Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (55 page)

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Peter,” I said sincerely. I held out my hand and he plucked it out of the air, bringing it to his lips and kissing my knuckles. My hand looked like a doll’s, pressed against his lips.

Rutger Hauer is kissing my hand!

My heart ballooned in my chest, swelling so quickly with glee and excitement that I expected to be able to hear it when it popped. Jackson began to ask something about a house and my ears filled with white noise. As Peter nodded, listening, he crossed his arms over his chest and dragged thoughtfully on a gold-tipped cigarette.

Just wait til Bridget hears about this.

“All right!” Peter said smoothly, stubbing the cigarette on a gold case he produced from the pocket of his trousers and then sliding the butt into the case. “We have a little time, not too much. You want to start in the Night Watch Gallery I presume?”

I nodded numbly, my eyes as wide as saucers. He leaned toward me confidentially.

“Everyone feels this way the first time,” he said with a reassuring wink. “Even the thousandth time, for some. It gives me great pleasure to show this to you, someone who truly understands what they are seeing.”

“Thank you,” I choked, just above hearing.

Peter led us through the tunnel and down stairs, then around a corner and back. Suddenly we were in a huge atrium filled with silence and a powdery silver light. As Peter led Jackson across the courtyard I lagged behind, gazing up at the enormous cages suspended from the skylights.

Peter glanced back to be sure I was following as he and Jackson chatted in low voices, and I suppressed an intense urge to do cartwheels across the white marble floors.

Concentrating on not lagging behind, I followed the men around a corner and then stopped gracelessly in my tracks like a cartoon character. It was right there, in front of me, as though it had come out of nowhere. Rembrandt’s
The Night Watch
.

My hand fluttered to my lips and I walked across the expanse of wood floor, right up to the short fence in front of the painting, as close as I could go without risking some kind of James-Bond-worthy alarm going off. I walked slowly from one end of the giant painting to the other, staring into every face, noting the life and specificity of each one. Not a generic collection of people: each figure had a personality, a history woven into their posture and expression.

Tilting my head, I stared at the paint’s texture in the raking light: every dollop was a single brush stroke and represented a gesture of a man’s sure and thoughtful hand, placed hundreds of years ago. It felt like a secret code, like seeing the individual notes in a symphony, strung on a wire and connected to every other note in a great chandelier. The whole picture meant something for everyone, but here was the master’s hand, practically showing me in person all the magic behind the scenes.

“Oh, man,” I whispered into my palm.

“You always know the artists,” Peter said, suddenly at my side. I sheepishly realized I’d been staring for quite a while. “They come right up and cock their heads to the ceiling, to see the glare. To see the paint, right?”

I nodded.

“Yes,” he continued. “Artists want to see the
bones
, to see the maker himself. Tourists want to see just a picture, maybe the whole museum. Maybe post photographs to say they were here. But artists always want to
know
. Just to
understand
, not to possess. How was it made? Where was the hand that held this brush?”

I inhaled deeply and then let my shoulders fall. What else could I say? He had explained it perfectly.

“Thank you so much, Peter… For showing this to me. I’m just… Oh I don’t know what to say.”

He shrugged charmingly, his huge shoulders going up and down like some kind of seismic shift.

“Maybe you will give me a tour personally? That would be nice indeed. On Friday?”

I shook my head, my mouth open in a dumb smile.

“At your party? Friday?”

My mind whirled. The party was… Friday? In six days? What was I giving him a tour of?

“Of course,” I stammered, trying to cover my confusion. “I would be happy to repay your kindness in any way.”

Jackson sidled next to me and I leaned against him, trying to keep my thoughts on an even keel.

“So!” Peter exclaimed, clapping his big hands together. “I really must be going, I do so apologize… I am sure you can be discreet about wandering the galleries unattended before we open. Jackson knows the collection well. Regrettably, I must return to business. Will I see you for supper?”

“Of course, Peter,” Jackson answered. I jammed a smile on my face and tried to remain polite. With a snappy salute, Peter turned and strode regally from the enormous Prussian blue vault, his footsteps echoing wildly against the gilded ceiling.

“Jackson, what was he talking about?” I breathed when I was sure Peter was out of earshot.

He glanced around, not meeting my eye.

“What, the party?” he said breezily. “Oh, Declan has some people he wants you to meet. Didn’t he mention--”

“Yeah, he did, but,” I said quickly. Why did this feel like an ambush? “OK, what ‘tour?’ What did Peter mean?”

He shrugged. “You’ll talk to him about your work, I suppose.”

I shook my head, rattling my thoughts and fears like dice, hoping they would settle. “That’s not what I do… I don’t talk.
Bridget
 talks. Is Declan going to get me into a room full of people who expect me to
talk
?”

“Well…”

“Seriously?” I said, listening to the pitch of my voice rising. “Jackson, no… I can’t do that. I can’t.”

“You can do anything,” he said reassuringly, taking the back of my arm and pulling me toward the adjoining wall with a different, suddenly overwhelming masterpiece that I didn’t think I could stand to see. The museum felt like an impending avalanche.

“No, no,” I muttered, blinded to the painting in front of me. Suddenly the room started to seem like a too-small, too-solid thing. The air was unbreathably dense. “I actually can’t. I get… um…. Look. The whole reason I work in a visual medium is so I don’t have to talk, you see? I’m not an actor. I don’t perform.”

“I’ve seen you perform all sorts of things,” he said with a cheeky wink.

“No, be serious!” I shot back, unable to control the volume or timbre of my voice anymore. I sounded like a little kid, irrational and obstinate. He wasn’t listening and if I couldn’t get through to him, I was pretty sure I would be losing my shit in 4… 3… 2.... “I won’t be able to… I won’t…”

“OK, OK,” he whispered, taking me into his arms and holding me still. I felt my chest quaking against his as he kissed the top of my head.

