Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two)

by Evie Blake

  The three of them are locked within a sacred ring of sensual pleasure. Theo is pleasuring Valentina, and she is pleasuring Anita, as the power of Theo’s sexuality passes through her into Anita. Theo is still circling her clitoris with his fingertips, while with his other hand he makes strong vertical strokes between her legs making her vibrate deep down within. The sensation of his caressing yet forceful touch upon her – combined with her compression against Anita’s body, her soft contours, his musky scent, the feel of soft tender flesh against her fingers – brings her closer and closer to a place of utter abandon. She closes her eyes and now she imagines the three of them no longer in Anita’s bathroom in her flat in London, but in a tropical rock pool somewhere far out on a South Pacific island. They are in a humid, fertile place, pulsing with giant luscious flowers, the water as hot as a sauna, the steam rising, tropical rain falling upon them, all mixing with their perspiration so their naked bodies begin to melt into each other and unify like lava. Valentina is aware of Theo’s arm grazing against her as he spins his fingers within her, faster and faster. She continues to stimulate Anita in rhythm with her own body. And thus it is that both Anita and Valentina climax within the same second, as if they are erotic twins bound by their desire for one man.

  Valentina’s head drops on to her chest as she pulls her hands away from Anita. Theo gently releases her and Anita drifts back, a lazy grin on her face as she floats in the water. ‘Shall we all go into the bedroom?’ she asks Theo.

  Valentina raises her head to look at Theo as he stands up, steps out of the jacuzzi and shakes himself, spraying water upon her. He looks magnificent. She can’t take her eyes off his erection. She wants him so badly. It is as if all of her insides are aching with a deep pulse at the base of her soul. He turns to look at the two women, his eyes gleaming like shards of blue topaz. The door to the bedroom is open behind him, the giant bed beckoning.

  ‘Shall we three go to bed?’ Anita asks Theo again.

  Despite what has just happened between them in the jacuzzi, and the fact she desires Theo so much, Valentina suddenly feels cold with realisation. She knows with certainty that she cannot go any further with Anita. She could never watch Theo make love to another woman, even if she was a part of the threesome. She cannot do it. Is it because she loves him too much, or not enough?

  This, then, is the moment when she will know whether she has won him back. Whatever Theo says now, in reply to Anita’s question, will seal the fate of their love forever.

  The night cools as they drive out of the city, yet Maria is bathed in sweat. Even so, she doesn’t take off her red cape. She wraps herself up in it as if it is a red sheath around her heart, protecting it, and she lifts the hood to hide her face from the two men. René is driving, and Olivier sits in the passenger seat beside him. She is in the back.

  Maria is beginning to doubt the wisdom of her insistence that they take her to this mysterious château where Felix and his wife are hiding away. What does she hope to achieve by doing this? How can she stand to see him with her? She will lose him for good now. And yet she needs to know everything about the man she loves. She needs to see the extent of his betrayal.

  Maybe her love for Felix is not of the healthy kind. Is it a kind of sickness, whereby she is powerless to her own sexual needs and desires? Has he enchanted her? And, if so, maybe if she sees him outside of Paris, with his wife, she will wake up and be strong again. She will be able to keep her dignity and walk away.

  ‘Mistress.’ That’s what René had called her. Could she accept that position in Felix’s life? He had also said that Felix loved her. Could that be enough for her?

  As they drive out of the city, her thoughts drift back to Vivienne. Maria had been unable to find her to say goodbye at the club. She wants to know why Vivienne had told her Matilde Leduc was long gone.

  ‘Why does Vivienne not know about Felix’s wife?’ She directs her question to the back of Olivier’s head, but he neither speaks nor turns to her.

  ‘It is because of what happened to her during the war,’ René speaks up. ‘It is better that she doesn’t know.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  Olivier remains silent, but René continues to chat. ‘Vivienne was married once, but her husband died during the war.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ she murmurs, finding it hard to picture the vivacious redhead as a grieving widow.

  ‘He was in the Resistance; a key figure, getting intelligence out to the English. He worked in Lyon, like Felix and Vivienne herself, but they caught her husband. He was tortured to death.’

  Maria shivers. She realises that, in Venice, despite the fact they were occupied by the Germans during the war, their time had been relatively easy. Yes, they had risked dangers by hiding Jacqueline and the others, but still it hadn’t felt dangerous at the time.

  ‘And where are her children?’ she whispers, fearful of what she will hear him say.

  ‘They died too. After the father was caught, they sent the family to a camp,’ Olivier tells her, his voice devoid of emotion.

  ‘Vivienne was the only one to survive. She had two little girls,’ René adds.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Maria says, her eyes filling with tears for her new friend.

