MasterStroke (8 page)

Against the softness of her cashmere sweater, her nipples hardened cruelly and she knew that she was wet again. He didn’t even need to be in the room. The thought of his hard, lean body, the way she had been blindfolded and in complete darkness yet with her senses heightened to his touch, and the heat of his soft moist lips as they closed around her intensely sensitive clit and brought her to such a screaming climax, was ramping up the desire.

Instead of shame, she felt oddly exhilarated.
Give in
, her body was saying.
You loved it. He worshipped your body, gave it the pleasure you craved. Don’t be afraid. Let him in.

She wanted to discover more, about herself, about Jack’s potential as a lover, about all they were capable of together.

It’s your choice. Don’t be scared. You’re in control.

Sandrine reached for the telephone and he answered on the second ring.

“I was getting worried,” the familiar deeply masculine voice said.

“Sorry. I was caught up.”

“I was just about to come over and break down your door. You seemed pretty upset when you left.”

“I’m fine now. I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed last night.”

“Me too. Let’s do it again.”

“Yes, I’d like that.” It was true. She’d more than liked it. She wanted it and needed it with an increasing urgency that pulsated deep inside her. There had been a certain one-sidedness to the previous evening. Jack had been quite the gentleman and, while she wouldn’t call it an obligation, she had an intense need to show him how appreciative she could be.

She unfastened her jeans and slid her hand inside.
He has such an effect on me
, she thought, as her finger dipped into the steamy silky wetness and brushed her achingly erect clit. She gasped slightly as she traced a slow tight circle on this most sensitive area.

“And soon,” she continued, her voice dipping with a slight huskiness. “And this time, it’s my turn to do the entertaining.”

Chapter Eleven

Monday morning. Bright and clear and distinctly chilly. The cold weather was predicted to last for some weeks but, at least as far as the calendars were concerned, spring was on the way and Sandrine was looking forward to packing away her heavy winter coats. She did have a preference for European seasons, definitely disliked hot weather, but she’d lived through enough winters to know that snow, while it appeared romantic on Christmas cards, could turn dirty and sludgy so easily and ruined good shoes.
Ever the practical one.

Before she left for the store, she checked her emails and found one from Marcus Buckingham, an unusual occurrence as he generally sent emails directly to work. It was short and relatively brief of news aside from saying he would be back in a few days and that he’d sent a couple of portfolios of art prints and some especially noteworthy books via an international courier company. He urged that, upon arrival, they be immediately stored in the large walk-in safe installed in the rear storeroom.

It was a leisurely fifteen minute walk from her apartment to the shop. Along the way, she picked up coffee and a cherry danish. Juggling the morning’s newspapers and her handbag, the windy conditions made for careful progress and she barely noticed the large late model Mercedes with dark windows that was parked illegally outside the store; she gave it little thought as she busied herself with turning on the heat and lights, booting up the computer and readying for any early customers. The weather being as unwelcoming as it was, it was likely that any browsers would be light on the ground until at least lunchtime.

She was only mid-way through the first section of the newspaper when the bell above the front door tinkled. Looking up, her initial curiosity gave way to a surprised alertness.

The three men who entered certainly did not look like book lovers. They had identical builds and colouring, being tall and solidly built with pale hair cut short. They were dressed in dark overcoats over dark suits with no hats or scarves. It was difficult to tell them apart aside from very minor physical characteristics. Sandrine noted that they could be professional football players or weightlifters.

They peered around the shop with bored, slightly puzzled expressions, as if suspicious of seeing so many books in one place. One broke away from the group and advanced to the counter. He wore a square silver ring on the little finger of his right hand. With little else to tell him apart from the others, Sandrine labelled him Pinky Ring.

“Good morning,” he said with a harsh, thick accent. Sandrine guessed Eastern European or Russian. “I am looking for Marcus Buckingham.”

It’s possible he was in the store on business. Marcus’ dealings led him to some unusual quarters but these visitors were definitely out of character.

