which she particularly admired when she walked past it each evening in the gallery, “it’s fake. The original stays here. I’m giving you the paperwork of the original though, but that comes back.”

She examined the picture closely. “It doesn’t look fake?”

“That’s because it’s a particularly good one.”

“Why are you transporting a fake, I don’t get it?”

“It’s going to be hiding the Portillo. That’ll be underneath. When they check the UK documentation, they’ll see the verifications. They’ll have no idea about the Portillo. So, if everything is in order this end, it mitigates any risks.”

“Why me then, if there are no risks? Why not just pay a courier?”

“Because it’s them I don’t trust. They could quite easily take off with the painting.”

“And I can’t?”

“I don’t think you will, no. And you’ll have a technician in the van with you.”

“A technician?”

“Yes. You don’t transport paintings of this value without a technician. Lee will make sure if the van is stopped and the paintings examined, they are handled with extreme care. And that’s where you come in. A beautiful woman should be a distraction in itself. If you were stopped, they’d be checking the number of paintings against the description, that’s all.”

“Right. Is the technician in on it?”

“Not really, no. He’s paid well for being the transportation escort, but that’s it. He’s helped us before, and not the type to ask questions. It’s much better for him in the unlikely event of getting stopped, that he knows nothing, just that he’s been paid to transport paintings in his role as a technician.”

“Unlikely?” she said hesitantly.

“It is unlikely, Gemma,” he emphasised. “We move expensive paintings all the time for exhibitions. We’ve rarely been stopped, but if you were, I’m sure a woman with your charm would be a significant distraction for them to not be looking at much more than the documentation tallying.”

She widened her eyes, “What if it was a female customs officer?”

He pursed his lips, “The way you look, she’d probably fancy you anyway. And,” his eyes softened, “as for you taking off with the paintings, I wouldn’t have suggested you if I thought you’d do anything like that.”

“You are taking a risk though. I’m already a convicted criminal.”

“That’s exactly why I want you to do it. You’re down on your luck and I’m sure the money will make a difference to your life.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. How much is this painting worth, exactly?”

“It doesn’t matter what it’s worth. I’ve told you before, the money is split between a lot of people. Everyone wants their cut.”

“But not everyone’s moving the painting through customs like I am.”

His eyes darkened. “You’ve already agreed, Gemma, you can’t back out now.”

“Who said anything about backing out? I’m thinking more about you increasing my cut.”

If he was surprised she’d asked for more, he didn’t show it.

“How much?”

Her eyes never left his. “Thirty k.”

“Not a chance,” he dismissed.

She widened her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s not like you can’t afford it. I bet you give more than that to charity each year and claim it back in tax relief.”

He stared.

Was that a glimmer of a cynical smile?

As if he’d been expecting all along she’d ask for more?

He stroked his chin with his finger and thumb. “Twenty-five k, and not a penny more.”

She stared back, purposely making him wait.

“Okay,” she sighed, “twenty-five it is. So, when do I get it?”

“As soon as everything is done. You’ll offload the two legitimate paintings at the Musée d’Orsey gallery. Lee, the technician will supervise the handover, and then you’ll travel to a hotel with the Portillo still in the van. Once there, you wait in the car park. Vic will be at the hotel waiting for the transfer of money.

“Victor?”

“Yes, he won’t allow the painting to go until the money has transferred. Once Vic is satisfied that the bank transfer has gone through, he’ll give Lee the nod and someone will come and take the painting from you. You don’t need to do anything more after that. Go to the hotel that Lee takes you to, and once you’re there, I’ll see your money goes into your account.”

“Where are you going to be when all this is going on?”

“At the gallery. But whatever you do, don’t contact me. If anything should go wrong      . . .”

“Wrong,” she interrupted, “you said nothing could go wrong?”

“And it won’t,” he reassured, “I’m only saying, if something unexpected happened, don’t message me or anything. Lee will know who to contact.”

“What if, worst case scenario, they do pull me in and find the Portillo. What happens then?”

“They’ll arrest you, and then start questioning you. But you’ll say nothing. You won’t answer anything, just go with no comment. We’ll get you a brief. He will argue you were paid an amount of money to transport the paintings and you had no idea they were anything other than legitimate.”

“And that’s going to get me out of there, is it?”

“Not initially, no, but eventually it will. But whatever does happen, provided you keep schtum, we’ll look after you.”

“I don’t want to go back inside, Dylan.”

“And you won’t. I told you. We’ve done this before, more than once, you’ll be fine. As long as the documentation all adds up, you’ll sail through the custom checks.”

“You better be right,” she sighed deliberately displaying a degree of unease.

“I am.” His expression darkened and she sensed a warning. “But you do need to know, it’s not just me in this operation, there are others involved. It doesn’t matter who they are, you only need to be mindful these are not people you cross. You do understand that don’t you?”

