Chapter 21

Still wearing her cocktail dress, Emily collapsed her arched back onto the mattress and then brought her spread legs together, clamping them on her right hand, which was covering her pussy, with two fingers inside her passage.

"Christ!" she gasped, panting hard. "That was a big one."

And it was still occurring. Her vaginal walls were still contracting and fluttering from the strength of the orgasm, clasping the fingers that were inserted in her. Against the palm of her right hand her engorged clit was still throbbing strongly, and along her perineum she felt even more of her arousal trickling towards her rear opening.

"Nnnnnggggh!" she grunted because of the potent waves of pleasure that were still coming. "Christ!"

At this moment, part of her absolutely hated Priscilla Kroyn…

Throughout dinner at Addison, Emily had been incapable of denying the fact that Priscilla had managed to turn her on…well beyond being gorgeous and looking devastating in that dress.

It had been her that had turned Emily on so much.

Emily had never met anyone like her before, and she had met—and still knew—some very strong and self-assured women.

But Priscilla was next level.

She was dominant, and not in a playful way like other women Emily had encountered. With Priscilla it was real, nor was it something that could be easily switched off.

She was also arrogant, haughty, and so fucking sure of herself and her superiority that it enveloped her in an aura of invincibility.

The problem was that she had touched upon Emily's sexual Achilles heel.

She herself was certainly not a submissive type, but at the same time, women who exuded power and the level of I know you want to fuck me, the only question is will I let you fuck me confidence that women like Priscilla displayed made her weak at the knees, and tickled something dark inside the sexual beast she was.

And despite why she was on tonight's date with Priscilla…despite what she knew Priscilla had done, Emily hadn't been able to prevent her body from reacting to the dominant woman sitting across from her at the restaurant.

So much so that once she had walked into her condo after being dropped off, she knew she had to satisfy her needs.

She had gone straight to her bedroom, kicked off her high heels, yanked down the black Ysé thong she had on under her dress, and then immediately got onto the mattress, not wanting to take the time to remove any more clothing.

After hiking up the hem of the dress so she could properly spread her legs, she had attacked her wet vulva with her hand, first swiping the flats of her fingers over her dripping folds, enjoying feeling her arousal and playing with it, and then plunging her middle and ring fingers into her pussy and almost savagely pumping them in and out, fucking herself hard.

She had tried to think of anyone and anything else other than Priscilla Kroyn, but both her mind and her core told her that she needed to just deal with it.

That it was okay…

That no one needed to ever know…

Once she had accepted her fate, she came undone spectacularly, arching her back and screaming, images of Priscilla in her head, surrendering to the pleasures just like she knew she would surrender to Priscilla if given the chance.

And now, with the orgasm on the downslope…

The part of her that hated Priscilla Kroyn was joined by a different part that hated herself. She wanted to get out of bed, clean up, and focus on her job before going to sleep.

But when she moved her hand with the intention of pulling her fingers out, she moaned.

"Oh my god!" she uttered.

Everything just felt too good down there!

Aggravated with herself for being weak, she kept her fingers buried in her pussy and rocked the palm of her hand against her vulva, stimulating her swollen clit some more.

"Oh fuck," she whimpered.

This time, she didn't fight. She thought of Priscilla, and she allowed herself to fantasize about just what that boss bitch would do with her if the circumstances were different.

"And I'd let her do it!" she gasped, her core demanding she give voice to that thought. "Oh shit!"

She started fucking herself hard again with her fingers, pounding them into her passage, hearing the wet, squelching sounds that were created.

This time, she wanted to take it even further…

When the tipping point approached, she changed the angle of her pelvis slightly so that the tips of her fingers could press against that special spot inside of her vagina each time she drove them in.

"Oh shit!" she cried out. "Priscilla…"

Faster and faster she worked her hand, making sure she rubbed that magic point in her passage, until…

"FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" she shouted when she came, squirting her essence from deep inside her, feeling it splash on her legs, on her mound, and on her right arm as her hand continued thrusting the fingers in and out, and causing the spray to seemingly get everywhere.

Spasms wracked her body, causing her to roll over and come down from the heights of the climax while on her belly. The underwire of her bra was now pressing uncomfortably against her chest, but she didn't care. Below her waist were delights that were far more important to focus on.

It took longer for her to recover than was usual after only masturbating, but finally, she was able to open her eyes and steady her breathing.

She thought of what just happened…

The incredible pleasures wrought by just thinking of Priscilla Kroyn, the fact that she had called out her name just before her orgasm had been released, and the amount of cleaning up she now needed to do—including changing the bedclothes.

