Chapter Thirty
I sleep for the entire plane ride to Spain. By the time we arrive, it’s morning.
A black bloke in black clothes awaits Jaxon at the edge of the tarmac, with the keys to a black Range Rover. The keys exchange hands sans words, and the guy disappears like smoke.
We load into the vehicle, Collin shotgun, me in the back. Of course.
Jaxon’s effortless navigation of the streets and Collin’s at-ease demeanor tell me they’ve been here and done this many times before.
Almost an hour later, after many blind corners and much uphill driving, Jaxon swings a sharp left and jerks to a stop in front of a driveway blocked by a massive wooden gate with iron accents. He powers down his window and leans out to press the pad of his thumb to the security monitor.
Once the gates are open, he drives in and—
Wow. Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.
A Spanish villa sprawls on a hillside that affords a breathtaking view of both verdant green hills and blue ocean.
The pool is stupendous, occupying a ridiculous amount of land, with padded loungers and green-striped umbrellas surrounding it.
The Rover comes to a stop, and I’m the first one out, walking in circles as I take it all in—the terra-cotta roof tiles, massive grooved columns, Spanish lanterns, water fountains, landscaped hills, pine trees, palm trees, banana trees, and flamboyant flowers of all the colors in the world.
Both men wear bored, unimpressed expressions as they grab the bags and start up the wraparound steps to the house.
I, however, am seduced by its beauty, so I take the time to appreciate it as I follow in their path.
By the time I’m done touring the enormous house with its painted high ceilings and opulent decor, I find Jaxon and Collin hunched over a dinner table off the kitchen, in a deep discussion of the job, a blueprint of a house spread out in front of them.
This trip is clearly not a vacation.
I take a seat at the table, zip my lips, and listen.
The objective is an eighteenth-century Chinese Qianlong Dynasty porcelain vase. On the table is a photo of the vase, and standing next to the photo, Jaxon informs Collin, is an exact replica of the vase. It is about sixteen inches high, with beautiful decorations, and a very slim neck. There are also photos of a beautiful raven-haired woman, a wiry ginger-haired man with a cleft chin, and of a mansion in the hills.
When Col asks where Jaxon got the replica vase, he tells him to focus and stop asking irrelevant questions.
Mega-rich, forty-nine-year-old Yineris da Costa recently divorced her opportunist, megalomaniac French husband, William Girard. Inside her obscenely opulent mansion is a dining room, and in that dining room is an intricately carved side table. On that side table sits the real vase.
The vase was supposedly passed down to Yineris from her great-grandmother, who told her it was given to her as a gift by a man she had a brief affair with while on vacation in Hong Kong. The man had confessed that he’d stolen it from his grandfather’s secret cabinet. Yineris’s great-grandmother had held a tight grasp to the vase as a cherished memento of that brief but meaningful affair.
Of the vase’s monetary value, Yineris is ignorant. William Girard, however, very recently discovered its worth. About a month ago, the eighteenth-century Qianlong Dynasty vase was put up for auction where it was won in a bid by the Chinese government for well over fifty million pounds. Totally insane. But two mornings ago, after the vase was safely delivered and underwent multiple examinations, it was declared a fake.
William, upon hearing this, recalled an exact replica of the vase in his ex-wife’s possession and is convinced that is the real vase. He wants it.
And that’s where the Unseen come in.
Jaxon’s plan to get the vase is rather straightforward, compared with some of the more complicated jobs I’ve done with him in New York.
Yineris is known for having a fondness for young, good-looking men, especially if they’re foreigners. Collin is tasked with showing up at Yineris’s favorite chill spot, catching her eye, and seducing her into taking him home with her. While he keeps her occupied, Jaxon will hack her security, sneak in, switch the vases, and get out without a trace. When Yineris walks into her dining room the next morning, her vase will be right where it’s always been, and she won’t suspect a thing.
“The Chinese really bid fifty mil on that vase?’” Collin asks, sitting back in his chair after the plan is thoroughly discussed and agreed upon.
