Summary:
Caroline Forbes is a private contractor and her biggest job yet is Klaus Mikaelson. [Dark Caroline/Klaus]
22:19
London time—Klaus had bought the Rolex there yesterday after he lost the old one in a little spat with an old friend. He'd have to change it to New York when he got home.
It'd be around 1:19 here in Qatar.
Late as it was, he had no intention of returning to his penthouse suite alone. He'd hit the lounge and look around for something pretty. And if he didn't find adequate amusement there, he'd have his choice of escorts—compliments of the Sheikh. But whores weren't really his thing, whatever the flavor. Klaus preferred to hunt for his meal.
"Mr. Mikaelson." The tall, handsome host bowed his head. His Arabic accent was faint, like he'd lived abroad for most of his years. It was the same with all the hotel staff. And they were all tall, with model good looks. "Would you like a private booth upstairs with the prime view of the beachside or—"
"I'll be fine at the bar." He slipped past the host, not waiting for a respond.
Klaus had had dinner on the Sheikh's yacht earlier, after which they'd talked business briefly then set an hour to conclude the sell the next day. The royal family was always interested in upgraded MAGs and ATLs. Missiles too, the big money. And Klaus liked to push a few specials at them—for the sake of their longtime friendship—and with those he only trusted himself or one of his brothers to personally oversee the delivery.
Of course, given how often he did business with the sheikh, he'd been invited to stay at the royal palace. But Klaus preferred the privacy of his own suite, and the delicious company of one or two conquests.
At five star lounges, the girls were usually models. Some actresses, often foreign. And his favorite, heiresses who believed themselves exempt from adultery on the virtue of occupying a different time zone than their man.
"Mr. Mikaelson." The bartender bowed his head just as the host had. "What will it be?"
"Scotch, 64."
Now, he just had to sit and wait till something tasty came along.
07:00
Tokyo time.
"Hang on." Caroline entered the setting option on her phone and switched the time zone to Arabia. She should've done that sooner, but damn did it feel good to screw around and delay—she might've said the last part out loud, inadvertently.
She winced, imagining Bonnie's disapproving frown.
"Nervous?"
"Duh."
This was only the most important job of Caroline's career. Hell, her whole life. If she fucked up—no she wasn't going to think of that. She couldn't fuck up. That was it. She wouldn't. She. Just. Wouldn't.
"Is it going to be a problem?"
"Of course not."
"Good. Pull yourself together, Caroline." Easy for Bonnie to say, sitting in an unknown location with the best security money could buy. "We can't afford a single mistake. You know how dangerous—"
"I know."
Then Caroline saw it—dirty blond curls in a see of dark haired hotel personnel and grey headed men. He turned and she got the profile. Oh, it was definitely him. Klaus Mikaelson. He lounged nearby the bar, sitting back, casually surveying his surroundings. She'd seen hundreds of footage of him, and he was always like that. Cool, chill, not a care for the world…right up to the kill.
She closed her eyes and let in a long breath. Then a second. "I'm going in, Bons. Wish me luck!"
Bonnie didn't answer.
Klaus shot back his second scotch and waved the bartender for another. "Keep them coming."
From the corner of his eye he noted a red something. A tight, curvy red. And bouncy blond tresses catching the light with every step. He tilted his head, watching the girl approach. She got even better. She had legs for days, for years…for goddamn decades.
The bartender never moved faster or smiled wider.
"Make me a G-gasm?" she said in a buttery, husk. Her elbows went over the bar and she leaned in, her tones dropping even lower. "I can show you, if you'd like."
"Show me." The bartender's tones, however, had spiked in pitch.
The red curvy thing slid up, her hips now propped on the bar ledge. The hem of her dress was ridding up, exposing a few inches of rounded skin. Klaus craned his neck for a better look and smirked.
He'd found his meal.
Wind in the hair, Caroline. Wind in the hair! The trick was a slight bounce in her steps. The result was that every guy she passed took at least one long look at her. Often more than one. And no one could wretch their eyes away when she had on a tight, red micro-mini.