"Fuck, I hate that woman!" she muttered.

***

The next morning, Emily didn't bother going to the station house. Instead, she remained in her condo, with most of her team joining her.

D'Marcus, who was her number two, was a good-looking Black man of average height, in his late-thirties. He was also an art expert, specializing mainly in 17th century Baroque works, and assisting Emily in the appraisal and authentication side of her business. He also proved invaluable during insurance investigations like this one.

Leslie was a middle-aged, grandmotherly woman, who used to be a detective in Los Angeles before retiring, and worked closely with Alan, who was young enough to be her grandchild. Both of them were surveillance experts whom Emily kept on retainer.

They were all gathered in Emily's dining room, sitting at the table. She had made them all her favorite breakfast, consisting of the guilty pleasure collection of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and plenty of strong coffee. The food shared the table with papers and photos that had been passed around.

"The place is a fortress," Leslie stated, tapping a photo of Priscilla's mansion. "We can't get in there. There's round-the-clock security—with dogs—plenty of cameras, full-time staff who live on the premises, and god knows what kind of alarm system she has. Oh, and according to my sources, she's upping the security since you executed that search warrant."

"For the record," Emily began, "I didn't execute the search warrant…the San Diego Police Department did, but I see your point."

She picked up the photo of the mansion and sighed.

Emily had figured that getting into the place by means other than being invited would be impossible, but Leslie stating that meant she could well and truly forget about it.

Which left being invited.

And was that Priscilla's intent? To invite her over one night?

Emily felt it was. If there was one thing she had learned about Priscilla Kroyn last night—beyond the fact that even just thinking about the woman could make her come so hard it almost hurt—was that Priscilla was enjoying this nascent game of cat-and-mouse. She wouldn't be able to pass up the chance of welcoming Emily into her home because she would view it as a good mind-fuck opportunity.

"I'm fairly certain that I can get in," she said to her team, not elaborating.

"And then what?" D'Marcus asked, in his distinguished-sounding voice. "It's not like the painting is going to be hanging over her fireplace in full view."

Emily shrugged.

"One step at a time," she told him. "But it's in there." She waggled the photo of the mansion that was still in her hand.

"Not the penthouse?" Alan asked.

Emily gave him a skewed look.

"Are you telling me you can get into the penthouse any easier than the mansion?" she asked him.

Alan blushed.

"Nah," he admitted. "Astor Place Towers is also a fortress ."

"Which is why people like Priscilla Kroyn and Angela Claus live there," Emily added.

Just then, her phone rang. Seeing who it was calling, she answered it by saying, "Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker."

The caller was Tanya, who, along with Evan, were currently on a boat in the ocean, not terribly far from shore, with a perfect view of Priscilla's mansion, which they were observing through a telescope.

It was the only way Emily could think of to keep the house under surveillance, without pissing off the cops, who were also watching the house, but from the street outside its walls.

"Check it out," Tanya began, her voice audible to everyone in the room, "a van was just allowed onto the property and has pulled up to the front door."

"What kind of van?" Emily asked.

"Not as cool as the A-Team's," Tanya replied, "but the same idea. Just a regular van."

Emily and everyone with her exchanged looks.

"The back doors of the van are open," Tanya went on, "and two guys just went into the house."

Emily looked at D'Marcus. She was smiling, and could tell he was thinking the same thing.

"She's moving the painting!" she stated.

"Maybe," Tanya agreed over the phone. "Standby…I'll keep watching."

"We can't lose sight of that van!" Emily exclaimed.

"What if it's a false alarm?" D'Marcus asked.

"We can't lose sight of that van!" Emily repeated, forgetting about eating more breakfast. She got up from the table with her phone in hand, the others joining her as she started heading towards the door to her apartment. "Tanya, we're moving! Tell us everything you see happening with that van."

"Got it," Tanya said.

Tanya stayed silent as Emily and her team made their way downstairs to the lobby.

Leslie had an SUV parked near the entrance to the building, and they all quickly piled into it, with Emily in the front passenger seat.

"I know how to get there," Leslie said, starting the vehicle.

"How long?" Emily asked.

"Fifteen minutes," she said. "Less if we're lucky."

Fuck!

That seemed like an eternity to Emily, but what could she do?

"You still with us, Tanya?" she said, holding the bottom of the phone close to her mouth.

"Still here," came the reply. "Nothing yet."

But no more than three minutes later…

"Hey, guys, something is happening," Tanya reported. "Um…those two guys are coming out of the house carrying a flat crate."