“Yep,” Jaxon replies, taking a sip of bottled water. “And that’s not even its value. It was appraised at approximately five mil. But the Chinese are sentimental like that. They’ll pay you the stars to recover what’s theirs.”
Arms stretched over his head, Collin says through a yawn, “That fake must’ve been pretty damn impeccable to have passed the initial examinations.”
I speak for the first time, though no one asked me. “Authenticators usually go off aging, chemical testing, and facts. But the real owners know what to look for—it could be something as simple as a slanted brushstroke that no one would ever notice except the one who knows its every last imperfection. Expert counterfeiters just need the right ingredients and techniques to manipulate their fake creations into passing as authentic.”
Collin nods. “The Chinese know that, which is why they conducted their own tests upon delivery.”
Contemplating the slim neck of the vase, I pause at a thought. “What if… This vase has never been broken, right? Who knows what could be hidden inside the porcelain body? Something that was fired into the vase back when it was made.”
The men just stare back at me.
“Fifty million pounds is a lot of money,” I say. “Sentimental as they may be, do you really think they’d bid that much if it didn’t contain something that’s valued fifty times more than the vase itself?”
“It’s possible,” Collin slowly agrees. “Too bad we can’t take it for ourselves and get the Chinese to pay us big for it.”
“Greed leads to demise.” Jaxon stands and glares at Collin. “Never get greedy. It’s the worst mistake you can make in life.”
He walks out.
Collin fidgets at the table with a look of contrition.
“You don’t like disappointing him,” I say. It’s not a question. I reach across and cover his hand with mine.
His head swings side to side in denial. “Wrong. I don’t care what he thinks. He’s an asshole.”
“You do, though.”
Scowling at the truth, he looks at my hand on top of his and quickly pulls away. “Don’t touch me like that.”
I’m taken aback. “Why not?” Collin has been touchy-feely with me from Day One. We snuggle and cuddle and hold hands and sit in each other’s laps. We have always had a comfortable openness that works for us as friends. So, him telling me not to touch him kind of stings.
He shakes his head at me as if I’m clueless. “You can see my broken nose, right?”
“I don’t think he meant to.” But even as I say the words, I know they aren’t true. “You two are getting along now. No argument over…anything.” Like, me.
Collin scoffs. “Oh, he meant to. And there’s no argument because he told me everything he thought I needed to know with his fist, and that was the end of that. Message received.”
Call me clueless, but I still don’t get it. “What message?”
With a humorless chuckle, Collin gets to his feet. “Apparently, you’re not as smart as I thought, Nerd Girl.” He starts to leave the room but stops at the door. “Four years I’ve been working for the guy, and I’ve never seen him get violent, let alone been on the receiving end of his violence. The Jaxon I know never allows himself to become angry to the point of getting physical.”
With that, he leaves. And I don’t get to point out that just because he’s never witnessed Jaxon be violent doesn’t mean he isn’t. Maybe he just hides it well. As far as I know, it’s the people who suppress their emotions that are the most lethal, the ones who should never be underestimated.
I’ve never underestimated Jaxon. Not for a second. If Collin did, that’s his mistake.
And as far as getting the message goes, it’s kind of hard for me to do that when Jaxon says one thing but does something else entirely. What message is he sending when he goes days on end without seeing or speaking to me? What message is he sending when his actions only support the unpleasant things Nadine plants in my head?
When it comes to Jaxon King, what exactly is the message he wants me to get?
If relationships are all about being muddled, I am not a fan.
After studying the paraphernalia on the table a few moments longer to calm my chaotic emotions, I get up and wander about the house, touching things, until I come to an abrupt stop at the overwhelming living room.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, I see Jaxon out by the pool, stripped down to only a pair of tight black boxer briefs.
My heart palpitates at the sight of his distracting physical perfection, at the sight of his taut skin under the screaming glare of the Spanish morning sun.
