Imperfect Forgery: (A Dark Romantic Suspense) Page 4

  For the rest of the night, she turns into the true goddess of seduction. An accidental touch on his arm, a careless tuck of her curl behind her ear, fake laughter at his jokes, and the man wraps himself around her little finger in no more than fifteen minutes.

  Mentally cursing myself for still staring at her, I head for the bar, wondering how the shy student transformed into a sexy vixen in front of my eyes.

  "First time here, sir?" The bartender catches me off-guard.

  "Why would you assume that?" I tear my eyes off the show and look at the guy in his forties, his blond curly hair glistering from the amount of styling gel to keep it under control.

  One corner of his mouths tilts up. "You were staring at her." He points his head toward the awkward looking couple now choosing a place to sit in the front row. "Nobody else does. Ever."

  "Yeah, I noticed." I return the smirk. I assume this is not the bartender's first time, unlike mine, which means he could be resourceful. "Could I get some whiskey on the rocks, please?"

  "So why is nobody looking at her?" I ask when he returns with my drink. "I mean, she is gorgeous!"

  "Probably because they prefer their balls intact." The guy beams wider and discretely darts his eyes toward the man she came with. "That, over there, is Silvio Beltrani. He was once a black sheep in his Italian mafia family. Rumor has it that the man scared even them. They say, he decided to explore wider possibilities and did some secret work for the government, until he got sick of following orders. Needless to say, he returned to his roots, if you know what I mean."

  The bartender picks up a shaker to prepare a cocktail that the surgically perfected woman across the bar just ordered. I patiently wait for him to finish the drink, hoping to learn more.

  Once the guy returns, he leans closer to me. "So, Beltrani likes to keep low profile, but don't underestimate him. I only heard rumors, but from what I see, they must be true. Nobody touches or looks at his daughter without the man's permission."

  "Daughter, huh?" I lift the glass to my lips, secretly gazing at the ridiculous couple in the front row. What is she doing with him? "Does the daughter have a name?"

  The bartender snickers. "You like to play with fire, I see. Yeah, her name—"

  "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to our humble gathering," the auction host interrupts our conversation. "Please, get comfortable, as we are about to begin."

  The bartender excuses himself and retreats to serve the last thirsty costumers. I find a spot in the back, conveniently overlooking the front row.

  Yet, the beauty whose name I never got, does not even peek my way again, clearly devoted to the man with money she just met.

  Which leaves me guessing, who was the idiot from the parking lot, claiming to be her boyfriend.

  But then again, people in these circles hold no morals when it comes to money and power. I resent this world with every cell in my being.

  The impression doubles when I see her leave with the man. Tonight, he acquired not only the highest priced painting but also the most gorgeous woman.

  Before I walk out the door, I pass Beltrani, leaning against the wall – lurking in the shadows. A satisfactory smile plays on his lips, and darkness, unlike anything I encountered before, streams from his eyes as he watches his daughter get into the car with a stranger.

  Chills travel down my spine once I glance back at him. The light from his phone screen casts shadows around his mouth, twisted into a sneer as he takes one last look at the limo driving away. Did he sell his daughter to the highest bidder?

  On my way home, I relive those few moments when the room around me vanished, and only one woman remained. Those eyes, that smile, and the porcelain skin I am dying to touch…

  A sudden onslaught of guilt punches me in the chest. Not once tonight, have I thought of my other mysterious lady with the luscious voice.

  I am a fucking bastard for flirting with her last night, picturing her as the timid student from earlier. Who could have predicted tonight she would sweep me off my feet again. I should quit lusting over that woman altogether. She is most likely already naked under the rich pig she left with.

  The thought of her naked body turns my cock painfully hard despite knowing she is with another man. "You need to get laid," I say to myself. "Badly!"

