Unmasked: Volume Three Page 5

A shadow passes over his blue eyes as his face hardens. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  This puts a soft smile on his face. “Do you want to forget everything? Just disappear with me?”

  He reaches up and delicately pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger as he gazes at my mouth, awaiting my answer.

  “No. I can’t let her get away with what she’s done. She discarded me as a newborn, then hired someone to kill me. And in the process, I lost almost everything that has ever mattered to me. I can’t let that go. I’m not that sensible.”

  He chuckles at my last proclamation, then he leans in to kiss me. His beard tickles my lips and I smile when I taste the sweet wine on his tongue. I wrap my arms around his sturdy shoulders and kiss him harder. After a moment, I pull away and look him in the eye.

  “I love you, mon cheri.”

  He laughs softly. “That was very sexy. But I’m going to have to teach you to speak French properly.”

  “How long are we staying here with your brother?”

  “Two weeks. That should be enough time for you to recover. And that’s when the Grand Prix Gala will take place in Monte Carlo.”

  “Two weeks?” I mutter as my mind wanders to thoughts of Daimon and I holed up in this beautiful guest room for fourteen days. I look up at him and smile. “I want you to teach me everything you learned while being a hit man.”

  He looks a little befuddled by this request. “Why?”

  I gaze into his sparkling blue eyes and smile. “I want to make sure there’s no chance I’ll be holding you back. I want to be your equal.”

  “You already are my equal. I told you this. You and I are the same.”

  “No, we’re not. You know more about performing hits than I do. Far more. I want to know everything.” I rake my fingers through the soft dark hair on his head. “We’re a team now.”

  He closes his eyes, savoring the sensation of my fingers running through his hair. “I’ll teach you everything I know… tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll be spending all night in this bed… worshipping you.” He opens his eyes and grabs my hands to pull them against his chest. “Lie down, chérie. Church is in session.”

  * * *

  After thirteen days of being Daimon’s student, my body and mind are both exhausted and invigorated. I feel like a new person. A better person.

  According to Daimon, my training made me the perfect candidate for a job as an assassin. The only things I need to work on are embracing technology and weapons, and learning some foreign languages. We argued about the effectiveness of weapons for hours before I finally conceded to his point that it is always better to be prepared for anything.

  Victor’s wife and three children arrived from their three-week trip to Brazil last night. They were too exhausted to spend time socializing with us, but they’re full of energy this morning as they scurry about the huge kitchen helping themselves to a traditional French breakfast of coffee, fromage blanc with fruit, and sliced baguettes with fresh butter and jam.

  The three children, ages eight, eleven, and fifteen, speak in rapid-fire French that sounds almost musical. Eight-year-old Louis sits next to me at the breakfast table as I’m pouring some corn flakes into a bowl.

  “You are American?” he asks, then he takes a spoonful of fromage and strawberry preserves into his mouth.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions, Louis,” snaps fifteen-year-old Victoria. “I’m sorry for my brother,” she continues, taking a seat on my other side.

  Daimon sits across from me wearing a slight grin as he drinks his coffee and eats his baguette.

  “I am not stupid,” Louis retorts, and Victoria shakes her head in dismay.

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind answering. Yes, I’m American. Have you been to America?”

  Eleven-year-old Vanessa sits across from Victoria. “We have been to New York and Florida and California.”

  I swallow my shame as I realize these children have seen more of America than I have. “Which did you like the best?” I ask as I pour some milk into my bowl of cereal.

  “California,” Vanessa replies. “New York was cold and so many people. And Florida was so hot and so many bugs.”

  “I like New York,” Victoria says, sipping her café au lait. “I want to live in New York.”

  “You can’t live in New York!” Louis shouts in my left ear. “They don’t like ugly people in America.”

  “Be quiet. Nobody was talking to you,” Vanessa interjects.

  “Shh! All of you be quiet. You are annoying our guests,” Victor’s wife Imane says, taking a seat next to Vanessa.