“I’m afraid he’s currently away on business and won’t be returning for a few weeks. Perhaps I can help. I’m the manager.”

Another of the men wandered off, deep into the shop. The other stood silently by the door, scowling slightly, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. Sandrine dubbed him Smiley.

If Pinky Ring was disappointed with the answer, he didn’t show it.

“I need to speak with him most urgently. How may I contact him?”

“Mr Buckingham is out of contact. He is with a client in Europe.”

Pinky Ring pursed his lips in frustration.

Sandrine smiled her brightest apologetic yet stonewalling smile.

“He doesn’t have a cell phone, he’s the old-fashioned sort. I have no way of reaching him but if you’d like to leave a contact, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

The big man seemed to loom larger on the other side of the counter. He was not used to being refused. His brow furrowed and something shifted behind his bright blue eyes, like a cloud crossing the sun. His big head nodded once.

“I’m sure he will want to talk to me,” he said. “It could be worth a great deal of money for him. I’m looking for a book.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” If Sandrine had made a joke, Pinky Ring hadn’t noticed.

He took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sandrine, who didn’t look at it or open it, just placed it carefully in front of her, maintaining a vacant smile and quiet composure. She wasn’t sure she wanted to take her eyes off him for a moment. Smiley watched them intently. The other man was nowhere to be seen.

“Of course. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Pinky Ring stood quiet and still. A minute passed.
What do I do now?

“It is most urgent.”

“I understand.”

He nodded once more.

“I am sorry. I have been abrupt. My name is Sergei.” He pronounced it Sir-gay. “It was not my wish to intimidate you.”

That was an understatement. He and his friends were huge. They almost blocked out the light and she barely came up to their chests. They were intimidating in ways she’d never encountered before. It also didn’t help that she was all alone in the shop. Even Marcella would be useful; while she may look like a little old lady, she was fearless and feisty and would have dealt with all three in short order.

Smiley said something in a language she couldn’t understand. It was similar but different to the dialect of a Czech friend from college and she immediately sensed the guttural syllables were Slavic; her initial impression, judging by their appearance, was that they could be either Russian or Scandinavian.

Sergei replied in a clipped, unfriendly tone and nodded. A thought instantly jumped into her head.
They’re regular Bobbleheads
, and Sandrine almost snorted with laughter.

The third man appeared from around the corner of the bookcases and stood at the side of the counter, uncomfortably close to her. He had a pale, twisting scar above his left eye that left a void through his eyebrow.
Scar Face
, Sandrine thought.

At that moment, the shop’s door exploded open, pushed by the wind as a delivery man in a khaki uniform wrestled an enormous bunch of red roses in a glass vase through the doorway. Sandrine jumped, taken completely by surprise. In one instant, blink-of-an-eye moment, Scar Face had swept his overcoat open and was reaching inside when Sergei barked an order. Scar Face stopped immediately, looking from Sandrine to the delivery man who stood just inside the door, his progress blocked by Smiley.

“My apologies for the interruption. Please ask Mr Buckingham to call me as soon as possible.” Sergei turned and left, followed closely by Smiley. Scar Face was momentarily confused, his face burning with anger or embarrassment, then he buttoned his coat and walked past the delivery man and out to the street.

“Delivery for Ms Chalmeaux.” The two dozen long-stemmed roses were beautiful. With the tall vase, which was wrapped in clear cellophane and a thick red ribbon, they dominated the counter, towering above her.

“You’ll need to top up the water,” the courier said helpfully as she signed the screen of a handheld monitor and left, closing the door on the way out. In the street outside, standing by the Mercedes, Sergei was nose-to-nose with Scar Face, his face contorted with rage, poking him repeatedly in the chest. Scar Face was taking it without a word of protest, although his features were dark with suppressed rage. They could be close to coming to blows and Sandrine wondered who would come off the worst. After a few minutes, they climbed into the car and it drove off.

