Текст книги "The Gilded Chain"
Автор книги: Lauren Smith
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
He’d done much harsher things to other submissives depending on their needs, but nothing had fulfilled him like tonight with Callie. That shadow in his soul, the scars he hid from the world, seemed to burn away whenever he touched her. She was a light, shining clear through him and obliterating that darkness he warned her about. It scared the fucking hell out of him. She had the power to save him. He didn’t want someone to have that strength over him, but he couldn’t pull back. He was in too deep. Callie belonged to him, and he wouldn’t give her up, even if it meant losing himself to her in return.
A soft sigh whispered against his bare chest as her lips parted and she murmured his name. He tightened his hold on her. Was she dreaming about him? The thought made his lips curve into a genuine smile. Dreams were a sacred realm, and if he owned her there, she was his. Forever.
Chapter 22
Callie had lied to Wes. And she hated it. But something in her gut told her it was necessary. He’d given her access to the Monet painting and in the last two days she’d done as he asked and forged the painting. Stroke for stroke. It was perfect. Even she, someone who was constantly doubting her own skill, had to admit it was a remarkable replica. She’d made the piece Wes needed and it would be bait for the art thief. But that wasn’t what made her tense with shame.
Her secret wasn’t technically a lie, not really. The guilt at concealing something from him was strong. If she dared to share it with Wes, it might jeopardize her own plan to catch the thief. She knew Wes was doing what he thought was best, but Callie had ranch instincts. That sense of when a storm is coming, even if you can’t see a cloud for miles. She was convinced the thief was still one step ahead of Wes and the FBI, as sure as she could smell rain on the horizon.
After Thomas Stonecypher’s attack on her in the library, Callie was convinced he was the thief. He’d snuck up on her and she wasn’t going to let him do that again. If he had some scheme to steal the Monet, she was going to do everything in her power to stop him.
“Callie?” Wes stood in the doorway of the studio, dressed in dark brown riding pants and a navy blue polo shirt. His riding boots gleamed from fresh polish and looked new except for the slight scuffing on the toes. His red hair was swept back carelessly as though he’d combed it with his fingers. The man looked like a walking personification of sin. Why did he have to look so good? She swallowed her guilt and smiled. It was only temporary. She’d be able to tell him everything once all of this was over.
“Is it time?” She glanced at the small delicate wristwatch with a mother-of-pearl face and a brown leather band on her left wrist. Wes had bought it for her in Paris after he’d taken one look at her old digital watch. She’d lost track of time this morning, but painting seemed to have that effect on her. His lips twitched as he walked over to her and reached for her.
“No! I’m covered in paint. You’ll ruin your clothes.” She protested, but couldn’t escape when he captured her in his arms. His soft lips brushed against her cheek and everything inside her warmed up and she wanted to purr like a contented cat. Every time he held her, it was like coming home, taking that first step inside her front door after a long day’s hard work.
“I’d much rather ride you than any polo pony today, but it’s important to go. Agent Kostova will see that the forgery makes it to the Gilded Cuff tonight.”
She stiffened in his arms and raised her head to meet his eyes. “You’re not going with them to make sure it’s secured there?”
Wes shook his head. “Jax will be there to make sure it’s handled, and Stephen Vain said he’d help out. He heard we were featuring the Monet at the upcoming party and as a curator he makes art preservation his priority.”
“Mr. Vain?” She remembered him from the gala. Another dom.
“Yes. Good man, Vain. He used to be on the Camden Auction House Board, but Camden underwent a few board changes in the last year and he resigned two months ago. I helped him secure the curator position he has now.”
Callie didn’t know anything about auction houses or boards. “Why would someone resign from a board position? Isn’t that supposed to be a good job to have?”
Wes curled an arm around her waist as they left the art studio and walked back to her room where she could change for the polo match.
“He and the newly elected board chairman, Peter Wells, didn’t see eye to eye on pretty much everything. I’d never tell Stephen, but Wells might be the better choice. He’s all about trimming costs and maximizing auction efficiency so Camden can sell more pieces a day than it has been doing in the last few years. Several of the current board members came to me and asked me about adding Wells to the board, and I agreed that he would be a good choice.” Wes leaned one shoulder against the bedpost while she dug through her clothes in the walk-in closet, trying to figure out what she would wear.
