Chapter 28

The Klimt wasn't damaged. The hedge, however, was practically destroyed. Priscilla told Emily that her gardener would no doubt become apoplectic once he saw the damage, but on the whole she didn't seem upset at the result of Emily's stunt.

Priscilla enlisted the aid of two men she called her bodyguards to help remove the crate from the hedge and bring it back into the house, where it was opened, and the painting examined.

Emily, of course, was mortified at what she had done. To her, works of art were precious things, especially those works that had stood the test of time and had entered into the canon of human history. Works such as anything created by Gustav Klimt. Yet, she had acted rashly. Presuming that what was in the crate had been another one of Priscilla's practical jokes, she hadn't even considered slowing herself down and establishing the facts before doing what she had done.

Which was so unlike her.

As badly as she felt, however, now that they were back upstairs in the bedroom—breakfast more or less forgotten—she nonetheless let loose on Priscilla for a bit, letting her know that in a way, the near disaster had been her fault.

"My fault?" Priscilla prodded, with a bemused expression on her face. "You toss a painting I paid sixty-million dollars for off a balcony, and it's my fault?"

Emily huffed and crossed her arms below her unharnessed breasts.

"Yes!" she exclaimed hotly. "You've been playing games with me from the start, and so my mind was all twisted around earlier, thinking you were just fucking with me!"

"Sounds more like your problem," Priscilla stated. "If I had known you were so…unpredictable I might have thought twice about welcoming you into my homes, where I have quite a lot of beautiful and expensive things."

Emily sighed and glared at her.

"Good to know I'm not that predictable!" she retorted. "I was beginning to worry!"

Priscilla quirked an eyebrow.

"Is that so?" she asked.

"Fuck you," Emily replied. "You know what I'm talking about."

Priscilla grinned and approached her. When she was standing right in front of her, she placed her hands on Emily's hips, taking a tight hold of the waistband of the pajama shorts. Emily kept her arms crossed and continued glaring at the redhead, needing to tilt her head back to do so now that they were so close.

"Sweetie," Priscilla began, "the painting wasn't damaged. I mean, you slaughtered a hedge, but it gave its life for a good cause."

Despite herself, Emily laughed.

"Good girl," Priscilla cooed. "I brought you here to relax, and I want you to relax."

Emily wanted to relax, but the episode with the Klimt had reminded her of why she was even here with Priscilla in the first place.

"Why else did you bring me here?" she demanded.

Priscilla smiled.

"We have a good time together," she said. "Even you can't deny that."

"No, I can't," Emily responded. "It's fucking annoying, but I can't."

"Let's just have fun while we're here," Priscilla said. "Who knows? You might discover you like me."

Emily scoffed. She decided to avoid responding to that statement. It would only give Priscilla more ammunition.

"I seem to remember you promising me pi?a coladas," Emily said, finally uncrossing her arms and wrapping them around Priscilla's waist. "The best I've ever had."

"Are you asking me out on a date?" Priscilla quipped.

Emily put a don't push it look on her face.

"I'm asking you to bring me someplace where alcohol is dispensed—liberally," she retorted. "You're annoying, and I need cocktails to put up with you."

Priscilla smiled.

"So you are asking me out on a date!" she said. "I accept! Now, come on…" She took hold of Emily's hand. "We still have breakfast to eat."

***

The pi?a coladas were the best Emily had ever had…and she'd had more than a fair share of them during her life. The boulevardier might be her normal cocktail of choice, but that was a very cosmopolitan, almost swanky, drink that matched the upscale urban lifestyle she normally led—not only here in the States, and when she traveled to Europe. However, when she was somewhere tropical—Hawaii, the Caribbean—she wanted drinks to match that vibe, and so pi?a coladas became her go-to.

Somehow, the bar Priscilla took her to—accompanied not so inconspicuously by her bodyguards—turned the pi?a colada into a revelation, and Emily had to force herself to stop drinking them after the third one.

When they returned to the estate it was only late afternoon. It was a lovely day, the air was calmingly warm but not hot. Emily, her senses and spirit feeling very relaxed following the drinks and food they'd consumed at the bar, wanted to remain outdoors, in the fresh air.

Priscilla's house was alone at the top of a hill. One end of the property was a bluff overlooking the sea. Near the edge, there was a firepit and a couple of cushioned Adirondack loungers, and Emily thought it was the perfect setting for just chilling outside for a while. So, after freshening up in the house, she went out there with Priscilla. Once they reached the chairs, Emily removed her bandeau top, dropping it onto the sandy ground. She wanted to bask topless in the sun, and when she sat down, she leaned back in the chair, pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes, and did just that.

"Good idea," she heard Priscilla say.

Emily glanced over to see that Priscilla was now removing the thin-strapped halter top she was wearing, and which she was braless beneath. Priscilla then sat down next to her.

