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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Marcel was happy to spend the next few days alone with his wife in their cottage. He was married. Married and going to be a father. If Matthew was right, and he always was, they were going to be the proud parents of twins. She was everything he'd ever dreamed of for himself.

In his time, there were many beautiful women. Most were incredibly young and immature, wanting a man to totally take care of them. They wanted beautiful dresses and pretty baubles to wear. They didn't work outside the home, nor did they desire to do so.

Amy was committed to her community, to helping others. She was educated and knowledgeable. And apparently, thanks to Charlie's books, she was the most adventurous sexual being he could have possibly married. Every night was something new.

"Do all women wear so little to bed?" he said with a heavy breath as she walked out in a thong teddy.

"Actually," she grinned, "I would prefer to wear nothing next to you in bed. Most men find this sexy, but if you don't, I won't wear it again."

"I find it incredibly sexy, but I must tell you, I wish to rip it off your body. I will buy you as many as you like."

He did rip it off with his teeth. She wore a simple silk gown the next night, and he tore it from her body as well. When Amy expressed a desire to taste him, to suck him, to lick every part of his manhood, Marcel almost couldn't stand it. She teased and stroked, licked and sucked until his entire load was on her lips. It was perhaps the most erotic thing he'd ever seen a woman do.

That is until she brought out the magnificent toys designed to give them both pleasure. She carefully instructed him on their use and where to place them in or on her body. He could not have been more fascinated by her reactions.

"Do these please you as I do?" he asked.

"No. Not even close," she smiled, kissing him. "But there will be times when you're not here, and I need to feel the release, like a man. You stroke yourself, right?"

"Many times," he laughed. "None since I've met you."

"That's what I mean," she giggled. "When we're together, we'll always please one another, but if we're apart, you stroke yourself, and I can use one of these wonderful little toys."

"I like the thought of that far more than you with another man," he growled.

"I would never choose to be with another man. Never. You've been my fantasy for years, Marcel. Seeing you, meeting you in person was so surreal, but obviously meant to be."

When they emerged days later, there was little update on the events with the hackers and thieves. All of the cyber technology was strange to Marcel. He'd seen the computers working, but he was always standing behind the men, watching. He'd also seen the phones working, but he thought it was odd to send messages over the air. How in the world did that work?

"Marcel, we have a bit of good news for you," said Jean. "The items that were recovered from your vessel were placed in trust at the New Orleans Museum of Art and History. We arranged to sell those items despite the fact they were for the crown. They were, in fact, yours. This is an account book from the bank. You have quite a sizeable amount of your own money."

Marcel stared at the seven-figure number, wondering how this was possible. He looked up at Jean, who was smiling at him.

"I don't understand. How can this be?"

"Inflation, my friend. Inflation," smirked Jean. "There is a debit card here, and I'll explain how that works."

For the next hour, Jean did his best to explain checking accounts, saving accounts, IRAs, debit, and credit cards. It was all too much for Marcel, so they stuck to the basics of how to access his cash and how to use the card.

"What of the men we found at the shelter?" he asked the others.

"They refuse to talk," said Nine. "We've filed charges, and they're in jail for now but haven't retained counsel as yet."

"Do you think it's odd that the virus is named Pirate's Booty?" he said, frowning. "It feels personal. As if it's directed to me."

"I'm not sure how that could be," said Gaspar. "It might just be luck."

"Or it could be someone who knew my history when they targeted Prometheus." The men stared at Marcel, then at one another. There were a lot of working parts to this story, and none of them were making any sense.

"Hi," said the sweet voice at the door.

"My love," smiled Marcel, standing to hug his wife. "Are you well?"

"I'm perfect," she smiled. "It's just that I got a call from Mr. Sheffield, and he said that the foundation had reconsidered my employment and needed me back. He said something about a donor with a twenty-five-million-dollar donation. I didn't have anyone willing to donate that much money."

"That was us," smirked Nine. "Sorry, Amy. We were trying to find out the truth about what was happening there."

"I thought it might be something like that. I told him I had another offer, and I wasn't interested. Besides, I can't believe that the investment group would want me back."

"Investment group?" frowned Jean.

"Yes. The investment group took over the non-profit about eighteen months ago. Apparently, they have companies all over the world and wanted to have something that would help them with taxes and, of course, would make them look more appealing to possible investors, that sort of thing."

"I've never known of a non-profit being owned by an investment group," frowned Jean. "It doesn't make sense. Non-profits don't really make any money. Not technically."

"I thought the same thing when they bought us. In fact, I was quite vocal about it. I just felt that it wasn't a good look. Investment groups are designed to make as much money as they can, then sell to corporations or other investment groups for huge profits. We would never generate a huge profit."

"What's the name of the investment group?"

"The Hermes Corporation."

"Hermes? As in god of mischief?" asked Marcel.

"Y-yes. Although I never thought of that," said Amy. "I always thought about the clothing and leather goods retailer."

"This is very strange. We have a group named after the god of mischief, who took over a non-profit named for the god of helping humanity. They have a portrait of Marcel in their office, and we have a virus named Pirate's Booty. Can they all be connected?" asked Gabriel.

"We need to find out more information about Hermes. Amy, do you know anything about them?" asked Nine.

"I'm afraid not. They never came to the offices. They only conducted meetings via video conferencing, and I was never involved in those. I know that we received new computers and updated software about a year ago, shortly after they took over. At first, I was relieved, then it was a nightmare. We were always having shutdown issues."

"They were overloading the servers," said Baptiste. Everyone turned to stare at him. "What? I know a few things. I listen."

"Are you saying that you think Prometheus and Hermes are behind these cyber-attacks?" asked Amy.

"I think it could be possible," said Baptiste. "I know it seems unfathomable that a non-profit would do this, but the non-profit could have just been cover for them. Maybe they became victims themselves to throw off any suspicions."

"That would be horrible," said Amy. "All that money I raised, that I asked for. I can't imagine facing those people ever again."

"It's not you; it's them," said Marcel, squeezing her.

"But it's my reputation, Marcel. I can't ever work in non-profit again if this is true. No one would trust me or any foundation I work for. That makes me sad."

"Please don't be sad," he whispered in her ear. "I will do anything for your happiness." Amy couldn't help but smile at him, kissing him sweetly.

"I am happy. Happier than I've been in my entire life. Look, if you want to find out more about Hermes, their corporate offices are in Utah, not far from Zion National Park."

"Have you been there?" asked Nine.

"Once. I was supposed to be part of a large group of people meeting to take part in a week-long training. We all arrived on a Monday morning after flying in on Sunday, and then it was announced the training was canceled. We were given return tickets back home the same day. It was exhausting."

"Exhausting and a waste of money," frowned Baptiste. "How many people?"

"Maybe twenty or thirty. I was confused because there weren't that many people at Prometheus, so I figured they had other non-profits. That's when I learned they were an investment group. There was a random brochure on a table in the lobby, and I picked it up and read it."

"Did anyone see you?" asked Rafe.

"I'm sure everyone did. We were all seated in the same area, just waiting." Rafe turned to his brothers, then Nine.

"We need to find out more about Hermes."

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