Chapter Five
Fifty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in an office, of sorts. A floor-to-ceiling glass case takes up an entire wall, displaying colorful rows of comic books.
A huge arched window lets in ample natural light. In front of the window is a wingback chair tucked behind a large antique desk with two suede chairs that sit facing it.
On the far side of the room is a treadmill, along with a variety of dumbbells on a rack.
I’m seated in one of the suede chairs, waiting, feet tapping, fingers drumming. To create sounds. Noise of any kind. Anything but silence.
Sedatephobia, remember?
Collin brought me here ten minutes ago at Jaxon’s behest, but the blue-eyed creature is nowhere to be seen. And sitting here alone in complete silence is not boding well for me.
I’m trying not to panic, I truly am, but my palms have started sweating. My knees are bouncing, my anxiety increasing.
I wait some more.
And even more.
When the silence lets out a strident scream in my head like nails on a chalkboard, and my heartbeat starts to gallop a million beats per millisecond, I leap up out of the chair and foot it to the door.
I try desperately to turn the doorknob but keep failing. My palms are too sweaty.
With irrational and frustrated fists I begin banging on the door. I want out. I want out. I’m about to start screaming bloody murder when the door bursts open.
A hiccup reverberates through my chest, and I sink to the ground, clutching my chest as if shot, trying to reach in and soothe my thundering heart.
Before my knees can hit the ground, strong, long arms reach out and catch me.
“What the—”
“Music,” I pant, hiccupping madly. “Turn on some music. Or the TV. Or talk. Or sing. Anything. Please!”
“I don’t understand,” Jaxon says, frowning. “Jesus, you’re covered in sweat. What’s going on?”
“Oh my God, I’m going to die.” My heartbeat hammers like a New York subway. “Say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” I order him.
“Wha— Like Mary Poppins?”
“Yes!” I hiccup ungracefully. “Say it.”
After a long, hesitant pause, he cautiously says, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?”
“Say it again,” I demand.
More hesitation. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Hey, what is going on? I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to be afraid—”
“I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of the silence! Say it again. Ten more times. Or twenty.”
“Wait. What?”
“Jaxon, please, I’m begging you, just say it and I’ll calm down enough to talk to you.”
He takes a deep, impatient breath, but says, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
The sound of his soft, sexy voice is exactly what my stupid anxiety needs to chill the bonkers out.
He repeats it over and over again until my heartbeat slows. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
His damned voice. Another thing that leaves me fascinated by him. Not deep, or gruff, or macho in any way. Just quiet, with a mild rasp and a bit of midlevel bass that gives it just the right blend. Which goes impeccably with his angelically beautiful, innocent, would-never-hurt-a-fly appearance.
Before long, I’m breathing normally again, and he is moving with me. He sets me in one of the chairs and crouches down in front of me. One hand rests gently on my knee, a crease of concern between his brows, his guarded eyes searching my face. “Better?”
I nod. “Thank you.” And then my mouth moves of its own volition to add, “Even though it’s all your fault to begin with.”
His eyebrows lift. “What did I do? I just came to talk to you.”
“I have a phobia. A fear of silence. And I was left to wait in it for you.”
He remains silent for a moment, observing me. “That’s a very irrational fear.”
“You don’t think I know that?” I snap, more irritated at myself than at him for pointing out what a wuss I am. Thank you so much. “There’s nothing I can do but live with it, yeah?” I grouse.
Reaching up to his desk, he grabs a few tissues from a box and begins to dry the sweat from my face and neck. Gentle swipes, almost caressing.
“How’s your heart now?”
A loaded question.
Should I tell him the truth? Should I tell him it is now going nuts for reasons completely unrelated to my phobia? Will he get it? That my erratic heartbeat is now on account of his proximity? On account of his hands on me? The soothing tenor of his voice? The penetration of his ice-blue gaze?
“Better,” I lie.
He balls up the tissues in his palm, his gaze moving over my face.
I’m blessed with a tremendous gift of discernment, of reading people and their body language…but with this man, it’s a challenge. Back in France, I was able to tell what he was, what he does for a living, but the one thing I failed to do, and continue to fail at even now, is to read him.
His eyes, the windows to his thoughts, are so prudently guarded, so expressionless, there is no getting in.