  Chapter 6

  Lavinia

  I moan under the man, whose name I cannot remember, pretending to relish every moment of being bent over his enormous antique desk, its sharp wooden carvings drilling into my flesh. His hands on my back press me down so hard I can barely breathe. The side of my face rubs against the dark green leather desktop with every thrust, my eyes inches away from a framed happy family photo.

  I want to puke.

  It has been years since Silvio forced me to use my body to acquire what he wanted. My eyes locate my clutch, and I pray he would be satisfied. I did point the camera at all the correct angles, I exposed every corner of his house, every window and door.

  Now the clutch points at the vault.

  The man groans into my ear, his sweat dripping on my face, and I gag.

  Thank God, I had nothing to eat since lunch.

  I need the earth to open and swallow me whole.

  When my eyes caught sight of the stranger watching me leave the auction, I was too ashamed to face him, no matter how much I craved to sink into the depths of those blue eyes again. There was something charismatic in the way he looked at me tonight, more intense than yesterday. My heart hammered inside my ribcage, my cheeks flushed, and heat pooled up in my lower belly in response – a reaction remarkably similar to when I gave in to the temptation to meet with David.

  David... I should abandon this stupid idea of meeting him... A whore like me, who fakes moans for sweaty men, is not worthy of a decent man. She is barely worthy of breathing the same air.

  The man groans into my ear, jerking as he finally finds his release, and the remaining shreds of my dignity cut through my ever-bleeding heart.

  Tears threaten to betray me when I stand upright and pull my dress down. He says something to me while discarding the condom, but I cannot focus on anything anymore.

  My stomach is cramping violently by the time I walk outside, desperate to scrub myself clean, curl into a ball, and weep.

  He disgusts me, just like every man who did this to me since I was a teenager.

  Silvio equally sickens me.

  Yet, it is myself I loathe the most for hesitating to end my miserable life.

  The limo waits by the gate. The driver opens the door for me, his eyes focused on the pavement.

  "One hell of a performance," Silvio's voice reaches me from inside the car. I want to run and never turn back, but instead, I sit opposite from him. The doors lock, and the sound twists my already cramping stomach into knots. A tiger’s cage would be more welcoming than being trapped in the car with him.

  "Tonight you succeeded to impress me. Twice."

  "Twice?" I ask cautiously.

  "Well, yes," Silvio says, unbuckling his belt. "Your reaction in the shower was like riding a storm. Damn, if it was anything less than impressive. I could get addicted to that." He grins as I back myself into the furthest corner of the seat. "Don't worry. You have done enough fucking for one day."

  Father gestures for me to kneel in front of him, and I search my mind for the image of those blue eyes. I concentrate on those eyes, my only life vest at this moment, and I do not let go of the picture until the car stops.

  Silvio catches my mouth for a possessive kiss before I climb out. "I was beginning to forget just how addictive you can be. So addictive I can barely restrain myself from taking you back to the mansion for more," he groans against my lips. "But I need the painting ready by next Saturday, and it better be perfect. Don't forget, the only other thing more tempting than fucking you is punishing you." He sucks my trembling lower lip, biting it hard enough to leave a metallic taste behind, then waves his hand for me to go.

  Luckily, the street is empty at thi
s late hour, and nobody can see the mess I am now. My hair flies in all directions as I walk toward the entrance door, my blue gown sticky with perspiration and other bodily fluids.

  Unsurprisingly, the ride proved to be long enough for Silvio to change his mind about me having had enough.

  Silvio's deep voice rattles down the alley throwing me off balance, and my hands begin to shake. I turn around in fear he might force me to go with him. The darkened window is halfway open, and I walk closer to encounter his ever-observing eyes.

  "Sweetie, I want you to give Mauro a message from me. Tell that little shit never to touch you again. That's an order." I stand speechless, trying to digest his words and their meaning. "I don't approve of him damaging my toys without permission," he adds before rolling up the window.

  Mauro is not going to hurt me again. Despite everything, a wave of gratitude fills my heart as I watch the limo vanish into the night.