He walks to the edge of the pool, arms poised over his head, and dives in. His tall, lean body slices through the air and knifes into the water.
That’s all it takes. I’m wetter than the pool water. Damn right, this isn’t biology. I’m so helplessly affected by him, it’s pathetic.
I take off my cardigan and dump it on the sofa, then walk with purpose out the sliding glass doors toward the pool.
His head still underwater, he free-strokes down to the other end.
Bending at the waist, I tug my leggings up to my knees and toe off my flats. I go to sit at the edge and swing my feet into the water.
His head pops up, wagging at the other end of the pool, spraying droplets of water. He wipes a hand down his face as he treads a circle in the water and sees me watching him.
On a deep inhale, he dips under again and free-strokes down the vast length of water toward me. Soon, his head bobs up right in front of me, his fingers raking the wet hair back from his face.
To restrain myself, I stuff my own hands under my thighs and hold my bottom lip captive between my teeth.
He’s so much. So beautiful. So all-consuming. So commanding, even when he’s not said a word. So…wet.
This man punched Collin last night. Because of me. He said he needed me…and not for the job.
Why does he need me? I really have to know. Because his behavior toward me since that punch says the very opposite.
Swimming to rest between my dangling legs, he rests his chin on my right knee. “You’re beautiful,” he tells me.
I touch the side of his face and gingerly drag my fingertips along his jawline.
At my touch, his eyes close, and his head turns so his cheek rests on my thigh, chlorine water soaking through my leggings.
This gives me confidence, and I touch him more, touch him as I’ve always wanted to touch him. I smooth the pad of my thumb over his eyebrows, over his lips. I caress his jaw, I play in his hair. I admire him. And he’s so peaceful at my touch, I could die.
“How did she become your best friend?” I ask without thinking.
Damn! Why the hell did I just ask that?! Seriously? Such a nice moment. Why did my big mouth have to go and ruin it?
I hold my breath, waiting for his usual shutdown.
His head lifts, his eyes open, and he gazes up at me from under his wet lashes. But—thank heavens—he’s not mad. He’s not shutting down.
What he does is rest his chin on my knee again, and he answers me. “Junior high. Eighth grade. She was a new transfer. Had a crush on a jock who sat behind me in Spanish class. But he didn’t notice her. So, she talked me into pretending I was crazy about her, and she wasn’t into me. Jocks love to go after what others crave, to prove they’re kings who can get anything they want. It was the first con we pulled together.”
“What did you get in return for winning her the jock?”
“A diamond bracelet she got as a birthday gift from her dad.” He lifts a shoulder. “She’s from a well-off family.”
I knew it.
“Why does she pull crimes with you then? If she doesn’t need the money?”
He lifts his chin and cocks an eyebrow at me. “Why do you and Mel do it? Neither of you are hard-pressed for cash, either.”
“Were you hard-pressed for cash when you started?” I ask, evading. “You grew up in foster care, didn’t you?”
He blinks, looks down for a minute, and then treads backward, relaxing his limbs until he’s floating on the water, face turned up to the sky. “When I was eleven, my parents left for the Middle East on a humanitarian volunteer trip. They never came back. A year later, it came over the news that they had been kidnapped by terrorists, only to be blown to bits from an air strike aimed at the terrorist camp where they were being held.”
“Jesus.” I inhale in sharp sympathy. “That’s awful.”
“My mom’s only sibling was an unstable alcoholic, and my dad was the outcast of his family,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “So, yeah, I spent about three years in foster care before I ran away, turning tricks and counting cards to pay for school and an apartment. Nadine was always with me. She’s better than me at this, you know? A natural. I respect her enough to admit that. We got rich quick. And lost it all just as quickly. Because I got greedy.”
I hate that Nadine is the one who was with him in the time when he had no one else. I hate the reverence and adoration in his voice when he speaks of her. I hate that I’ve lived twenty-two years not knowing he existed. “That’s a good bad, though, isn’t it?” I say. “To learn early the mistakes to avoid. A tough way to learn, I agree. But a lesson is a lesson, yeah?”