She could feel him watching as she approached. Klaus Mikaelson was a man, whatever else he was. And men were easy once she got their blood pumping south.
But his gaze felt different. It got her nerves going erratic. Like they'd be if he were touching her as they tumbled into—
Keep it together!
She'd never been attracted to a job until him. Not that it mattered. She'd get it done and that was that. Only, it'd be a tad more difficult than usual.
Men are easy, she reminded herself. So easy.
The bartender certainly was.
"I can show you, if you'd like."
When she'd had a semi-intelligible consent, she lifted herself up and over the bar. Grinding her hips to make sure there was a little hiking of her dress. Her arms stretched out and she snatched a liquor bottle in each hand. "Watch and learn."
Then she felt him.
Behind her.
Hovering.
Her spine tingled when she felt his hand, warm and firm, pressed to her lower back. Fingers fanned so the tips felt the rounded top of her ass.
"How bout I get you a Dom, love?" His voice was low, accented and totally annoyingly sexy. Also, that wasn't a question because he went ahead and ordered the bottle.
The nerve!
In a blink, Caroline forced his fingers back from his palm and twisted his wrist. "I'm not your love. Got that? Try touching me again and I'll break your wrist. And that's all I'll break, if you're lucky."
But even as she applied force, he remained completely calm. Not a jeep. Though, the veins in his neck were visible and his jawline stark.
"Am I getting an apology or do I have to teach—"
"My mistake, love."
She considered twisting harder for disobeying.
He held up in free hand in surrender, smirking. "Your rules. I promise."
She let him go.
She wasn't going to hurt him, not yet. Not until she had a taste.
He flexed his hand once and held it out again, this time to help prop her up onto the nearby barstool. He took the seat next to hers.
She accepted the champagne then, holding back a smile.
"Do you have a name, sweetheart?" He asked, pouring a second for himself.
"Caroline."
"Klaus."
And that's all they were going to exchange. At least they understood each other.
She clinked her glass to his. "To mystery."
"Is that what you're into?"
"I'm into a lot of things. Just not you calling me your sweetheart. Or your love."
His lips quirked at one end. "What then?"
"I'll decide when I know it. But for now…" she chugged the lot of champagne in one go. "Let's finish the Dom. Then we can talk more."
She scented of Santo Domingo, all peaches and honey with a hit of spice. And like soapy shower dew. Delicious. He had her hot, little body pressed to the elevator wall, watching her flushed reflection grow darker as his hands roamed. Over the soft exposed tops of her breasts and digging in to squeeze them free. Down to her legs. Sliding in to feel her smoother, warmer inner thighs.
She wiggled against him, responding with soft sounds, burning hotter still under his touch.
Her breaths got slow, strained, as he slipped under the flimsy silk cover, his fingers working expertly slow. Her hem was up around her waist, her pale round ass riding into him every time she buckled in pleasure.
"What if—if someone—they—" Her protests drowned into short whimpers.
Of course once he'd pressed in the penthouse code the elevator had shut down, barring any other stops. But she didn't know that. And her fears of getting caught were so scrumptious. Like everything about her.
So scrumptious she made his head light. Dizzy.
He buried his head in her neck and forced in a long breath. Then a second. But his head was only getting worse. And her scent was getting stronger. Musky. He needed her. He had to have her. Have her now.
His fingers retracted. Ignoring her soft protests, he tugged on the thin lace band, teasingly at first. Then he gave one sharp tug until it snapped. She squeaked from the elastic snip and he chuckled hotly.
"Much better," he muttered, tossing the ruined silk behind him. But as he did, his legs wobbled under him. And when he stepped back, holding the bars on the side for support, they wobbled harder.
The shock of it took him down. Or was that the slap?
It took him a second to register it. And in that second, her palm made contact with his other jaw. Not that it hurt. He couldn't really feel his face. And his vision wasn't doing much better. Everything had gone dim and blurred—his hands wouldn't move to let him rub them clear.
He caught a sight of blond. And felt hot air on his ear. "And one more, for my La Perla."
He felt the force of her palm again. And that was the last thing he felt.