Emily licked her lips.

"How big is it?" she asked.

"I don't know…" Tanya said. "I'm on a fucking boat in the ocean! I guess, comparing it to the guys carrying it, it's six feet by four…maybe? And it's going into the van!"

Bingo!

She heard D'Marcus give a little exclamation of joy.

"That's definitely big enough to carry The Young Shepherdess if she reframed it," Emily declared to her fellow passengers. To Tanya she said, "I'm hanging up now."

Without waiting for a reply, she ended the call and then called Tom.

"Hey, where are—" Tom began before Emily cut him off.

"Listen, did your guys outside the mansion see the van that went in?" she asked him.

"Yeah, I just got word about that," Tom replied.

"Yeah, well I just got word that two men are loading a crate that would be large enough to carry the painting in," Emily said. "That van is probably going to be leaving any minute now."

For a moment, Tom said nothing.

"Where do you think she's taking it?" Tom asked.

Emily thought quickly, evaluating the options.

"The airport," she said.

It's what I would do.

"Well, if we wait until the van is at the airport," Tom said, "we could also slap her with a charge of intent to transport stolen goods."

Emily loved it!

"Brilliant!" she complimented him. "I need your help. Can your guys keep us informed on the route the van is taking so we can catch up to it also?"

"Yeah, fine," Tom said. "I won't ask how you knew about what's in the van, but if it pans out, I owe you a drink."

***

"There it is! There it is!"

Emily pointed straight ahead.

"I see it!" Leslie said.

By keeping Tom on speakerphone while he relayed the van's every turn—provided by the two cops who had been watching Priscilla's mansion—Emily and her team in the SUV had been able to catch up to it about two miles from the San Diego International Airport.

"Those are probably the cops," Emily said, pointing to a dark-blue Crown Vic that was keeping a respectable distance behind the van. It was one lane over to the left, and Leslie maneuvered her vehicle behind it.

"Is that you in the Yukon?" Tom suddenly asked from the phone.

"Yeah," Emily answered.

"I just pulled up behind you," Tom said. "Fall back and let me in front of you!"

Leslie slowed down and a beige Ford sedan zipped past her on the right side and got in front of her.

"Let's see where the van goes," Tom said. "But this is a police operation, Emily! Stay out of our way!"

Emily wanted to retort but knew she didn't have an argument to make.

The van continued past the turn most everyone took to get to the airport. It momentarily confused Emily, who wondered if she had been wrong, but then she realized…

"They're going to the private terminal," she announced. Priscilla Kroyn had her own plane—three of them, actually…one of which she flew herself. Naturally, she would only entrust The Young Shepherdess to one of her own aircraft.

Sure enough, the van turned left down the road that led to the cargo entry gate of the private terminal.

"Alright, everyone stop!" Tom ordered. "Stop!"

The two cars carrying police officers, and Leslie's SUV pulled off to the side of the little-used street.

"Let's make sure they go through, then we'll make our move," Tom explained.

About a quarter of a mile ahead, the van approached the cargo entry gate. The driver showed some paperwork to one guard while three other guards inspected the van, even opening up the back, taking a look inside, and running a handheld instrument over the crate, which was lying flat. The driver and his companion were then told to exit the vehicle, made to empty their pockets, and were both wanded.

Emily saw her chance…

"Wait here!" she ordered Leslie, and then opened her door and quickly left the Yukon. She jogged to Tom's car, opened the rear passenger door and got in behind him and Andie.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tom turned to bark at her.

"That is a 140-year-old painting!" Emily said. "You need someone who knows how to handle such works of art, and who can verify its authenticity!"

Tom, glaring at her, opened his mouth as though to say something, shut it again, snorted a sigh through his nostrils, looked at Andie, and then back at her.

"Fine!" he said. "But you keep your ass in this car until I say otherwise!"

"I promise!" Emily replied.

She was excited, and very anxious to get into that van! And now she felt rather smug. Priscilla, for all of her posturing last night, had been spooked! Oh, she really hoped she would be allowed to be there when they arrested her!

Apparently, the van and its occupants proved to be no threat, and the TSA guards allowed it to drive through.

"Showtime," Tom muttered. "Tell the boys," he said to Andie.

Andie had a radio in her hand. She held it up to her mouth and said, "Okay, let's do it, guys! Lights on!"

Tom reached under his seat, removed something, and stuck his hand out of his window affixing it to the roof with a clunk. Up ahead, Emily saw the driver of the Crown Vic do the same thing. It was one of those bubble lights unmarked cars used when they suddenly needed to be not so unmarked.