“Talk to Declan,” he counselled. “You don’t even know what he has planned yet. It won’t be so bad, and I know you, Margot. You really can do anything. Anyone you meet just wants to get to know you. You’re special, and they just want to get close.”

“Really?” I half-whimpered into his chest.

“Really,” he said, drawing back and looking into my eyes. As soon as I felt that connection, everything seemed to soften, like a sudden ending to a storm. The threat of disaster seemed to pass. The klaxon horns went mostly mute. He dipped his head toward me, his lips so near to mine that I could feel their heat.

“Just being close to you, Margot. That’s all they want and you will be magnificent. I know you will. Be yourself. I can’t imagine what anyone else could need.”

Then he covered my mouth with his, sending away the last of the clouds. I melted against him until I was saturated with his strength.

WE LEFT THE MUSEUM and I felt numb and uncommunicative for about as long as it took us to walk out onto the Museumplein and see all the tourists climbing all over the “I Amsterdam” like a bunch of kids at recess. Their enthusiasm brightened my spirits considerably. Admittedly, I’ve never been great in crowds and my avoidance of them is a sure-fire way to not embarrass myself in front of them. But what did I really have to fear? If a grey-haired woman in a kerchief is willing to scale a giant, red ‘A’ while the wind whips her skirt up over the back of her head, how could I be so wimpy about a little cocktail party?

After ogling the old woman’s powder blue, polyester briefs for a while, I slipped my hand back into the crook of Jackson’s strong arm and we walked along the reflecting pool in the morning sunshine. He seemed content with the silence and so was I, wanting to make sure my mood was all rainbows and wiffle balls before speaking again. I felt bad that I had spent so much of the last 24 hours so churlish when my life was really like some kind of fairy tale.

We walked out of the park and onto the street just as the Bentley was pulling up. Jackson stepped ahead to open the door for me.

“Your carriage, madame,” he said with a wink.

Gratefully I slid into the lush leather interior and slumped against the seat. I realized it was probably the middle of the night in California and though I had slept through most of the flight, I could have fallen right back into dreamland if there wasn’t so much to look at. Jackson climbed in next to me and tugged my chin forward for a soft, sweet kiss, his hand encircling mine firmly, his lips delicious to taste.

“Well, this is pretty all right,” I sighed as the driver took us into traffic.

“Yes, it really is. But…”

“Uhoh.”

“No, nothing big, but I have a few meetings yet this morning. There are… oh a million things I wish I could show you here if you can be a little patient.”

I shook my head. “Patience is not really my thing,” I teased.

“I’ll be back before you know it. Dec will show you the house…. Oh there’s shopping nearby you might want to hit… I think you’ll find plenty of distractions.”

“None quite this good, though,” I insisted, lightly dragging the point of my tongue along the crescent of his upper lip.

“I certainly hope not,” he whispered, his hand sliding behind my neck and pulling me forward. Instantly I could taste his lust in his mouth, that savory shift of hormones. He tasted like hunger and my whole body responded like it had been lit from within.

The moment his fingers lifted the hem of my dress I was wet. He slid his hand across my belly and drove his fingers down the front of my panties, immediately finding my clit and working it assertively. I moaned and bucked my hips, instantly on a mission to come on his hand.

He sucked at my lips and I drank him in, high on the cocktail of his lust. Submitting completely without hesitation, I flung my legs out wide across the leather seats. He pushed himself over me, forcing me to lean back as he massaged my clit into an explosion.

Moaning into his mouth, I felt the orgasm coming on like a freight train and just laid myself right across the tracks and waited for it. His fingers made wet sounds against my slippery folds and the next thing I heard was my own voice, a desperate howl bursting from my lips, filling his mouth.

“Oh!” I whimpered. My back arched and my hips heaved against him, them I clamped my thighs around his hand, trying to keep him still against me.

“Patience isn’t always required,” he teased as I shuddered and wriggled against him. “Sometimes you get exactly what you want, when you want it.”

My legs felt like rubber and my pulse still punched insistently against the pit of my throat as Anders drew the car to the curb. We climbed out of the Bentley and onto the sidewalk, my eyes shyly averted from Anders, who must have heard or seen every moment.

Jackson looped his arm around my waist and pulled me close, my back to his front so I could feel the rock-hard reminder of his beautiful cock against the crack of my ass.

“You really do something to me, Margot,” he growled against my neck.

“You really do something to me too,” I whispered, rubbing my ass back and forth against his trousers, weak and full of joy.

“And you should really,
really
 give me that,” he said, pulling me tight against him so I could feel his dick nudging between my ass cheeks.

“I’m saving that for someone special,” I teased.

“Perfect,” he replied. “I’ll accept your ass as an engagement present.”

“Wait, what?” I stammered, stumbling forward slightly as he released me and held out an arm to the driver for the bags.

“Come on inside! You’re going to love this place!”

“Hey, hold on!” I objected, commanding my legs to obey as he sprinted up the steps of a plain-looking, flat-faced rowhouse. My mind whirled. What the hell did he just say?

Declan flung the door open from the inside and grinned at us both. “Hey there, early birds,” he called. “Coffee’s on!”

“We just had some, thanks,” Jackson replied curtly.

“Well… More would be great,” I added as I walked in the front hallway, watching them stare at each other from half a pace away. There seemed to be a silent conversation bouncing back and forth between their identically squinted eyes and knotted jaw muscles.

Then they broke apart, both turning to me suddenly as though nothing had just happened. I tried to control a reflexive flinch.