  Something else dawns on me when I step inside the elevator. Father failed tonight. He may have used my body in any way he wished, but he did not crush me to dust. Shreds of my humanity prevailed because my mind wandered off to be with the man I saw for no more than a minute, and somehow, that man had David's voice.

  Mauro is ready to jump on me the moment I open the apartment door, but I stand my ground and deliver the message. His knuckles turn white from how hard he clenches his fists, eager to hit me, but he knows Father would not spare him if he disobeyed direct orders. Mauro plays cruel and confident, but inside he is still the same boy, cowering in the corner of his cell.

  There was a time I cherished him as my friend and brother, but he turned against me.

  He chose to become his father.

  Chapter 7

  David

  "That's great," I say without trying to conceal my excitement from the professor, who called to inform that the student I was asking about showed up at the Academy today, after a week of absence.

  I put down the phone and grin like a foolish teen, not a thirty-two-year-old man.

  Nearly seven days passed since I asked him about the mysterious girl I met outside, assuring him my interest had nothing to do with police work. Nonetheless, he refused to even tell me her name. After I nearly begged him, the old man with Einstein style hair agreed to give me a call when he saw her, so that 'she can decide if she wants anything to do with you, boy'.

  I behaved like a horny teenager this past week, keeping my phone with me at all times, even in the toilet. However, as the week went by, the images of our meeting outside the Academy and during the auction caused the anger to grow and overshadow the lust. All I could focus on was her leaving with the rich bastard.

  At last, my attention returned to the one who deserved it – Lava. Tonight is our date night, and I am more than eager to enjoy it to the fullest.

  Until the phone call from the professor stirred my emotions.

  Yet, his timing was impeccable. I'll have enough time to push the enigmatic beauty out of my system by the time Lava calls. All I need is to see that student again and talk to her in person. This should be enough for some stupid part of my body to agree with me.

  A woman with a price tag is not worth the effort. I almost married one – not going to happen again.

  Yet, while I am discussing this with myself, some other part of my body is grinning again as I slide down the stair rail outside the precinct and almost do the "Singing in the Rain" pole dance while passing a street lamp.

  Gregory's smug face emerges in front of me. "Easy there, stallion." He grins when I give him the middle finger. "May I presume this sudden change of mood is female related?"

  "Surprised a monk like you can be this insightful," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. "How would you know what a guy about to get laid looks like?"

  "You, Lucas, and Brian made me an expert over the years. If one day I grow tired of being a cop, I could do couple's counseling instead."

  "I'll keep that in mind, but until then you'll hear nothing from me."

  "Don't worry. I'll be occupied enough not to wonder, who you're sleeping with this weekend." Greg's eyes develop this spark whenever he knows something important, and right now, they are flashing like police lights, but he remains silent.

  The bastard is going to make me ask. "Fine, what do you have?"

  His lips curve up in response. Greg hands me a folder. "I thought you would have known by now, as you were on your way out."

  "I just came in and got a phone call about something that is none of your business, Saint Gregory." I cock my head and raise an eyebrow.

  "Trust me, I wouldn't want to know, anyway." He smirks back. "Back to business. My associate in the FBI tipped me off this morning about the burglary that took place last night. Apparently, your Captain was the one who personally responded to the call about it. Needless to say, the FBI agent who replaced you was pissed when she learned that police beat the FBI to the task. It appears that the MO is identical to the museum heist – no forced entry, no alarms triggered, no witnesses, and a missing painting from a vault."

  "Missing?" I raise my eyebrow again.

  "Sorry, not missing – replaced with a forgery. Just like at the museum." Greg points his chin for me to read what's inside. "Seems like the owner has some OCD about perfect alignment. When he entered his vault early in the morning, he noticed the canvas was somewhat tilted and freaked out enough to call some expert to examine the artwork."

  Why didn’t Catherine tell me anything? Then again, she probably thought I'd go ‘all Rambo on this’.