  I look at Daimon and he’s still smiling. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I’m beginning to feel like fate may have intervened at the right moment for us. I am definitely not ready to deal with children at this juncture in my life.

  Victor enters the kitchen with his cell phone pressed to his ear and a worried look on his face. He and Daimon lock eyes, then he nods toward the other room. Daimon looks at me and nods for me to join him.

  “Bring your food. You need to eat.”

  One thing I’ve learned about Daimon these past two weeks, which did not surprise me at all, is how bossy he is. He insists that I eat at least four times a day. When I lived on my own in Los Angeles, I got used to eating twice a day due to my limited budget. But Daimon insists I need to eat more often to maintain a healthy blood sugar level, which he insists is key to staying alert and energetic.

  Victor leads us into a study where the walls are lined with bookshelves. I take a seat on a black armchair and Daimon stands next to me.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  Victor shakes his head in dismay. “It is not good.”

  “What is it?” Daimon asks again more forcefully.

  “It’s Julien. He is making the drop at midnight.”

  The silence that follows this sentence baffles me. “What? What does that mean?” I ask, holding my spoonful of cereal over the bowl.

  Daimon runs his fingers through his hair looking very unhappy with this news. “That’s too soon! We need more time. They won’t be in the high-limit room until ten or much later.”

  “Daimon? What’s going on?” I plead, but it’s Victor who answers.

  “I messed up. Your escape from the club was supposed to happen whenever the job was complete. I thought I had made it clear to your escort, Julien, that he would need to have you out of Monaco by twelve o’clock the following day. Somehow, the message was not received well. You have to get out of Monaco by midnight.”

  Daimon shakes his head, still too upset to speak.

  “We have less than two hours to complete the whole mission?” I ask. Surely, this must be a miscommunication. There’s no way they can expect us to pull this off in two hours.

  “I’m sorry, Daimon,” Victor says, running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “I know if I were not your brother, I’d be dead right now. Oui?” Daimon glares at him then nods, his jaw still clenched tightly. Victor turns to me. “See? You are changing him.”

  “Is that a good thing?” I reply.

  “Of course it is. Love is the best thing.”

  Chapter Eight

  Alex

  We wake at three in the morning to get ready for the train ride to Monaco. Our false passports were delivered to Victor last night. The photos on the passports were edited to make us look different. In my photo, I have blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, and a bump on the bridge of my nose. In Daimon’s photo, his beard is gone and his eyes are brown. But I can’t help but laugh at his hair.

  “That’s a good look for you,” I say, grabbing the shaving brush from the bathroom counter.

  He glances at his reflection in the mirror before he takes a seat on the toilet and closes his eyes as he leans his head back. “Don’t get too excited. You can’t pull it during sex or you’ll blow our cover.”

  His passport photo shows him with blonde hair s
licked back and secured in a ponytail at his nape.

  I dip the shaving brush in the cream and swirl it over his jaw creating a rich lather. “Are you planning to have sex with me in this disguise?”

  “I have many plans for you. Would you like me to recount them aloud?”

  Once his face is all lathered up, I put down the brush and grab the straight razor. I’ve never shaved a man’s face, but it can’t be that hard. And the fact that Daimon trusts me to press a razor against his jugular gets me excited.

  I lift my leg and rest my foot on the toilet seat between his legs, then I lean forward and begin shaving the left side of his jaw first. The pain in my stab wound is barely noticeable. But my hand is shaking, until I lay it flush against his skin.

  “Yes, please tell me what you plan to do to me when this is all over,” I murmur, dragging the razor in a smooth downward motion.

  The rasp of the blade on his skin is exhilarating. I dip the razor into a cup of hot water and Daimon seizes the opportunity to speak.

  “First, I’m going to take you to the safe house in Vienna.”

  I swipe the blade over his cheek. “Mm-hmm…”

  “Then I’m going to lay you on the first surface I can find. A floor, a counter, a piano…”

  “A piano?”

  “Yes, let’s go with a grand piano.”

  I chuckle as I push his head back so I can shave under his jaw. “What tune are we going to play?”