Undoubtedly, he’s taken the time to practice and master this mask of impenetrability. After all, he’s a con artist. One must know how to hide one’s soul to successfully, unsuspectingly, deceive another.
Instead of standing, he rocks all the way back until his arse hits the floor and his back is leaning against the desk, his feet stretched out before him, his ankles crossed.
I have an immediate understanding of what he is doing. If he assumes a lower position—one of vulnerability—it will lull me into a false sense of security. Into feeling as if I have the upper hand.
Ah. He doesn’t believe my anxiety is from a phobia. He thinks I’m afraid of him.
Taking in my attire, he frowns in disapproval. “Those clothes are too big for you. Why didn’t you borrow something from Jo?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, she hates me. Also, she’s too skinny. Also, should we put her habiliments next to Collin’s, Jo’s would win as the more masculine.”
“Hablia-what?”
“Habiliments. Also known as clothes, attire, garments, covering for the body.”
“Why not just say clothes?”
I assume the question is rhetorical. “Do you really care that the clothes are too big, or are you just displeased that they’re Collin’s?” I ask.
“He’s taking advantage of you.”
“By loaning me his things? Would you prefer me to walk around nude? That’s how the Amazons do it, but I’m too short to pass for an Amazon. Or would you prefer me in your clothes, instead?”
He ignored that. “Col has about five different girlfriends as we speak. Did he tell you that?”
Whoa. A rake of the most sordid sort. Well, with that face…I can’t blame him. “No concern of mine. Collin can have as many girlfriends as he likes. He and I are just…bedmates.”
Yes. I’m very aware of how misleading that is. But, hey.
In an abrupt move, Jaxon is on his feet, the bit of soothing warmth that had been emanating from him instantly gone. He tosses the crumpled ball of tissues into a trash can in the corner, then perches himself at the edge of his desk and crosses his arms.
Intimidation mode. So cliché.
“I’m gonna ask you a few questions, and you’re gonna answer them,” he says.
I barely refrain from an eye roll. “No option to plead the fifth? That’s hardly fair.”
“Tough luck,” he replies. “Who are you?”
I decide to go for the truth. He’ll find out eventually, anyway, if he’s any good at what he does. Besides, I’ve nothing to hide. I’m the hostage here. “Timberly. My family calls me Timber. My best friend calls me Tim.”
The T-shirt and hoodie I’m wearing barely reach mid-thigh, which means I’m baring more skin than I’m comfortable with. Especially with him staring down at me. I attempt to cross my legs, but it only causes the material to ride up even more skin, so I cross my feet at the ankles instead, tuck them to one side, and fold my hands in my lap. All very proper.
His eyes follow my legs until they settle. “Such beautiful skin,” he murmurs.
My heart hiccups. Precious. Sweet precious.
“T-Thank you,” I manage through my surprise.
At that, his head snaps up and he blinks. His mouth opens, then closes. I’m guessing that wasn’t meant to be heard out loud…
He clears his throat. “Timberly what?”
Uh-oh. Okay, mostly the truth. “Timberly Patterson.”
Those frosty blue eyes study me. “You know it’ll do you no good to lie to me, right?”
“I’m not lying,” I lie.
“You’re awfully short on words today.”
“You’re awfully intimidating,” I lie some more.
With a slight lift of a brow, he shakes his head. “What were you doing at the auction in Paris, Timberly Patterson?”
“I believe I already told you that.” I smile. “To bid on something, remember?”
“On what?”
“The Greek coins.”
His gaze narrowed. “How would you be able to afford those?”
I tried not to be insulted. “My best friend, Mel. She’s loaded.”
Mostly true. Melanie’s parents are obscene in their riches. But being one of five children has left her with the same feeling of inadequate love and attention as I have. However, she has also been extended a limitless credit card that allows her all the sins and pleasures of life, so all is fair in love and war, as far as she is concerned.
The other half of the truth is that my sister is also stinking filthy rich, but I have a half a million dollar limit on my credit card. Should I ever hit the halfway mark of that allowance too quickly, I’m sure to receive a call from her, demanding to know what I’m spending so much money on in such short amount of time.
