Masterpiece (The Masters of The Order Book 1) (10 page)

"Try again, Nick," Jerard sneered.

"How long have you been in the life?”

“Long enough to know what you’re doing with Julí.” Jerard's voice was suddenly so much less secure.

And just like that,
Nicolai found himself back on firm ground. “But not long enough to confide in Julianne. Secrets can be dangerous, novice.”

Jerard didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The fear was plain on his face.

Nicolai pursued his advantage. “But you understand exactly what she is. Don’t you?”

Jerard muttered, “Her submissiveness is sublime and obvious to anyone with the eyes to see it. You’re taking advantage of an innocent and you know it.”

"My innocent, Jerard. Julianne is my innocent. Hate me all you want, most people do, but it won't change a thing."

Jerard's eyes filled with venom. "Sorry, Nick, but it will. Where I come from you protect the people you love. I may be new to this game, but I understand what lies at the heart of everything: trust. Julianne trusts me. More than she will ever trust you. She is too precious to stay blind to who you really are. If she doesn't see it on her own, I'll make her see. Either way, you will lose. I promise you that."

"Oh, I don't think so, baby boy."

Novice or not, this man wasn't a simple distraction. He posed a real threat. Julianne’s trust in this
friend
made his opinion very dangerous and that meant it was time to step up the game.

Plan A was a complete bust. Intimidation obviously wouldn’t work. But he didn’t come to this meeting unprepared. He had a Plan B. Julianne showed him some of Jerard’s work and as much as he wanted to hate it, the guy had talent. Enough that he wouldn’t be embarrassed by what he was about to do.

“You’re obviously not a fool, Jerard. You think you can win her? Go ahead and try, but remember your competition. A poor street rat with no career isn’t exactly a prize. Julianne surely deserves more than that. I'm feeling generous today and this little game between us is no fun without a challenge. What do you say we make the competition a bit more fair, hmm?”

Nicolai went in for the kill. He slipped an ecru business card from his pocket and handed it to Jerard with a sly grin. Jerard read the card and his jaw dropped. Embossed on the front were a name and a phone number.

Gotcha, you arrogant prick.

Nicolai watched the temptation curl into Jerard’s mind and weaken his resolve to be Julianne’s guard dog. No one in the art world could ignore the power of the name on that little card. You could work a lifetime without that kind of an introduction. Get it and you had a real shot.

“I just handed you the opportunity of a lifetime. The price is your precious Julianne. You can choose to fight me or benefit from my generosity. Be smart and doors will open for you. Continue with your foolishness and not only will I win Julianne, I will destroy your art career. An easy choice really, wouldn't you say?”

Nicolai didn’t even wait for a reply. He’d found the chink in Jerard’s armor and pierced a sword right through it.

He laughed as he turned away.

*****

Jerard could only stare at the card in his hand.

Darion LeClair
.

It couldn't be any other name. It had to be Darion LeClair. The fucking art guru who could give him everything he'd ever dreamed of having.

Well almost everything.

He loved Julianne, but he lived for his art. He knew he had the talent. Darion was the opportunity.
Jésus Christ.
Darion was the Holy Grail.

The devil just asked him to sell his soul and as much as he would hate himself for it, he knew he would.

*****

“Please allow me to remove your shirt, my Lord.”

Darion turned toward Michael with a blank expression and spread his arms straight out at the shoulders. Michael untucked his shirt and unfastened each button. As Michael pulled the fabric away, a chill ran to his bones, but not because of his newly exposed skin.

Submission went against every fiber of his being. He had no fear of pain, but he was dominant in the purest sense of the word. He loathed the idea of surrendering his power to anyone, even to a man whom he respected. And he did respect Xavier. As the unquestioned leader of the Order, the man garnered outrageous power.

He also respected the Order and its protocols. The Order contained the violence, put limitations on men who generally lived without them. If he permitted himself to go unchecked, he knew he was a monster. And Xavier’s monster made his look like a pussycat.

Before Michael could ask, Darion raised his hands to the restraints hanging from the ceiling. Michael stepped up on a stool to secure each of his wrists and adjust the height of the cuffs so his arms stretched taut over his head. Then he took out a spreader bar with ankle cuffs and secured his legs on either side. Darion blew out a long breath as he raised his chin to the ceiling and felt the sweep of his hair fall over his exposed back.

“Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” Xavier approached from behind. “Your submission is a pleasure unlike any other, Darion. Pity you have denied me for so long. I still dream about our last encounter. Do you remember it?” Xavier wrapped his arms around Darion’s waist and nuzzled into his hair, breathing deeply.

Darion remained silent. That was an encounter he could never forget and had no desire to relive. He remembered every painful moment in excruciating detail. The feel of Xavier’s cold hands stroking his abs only enhanced the memory.

The last time the two Masters came together like this, Darion had requested that Nicolai and Jacques be initiated as Masters of the Order. In his mind, that request should have garnered a much higher price than his current request that Julianne
be considered
as Nicolai's sub, but his preparation for this encounter told him otherwise.

Xavier obviously did not agree with his assessment of her worth.

Darion gnashed his teeth as Xavier gathered the long unbound hair in his hands and placed the strands over his shoulder so they were away from his back.

For Nicolai, he would endure.

“Count aloud.”

The first lash came like hard fire across his back.

*****

Xavier stroked his thumb over the picture Darion had given him.

As soon as he saw it, he wanted another, but asking Darion would be a mistake. He’d already revealed too much. Most days, he admired Darion’s profound insight, but not today. His perceptive colleague hadn’t missed the slip. If Darion chose to meddle into his past, that would be…regrettable, but that was a matter for another day.

He jotted a note to hire a private investigator in Paris and turned back to the photograph of Julianne. He expected her to be beautiful. But the exact image of her mother? So sensuous, so delicate. His heart throbbed as he stared at her.

His hatred of Gilles flared to life.

“The sins of the father, my dear. Someone must pay for the sins of the father,” he murmured to the image in his hand.

Pity.

So pretty.

So like her.

8

Obsession

Obsession.

There was no other word to describe it.

Nothing like this ever happened to Julianne. An invisible force had taken possession of her. Pulling her back to him again and again. Compelling her to kneel at his side until she was exhausted. Forsaking all else but him.

Male perfection with the face of an angel, he lay on his back with one knee bent, the other flat. His head tilted to the side, chin slightly down, eyes raised to enrapture his viewer. One hand lay palm up, lax atop a powerful arm that stretched over his head to extend a chiseled torso. The other lay across a broad chest with fingers resting lightly over a tight nipple. Long cords of muscle ran from a lean waist over sculpted thighs. The gentle arch of his back accentuated every exquisite masculine detail to perfection.

His voice called to her, begging for liberation from his muddy prison. Each passing hour increased the urgency until her world was reduced to a singular need: create him.

She would die if she failed.

Hello, Inspiration.

*****

Xavier sat cross-legged on the sofa, hands folded neatly across his lap, and glanced around the palatial room with disinterested amusement.

Tonight’s festivities took place in the Green Room, so named for the fine artwork, silk covered walls and antique furniture, all perfectly coordinated in varying shades of green. Countless aristocrats had entertained him in a virtual rainbow of colored rooms just like this one.

The Green Room was meant to impress, but instead of inspiring his respect, the space bore witness to the financial woes of the current lord of the manor. A less discerning eye might fail to notice the missing piece of the ceiling frieze, the place where a potted plant sat in lieu of a pawned antique, a patch of threadbare carpet or a bit of frayed upholstery. Among the elite bloodline set, these details were quietly overlooked. After all, keeping up the family estate required wealth often denied an heir who inherited a title, but no cash.

Xavier was not so forgiving. He preferred tougher men. Those like himself with the savvy to take wealth and increase it. Still, soft, dull-witted aristocrats often served a purpose so he hid the disdain.

Cash flow problems aside, no expense was spared tonight. Tonight the Order toasted its leader. After months of cajoling government officials - eight different countries, same slippery lot in each - Xavier had won a lucrative EU environmental contract for a conglomerate owned by several members.

Their “Matchmaker” never failed. That’s what they called him, behind his back of course, although he didn’t actually mind the moniker. It was appropriate in a way. Brokering relationships was a huge part of his unique art. Anything from acquiring rare artwork to sealing a business deal to passing a piece of controversial legislation. Whatever the desired prize, each conquest required the same talent: understanding which players have the real power and finding the correct currency to incent them.

