Chapter 7
"Well then, Mr. Cullen, sir. Why didn't you take me to where you really live?" I say overly flirty as my eyes snap back to him. "Cause it sure as shit isn't here."
He blinks at me before taking a step back, causing my hands to slide away from the tattoo I've been trailing with my fingers.
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, it's obvious." I point out the lack of any personal items and the bare refrigerator. "Besides, you couldn't find a damn thing in that kitchen."
"Maybe I'm not used to doing things for myself." He counters with a quick lift of his mouth as he lets his shirt fall, cutting off my view. His hands move casually to his pockets, and I wonder if that's an internally nervous gesture, hiding what he projects to the world.
I snort. "I'm sure you're not, but come on, I'm not an idiot. You don't live here."
"Another beer?" He motions towards my bottle and walks to the kitchen I'm positive he's unfamiliar with. Opening the fridge, he takes out two more and smiles self-righteously at me when he opens the drawer with the opener.
"That proves nothing. You already found it." I can't help the laughter in my voice watching the conceited way he flips off the caps, letting them fly across the counter. "Some truth here, Edward. Or we're done." I sit in front of him on the stool and cross my arms, ready to finally figure out what is going on.
"I do own this condo." He grins before taking a sip of beer, making me wait. "But you're right, I don't live here. It's used for business, mainly."
Quirking an eyebrow, I stare at him, expecting more. When he only stares back, he forces me to delve deeper. "So why did you bring me here? Am I business?"
"Depends on what kind of business," he smirks, devilishly handsome and fully aware of how disarming he is, turning a conversation to sex with one infuriating statement. Before I fully get a foot on the floor in protest, he reaches out and touches my arm to prevent me from getting up. "I was in town and running late. This was the best option." I stand fully, ready to walk away, but the grip on my arm gets tighter. "I'm a very private man, Bella. I don't share every detail of my life with someone I don't know that well. I'm sure you understand."
"I understand nothing. M and J have both been in my home. Hell, you know exactly where I live, where I eat, where I work. I know zip. It's an unfair playing field, and I'm about to concede."
"I admit to having an unjust advantage. But I'm not going to apologize for enjoying the night we've had. To me, it doesn't matter where we are. My business apartment, the gallery, or a fucking empty restaurant I got to spend a half an hour in. It's the company to me, not the place. I wanted to spend time with you. Not a stadium full of people, forgive me." I feel a bit scolded by his slightly terse outburst but hesitant to admit he has a point. He sighs, "I never lied to you, Isabella. I simply did not tell you this was not my home. How does that change the pleasant evening we were having, hmm?" His fingers begin trailing up from where they grip my arm, moving slowly towards the sleeve of my jersey and tickling the back of my arm in the sensitive spot right above my elbow.
Thinking clearly is impossible when his words are harsh but his touch is anything but. My brain tries to come up with something to argue against or formulate the questions about him that are still unanswered, but I come up blank. He sees me struggling and puts his beer down with an audible sound of glass on granite. Moving from his place at the counter to stand directly in front of me, his body is too near while he lifts his arm slowly. His empty hand starts stroking my other arm, the two making symmetrical movements on my skin as his peculiar eyes pierce mine, trapping me.
My tongue runs over my dry lips, trying to help them break free from their silence, and it's not until he begins moving in towards me, his eyes following my tongue, his throat moving as he swallows, that I realize he's just as trapped in this energy between us as I am. Right before his lips touch mine, my hand reaches up and I place one finger against his lips. I try to ignore the softness of his skin as I touch him and the heat of his breath as it brushes against my hand, disregarding my own desire to let him in.
"I'm a very private person, Edward. I don't just let anyone kiss me. I'm sure you understand."
The flare of anger and subtle flash of arousal at being denied as he realizes I've used his own words against him is nothing short of satisfying, but they quickly leave, and I get the impression he regrets letting me see the power I just wielded.
"Forgive me for being so forward," he says coolly, removing his hands and sticking them in his pockets.
"Of course." Another stare down ensues for a brief second. "I think I should go," I say, and move towards the doors, where I know M or J or K or Z will be out there waiting to drive me home.
His voice is strained. "If that's what you want." If I were a gambler, I'd say there's a bit of unhappiness in those blue and green eyes shifting between my own and anywhere else in the room, failing to fall on any one thing too long. I'm slightly surprised when he doesn't try to keep me and begins walking me to the door. So just before he opens it, I turn to face him.