Unlike Melanie’s parents, Ma—Saskia—monitors everything. Not to track the money but to keep tabs on me. This should annoy me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I cling to the knowledge, all the assurance I need that she isn’t neglecting me completely.
Despite the wonderful financial privilege at our fingertips, Melanie and I are not profligate, by any means. We sleep in cheap hotels, take advantage of thrift stores, and pay attention to the digits after the decimal point on price tags. Admittedly, we squander the most on plane tickets, and we do go bonkers at auctions.
“Ah, the best friend, Melanie. Thank you for bringing her up.” Jaxon straightens and rounds the desk to sit in his wingback chair. “You don’t seem too worried that you were separated from her in a foreign country. Is that because she’s not really a friend but a co-worker who knows the risks of going undercover?”
At this nonsensical accusation, I do roll my eyes. Dramatically. “Oh, come on. You’re a professional. This kind of nonsense is incongruent with your enviable high intelligence. First of all, you wouldn’t have brought me to your safe house if you believed there’s even a two percent chance that I’m an undercover operative out to bust your little gang of thieves. I think you know I’m legit, and so does Collin, but the others don’t so they’re pushing you, and that’s what this farce of an interrogation is.” I make air quotes around interrogation.
His unreadable eyes peruse me. He takes a breath, is about to say something, then thinks better of it. “You’re right.”
“Then why am I here? Why did you take me?”
His head dips, and he sucks on his bottom lip. The action seems unconscious, like a bad habit.
A very sexy bad habit.
After a long moment, he opens a desk drawer, lifts something out, and places it on the desk.
My knife.
“This knife,” he says slowly. “It’s six hundred years old and valued at over half a million dollars. How’d you get it?”
This again. “I won it at an auction.”
“How? And don’t give me that best friend bullshit again.” Unsheathing the knife, he runs a finger along the blade. “Are you a trust fund baby, or something?”
I almost choke. Now, it’s my turn to throw my guard up. I must not forget this man is a thief. “Why?” I ask. “Thinking about seducing me into a sweetheart con?”
He blinks. And then he smiles. There’s nothing unctuous about his smile, either. It’s all genuine mirth. Wow. I fascinate him. “You’re too smart to fall for that,” he says.
I smile back. Except mine is a warning. “You would do well to remember that.”
Relaxing back in his chair, his fingertips sliding back and forth over the blade, he watches me with piqued curiosity. “How do you know so much about…?” He trails off and gestures to himself, then all around, in general, I assume to avoid an incriminating admission.
“I read a lot,” I prevaricate. “Everything I know is pure theory, not based on personal experience.”
“No.” He wags his head, unsold. “You’re too perceptive, too quick. You do have experience.”
I push my glasses up on my nose and say nothing.
He eyes me hard, but he’s too beautiful to be intimidating.
When he realizes I’m not going to feed his conjecture, he moves on. “How did you get in?”
“Pardon?”
“In Paris. How did you get into the room where I was?”
“I breached the security.” That’s me being a smart-arse.
“How?” Though his face doesn’t show it, his growing frustration with me is palpable.
“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“Like?”
“Do you divulge your tricks to others?” I answer before he can. “Of course not. Because then your tricks would no longer be yours. I think we’ve already established that I’m smart, so no, I’ll not tell you my tricks, no matter how disconcertingly beautiful you are.”
He gifts me a respectful nod. “Timber—can I call you Timber?”
“Yes, you may.” Picture me melting.
“My friends and I—we’re the best. And the best never get caught, never get compromised. In Paris, I got caught. In Paris, I got compromised. In all my years at this profession, that has only happened twice. A little over a year ago at Castellos Museum, and two days ago in Paris. Both times, the person who caught me was you.”
I shouldn’t be shocked. After all, I had reminded him about the Castellos Museum encounter when we were in Paris. But he’d pretended not to remember, so I figured he thought I was fibbing.
Aren’t I the stupid one to think that?
He was the one who was wearing a mask that night. I wasn’t. So if anyone’s going to remember anyone, it’s him.
I’m not sure what the current expression on my face is, but he gives me a tight nod and says, “Yes, I remember you. It’s what I do. I notice faces, and remember them. Especially the ones who happen to catch me in compromising situations.” He leans forward and clasps his hands on the desk. “And now, Timber, you have my attention. You seamlessly breached a high-security system without triggering a single alarm. In a matter of seconds. Do you know how long it took us to come up with a plan to get in there? Weeks.”