Xavier was a master of both. The ultimate middleman. He’d spent years cultivating his network of highly placed acquaintances and sometimes pondered which gave him more power, his ability to bring them together or to keep them apart. He never failed at either and his little black book was worth billions.

As far as providing the necessary currency, Darion was his secret weapon. People lie, often causing the most obvious motivator to be the least effective. The key to success was figuring out what made a person tick. He could always rely on Darion to find out. The man had an uncanny knack for seeing hidden truths.

Xavier let his eyes wander. Although it was bit rough around the edges, the long, narrow room did possess a certain old world charm. He enjoyed the irony of a dainty Victorian era harpsichord sitting next to a hulking St. Andrew’s cross. Decadent scenes played out around him. And the sounds. Not exactly chamber music. But he supposed that was often the case when members of the Order came together to celebrate. After all, boys will be boys and his boys liked kinky games and champagne.

One scene in particular had him ruminating on life.

His life.

He watched with fascination as his host knelt between the legs of woman. Highbred and influential, people kowtowed to his every whim in public life. Yet here, in private, he freely submitted to the deviant will of another, far younger and more significantly, less powerful person.

Why did he allow himself to be subjugated like that?

Xavier sat atop a hierarchy of men. He would accept no other position and felt superior to those who did. There wasn’t a man in the Order who was not accomplished, wealthy and respected as a leader in society. Every member clearly had a lust for power, among other things, yet they all followed him.

Why? Why were they so willing to do what he was not?

Maybe it was because he always won. Victory was his obsession. After he lost her all those years ago, he vowed never to lose anything again and he hadn’t. Years in the game made him calculating, relentless and ruthless. Few challenged him. The day he lost would be the day that he died and how many men are willing to die in order to win?

Bitterness stabbed through him as his eyes travelled down the crisp pleat of his trousers to the girl laid out at his feet. Someone in the room had presented her for him. Flowing blond hair, smooth tanned skin and delicious fear. She was the reward for his latest conquest. Well, not exactly. The reward was a share of profit that promised to run into millions of Euros. She was the cherry on top.

Still, he was bored. Always bored.

He ran his finger through the flames of the candles burning on the table next to him. The sharp heat felt good on his skin. The pain reminded him that he was alive. It seemed that no matter what was offered to him - and as the leader of the Order that was a hell of a lot - nothing stirred his passions. Even the scared beauty shackled to the floor in front of him. She was pretty enough, but she wasn’t the one he wanted.

None of them were.

Sure, he found release in sadistic pleasures like this one, but it had been years since anyone touched his soul. How could they? He had no soul.

After all this time, why couldn’t he forget
her
?

She was the only woman he ever loved. The only woman he ever would love. And she took his soul with her on the day she left him. Years of suppressing the pain of that loss hardened his heart. The only emotions that survived were the lust for power and rage.

Rage at her for leaving.

Rage at himself for letting her go.

Rage at the one who took her away.

He cursed his self-pity. Let the damn fools follow him. He didn’t care why as long as they did. He deserved their adulation. He lifted a candle, held it over the woman on the floor and tilted his wrist.

She shrieked.

He watched her quiver against her binds. Already terrified and he’d only given her a small hint of what he had in store for her tonight. The dramatic response intrigued him. As he inspected his gift more carefully, an evil smile crossed his face. Studying the lives of your enemies certainly had surprising benefits.

Xavier lifted his gaze. The proud grin on his host’s chubby face confirmed his suspicion. The girl at his feet was the daughter of Edgar Huffington, the lead opposition in the House of Commons to the very deal being celebrated tonight. He was confident that she had come here freely, probably as some sort of youthful rebellion, only to find out too late that she was in way over her head. If she expected mercy, she would be sorely disappointed. He had none, especially for the daughter of an enemy. He nodded slightly in appreciation.

His erection full and straining now, he turned back with lascivious focus. He wanted to savor the horror in her eyes, but sadly, removing the blindfold was not an option. The candle moved lower with calculated precision, almost touching her skin, and tilted again.

She screamed louder.

The only thing more perfect would be to have Huffington hear that lovely scream.

*****

A kiss of frost greeted Julianne when she stepped through the door.

She clutched the lapels of her alpaca coat, bending into the wind as a last whiff of winter skittered over the old stone in the courtyard, the sun peeking over the horizon impotent against its bite. Scanning the avenue for a taxi, none appeared. So she ran to him.