“So when Wells took over, how did he make Vain resign?” Callie plucked a rose-red dress with a flowing skirt that reached the tops of her knees and held it out so Wes could see. His gaze drifted over the dress and he nodded, an approving light in his blue eyes that made her flush.
“From what I heard”—Wes’s voice grew louder and she turned to see him walking into the closet with her—“Wells waged a bit of a campaign against Vain. It got nasty. Vain bowed out within just a few months of Wells starting.” Wes watched as she unbuttoned the large paint-covered dress shirt and let it drop to the floor. He made no move to help her undress, and she knew why. He loved to watch her strip. She had figured out that in Paris. He would order her in that deep dom voice and she’d peel off one article of clothing at a time, letting his gaze devour her.
When she stripped out of her pants and threw them at him, he caught the jeans, dropped them to the floor, and then lunged for her. Callie shrieked and darted out of the closet, laughing as she evaded Wes. The low, playful growl behind her made her shiver and then gasp as he pinned her to the side of her bed. She bent over, and he followed her, whispering in her ear.
“After the polo match, you and I will have a little time to ourselves.” He rubbed one palm over her ass and smacked it lightly. Heat flared in the wake of his touch and she let out a throaty purr.
The erection pressing into her bottom was a clear sign she wasn’t the only one affected by their position and her reaction.
“You are killing me, Callie.” He kissed her cheek, and with a reluctant sigh, let her go. “Get dressed before I change my mind and make us late to the match.”
After flashing him what she hoped was a saucy grin, to which he rolled his eyes, she ran back to the closet and got dressed. When she came back out, she noticed the tip of a canvas tucked under her bed close to Wes’s boots. She forced her gaze up to his, hoping he wouldn’t notice where her eyes had focused seconds before. The lie, the deception ate away at her stomach again, and she prayed he wouldn’t sense anything was amiss.
“You ready?” He held out a hand and she took it, grateful to have a reason to touch him.
“Ready.” She smiled and followed him to the door. She didn’t dare cast a glance at the bed and what she’d hidden underneath. One lie. That was it, but God it felt so huge. She never wanted to hide anything from Wes, but she had to go with her gut.
* * *
Wes mounted his polo pony named Vengeance and trotted behind Royce, Emery, and Fenn. As a team of four, they were perfect to go up against the opposing team of four players. Stephen Vain III, Thomas Stonecypher, Gerald Parker, and Samuel Cross were on the opposing team, all men his age who he’d grown up with. Whenever a charity needed money, polo was an easy way to raise support. The ladies dressed in their best clothes and mingled by the field, drinking mimosas while the players waged war on the turf. Gossip ran rampant among the tents, which was just what the FBI needed for the plan to work. The unveiling of the Monet would be quite a topic for the members of the Gilded Cuff who would be attending the match.
“Ready for some fun?” Royce nudged Fenn in the ribs and their horses nipped at each other as the two men bumped shoulders. Fenn chuckled and slapped the neck of his horse.
“I haven’t played since I was eight. What do you think?” Fenn retorted.
“I think,” Emery said as he joined his brother, “it’s like riding a bike. You played well on those tiny polo ponies we had as kids. You’ll be fine.”
Wes grinned as the Lockwood twins ribbed each other. It was a sight he’d never expected to see again, all four of them together. Something in his chest squeezed painfully and he checked his reins and then gripped his mallet. Vengeance shifted restlessly beneath him. He was a bit wild for a polo pony, but Wes took the risk because the horse had speed.
“Easy, Ven,” he soothed with a pat. Vengeance was a retired racehorse, a thoroughbred with an excellent bloodline. Built for bursts of speed, stamina, and agility, he was every polo player’s dream. Wes had trained Vengeance after he turned three years old, and the horse could read Wes’s cues by the slightest pressure of his legs or by weight cues whenever Wes adjusted his body. Wes always had a few other mounts as backup because they often needed to change rides during each seven-and-a-half-minute chukker period.