He stares pensively up at the sky. I know he’s no longer here with me. He’s gone somewhere else. So, I press my palms to the ground and wait for him to return.
After an indeterminable extension of silence, he blinks, flips over, and swims up to me again. Faster than I can react, he grips me by the waist, lifts me off the edge, and dunks me into the pool with him. Our bodies crash together with a huge splash.
I shriek, right before my head goes underwater. In seconds I manage to resurface and spew a spray of chlorine water as I whip off my askew glasses. “You wanker!” I jab my glasses at him.
With a challenging arch to his brow, he dives backward, flips over like a bloody dolphin, and swims down to the other end of the pool.
A frustrated grumble in my throat, I wade back to where I’d been sitting and set my glasses down. I haul off my soaked camisole and throw that down, too, then pick up the gauntlet and chase him across the pool.
He’s far ahead of me, of course, so by the time I get to the other end, he’s waiting for me with cool patience, his elbows propped back on the coving, a smirk on his lips.
Before I can hurl a thorny ball of curses at him, he asks, “How’s your sight without your glasses?”
“I have simple myopia.”
He squints, contemplative. “That’s nearsightedness, right?”
I scowl and take my frustration out in facts. “Yes. Hyperopia is farsightedness. When astigmatism is attached to either of these—myopia or hyperopia—a vision aid is almost always needed. And if a person has mixed astigmatism, they’re completely dependent on their glasses. Astigmatism is known to be caused by having an oddly shaped cornea, or by the shape of the lens inside the eye. This corneal aberration causes vision to be blurred or distorted, regardless of distance.”
By the end of my lengthy tirade, he’s grinning. “So…that means you can see, right?”
Embarrassment has me ducking my head. Dammit. Give my mouth an inch and it takes a yard. “Yes. I can see you.”
In a fluid motion, he kicks one leg out, locks it around my waist, and pulls me through the water to him. All without moving an inch from the wall.
From the unexpected attack, I crash up against him, the water lapping violently around us.
“What about from this distance?”
I’m breathless as I gasp out, “Even better. Perfect.”
“And what do you see?”
I study him for a brief moment. “Heat. Lust. Desire.” I inhale a trembling breath. “For me.”
As I make to wrap my arms around his neck, he moves faster than I believe possible and switches us around so I’m against the wall of the pool, and he’s in front of me.
He grips the back of my thighs and steers me to wrap my legs around him. “And, how does that make you feel?”
I give him the total and complete truth. “Like I’m…on fire.”
The water might be cool, but it’s got zero effect on the roaring fire that he sets ablaze in me with his touches.
There’s no waiting. No hesitation. No blinks. He just grabs my face and steals my breath, seizes my tongue, captivates my mouth. He comes in and stays in. He comes hard and stays hard.
I’m all his, and he knows it.
One hand slides between us, down my leggings, into my knickers. And there’s no break in movement when his fingers glide through my folds, a lone finger plunging inside.
I gasp in his mouth at the intrusion but rotate on his hand, loving the feel of it. His fingers work magic, without him ever breaking the kiss.
As pleasure heightens, my legs tighten around him, but he refuses to free my mouth. His finger pumps in and out of me while his thumb caresses my swollen clit, driving me out of my mind, greedily eating up all my noises of pleasure.
Soon, I feel it approaching. The insane sensation from the other night.
Orgasm draws closer and closer, gripping me in all the secret places on my body, all the curves and crevices. My fingernails dig into his shoulders. And then, I implode, a groan of ecstasy ripping from my throat and escaping down his.
I want to scream my pleasure to the sky, but he won’t let me. I want to praise his name, but he won’t let me. He just keeps on kissing me, taking my nail-digging and leg-cinching with equanimity.
Only when I’m back to earth and all in one piece does he free my mouth.
I punch his shoulder. “You!”
“What?”
“You ate all my sounds!”