Again.

Nicolai wasn’t in the gallery when she arrived and she hurried down the steps. Her hands were shaking. Possibly from the cold. Probably from the need. As soon as she touched him, the urgency faded. Creating her masterpiece hypnotized her. He took away the past. Took away the present. Took away the unrequited love or lust or whatever was going on with Nicolai. With him, there was only peace.

Hours faded like minutes.

“He is lovely,” Nicolai said from behind.

Julianne jolted to attention. She hadn’t heard him enter. “How long have you been here?”

“Just over an hour. Don’t let me distract you.”

She was so engrossed that she hadn’t noticed him there in all that time. It had become a pattern. Every day, Nicolai appeared from out of nowhere and sat behind her in silence, watching her work.

“Will you join me?”

“No. It’s late and you’re doing fine on your own.”

He hadn’t joined her since the first time she touched the clay.

“What time is it?” she asked, still disoriented.

“After eight.”

Another day gone in the blink of an eye.

As beautiful as her statue was, Nicolai was more beautiful and she wanted to look at him. She forced herself to turn away from her work, rubbing her hands over her back as she stood. The pain in her knees kept her from straightening right away and she took a moment to assess her progress while she righted herself. Working this intensely was wreaking havoc on her body, but she relished every ache and pain. Her beloved was nearly complete.

Nicolai smiled as he stepped forward and placed one hand on each side of her neck to begin massaging her shoulders. The touch was luxurious. Her eyes slid closed and her head tilted forward into his lapel as the tension in her muscles began to drain away.

“Amazing.” She inhaled the scent of his cologne.

“Feel good?”

“Mmm, yes.” She lifted her head to give him a suspicious look. “But I was actually thinking that it’s amazing how you get me to agree to every one of your sinful little requests. How do you do that? I’m not usually such a push over, you know.”

“Magic.” He winked at her. “How long have you been working today?” he asked, not bothering to mask his opinion that whatever her answer, he thought it was too long. “Have you eaten anything?”

As if conspiring against her, her stomach grumbled.

“Again,” he snapped. “I’m taking you to dinner. Right now.”

It wasn’t a request and as always, Nicolai seemed wholly unapologetic about that fact. He made it so easy for her to be bad and the Colonel being away meant that this time, she could. A giddy little tingle hopped down her spine.

She changed into the black cocktail dress she kept at the gallery to wear when Nicolai’s private clients visited and of course, the stunning pumps he’d given to her. Sweeping her hair into a simple twist, she added red lipstick. Her hands were a wreck from the clay and her eyes darkened by the hard work and lack of sleep, but she liked her reflection. The woman in the mirror may be a bit frayed, but she wasn’t a little girl, all dewy and doe-eyed, either.

As she stepped into Nicolai’s office, he twirled one long finger in the air. A silent command to turn. The look he gave as he assessed her certainly explained his pet name. She was beautiful to his eyes. Very beautiful. She melted at the thought and smiled as she turned.

But it was more than making her feel beautiful. Nicolai made her feel indomitable, like she could conquer the world. The feeling was so strange, unlike any she had ever known, and absolutely wonderful.

When they stepped into the night air, Nicolai reached for her hand. Her first instinct was to pull away, but as if sensing her discomfort, he said, “Indulge me, Julianne.”

Her hand slipped into his.

Contrary to his playboy reputation, Nicolai’s touch was never inappropriate. He simply massaged cream into her chafed hands or rubbed her shoulders and seemed so genuinely pleased by those small liberties that she didn’t deny him.

But this.

This was something different. Something more. They were holding hands. Walking along the avenue and holding hands like lovers do. She shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t go any farther down this path. Fantasy was enough.

But the feel of that talented hand, so warm and strong. Those long, elegant fingers wrapping around hers. Holding her. Guiding her.

I should definitely pull away.

She didn’t.

As they continued along the sidewalk, his thumb strummed over her knuckles. Her body reacted as if he was stroking a far more intimate place than the back of her hand. Nicolai told her he wanted them to be closer. Even told her to call him by his first name when they took little excursions like this one outside of the gallery, but she was pretty sure he hadn’t meant what she was imagining right now. She swallowed her giggle and shrugged off the feeling.