So sweet. So innocent. So fucking na?ve, but he intended to use that innocence to his advantage.
Patience. She required patience. She’d touched him on her own for the first time today. She wrapped her arms around him, and her breasts had brushed his chest. He’d hugged her before, but she’d initiated the affection this time.
What he wouldn’t do to be able to slam her on his desk and shove his cock deep. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman. She was rapidly becoming his obsession.
She disappeared around the corner. It was for the best since if he did haul her into his arms and toss her on the desk, it might give away his game.
When he was sure his office door was locked, he shut the blinds and let the cane dangle from the side of his desk. Fucking cane. Fucking wheelchair. He didn’t need either one, but Thomas Molina’s disabilities came in handy from time to time. Too bad the poor old boy was in the ground thanks in part to his own dear brother who had seen a good opportunity when it offered to bankroll his partying ways.
Brian Molina had been a hopeless drug addict. He’d hid it pretty well, but he’d do anything for another hit. Even kill his brother and allow someone else to assume his identity for perfectly nefarious reasons. It was really too bad that Brian had finally met the needle that didn’t love him back. One dose of pure uncut China White and there were no Molinas left to claim he wasn’t exactly who he said he was.
He’d been Thomas Molina for years. The poor cripple had been so isolated and secluded no one had questioned him at all when he’d taken over the United One Fund. A little weight gain. A lot of plastic surgery and he’d become wealthy and powerful and deeply interested in the plight of people in war zones.
Yes. He liked war zones. War zones were the perfect retail grounds for what he liked to sell. Guns. Mines. Grenades.
Now bio weapons. Yes, that was the wave of the future. A good bio weapon could wipe out a population and leave the infrastructure standing, waiting for the victors to take over. He was the bloody motherfucking pimp daddy of warfare. And he had the perfect shipping system. No one checked United One Fund’s shipments. No one thought to question the saint of the Western world.
He smuggled weapons into war zones under the veneer of lending aid to all the children.
Fuck children. He didn’t want them or need them, though lately he had started to believe that Thomas Molina would do well with a wife. Sweet, na?ve, been-there-before Avery wouldn’t even question why he left the light off when he fucked her. She would believe him. She wouldn’t question him because he’d become Thomas Molina in every way.
And all with the help of the finest institution known to man. The bloody CIA. Well, maybe not the whole CIA, but with the help of one righteous bastard of an agent, he’d gone from pathetic errand boy to running a black market weapons empire.
It was supposed to be a get-rich-quick scheme. The trouble was, he’d found he rather liked the game. He liked being Thomas Molina. He liked the wealthy parties and the elegant gatherings. He liked the way Avery looked at him.
He couldn’t fool himself. He’d fallen under her spell. There was something about her that simply called to him. He would have the little fool all to himself, but she wasn’t going to change his plans.
It would be best, however, if she had no ties to her past life. Her continuing obsession with gaining forgiveness from her former in-laws kept her too much in their world. And he would definitely prefer she have no family beyond him when he finally brought her into the fold.
A quick phone call and it was done. He had to remind them every now and then of just how much Avery had hurt them. The wounds ran deep, but it was good to open them back up every now and then. The last thing he wanted was for Avery to get close to anyone but him. He would take her with him all over the world, never staying in one place more than a month or two. She would be forced to cling to him. The travel would bond them together. Eventually he could even “find” a cure for his ailment and be normal around her.
But first he had to deal with the Lachlan Bates situation. He opened the folder and picked up the small scanner from his desk. His personal files were more important than anything else. The scanner immediately sent the file to his tablet, and then he would lock up the original at his town house.
Lachlan Bates wasn’t a man, but a code. He had a shipment going out next month. Lachlan Bates was the carefully selected code for a new buyer. The amount of the donation was code for the type of arms, number of each type, and country of delivery. In this case, the buyer was very interested in Thomas’s large shipment of P90s and several other high-priced items.
It was perfect. It meant his next shipment would be full. It meant he would be bringing in about ten million.