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Ily’s mouth parted in unwilling awe as she stepped over the threshold of Victor’s office.
The leash tugged her collar, snaking its way into my palm as I guided her to the button-leather couch Victor had lounged on while I’d transferred two million euros.
I’d paid that money to be the one to fuck her on the maypole.
Now I was about to pay for the right to stay and fuck her for the rest of my life.
Funny that yesterday I’d had such qualms about even touching her, yet now I had overflowing urgency to touch her everywhere.
“Sit her down, Henri, and come here.” Victor pulled out the chair in the centre of his very long work area. He didn’t bother powering up the four computer screens down one end or even flip up the laptop at the other. He merely leaned under the desk, typed in a code with soft beeping noises, and a fortified drawer popped out.
Is that where he keeps the scrambler?
Curiosity flared. Not because I still attempted to live up to Q’s ridiculous mission but because cloaking this place with a dead zone of technology was rather genius. The thought that I’d never be online again was a small price to pay for peace.
Letting go of Ily’s leash, I pointed at the couch. “Sit down. Don’t move. Don’t speak.”
“I’m cold,” she muttered as she perched on the icy leather. Her nipples had pebbled into dark pink ice-cubes the longer we’d walked through the stone castle. Sunshine spilled into Victor’s plush office from the doors leading to his patio with snarling gargoyles and weeping angels, but the inner temperature of the fortress bordered on arctic.
“If you do as you’re told and aren’t a nuisance, I’ll get you something to wear when we’re done.”
She looked as if she’d spit some sort of slur but then she lowered her eyes and nodded.
My heart kicked at the obedience.
My cock thickened for—
“Henri. Now,” Victor ordered, fishing out a cell phone from the hidden drawer.
Giving Ily one last lingering look, I padded over thick gold carpet toward him. I no longer fought terror at being found out but slipped deeper into my new skin. “What do you want me to do?”
Ignoring me for a second, he fiddled with the phone. Scrolling through his contacts, he chose a name I didn’t see, then stood up. Grabbing my hand, he shoved it into my palm. “By the way, your suicidal mission last night of breaking into my office and turning off the scrambler? It would never have worked. Want to know why?”
My hand closed around the phone. The line kicked in, faintly ringing whoever Victor had selected. “Why?”
“Because the scrambler isn’t here. It’s not in my castle. It’s not even on my island. It’s up there.” He pointed at the gold-embossed ceiling.
“Up where?” I scowled. “You just said it wasn’t on your island, so it can’t be on the roof.”
Victor sighed and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re quick, Mercer. And that’s why I like you.”
I paused, thinking about it. But the ringing stopped, and a faint voice echoed from my palm.
I froze.
“You better get that.” Victor chuckled. “Oh, and the scrambler is on a satellite. Programmed to follow my home through space and earth’s spinning. Only a code will turn it off, and only I know the code. It’s not written down anywhere. It’s not accessible by any of my computers. This is the only phone that taps into it and allows calls outside, and even that is restricted by another code. My internet goes through the satellite and is encrypted before connecting to the world wide web. So you see, mon ami…don’t beat yourself up that you failed. You failed the moment you agreed to do your brother’s dirty bidding. Don’t feel bad that you’re far too smart and far too honest to be his bitch.”
Patting my cheek with affection rather than condescension, he moved to sprawl in a grey leather recliner in a puddle of sunlight. “Get that. Before they hang up.”
My heart kicked just a little as I raised the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Bonjour?” a feminine voice responded in flawless French. “Je pensais que personne n'était là. Puis-je vous aider?” (I thought no one was there. Can I help you?)
I slipped into my first language, my heart still thumping from Victor’s speech. “Qui… qui est-ce?” (Who…who is this?)
“Qui êtes-vous?” (Who are you?)
Her crisp, almost prim voice jogged my memory.
Fuck.
Suzette.
Q’s housekeeper.
I’d only met her once, but she’d struck me as a feisty woman who would fight to the death for those she loved.
I flicked a look at Victor.
Jesus, just how far did his reach go?
He had my brother’s home number in his phone. Probably had his address and all his allergies too.
Victor saluted me with two fingers before cupping his chin and resting his elbow on the armchair.