  His hand reaches up, landing on the inside of my ankle where my foot rests between his legs. “I’m going to bend you over those ivory keys and start off slowly, like an adagio symphony. I’ll undress you slowly.”

  I smile as his fingers trace the inside of my leg, moving up toward my thigh. “Then what?”

  “Then, I’ll turn you around and kiss you. But it won’t be just any kiss. It will be the kind of kiss that makes your body ache with so much longing that you won’t be able to breathe.”

  I swallow hard as I press the blade against the right side of his face. “Sounds like quite a kiss.”

  “Oh, it will be. You’ll be dripping wet before I even touch your body.” His hand lands on the inside of my thigh and my clit throbs with anticipation. “Then, I’ll lift you onto the back of that grand piano and kiss your gorgeous legs.”

  His fingers brush the edge of my panties and I suck in a sharp breath as I try to concentrate on the blade in my hand.

  “Then what?” I whisper.

  “Then, I’ll put my mouth on your hot, aching pussy.”

  He slips his fingers underneath the cotton fabric and easily finds my clit. I quickly pull the blade away from his neck, whimpering as I grab his shoulder with my other hand.

  “Then, I’ll suck on your hard little clit while my fingers slide inside you. You’re so wet.”

  His finger slides inside me as his thumb caresses my clit. I drop the blade onto the counter so I can hold onto his shoulders with both my hands.

  “I’ll lick your pussy up and down and all around, spreading your flesh to get to the most sensitive spot.” He moves his thumb a bit to the right, instantly finding the spot he speaks of, and my knees weaken. “I’ll savor you slowly. You can’t rush perfection.”

  He massages my clit gently, but I soon find myself collapsed on his lap, still twitching with orgasm. My arms are draped around his solid neck and my head rests on his shoulder.

  “Then, your body will explode with ecstasy. And I’ll drink from you, savoring every last drop of your sweet essence.”

  “Oh, God. Can we just skip the gala and go straight to that?”

  He chuckles and softly swats my ass. “Get up and finish shaving me so I can dye your hair.”

  I laugh. “Give me a minute. You don’t want me to shave you while I’m still trembling with lust, do you?”

  He nuzzles his face into my neck and kisses me softly. “You should know by now, chérie. I never shy away from danger.”

  * * *

  The train ride from Nice to the Monte Carlo station takes just eighteen minutes and a few euros, but it’s enough to get my pulse racing. I’m going to meet my biological mother. The first person to judge me before ever getting to know me.

  A sleek, black Mercedes is waiting for us outside the station. It quickly whisks us away to the Sunset Lounge at the Fairmont Hotel; ground zero for Billionaire Club Formula One Gala. The car drops us off at the steps of the hotel where a red carpet has been set up for the guests to enter.

  A gentleman in a tuxedo opens our door and offers me his hand. I try to remember to take slow, steady breaths as I allow him to help me out of the car. I smooth down my black skin-tight dress, just to have something to do because I’m feeling completely out of my element. Daimon places his hand on my arm and I flinch a little, then I flash him a tight smile as he leads me toward the red carpeted steps.

  “Oh, my God. That’s Beyonce and Jay-Z,” I whisper to Daimon out of the corner of my mouth as we climb the steps behind the power couple.

  “Oh, my goodness. Can you get their autograph for me?” I shove my elbow into his side and he laughs. “Ah, chérie. They are human just like you. Only you are much more beautiful and skilled with your hands.”

  He waggles his eyebrows at me and I try not to laugh at his fake blonde ponytail hairdo. “Oh, stop it.”

  The prosthetic bump on my nose is itching, but I have to resist scratching or I’ll scrape off the makeup and glue holding it in place. Since Daimon never allows himself to be photographed, the only person who can describe him is the man he carjacked in the El Medano beach parking lot on Tenerife island. That man saw Daimon when he had blue eyes, dark hair, and a full beard. Which means Daimon doesn’t need to wear a prosthetic nose to further disguise himself. I, on the other hand, can’t rely on a simple hair and eye color change. The key to a good disguise, according to Daimon, is to change at least three aspects of your appearance.