Tom sped ahead of the other car and got to the gate leading to the airfield first. He showed his badge.

"SDPD," he said. "We have reason to believe that the van you just let through is carrying stolen property, and we're here to make an arrest. Let us through!"

"I'll need to contact airport police also," the guard replied.

"I don't care if you contact Luke Skywalker and the rest of the Jedi Knights!" Tom shot back. "Now open the fucking gate before they get that thing on a plane!"

The guard signaled to one of his partners in the booth, and the gate started to open, Tom driving through it as soon as it had done so wide enough for his car to pass through.

They spotted the van easily, heading towards a private jet—a big one that had a crown painted on its vertical stabilizer.

Tom floored it, and the car, with its well-tuned police engine, surged forward at a speed which impressed Emily. He and his colleagues in the other car flanked the van, which had just come to stop near the plane. Tom and Andie opened their doors the instant the car stopped, their guns drawn, and used their doors as shields. They were on the van's driver side while the other cops were on the opposite side.

"You in the van!" Tom shouted. "Do exactly as I say, or I'll blow your fucking head off! Driver! Turn off the engine!"

The van's engine stopped.

"Throw out the keys and then show me your hands through the window!" Tom instructed.

A pair of hands emerged through the open window, and keys were dropped from one of them.

"Keep your hands out the window!" Tom barked. He alone then approached the vehicle, keeping his gun pointed straight ahead, Andie covering him. "Any weapons?" he asked the driver.

"No weapons!" the man said, his voice frightened.

"Using your left hand only, unbuckle your seat belt and then open the door and come out of the van!" Tom ordered. "Slowly!"

The driver did as he was told. As soon as he stepped outside, Tom ordered him to stand with his hands against the van, and his legs spread. On the other side of the vehicle, the driver's companion was made to do the same thing.

Tom frisked the driver.

"Clean," he announced to Andie. "Cover him."

He then went to the back and opened the two doors. After examining the inside, he holstered his gun and then took hold of two sides of the crate, sliding it out and gingerly lowering the bottom to the tarmac so that it was standing up, propped against the van.

"Emily!" he called.

Emily, who already had one hand on her door's release, instantly emerged from the car and hurried over.

The crate was a few inches taller than she was, and was a standard flat shipping crate used to transport paintings. It was marked THIS END UP at the top, along with FRAGILE and HANDLE WITH CARE in several places.

"This might help," Tom said. He was holding a crowbar, taken out of a toolbox in the back of the van.

Emily took it from him and began working its flat end into the seam of the crate's lid, and moving downward with it until she was able to grab the lid with her fingers and overpower the rest of the nails holding it shut, pulling it away with a grunt.

The inside was packed with a top layer of straw, but she could also make out foam cushioning along the sides. Carefully, she started removing straw, starting at the top. Soon, she started letting out a relieved laugh as a familiar face was revealed, painted in oil, staring back at her.

"It's her!" she exclaimed happily. "We got it!"

She felt Tom clap her on the shoulder.

Emily continued removing the straw, wanting to get at least a preliminary assessment of the condition of the painting. As more and more of the shepherdess's body was revealed, Emily's elation increased.

"All that trouble for this, huh?" Tom asked snidely, clearly unimpressed. "Well, at least you got it. Now I can go back to solving real crimes."

Emily laughed. She was so relieved that even Tom's bullshit humor wasn't bothering her.

"Yes, Detective," she began, "now you can go back to dealing with the type of people…"

She frowned.

"…you…" she continued, her mind trying to process what she was seeing. "…are…used…to…"

Suddenly, she felt deflated, and her knees started wobbling, even though she was wearing combat boots without a heel.

"Oh my god…" she muttered.

"What the hell?" Tom said, leaning closer to the painting. "Wait…it's not supposed to look like that, is it?"

Emily wanted to tell him that no, Bouguereau's masterpiece was not supposed to look like that, but her throat was now dry, and she couldn't speak.

Just a moment ago, she had pulled away enough of the straw to reveal the framed painting in its entirety. Everything had looked perfect…until she had gotten to the bottom.

Specifically, to the shepherdess's feet.

The normally barefoot peasant girl was wearing something on her feet which William-Adolphe Bouguereau would never have known anything about…

The young shepherdess was wearing Adidas sneakers.

They were painted on her feet in such a way as to appear as old as the rest of the artwork, as though she had always been wearing them for the past 140 years.

Trembling now with anger, Emily balled her hands into fists as it truly sank in that this painting was obviously a fake.

"That fucking BIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!" she screamed.