  I skim through the angry report, cursing the local police for interfering with the critical investigation and for removing all the evidence from the crime scene. Some part of me feels quite content to know my long-time associate, Catherine, kicked some FBI asses. And knowing her, I can guarantee, she is going to make them sweat to retrieve the evidence.

  "So who's the unlucky control freak? I ask, turning to the second page, and nearly choke on my last word.

  "Some CEO," Greg says, eyeing the photo in my hands. "Patrick Silverstone."

  "I'll be damned!" The double winner of Saturday night. Or the dual loser. I clear my throat, flipping the glossy paper in between my fingers.

  By the time my eyes leave the sight of my brown suede sneakers and travel up to Greg's face, he already asks, "What have you been up to now, David?"

  This robbery leaves me no other option than to confess about attending the auction and snooping around the Art Academy.

  "Are you entirely out of your mind?" Greg is loud enough to cause stares. "This is not your case anymore. If the feds find out you of all people have been digging around their backyard, they will make sure to find ways to connect Evelyn’s murder to the art thieves and take over her murder investigation just to get back at you. Do you want that to happen?"

  "I'm sorry, I should have told you," I apologize, although I do not feel a grain of guilt. "Look at the bright side, now you found a willing witness ready to recount everything he saw at the auction without stepping into the FBI’s playground."

  "You are unbelievable. You can find an excuse for every stupid action, just like Lucas." Greg shakes his head. "Fine, tell me what you got."

  "Well," I hesitate, the memory of the mysterious student flashing through my mind again. For some reason, I am reluctant to expose her, although she could very well be part of this. "How about we take my car and go for a chat with the CEO? I can tell you everything on the way. After we visit Silver-something, we should go to the Art Academy to interview another possible witness." Or more. "I am not much of a believer in coincidences when it comes to crime, and the fact that the victim left the auction with a female art student related to an Italian mobster is too suspicious."

  "He did?" Greg frowns and takes back the folder. "There is no mentioning in the report he suspected anybody." He studies the papers as we get in the car. "Here. It says he acquired the painting at the auction, returned home, and immediately placed it inside the vault. No men
tioning of any woman. Are you sure he didn’t just give her a ride?"

  "Man, I have no doubt he gave her a ride, but not the kind you are referring to. Trust me, I know the look of a man about to get laid. His face was practically screaming ‘I am about to get lucky’. Besides, the woman had no need of any car ride. She was there with her father."

  I peek at Greg, his eyes wide with surprise. "Crazy world we live in." He chuckles, but in no time, that chuckle turns into a full belly laugh. "No wonder his memory failed. The CEO is married to the daughter of a shark of a lawyer, and the daddy-in-law accompanied Silverstone to the FBI as his attorney."

  ∞∞∞

  "According to Silverstone, the young woman was recommended as an art expert by a trusted associate," Greg says, putting his seatbelt on.

  He had left me sitting in the car like a dog while he went to talk to the cheating pig in his office alone.

  Shaking off the annoyance with my 'by the book cop' friend, I start the engine and head in the downtown direction. Time to meet the mysterious student. "At least he didn't deny knowing her."

  "Only after I assured the information would remain off the records, Silverstone confirmed he took her to his mansion where they enjoyed each other's company for a couple of hours, and then she left," he adds with a sly smile.

  I cannot hold back a sneer just by imagining them together. The picture is like a cold shower, reminding me why I should stop drooling over the woman for sale.

  "By the way..." Greg trails his words. I glance at him, only to find him eyeing me. "How come you failed to mention she was a goddess? CEO's words, not mine, just so you know."

  My fingers tighten around the wheel and heat flushes my face. "His words, you said it yourself. Why would you think I bear similar taste as the man who cheats on his wife in his own house?"

  Greg roars with laughter. "Don't forget who you are talking to, lover boy. You have always been a sucker for long curly hair."