“Well, in all fairness,” I say, “although it took me minutes to get in, it did take us months to develop our, um, tricks.”
“Us?” One perfect eyebrow arches. “Are you referring to your little Indian bestie?”
She may be little, but she is mighty. As am I.
I take off my glasses and wipe the lenses with the hem of Collin’s hoodie before putting them back on. “Maybe.”
At this, he purses his lips. And that mouth is so tempting, I wiggle my toes.
“I believe you’re not an undercover,” he says. “But I do know why you followed me in Paris. I stole something from you a year ago, and you want it back. Unfortunately, I don’t have it. It’s gone.”
What on earth is he talking about? I quickly sift through my brain.
Oh. Right. The Blue Promise. That night at Castellos Museum he stole the necklace we were returning and ran off with it.
Which would’ve been the perfect excuse to use for following him, had I remembered about it.
Suddenly, I was hit by another reminder.
I, too, have something of his. Something he doesn’t know I have.
Something priceless that he’s probably wishing he could get his thieving hands on. Something that, should I wish to be freed from this laughable captivity, can easily buy me freedom.
Insanely enough, I don’t wish to be freed. So, that’s a token I’ll be holding onto…in the event of a more desperate situation.
“But you have something I want,” he goes on.
I stiffen. No. He can’t. He can’t possibly know I have the key…
“Your tricks,” he says. “I want to know how you got in. And until you tell me, I’m not letting you go.”
Oh, thank God. He doesn’t know.
I relax, apprehension evaporating. This could actually be…interesting.
“And how do you intend on getting me to tell you?” I ask, genuinely curious. Feeling more than a little thrilled by the possibilities. Had someone mentioned seduction?
Oh, yeah. That was me.
He presses the tip of my knife blade to the center of his palm, twisting idly. For someone who’s supposedly anti-weapon, he’s sure having a blast with that thing. I’m so not intimidated. But I play along.
“Do you know how most people end up becoming my victim, Timber?”
I bat my eyelashes. “By getting fooled by your pretty face?”
After staring me down for an eternity, not a single expression in those eyes, he tucks the knife back in its sheath. “Get out of here. I’m done with you.”
Well, poop.
“Fine. But if you’re going to keep me here, I’ll need clothes,” I tell him. “Am I allowed to online shop?”
“Not sure I trust you with a computer.”
Seriously? I let out a dramatic sigh. “Jaxon, if I wanted to escape, I would’ve climbed through Collin’s bathroom window earlier. It’s obvious you people have never held a hostage before because you totally suck at it. There’s no lockdown, or bondage, and all the exits are wide open. Not to mention, I know where I am. The only reason I’m still here right now is because you all fascinate me.”
That, and I’m waiting on Melanie. Wouldn’t do to spoil her fun.
While a lesser man would’ve taken umbrage to that, Jaxon is completely unfazed. I can’t figure this man out. I don’t know if he’s playing me into believing I’m smarter than he is, or what. One thing is for certain, his reason for keeping me here is weak. If he really wanted to know how I got into that room, he’d call in Kavon or Ed to scare the bejesus out of me. He’s holding me for a reason, but that is definitely not it.
Oh. And I’m not really kidding myself into believing I can actually climb out a window and get away. I’m not fooled for a second by his innocent act. He has a plan for that eventuality, too.
“Go,” is all he says.
Assuming that’s a “Yes,” to online shopping, I get up and start to leave, my heart smiling.
Pausing at the door, I throw a quick glance over my shoulder.
Jaxon is trailing one forefinger over the serpent’s head on my knife while the other is resting against his lower lip, rubbing back and forth, back and forth. His vacant, unrevealing eyes are fixed on me.
I see it then. The sliver of darkness that, before now, was hidden by the light of his beauty.
In that split second, I know, without a single doubt in my mind. Beneath all that prettiness lurks a savage soul. Anti-violence or not, Jaxon is someone to be feared. Someone never to be trusted.
I swallow heavily.
One corner of his lips curves up ever so slightly, so deceivingly innocuous.
And I don’t wait for him to tell me again.
I go.