He tenses slightly as I gently grab his hand, pulling it up towards me slowly. There's a look of confusion on his face for a moment until I take it and place it on the V of my shirt, against the naked skin at my chest. His eyes widen slightly before hooding over when I slide his hand under the fabric and let his fingers ghost over silk and lace. "Just so you know," I lean in slightly, so the pressure on his hand increases against my body. "The way the evening was going up until a few minutes ago, you wouldn't be spending the night wondering about the color, like you will be now."
I still feel the heat of his hand as I exit the apartment, the door shutting softly behind me.
The creaky elevator door rattles in my hand and I greet Alice, hunched over with her magnifying glasses practically touching the canvas.
The Angelus is coming together nicely, and I compliment her as I grab the detailed photographs she's stuck to the frame. "Let me tell you, if I never have to use this damn golden wheat color again, I'll be more than happy," she grumbles, focusing on the field of the Jean Francois Millet forgery.
"He did love his peasant farmers," I reply idly, scrunching my eyes closer to the photo. It's truly amazing what Alice can do, copying each fine line and hint of color that might not even be noticeable to the naked eye.
She stretches as she stands and flips her glasses on top of her head, wiping at her eyes before leading the way to the far left of the loft. She enters her code into the keypad and the heavy iron door opens, the cool air from inside rushing out, and we step into the cold room together. The dim bulb overhead flips on, and I move to open the large safe in the center of the room while she gets the white gloves off the shelf.
Entering the combination carefully, I put my gloves on and pull the original Death and the Masks by James Ensor from inside the vault. The "photograph" Irina's client is ready to claim. Alice deftly takes the edges of the painting and together we lay it down on the metal table inside the room so it's lying face up on the wood frame. I'm always worried about this, but Alice is careful when she attaches a generic painting of hers that she creates just for this occasion, stapling it to the wood directly over the other one, masking what's underneath.
Once she's done attaching it, I take a piece of the fine weave canvas we store in here and wrap that around the painting carefully. We make the crate, nailing two by fours together in a frame and use sheets of plywood on the front and back to make it fit snugly around the 30 x 39 canvas, before securing the top with small nails.
We remove the gloves, and while I print out the shipping labels, along with our TSA 'known shipper status' account number, which clears shipments from pre-approved businesses like ours, Alice locks up the safe and the room after I exit and follows me to the elevator door.
"Don't take any wooden nickels!" she says, her usual farewell to one of us when we're making a delivery.
"Never do, Alice, all they buy is wooden gum," I finish accordingly, our good luck ritual in place. I begin to descend, waving goodbye with my fingers as best I can while holding the slightly cumbersome goods.
The car ride to the airport is uneventful, just the normal horrific Chicago traffic on a Thursday at six o'clock. My almost thirteen-hour trek to Geneva has a three-hour layover in London on Friday morning, which gives me zero time to see anything, so I'll hang out in Heathrow and will get to Geneva on Friday around five o'clock in the evening. I'm already tired thinking about the trip, but the few days I'm vacationing after will hopefully make up for it.
While we inch along the highway I play with my phone, fighting the temptation to read the texts from Edward I received last night again. I occupy myself instead with one last call to Otis to hold the phone up to my dad's ear, checking email, the flight status, until there's nothing else to do really…
I open the message from eleven o'clock last night.
Not black, would peek right through the white fabric of your awesome Cubs jersey.
Yes, that would be quite the fashion faux pas.
Hmm. Not red, same issue, although it would go with the Cubs logo.
True.
I'd say blue, for the Cubs again, but also for the sapphires you'd look so lovely in.
Blue does look good against my skin.
I'll bet it does. Back to the game.
Go on.
Okay, wild guess here.
Lay it on me.
Light pink silk trim, the roses on the lace lightly touched with a hint of lilac.
….
I take it by your silence I'm right.
Let me guess. X-ray vision in your fake apartment to go along with your stealthy UV business cards?
That would be cool! But no, I stole a peek when you dropped your napkin on the floor and bent to retrieve it.
Ah, so you're a pervert. Good to know.
Well, you wanted honesty. Safe travels, Ms. Swan.
I smile stupidly at my phone, feeling ridiculous for having what amounts to a schoolgirl crush at reading our conversation. The car pulls up to the curb at the cargo drop off located in an outbuilding of the airport, so I put away my phone and put on my game face.
A helpful rule in getting away with a crime is to act like you're not committing one. It's pretty simple. So I check the crate with the cargo personnel giving my flight information with a calm smile, like there's not a priceless item inside. I'm dressed casually, in jeans, t-shirt, and baseball cap, and try to make myself as unmemorable as possible.
Once that's taken care of, the car takes me to the main gate, where I traverse security with no problems, grab a latte and relax while waiting for my flight to be called. The only tense moment of the whole ordeal really is when we arrive on the other end and go through customs. But Irina has 'friends' that come in handy when we go through Switzerland.