  At the entrance to the hotel, the door man asks us where we’re headed. Daimon responds, in French, that we are going to the Sunset Lounge. The squat man with the wide neck responds by nodding over his shoulder for us to proceed.

  We enter the hotel and head in the direction of the club. As we walk arm-in-arm, Madonna walks past us with another woman and two security guards toward the hotel entrance. I’m not sure why being near so many celebrities should make me nervous. Maybe it’s my days of worshipping the television in the basement that programmed me to feel this way. Or maybe I’m just intimidated because high-profile people come with high-profile security teams.

  Can we really pull this off? If Daimon thinks we can, I trust him.

  I have to trust him.

  When we reach the Sunset Lounge, there’s a short line of five people waiting to get checked by security. Oh, shit. Is that the Prince of Wales?

  Daimon grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Do you know what my grade school teacher used to say about people who only care about physical beauty?” I look up at him and he smiles. “Nothing has caused more foolishness in this world than the pursuit of beauty. It’s foolish to pursue something that is everywhere.”

  I hang my head and blink a few times to keep tears from forming, smiling when he presses his lips to my temple. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Not thank you. Merci.”

  “Merci.”

  He smiles and suddenly we’re at the front of the line where three huge bouncers in suits are waiting for us to introduce ourselves. Daimon reaches into his wallet and pulls out our IDs without saying a word. The bouncer with the thick gold chain around his neck checks the names on our IDs against the names on his iPad. He scrolls through the list as he pinches his eyebrows together.

  “You’re not on the list,” he says in an Italian accent.

  Daimon responds calmly. “Yes, we are. Check the list once more.”

  The guy looks at one of the other bouncers, a black guy who’s at least four inches taller than Daimon and about fifty pounds heavier. The black guy purses his lips a
nd my pulse pounds in my ears. This is not how this was supposed to go down.

  “Check the list once more,” Daimon insists, his voice a bit more forceful this time, and I’m beginning to wonder if we’re going to have to enact Plan B. I don’t want to put Plan B into play.

  The guy with the iPad rolls his eyes as he scrolls through the list again. He squints his eyes then looks at our IDs again.

  “You’re here.” He hands Daimon our IDs and the black guy nods toward the inside of the club.

  I smile at all three of the bouncers, though I’m not sure why. Once we’re inside the Billionaire Club, I immediately understand the allure of this lifestyle. The air is smoky from the fog machines, but it smells like money. There are famous people everywhere: Oscar winning actors and actresses, multi-platinum selling recording artists, supermodels, royalty, and tons of Formula One drivers. Almost everyone in this room is beautiful and intoxicated. Just being in the same room, I feel a strange pull to be one of them.

  Daimon squeezes my hand again, focusing me. “Let’s play some blackjack.”

  We enter the casino room next door to the club and quickly locate the cashier station. After showing the proper ID and his no-limit credit card, the casino accepts our one-million dollar minimum bet. A security guard arrives shortly thereafter to escort us down the corridor to the high-limit lounge in the Galerie Cristal. I glance at the phone tucked inside my gold clutch and see it’s 10:23 p.m. We have one hour and seven minutes to complete the mission.

  As soon as the security guard leaves us at the entrance to the high-limit lounge, I get a nervous fluttering in the pit of my stomach. My eyes scan the spacious, dimly-lit room, searching for any sign of the prince and princess. But the gaudy columns and the polished brass everywhere makes it difficult to focus. My anxiety is rising dangerously as Daimon leads me toward a table in the far right corner of the room.

  We reach the blackjack table and Daimon slips his arm around my waist and leans in to whisper in my ear. “You are stronger than this.”

  The way he says it, as if it’s a challenge, calls up a primal competitive instinct inside me. I am stronger than this. I brought Daimon to his knees a month ago in a hotel lounge not much different than this one. The princess is no match for Daimon; therefore, she is no match for me.