“What was that about?” Sandrine said quietly to herself.
Some days are definitely stranger than others.
The closeness of the encounter made her uneasy. Adrenalin started to pump through her, raising her heart rate. It was at times like this that she realised how small and fragile she was. The newspapers were full of stories of lives turned suddenly upside down, of instances of violence against seemingly innocent people, and she’d always marvelled at how random existence could be. She hadn’t felt threatened at the time but, on reflection, anything was possible. If these men wanted to rob her or take something from the store, what could she do about it? She was careful and normally quite alert. She didn’t take unnecessary chances. That was what living in the big city was all about. But there was still a helplessness, even a hopelessness, about things that left her feeling uneasy.

A shiver ran through her.
Don’t be silly
, she told herself.
They asked for Marcus by name. They were here on business. It didn’t help that they were built like brick walls and had manners to match. You were merely intimidated by their physicality.

She walked back to the storeroom to get water. The door was slightly ajar. She hesitated, knowing it was always locked. Inside seemed fine. Nothing was missing or had been disturbed. The door to the safe remained closed. She hadn’t opened it in weeks. There was nothing there she’d needed.

After she tended to the flowers, she placed them on a display table in the window, so that passersby could appreciate them as she did. She re-read the note that had been taped to the vase.

It said: Thanks for your stimulating company on Saturday night. Hopefully we can do it again soon – Jack.

She tapped the card against her lip, deep in thought.
Oh yes, we certainly will. And it was good timing, Jack. The flowers arrived just at the right time.

Sandrine dug through her bag for her cell phone. It was a mess in there and she made a mental note to tidy it up. Jack answered on the second ring. He sounded out of breath.

“What’s wrong?” she said. “I hope I haven’t disturbed anything.”

“Just some overdue exercise. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. Although it’s been a crazy morning. A couple of men built like Olympic weightlifters arrived looking for Marcus. They seemed a little miffed when he wasn’t here. Luckily, your flowers were delivered before they got too annoyed. By the way, thanks so much. They’re beautiful.”

There was a stillness on the end of the line that was palpable. She almost thought the line had dropped out.

“Hello?”

“Yes, sorry. What did you say about those men?”

“Three of them. Very big. Russians.”

“How could you tell?”

“It sounded like Russian or something very much like it. I had a friend at college and she was Czech. They sounded similar.”

‘Did they say what they wanted?” Jack was pressing for details and she realised she had been so overwhelmed she hadn’t retained much at all.

“Just that they wanted to talk to Marcus.”

He mulled this over.

“Gambling debts? Blackmail? Loan-sharking? Standover?”

Sandrine shook her head emphatically.
That couldn’t be
, she thought,
not Marcus.

“I know Marcus very well and none of that sounds possible. And I have access to his personal and business accounts. If there was anything unusual there, I’d probably have noticed it. A thought popped into her head. “Oh, wait. I just remembered. The head man, the one called Sergei, he said they wanted a book and it could mean a great deal of money. But they certainly didn’t look like collectors.”

The line went quiet again.

“Did you say Sergei?”

“Yes.”

“Did they leave any contact details?”

“A cell phone number.”

Again the quiet.

“I have to come down your way. How about I drop in with coffee?”

“Great, I’d love that but I’ve had my coffee quota for the day. Would you mind if I had tea?”

“Of course. I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

Right on time, Jack walked through the door carrying a wicker picnic basket. He was wearing faded jeans, slim legged and tight around the butt, a white t-shirt and a cropped black leather jacket with sheepskin lining. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was damp. The overall effect was of a careless blue collar roughness and she had to admit it was a stirring sight, even if she did generally prefer men who took a little more care with their appearance.

Inside the basket were sandwiches, muffins and two take-out drink containers. One had the tag of a tea bag dangling from the side.

“Thought you may like an early lunch,” he said casually. “The flowers look great in the window. Showing them off?”

“Of course,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a long, lingering and deep kiss. His body felt hard and strong against her and she could smell the huskily dark tang of sweat. It was not unpleasant at all. “It’s not every day a girl gets such a wonderful present. The world needs to know.”