They remained silent for about fifteen minutes. Emily appreciated that. There was a time for talking, and there was a time for just…breathing. Priscilla seemed to understand that—which actually was very unusual. Women—Emily had noticed during her lifetime—seemed more likely than men to need to fill silences.

Eventually, however, Priscilla said, "Penny for your thoughts."

Emily initially replied with a contented sigh. Then she said, "I was just thinking about how privacy like this is such a luxury. Most women can't even sit in their own backyards topless because there is always a neighbor right next door who could look over the fence and stare."

She didn't have a backyard, of course. Her condo in San Diego, and the small apartment she kept in Paris as a pied-á-terre were both on high floors. They had balconies, but because the buildings were surrounded by other tall buildings, sunbathing topless on them was practically giving permission to unsavory types to post pictures of her breasts on the internet.

But this type of privacy was nice.

She'd been on nude beaches before. She'd spent time poolside in places like Tenerife and Rio de Janeiro, where women often sunbathed topless…but having an entire estate at her disposal in which to shed her clothes and be admired only by the eyes of her lover was spectacular.

"I was also thinking," she went on, looking around, "that you have quite a defensible piece of property here. You know…add a few artillery emplacements, perhaps a couple of missile silos and an underground command center, and you'll be impervious to attack from land and sea."

Priscilla whistled.

"Goodness," she said, "do I really need all of that to protect myself from insurance companies nowadays?"

"Only the Swiss insurance companies," Emily said. "American companies are pussies."

"Well, if Geneva Excess came after me like that," Priscilla began, "what would be the point? I'd be forced to run, wouldn't I? And you'd have…what, exactly? They wouldn't get the painting, and you wouldn't get your one-hundred-thousand dollar fee." She paused. "You also wouldn't get me."

Emily, who had returned to having her face upturned to the sky, looked at Priscilla. The woman was simply gorgeous, bathed in the sunlight as she was, her red hair seeming almost aflame, and her small, pert breasts proudly on display, their nipples projecting skyward. She was still wearing her khaki shorts. She had her right leg pulled up, with her left one stretched out on the lounger. She was a long, lean vision of femininity, and for now anyway, Emily knew she was hers. And the idea that one day—because of that damned painting—Priscilla might not be hers, was stifling, making it difficult for her to breathe easily now.

"True…" Emily drawled. "I wouldn't have you."

She saw the corners of Priscilla's mouth upturn slightly in a thoughtful grin. Finally, Priscilla turned to look at her.

"What if I offered you five million?" she asked.

The question came from so far out of the blue that Emily couldn't help laughing. She was certain Priscilla was playing one of her whimsical jokes.

"Five million to not do my job?" Emily returned, still laughing. "To…fail?"

Priscilla nodded but didn't say anything.

Emily's laughing slowly petered out. She suddenly realized that Priscilla was being serious.

Fuck!

She looked away, staring straight ahead, out into the ocean.

What have I done?

This had become…next level.

She knew that most women—most people, actually, regardless of gender—would have told her that things had gotten to next level when she had, sua sponte, decided to start a sexual relationship with the person she suspected of stealing The Young Shepherdess.

Perhaps that was true, but Emily was fine with it. She had urges, and had never been afraid to satisfy those urges. In this particular case, being able to fuck Priscilla Kroyn had satisfied an urge and a desire, while also allowing her to do her job. What's more, Priscilla had somehow been the one woman to unlock other urges she had, making this one of the most fulfilling sexual experiences she had ever had.

But now…

The offer of money…of payment…to willingly neglect her responsibilities and allow this woman to get away with stealing a spectacular work of art, was making her feel like a whore.

But a conflicted whore…

Because in the end, five million dollars was five million dollars.

She looked at Priscilla.

"Why?" she asked. "Why would you do that?"

Priscilla opened her mouth, but Emily immediately cut her off.

"Honestly!" she demanded.

Priscilla gave a conciliatory nod.

"It would remove the distraction," she said. "The one obstacle that is keeping us from exploring this thing we have."

Emily felt she should have known Priscilla would have the perfect response to her question.

"So what you're saying is—" Emily began.

"What I'm saying is," Priscilla cut her off, "that The Young Shepherdess isn't worth it. You know as well as I do that it would never fetch close to five million dollars at auction. And right now, it's as famous as it ever will be—only because it was stolen. I am offering you that amount so you can begin looking at me as someone—and something—else."

"Sooooo…just walk away?" Emily prodded.

"From the painting," Priscilla said. "Only from the painting."

Emily stared at her for several moments before looking away again to the sky. She decided she wasn't going to give Priscilla an answer now…because she couldn't. This was a lot that Priscilla was hitting her with. Not only that, but for the first time since meeting Priscilla Kroyn, she felt as though she now had the power.

She slowly turned her head back to face her companion.

"Do you really believe women like us fall in love and settle down?" she asked, wanting to hear the answer.

"Want to find out?" Priscilla said.