Wes followed his friends out onto the field where the announcer was discussing the players’ bios and their statistics. It wasn’t something he ever listened to, but he wondered what Callie had to be thinking of all of this. He sat up on his horse and glanced over his shoulder at the large tent full of tables where ladies and gentlemen were seated or walking about. The flare of the rose-colored dress made Callie jump out in his line of sight. She was deep in discussion with Hayden and Sophie, Emery Lockwood’s fiancée. Callie was smiling and laughing, too, which made him smile.
“What’s with the goofy grin?” Emery asked Wes. He reined back his pony and was checking his chin strap on his helmet.
Wes just shook his head. “None of your business.”
His best friend laughed, the sound carrying. “If I had to guess, it has to do with the reason my brother has a black eye and split lip.”
“Maybe, but he deserved it,” Wes growled. Fenn may be one of his best friends, but he wouldn’t hesitate to blacken his other eye if Fenn ever mentioned Callie again in a way that pissed him off.
“Okay. You win. I won’t ask any more questions.” Emery raised his hand to imitate a whipping noise. “Happens to the best of us.” Then he laughed hard and the pony jumped forward.
Wes was too distracted to play much of an aggressive game. Every thought seemed to be focused on Callie. If he could catch the art thief, he’d be able to take her back to Paris. In the short time there, he’d only been able to scratch the surface of what the city had to offer. The idea of how much he still wanted to experience with her left him feeling oddly excited. The little tremors in his stomach were foreign, but not unwelcome.
Royce shouted as he chased the white plastic ball down the line, which was an invisible path the ball took that defined the play of the game. Players were restricted by the path of the ball. Wes’s black pony huffed and darted after the ball but Stonecypher drew up alongside Royce, mallet lowered. Royce, as the hitter, had the natural right of way, but Stonecypher could approach alongside and hook the ball away. Wes kicked Ven’s side and sprinted toward his friend. But Stonecypher smacked the white ball away, changing the play.
Stephen Vain galloped past him, a grin twisting his lips as he waved his mallet in a mock salute.
“Bastard,” Wes said, laughing. Game on.
The next two chukker periods went by quickly, the play rough. More than one risky play and almost illegal moves happened on both sides. Wes changed horses twice and now sat astride one of the chestnut ponies, a gelding named Lord Nelson. Nelson wasn’t nearly as quick as Vengeance but was more agile. With a tied score, a horse with agility was better.
Fenn raced up ahead, mallet swinging for a blow. Suddenly, Stonecypher’s horse rushed at Fenn.
“Fenn! On your right!” Wes shouted out the warning but there wasn’t enough time for Fenn to react. Their horses were on a collision course. Wes reacted on pure instinct. That little boy inside him, the one who remembered Fenn gone all those years, took over. He dug his heels into Nelson’s flanks and the horse leaped forward, closing the distance and Stonecypher’s mount smashed Nelson shoulder to shoulder just as Stonecypher swung his mallet, striking Wes in the solar plexus.
Air whooshed out of his lungs and he went limp. Nelson screamed and reared back. When he thrashed his head, Wes’s weak grip on the reins slackened and the strips of leather slipped free of his hold.
There had only been three other times in his life when a horse had thrown him, but that spark of panic in his chest, the clawing agony of his lungs struggling to breathe and the weightless free fall, were unforgettable. He struck the ground hard, the impact knocking the last bit of air from his lungs before his head snapped back and a sharp pain followed him into darkness.
Chapter 23
A panicked shout and the screaming of hooves jerked Callie’s focus back to the field. Fenn had the ball, but Stonecypher was rushing at him, mallet raised dangerously. Wes was only a yard behind and then in a blink he and his horse were wedged between Fenn and Stonecypher. The mallet swung and Callie leaped to her feet, trying to see what happened. Wes’s horse reared, his muscles gleaming, mouth frothing, as it screamed. Wes slipped off the back of the horse and hit the ground. A sickening fear gripped her in its jaws. The horse stumbled and rolled over Wes before it got back up onto its feet.