His smile is slow and languorous as it stretches across his face. “You don’t like me eating your sex noises?”
“I—”
Do I? Don’t I? What am I crocking about, anyway? He just blew my mind with his fingers.
“I don’t know.”
Head dipping, he kisses one corner of my mouth. “They’re my noises.” He kisses the other corner. “I can do whatever the hell I want with them.”
Withdrawing his hand from my knickers, he brings it up between us to cup and squeeze my breast through the soaked lace of my bra.
“I want to touch you,” I blurt out.
His mouth descends to my cleavage, licking and sucking. “Then touch me.”
I hesitate, whimpering from his focused attention to my breasts. The only sexual move I know is the one from the show I watched with Collin last night. I know the facts, of course, but this is…different. In person. I think it’s time I start reading more fiction. Romantic fiction. Erotica, to be exact. There’s nothing I want more than to please Jaxon, and I have absolutely no idea how to do that.
I must’ve been hesitating too long, because I’m jolted from my worries when he takes my right hand, rubs it down his chest, and shoves it down the waistband of his boxer briefs.
“Touch me, Timber,” he orders my cleavage.
I’m frozen for a moment, but then I bite my lip and curl my fingers around the throbbing rigid member inside his boxer briefs. Hard as steel but at the same time smooth as velvet.
With an impatient movement, he pushes the underwear down his hips, giving me a heart-hammering underwater visual of my fingers wrapped around his impressive girth.
Dumbly, I ask, “What do I do?”
He kisses up my neck and nibbles my earlobe. “Stroke me.”
I begin to stroke him, testing. “Like this?”
“Yeah.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “Tighten your grip for me, beautiful. And squeeze the head when you come up.”
“Like this?”
“Mmm, yeah, exactly like that.” He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breath labored. “Just keep doing that.”
I do. And I observe. Watching in fascination how a simple motion of my hand can control every hitch in his breath. Spurred on by my awe, I deviate from his instructions and run my own set of tests and experiments. A twist of the fingers here, a rub of the thumb there, a squeeze here, and a tug there.
He doesn’t object, not at all. He responds even more intensely.
It’s magic, this sex thing. I’m so mesmerized by the control and the manipulation and the physical responses. Amazing. I want to do this to him forever. But he’s losing control more and more by the second. He’s gripping my hair, and he’s biting my jaw. He’s kissing me and then he’s not. He’s sucking hard on my breasts, leaving bright red marks.
I add my other hand, so I’m fisting him with both, twisting in conflicting directions with each stroke upward.
“Ahh— Whoa! Tim— Holy shh—” His body stiffens against me as he garbles a trail mix of nonsensical words. “Timber, stop. Shit, no. I don’t want to— Fffu— It’s over.”
He grips the wall on either side of me, buries his face in my neck, and releases a long, agonizing groan as his cock pulses hard in my fists.
I watch as white spurts fire from the head, dissipating instantaneously in the water. It’s so beautiful. Every bit of this is beautiful.
Tenderly, I release him and tuck him back into his boxers.
After a long, long moment, he lifts his head from the crook of my neck, and I think he’s going to kiss me and thank me, but instead, his eyes narrow on me with accusation. “You did it again.”
I’m confused. “What?”
“You gamed me.”
Seriously? “How? I’ve…never done that before.”
“Bullshit.” He shakes his head. “That’s the best hand job I’ve ever had in my entire life, and you expect me to believe it’s your first time?”
“I was experimenting!” I defend. “I swear to God, I’ve never done that before.”
“You were ex-peri-menting?” His tone is laden with distrust and skepticism.
“It’s the truth, Jaxon.”
He watches me. Searches. Studies.
I don’t break eye contact. It’s important he sees the truth.
In the bigger picture, we both really are conning each other. But in this small moment, real is here, and I want him to know it.
After an insane length of staring and searching, he blinks the doubt away, leans in, and kisses me. “Okay. I believe you. And if your experiments are always this mind-blowing, I’m volunteering to be your lab rat.”