My flight is thankfully on time, so once boarded, I settle in with a book, ready for the long flight to start. The downside to all of this simplicity is that I can't fly first class. The point is to blend in and have no one take notice of me, or what I'm shipping, at all, so I'm stuck in coach.
I'm halfway through chapter one when they announce we've been delayed. A large groan leaves the crowd, especially from the woman sitting next to me, so I smile in sympathy. I'm okay with my three-hour layover, but some of these people are not happy and are asking the flight attendants questions they don't have answers to about when we'll arrive or their connecting flights.
We sit for a while on the tarmac, the natives restless around me. I glance at my watch and see it's been forty-five minutes now, and I wonder if there's something wrong with the plane. The attendants aren't saying anything, and the announcement from the captain has been just to say we're delayed. I close my eyes and wish I hadn't had the caffeine before I boarded so I could nap.
I start daydreaming about Edward, wondering what he's doing and what would've happened if last night hadn't turned weird. I desperately wanted him to kiss me, but having the upper hand was too important to give up. I hope he was as worked up after the texting as I was, and my thoughts turn to imagining him pleasuring himself, thinking of me in my underwear.
A small commotion rouses me and I open my eyes, noticing the passengers around me craning their necks to see what's going on at the front of the plane. I lean my head out since I'm on the aisle and see the attendants standing in a group, talking to someone at the door. There's some back and forth, and when the captain comes out, the people around me murmur various theories.
I'm watching the front of the plane with everyone else when the gaggle of attendants part and airport security starts walking down the aisle. My heart jumps in my throat, and I slump back into my seat, trying not to panic. They could be here for anything. I peek over the seat and see the guard has been joined by a second, and they're quickly closing in on me. I look down at my book before they can make eye contact and say a little prayer. I've never been a religious girl, but at this moment, I'll try anything.
"Isabella Swan?" I hear and quickly open my eyes, plastering a casual smile on my face. Cool, calm, and collected.
"Yes?"
"You're to come with us, please." I debate not making a scene and just getting up, grabbing my small carry on and following them out. But that's what a guilty person would do.
"May I ask why?" I ask innocently, trying to look as confused as the gawkers straining in their seats to see what's going on.
"We need you to disembark the aircraft." The no-nonsense look of this guy and his partner makes my skin prick, and my first thought is that I hope they don't put me in handcuffs in public. I get up and gather my things, thinking quickly about calling Rose. I won't be able to deny the crate is mine, but should I feign stupidity at its contents?
One of the security guards leads the way down the aisle, and the other one walks behind me so I'm caged in. I don't look at any of the passengers or attendants as we exit the plane, and I'm forcing myself to breath deeply, trying to remain as stoic as possible. I don't know shit until they've told me what they know.
They hustle me into one of those little carts used to transport passengers, thankfully without cuffing me. We zip through the gates in Terminal 5 quickly, until I'm taken to what looks like an employee access area. We drive down a corridor and stop when we reach the end, both guards getting out and telling me to follow.
Panic fills me as we exit the doors to the outside and I see a security vehicle in front of me, lights flashing with someone waiting to drive me wherever it is I'm going. I'm wracking my brain trying to figure out why they wouldn't be questioning me inside the airport, and guess that they're taking me to the main security building, where my baggage is probably waiting for me.
I get in the backseat quietly, and the guard takes off, out a manned gate and onto a road that runs parallel to the airport on the other side of a high barbed wire fence. We pull up to a non-descript brick building, one of many surrounding the airport that all look the same to me. I feel for my phone in my pocket and wish I'd thought to text Rose on the drive over, but it's probably for the best, until I know for sure what's going on, not to leave a cellular trail.
The guard opens my door and as soon as I get out, a very familiar black suit is in front of me.
"M?"
"Ms. Swan. This way, please." He beckons me forward and my mind is a jumble. Racing and tripping over itself to make sense of what's going on. Is this it then, the FBI? Some form of CIA? I feel my palms start to sweat and my eyes start to sting, but not from fear alone. I hold my head up high and try not to let my emotions play over my face the way I feel they are, like a kaleidoscope showing all its colors in a swirling pool, colliding and transparent.
The realization that Edward Cullen has zero personal interest in me guts me in a ridiculous, ferocious way, and I have to swallow the bile that forms in my throat, knowing that his concentration on me has been exactly what I've feared all along.
As nothing but a fucking criminal.
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From the planetblue Archive of Awesome Fic List:
My Ex-con by counselor
Edward is fresh out of the big house and Bella is his new boss.
As always, thank you to my brilliant beta Carrie ZM, and my fabulous pre-reader LayAtHomeMom for their hard work.
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