“Wes!” Callie screamed and kicked off her heels so she could run across the field faster. All she could think about was getting to him. She had to. Tears blurred her eyes and she choked down sobs. He was only fifty feet away and not moving. Stonecypher, Fenn, and the other riders had dismounted and were on the ground beside him.
“I swear, Lockwood, I didn’t mean to—” Stonecypher’s face was ashen as he stared at Wes’s body.
Callie lunged forward, but when she got close, strong arms caught her and held her back.
“Hey, kid, hold on.” Fenn’s voice was distant, almost muffled beneath the blood roaring in her ears.
“Let go of me!” She struggled, arms flailing and legs thrashing against Fenn’s body. A muttered curse reached her ears and then she was free. She shoved past him and dropped by Wes’s side. Emery and Stephen Vain were examining him.
“Doesn’t look like any bones were broken,” Vain observed. His eyes met hers before he focused on Wes again.
Callie gripped one of Wes’s hands and squeezed.
“Wes, please, wake up.” She felt so helpless, like the little girl whose mother would never come home. Some memories were so deep that even a young child couldn’t forget them.
His dark lashes fluttered and then he finally opened his eyes. With a low moan, he lifted his head, only to drop it back to the ground.
“Easy.” Emery patted his shoulder and glanced at Callie.
“What happened?” Wes tried to raise himself up again and this time succeeded.
“You fell,” she explained, her voice breaking. “We should call an ambulance.”
He cursed. “I don’t need an ambulance.” He struggled to get up, wavered only a few steps before he seemed to regain control, and he started off in the direction that his horse had run, which was back to the stables.
When she tried to go after him and grab his arm, Wes growled at her. She retreated a step and they all watched him stalk off toward the stables. The ambulance crew had apparently been waiting behind the tents in case of emergencies and when Emery spoke to them, he told them Wes was headed for the stables.
Callie was rooted to the ground. Her whole body shook and she was a little dizzy, and also hurt by Wes’s brush-off. He didn’t want her to check on him and that stung. More than stung, it created a heavy ache in her chest. She rubbed the spot over her heart, trying to ease a pain she knew full well wouldn’t ease until she’d taken care of Wes.
“Are you okay?” Fenn wrapped his arm around her shoulders, shaking her a little and she focused on him.
“Huh? Oh, I’m fine. Just a little shook up. I was so afraid…” Her sentence died in a breathless whisper.
Fenn cupped her cheek and met her gaze. “Pretty scary to see someone you love get hurt, huh?”
“Yeah,” she agreed, and when he chuckled she scowled. “What?”
“You love Wes. You didn’t deny that just now.” Fine lines around his eyes creased as he smiled. “I guess it was worth a few punches to get him to admit he loves you, too.”
“He doesn’t.” She rubbed at her eyes, brushing away tears, but she gasped as Fenn caught her by the shoulders.
“I was wrong about him, kid. So you listen to me. A man like Wes does not get into fights over a woman, not unless he loves her. Hell, he got mad when I suggested it was only desire for you. He was pissed. He may not be ready to tell you he loves you, but it sure shows.”
She wanted to cry. If he loved her, he wouldn’t have walked off after the accident, and she told Fenn as much.
He unclipped his riding helmet and shook his head. “You think he wants you to see him hurt? A man likes to be strong and protect his woman, not frighten her by getting hurt. His pride is injured and he’s probably scared that you’ll lose faith in his ability to take care of you.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
Fenn laughed. “As I recall, you once told me, men never make sense.”
He had her there and she couldn’t argue.
“So what can I do?”
A serious expression lined his face as he considered this. “He needs to get his sense of power and strength back. Find a way to make him feel comfortable again and he’ll be okay.” With a brotherly pat on her head, Fenn walked away.
Callie remained on the field a few minutes longer, the grass cool beneath her feet as she watched the crowds disperse. One person caught her attention.
Corrine Vanderholt was standing next to the edge of the large party tent, her attention on the stables where Wes had gone. A smug smile curved her lips as she glanced around and then slipped back into the vanishing crowds. A little shiver of dread tiptoed down Callie’s spine. Was Corrine happy that Wes had been hurt? Would she try to get back with Wes and was she heading off to find him at that very moment? Jealousy crawled beneath her skin and she despised admitting she was worried Wes would be tempted by Corrine.
