“Ohh—” he moaned, and then his cock jumped. He held me tight as his body rocked into mine once, then again. I clenched tight around his rock-hard member, milking his desire out of him until the last gasp of his breath.
“Lacey.” He was breathless, and yet he whispered my name. The orgasm had come fast, and hit us both hard. We lay in the hot water, steam rising above us in a white cloud.
Wash this whole mess away.
A strange emotion floated up inside of me. A pang of intense curiosity. As much as I tried to suppress it, it wouldn’t go away. The art collector’s face hovered in my mind whenever I closed my eyes. And I had the feeling that there was no amount of soap that could wash this mess away.
Chapter Four
Jake was at business meetings all day. Instead of going out, I decided to stay in the hotel room. I was in no mood to get kidnapped again.
The security people standing outside my door were no relief. If anything, I felt caged inside the room. Caged anywhere. I didn’t want to be in Paris anymore. I wanted everything to be finished. Jake had promised me that we’d go sightseeing after his negotiations were finished, but I didn’t even want that—I wanted to go home.
I hadn’t talked with him about the woman I’d seen him with. After costing him ten million dollars, I didn’t feel like picking a fight. It was probably just some lawyer, anyway.
I sighed, thinking about Jake. I would sit quietly in my hotel room and not make any trouble for him.
After watching six hours of crazy French TV, though, I was ready to scream. Or jump out the window. Don’t get me wrong - the room service was great, and I gave myself a nice pedicure while finishing a book. But there was only so much to do in a hotel.
Worst of all, there was no art.
Back in NYC, I’d been doing a painting every day, sometimes two. I’d painted my ass off. Now, doodling concept sketches on hotel stationary wasn’t cutting it. I’d finished the hotel sketchpad and thrown it in the trash; none of my art was good, anyway.
I lay back on the bed and sighed.
Was this what life with Jake would be like? There was no struggle, no purpose. I could paint or not paint, and it still didn’t matter. The only art collectors who had an interest in me wanted to tie me up in a tunnel for ransom.
I looked over at my phone.
Sean had called me through that phone. I was pretty sure I still had the number saved.
No. What are you thinking?
Jake didn’t want to go to the police. He didn’t want anyone to know about my little kidnapping adventure. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to call Sean back to find out if he was really the long-lost brother he thought was dead.
But I had plenty of time on my hands. And I was curious.
I picked up the phone and scrolled through to find his number.
It’s probably delisted by now.
He won’t answer.
Regardless, I punched the dial button.
The phone rang on the other end, and I felt my nerves tingling. I heard a soft click and then it continued ringing. I was about to hang up when a voice suddenly answered.
“Lacey?”
I paused at hearing his voice again. He sounded so much like Jake—a deeper voice, but still the same timbre. The French accent was completely gone now.
“Sean?” I replied shakily.
“This number is untraceable, if that’s why you’re calling,” he said. “The call’s been forwarded to another unregistered cell phone.”
“I’m not trying to trace you.”
“Then why are you calling?”
I paused. Why was I calling? It wasn’t just that I was bored and stuck in a hotel room because of this guy. It wasn’t just that I was angry at him for stealing ten million dollars from Jake.
“Are you Jake’s brother?” I asked finally.
“That’s why you’re calling?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know you said you were his brother, but…”
“But what?”
“Was it just a lure? To get Jake to come alone?”
Laughter on the other end.
“You think that I would make up a crazy story just to get his attention?”
“Well,” I said, “it was ten million dollars—”
“I had you. I had his girlfriend. That was enough.”
“We’re not…” I trailed off. Jake had never told me that I was his girlfriend. He’d told me he loved me. He’d asked me to live with him. But we had never had that discussion.
“You’re telling me he doesn’t care about you?”
“I’m not saying that,” I said. “He cares, of course he cares.”
“He cares ten million dollars, at least.”
“That’s nothing for him.” I said the words absently, but I remembered how angry I’d been when he told me that money meant nothing to him. Of course money meant nothing to someone who had lots of it.