“I have been inside, remember,” she purposely reminded him. “People that have spent time in jail aren’t snitches. You know the saying, honour amongst thieves and all that.” She paused, “Anyway, that’s why you’re using me, isn’t it? You know I won’t grass if I get caught.”

“That is a consideration, yes. But you won’t get caught. You are delivering paintings, that’s all. There’s no reason to think you will.”

She took a deep breath in, “If there were no risks though, you wouldn’t be paying me what you are.”

“True.” He reached for her hand, “But I’m confident you’ll sail through customs. The paperwork is all legitimate. There’s no reason to stop you. Trust me,” he squeezed her hand gently like you’d reassure a child, “they won’t.”

She held his gaze for a moment and then glanced down to look at the pictures of the paintings again. Her heart was racing as she calmly asked, “Where is the stolen painting right now, anyway?”

“Don’t worry your head about that. All you need to know is the van will be there at your flat at ten thirty on Friday morning, which reminds me, I need a photo of you for Lee the technician so he recognises you.”

“Well, I hardly think there’s going to be a random woman waiting to travel with him across to France, do you?”

“No, but I still want him to check it’s you.” He lifted his iPhone to take her photo. “Are you going for serious, or a smile?”

She pulled a get-on-with-it face, and the flash went off.

He tossed the phone on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Now that’s the business side of things concluded, I want to show you what I’ve been thinking of doing since you first walked into this gallery in that tight little uniform. Come here.”

 

She sauntered over to his chair and eased her body onto his, straddling him. He was already hard. She took his face in her hands and kissed him. Their tongues began sliding together like a rhythmic waltz.

“Have you got out door clothes?” he moaned.

“Yes, I changed when I got here, why?”

“Because I’m going to rip everything off you and fuck you, right now on this chair.”

She kissed him, “Good job I’ve made a start for you then?”

He looked puzzled as she placed his hands around her bare bottom.

A look of surprise passed across his face, “Please don’t tell me you clean these offices with no knickers on?”

She grinned, enjoying the power she had over him. “I might do.”

“Fuck, Gemma,” he breathed, “you shouldn’t have told me that.”

Still eased herself back so she could unbuckle his fly. Her fingers released his huge dick and she began to work it.

“Why, what difference does it make?” she asked, changing the movement of her fingers to massage the already coated tip.

“You know I’m going to imagine every time I see you what’s underneath your uniform. You’re not really a cleaner are you,” he grinned, “you’re a fucking witch?”

She kissed him impatiently. “A witch that’s ready for you, right now. So where are the condoms?”

“In that drawer,” he indicated with his head and leaned forward holding onto her and opened the drawer, fishing for a condom. She took it from him and tore open the packet. She rolled it on his tip and smoothly sheathed him.

“God, there’s only you that can make putting on a condom really hot.”

She hoisted her hips upwards, and he held himself as she manoeuvred herself onto his huge dick and slowly eased down, her slick muscles clenching around him, sucking him in before beginning to move gently.

His face looked tortured as he effortlessly ripped open the front of her uniform, exposing her breasts ensconced in a black lace bra. He pulled it down and took her breast into his mouth, hungrily. He sucked on one nipple and then the other, sending sparks to her clit. She continued to ride him, using her knees for leverage.

He buried his face in her breasts, “You have the most amazing tits,” he said, almost gobbling them up. He bit, grabbed and sucked, while she rode him, loving the feeling of his dick deep within her.

She clenched her inner muscles around him . . . tightly, enjoying him watching her breasts bouncing up and down as she gained momentum.

He held onto her hips. “You are so fucking sexy, Gemma,” he moaned as he licked her neck, nibbling and sucking behind her ear.

He was too. The position was fabulous. He was sinking deeper and further into her and she loved it. He moved his hand towards her clit, which was precisely what she wanted. His magical fingers skilfully circled the erect nub, knowing exactly the amount of pressure she needed as he rubbed and manipulated it in tiny circles.

Sparks ignited, the pleasure was excruciating and her pussy throbbed as she continued to ride him. The tension in her belly twisted as the ecstasy became stronger. Her pussy milked his cock frantically, “Oh, God, yes,” her body convulsed as pleasure began cascading downwards.

“Dylan!” she screamed.

“Fucking hell!” he roared as his dick pounded his release at the same time, deep inside her.

 

She buried her head in his neck and still as one, their breathing slowed together.

He cupped her head and pulled it towards him, kissing her gently, “I’ll never be able to look at you again in that uniform without remembering this.”

She put a playful surprised look on her face, “Well my parole officer did say I needed to make a good impression on the job.”

He threw back his head and laughed making her tummy muscles clench.

What is it about this man?

She was going to miss him when it was all over.