The questions had no ready answer, but Callie would be watching her closely from now on. Something wasn’t right. Every instinct she had screamed that Corrine had liked Wes getting hurt.
Callie collected her shoes and slipped them on before she headed to the stables. Wes hadn’t come back out yet, so he might still be inside. As she reached the stables’ main entrance, two paramedics walked past her. Emery was right behind them, looking bemused.
“Where is Wes?” she asked.
Emery waved a hand back down the long dim hall of the stalls.
“He’s brooding, but fine. A bump on the head is all.” Emery’s assurance didn’t soothe her. She needed to see Wes, to make sure he was, in fact, all right.
The stalls were full of polo ponies who stuck their faces over the edges of the doors to eye her curiously. The heavy warm scent of hay and grain made her feel safe. It would always remind her of the ranch. A large tack room bore glossy English-style saddles, and a rack behind them was laden with large cup trophies. Fat ribbons in a dozen colors hung from pegs on the rack, their forked ends gleaming in the soft gold glow of the ceiling lights.
Wes was at the end of the row of fifteen stalls. She saw his dark silhouette against the daylight behind him from the rear entrance of the barn. His tall, lean, booted legs, narrow hips, wide shoulders, all of him focused as he held a horse’s face in his hands, his forehead pressed to the beast’s in a sign of gentle endearment that tugged at her heart. He was so sexy, so alive, and at that moment completely ignorant of her presence.
She loved him so much it hurt. It wasn’t the same as she’d felt with Fenn. That had been a shallow cut to her soul when he’d rejected her. With Wes, it was like nothing else she could ever have imagined. Everything she someday hoped to be was tied to him, like an ocean to the shore. Always crashing back to each other, pulled by an invisible force like gravity. A love that was built into the fabric of the universe. It couldn’t be explained or ignored. Only embraced and cherished.
I will love you for the rest of my life, Wes Thorne. Even if you break my heart, it will be yours.
The horse he was stroking shifted and bumped its nose against Wes’s chest and Wes chuckled. The sound was rich and low. It made her entire body explode with heated memories of their nights in Paris. Without a word, she walked right up to him and put her arms around him, hugging him. If he was startled, she couldn’t tell. Her face was buried against his chest.
“Hello, darling.” He kissed her temple and curled his arms around her body.
“Don’t ever push me away like that again. Ever.” She rubbed her cheek against the soft cotton of his polo jersey. His scent, mixed with a little sweat and hay, made him enticing and irresistible.
A hand patted her lower back and then he eased her away a few inches so their gazes could meet. Around them, the silent equine witnesses huffed and pawed their hooves against hay-covered stone.
“Keep coming after me.” His eyes were heavy with a solemnity she hadn’t expected. “Don’t let me shut you out. Whatever you ask of me, I can’t refuse you. You know that, don’t you?”
Her heart skidded to a stop as hope sprung forth. Could he mean what she hoped? That he belonged to her just as she belonged to him? She was too afraid to ask if he meant that.
“How’s your head?” She touched his cheek gently.
One corner of his mouth rose in a crooked grin. “Just a small bump.” He reached behind his head, but she caught his wrist.
“Don’t touch it if it hurts. Did the paramedics tend to it?”
He nodded. “Are you hoping to patch me up again?” It was meant as a tease, but she didn’t find it funny.
“I don’t want to make that a hobby, stitching you back up or bandaging your wounds. I’m serious, Wes. Be careful for me.”
“You were really worried?” His brows arched and his lips softened in a tender half-smile.
“Of course I was. A horse practically fell on you. You weren’t moving…” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” His earnestness made the knot of panic in her chest ease a little. He held her a long moment, neither of them brave enough to speak.
“Are you ready to go home?” he finally asked.
“Yes.” She still had her arms around him and she tilted her head back. “Wes, will you take me to the club tonight? I know you plan to go watch over the forged Monet. I want to go with you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You want to go to the Gilded Cuff with me?”
