Page 1 of Donovan Blake: Passion

CHAPTER ONE

As the gleaming black Rolls Royce turned through the gates and drove towards the majestic manor, Donovan Blake and Phoebe Beaumont shared a bleary-eyed look. They’d flown across the Atlantic in Donovan’s private jet but didn’t get much rest. Behind a locked door in the bedroom suite, Donovan had briskly spanked her, made her promise not to take any risks, and to do exactly what he said when he said it, then devoured her body until they were both spent and exhausted.

Though a savvy billionaire, Donovan Blake had crossed an illegal line and been caught. But rather have him prosecuted, the FBI recruited him to work for a small, elite department specializing in cases involving the rich and famous. They needed a man already part of the upscale social scene, and Donovan Blake fit the bill.

Phoebe Beaumont, the beautiful heiress at his side, was an adrenalin junkie. After she had risked her life to save him during his last mission they had become a team, both professionally and personally. Not only was she a crack shot and a trained trauma nurse, she possessed a rare gift. She knew when someone was lying.

But she could be stubborn and impulsive.

“Phoebe, remember, don’t go off on some tangent by yourself.”

“Why would I?” she whispered, moving closer and pressing her hand against his crotch. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right beside you.”

“Behave or I’ll put you over my knee right here.”

“No you won’t,” she quipped, then laughed out loud. “We’re about to arrive, and I don’t think you want His Lordship to see something like that in the back seat of his Rolls.”

“On the contrary, the Brits are famous for their love of spanking, but go ahead, push your luck,” he declared as she continued to rub his stiffening member. “Just know you’ll be sorry later.”

Before she had a chance to respond he pressed a button lowering the privacy partition sending her hastily settling back beside him.

“I thought so,” he mumbled with a grin, then raised his eyes to look through the windshield.

A lone man stood on an expansive front terrace between two huge pillars above wide concrete steps. He was slender, and stood straight and tall. The term, Eminently British, came to mind. But as the car rolled to a smooth stop and the man trotted down the steps, Donovan noticed a deep frown carving his brow.

“If that’s Lord Hawthorne he doesn’t look very happy,” Phoebe remarked as the chauffeur climbed from behind the wheel and quickly opened their door.

“Donovan Blake, I’m Peter Hawthorne,” the man declared, marching up and urgently shaking Donovan’s hand the moment he stepped from the car. “I’m so very pleased you’re here.”

“Nice to meet you, Lord Hawthorne. This is Phoebe Beaumont.”

“It’s a great pleasure,” Phoebe said with a wide smile.

“I once spent some time with your father,” Lord Hawthorne declared. “Such a brilliant man.”

“You did? Where?”

“At my club in the city. He was a guest of Roger Malberry, the man who built the Malberry Airfield where you landed. But please forgive me. You must come to my study at once. George will see to your luggage, and don’t feel you need to stand on formalities,” he added as they started up the steps. “Please call me Peter.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Donovan replied.

“As you requested, everyone in the house knows why you’re visiting and I’ve told them I expect their full cooperation. I should mention, my daughter is going through a bit of phase right now. Don’t be surprised when you see her,” he said, walking into a grand foyer and leading them down a wide hall. “But to the point. This dreadful theft, it’s impossible, completely impossible. I cannot understand how it happened,” he finished, opening a door and gesturing to a fireplace as he walked into the room.

It took Donovan only a moment to see the empty space above the hearth showing the outline of where a large painting had once hung. Quickly shifting his gaze, he noticed several small cameras strategically placed around the room close to the high ceilings. Tiny red lights indicated they were live.

“Somehow those were disabled,” Peter continued. “Please understand, the masterpiece isn’t just priceless, it’s a portrait of the man who built this home. My great, great, great, grandfather, Lord Percival Hawthorne. He was a hero, a true nobleman, and his portrait has lived in that place of honor for two centuries. It’s just dreadful, and how did they do it? How? And where it is? Will I ever see it again?”

“Peter, I’m fairly certain I know the how,” Donovan said solemnly.

“You do?” Peter exclaimed, staring at him with wide eyes.

“I’ll explain when I see how everything is set up. Is there also an alarm?”

“Most certainly.”

“And a main control panel?”

“Yes.”

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