She nodded.
“No.”
“But—”
“Callie, that’s a full BDSM club. You wouldn’t know what to do, and you are far too shy. Besides, I’d have to collar you in front of everyone just to keep the other doms from approaching you.”
She nibbled her bottom lip, considering how brave she might be to go to the club and play by his rules. She didn’t know if she could succeed but she wanted to try.
“Wes, this is important to me. I want to do this.” Going to the club was part of his life and she knew that if she ever wanted to convince him they could be together, then she had to prove she could survive in his dark world.
“You’re serious about the club?” A flicker of consideration in his eyes showed she might have a chance to convince him.
“Please,” she begged, staring at his lips, then his eyes. She stood on tiptoes and curled her fingers around the back of his neck to pull his face down for a kiss.
This time she was the aggressor and used her lips to convince him how much she deserved him and wanted to please him. He growled softly against her mouth, his hands spanning her waist and pulling her against him. The kiss deepened and this time she lost her control. Clinging to him, she sighed and moaned as he assaulted her senses.
When they finally broke apart, she was pinned back against the wall next to Vengeance’s stall and Wes was stroking her bare arms, his eyes bedroom soft, his lashes at half-mast as he gazed intently at her kiss-swollen lips.
“All right. You can come tonight, but I’ll need to keep you close in order to make sure you don’t anger any of the doms. I love your fire, but not all masters like their submissives spirited.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and the caress was soothing.
“I can do this, Wes. I promise.” She had faith that she would be brave enough to survive a night at one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs on the East Coast.
“We’ll be there together.” His assurance warmed her.
Together. What a difference one small word could make.
* * *
Corrine Vanderholt lingered in the tack room, eavesdropping on Wes’s conversation with the little blonde-haired twit. It still infuriated her that Wes had broken off their relationship for a girl like that. A small-town nobody. Corrine had connections to the Kennedys, for God’s sake. Any man should want to marry her. Lucky for her, though, she didn’t actually like Wes. Sure, she played submissive, because that was the only way a woman could get any time with him. And that had been her goal. To get time with him, to get him to propose to her.
She had no interest in his love or his money. She wanted his art. For the last few years she’d been watching him as he purchased several rare, near priceless pieces. The Monet, the Renoir, they would all be hers. There was just one problem. He kept these rare pieces well hidden. Her partner had cased Wes’s house and hadn’t found them anywhere. But Corrine knew they had to be there somewhere. Paranoid Wes had just hidden them and they needed a way to trick him into showing the paintings’ location.
Her partner had developed a plan to steal art from Wes’s friends and clients. When Wes learned of the thefts he would want to get involved, and just as her partner had predicted, Wes would use his own art as bait to draw out the illusive thief. A little smile curled her lips. Wes had it all wrong. He was the mouse in this game and she was the cat.
It was a good thing she’d thought to follow him to the barn. That little nobody in the rose dress had revealed an unexpected twist. Wes wasn’t planning to hang the real Monet in the club. He was going to hang a fake. That meant her plan to steal it had to be changed. A wicked sense of glee filled her. Oh, it would be too easy to get Wes to hand over the real Monet and anything else Corrine desired.
“There you are.” A deep masculine chuckle came from the back door of the tack room that led to the other row of stalls on the other side of the stables.
Corrine turned to see her partner. He called himself the Illusionist, but she didn’t care about the nickname. She only cared about him and the art they would steal.
“Hey, baby,” she purred and wrapped her arms around his neck.
His brown eyes burned through her. He was the only man who ever made her feel before. She didn’t have to playact any certain way when she was around him. She could just be herself.
“What’s Thorne up to?” He settled his hands on her lower back and tugged her close.
“Changing the game, that’s what. He put a forgery in the club this afternoon. The real Monet is still hidden.”
Her partner frowned. “Damn.”
Corrine stroked her fingertips along the nape of his neck, teasing with the edge of his polo jersey. “It’s okay. I know what we can do.”
“Do you?” He bent his head, kissing her until she was breathless.
“Yes,” she replied. She had the perfect plan. And it would cost Wes that sweet girl he’d dared to fall for.