  ‘They say that she used to sing to her girls and the other children in the camp, but one day the German commander in charge heard her sing. He thought her voice so special that he decided to spare her, but it was too late for her children. They were too sick. So he separated them,’ René continues.

  ‘She told me that she was a singer,’ Maria says.

  ‘She was – a fine one. But she cannot bring herself to sing for an audience . . . not since she lost the little girls,’ René tells her.

  ‘She blames her talent for the fact they died alone, without their mother to comfort them,’ Olivier adds.

  ‘It’s such an awful story,’ Maria says, trying to imagine how it might have been for Vivienne. ‘But what does it have to do with Felix’s wife?’

  ‘I will let Felix explain, when you see him,’ Olivier tells her.

  She says no more. She lets his words hang in the air like a loaded gun.

  They drive through the deepest hours of the night, moonlight slashed across the road, illuminating forests on either side. She feels like she is in one of those American film noir movies. How well does she actually know these two men who are driving her into the unknown? Is there really a château? Yet she certainly cannot take René as a threat. There is something rather comical about his appearance. Olivier is a different matter. And yet, he is Felix’s brother; surely he would protect her for Felix’s sake?

  Eventually, they pull off the main road into a drive, bumpy with potholes and overgrown. Shrubbery scrapes at the window by her side as she peers out the front. They drive around a corner, and now she can see something in the distance: the blinking of lights. As they get closer and closer, she can see the outline of a grand building, illuminated against the night sky. The full moon shimmers in front of them and the sky is clear, packed with stars. There is something quite fairy-tale about the place. It has battlements on its roof and a tower attached to one of its wings. She imagines Felix filming one of his fantasy films – a surrealist retelling of Sleeping Beauty, maybe, or Snow White – within the walls of the château. If only that were what he was doing, rather than hiding from her, with his wife.

  René pulls up outside the château and turns off the car. The three of them sit in silence in the vehicle, listening to the ticking as the engine cools down. Now that they are actually here, she is terrified. All of her earlier anger, and the courage it brought with it, has dissipated. She wants to run away. But she can’t. She has to see it through. She can’t look weak in front of these men. Eventually, René gets out of the car, followed by Olivier, who opens her door for her. She clambers out and stands uncertainly in her red cloak, with the hood still up, clasping her hands. She looks up at the sky and catches sight of a shooting star. Is this a sign o
f hope? she wonders. Olivier had said that Felix needed to explain things to her. Maybe his wife is a lunatic or an invalid and they are only man and wife in name? She could possibly live with that.

  Maria turns her back on the dim forests, the openness of the country night, and faces the château, bathed in shadows and moonlight. ‘Whose house is this?’ she asks the men.

  ‘Why, it is my brother’s,’ Olivier says.

  Maria’s jaw drops. Felix owns this huge castle? She feels a stab of anger. Why had he pretended to be so poor in London? Why were they living in a grotty little hotel in Paris, when he owned this? He had bought her some expensive clothes, but still . . . they were insignificant compared to the kind of money he must have. Was he some kind of baron or count, even?

  She picks up the skirt of her red cape with one hand and climbs the stone steps to the front door, René and Olivier on either side of her.

  ‘I think I should go and tell him you are here first,’ Olivier says.

  ‘All right,’ she agrees. She realises she doesn’t want a big dramatic scene – just the truth. She knows that, as soon as she sees Felix, she will know if he loves her. Can she even bear to meet the wife?

  There is no bell, but there is a large knocker in the shape of a ram’s head with curling horns. Olivier picks it up and drops it against the door. She hears it echoing through the castle, imagines the sound of her arrival reverberating through the inner rooms. She is trembling with fear, her reason trying to calm her down. She is the innocent party, so why is she worried now that she is intruding? She steps away, suddenly besieged with a bad feeling. She wants to go back to Paris. She can’t face Felix and his wife. But, just as she decides to do this, the door is opened and, as the light from the hall illuminates her, she realises it is too late.

  She and René wait while Olivier disappears down a long corridor, led by the old man who let them in. He is obviously a servant. She wonders if there are maids and a cook in this huge house, too. Inside the château it is surprisingly sparse. There are no paintings on the walls, and there is the bare minimum of furniture. They are standing in a large hall with heavy beams and stone walls. A huge wooden chandelier hangs in the centre, filled with candles, casting shadows upon the blank walls.

  ‘A German general lived here during the war,’ René says, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Stripped all the walls of the Leducs’ heirlooms and packed them off, back to Germany. The château has been in their family for generations. They lost a lot.’

  ‘So why is this château Felix’s and not Olivier’s, if he is the eldest?’

  René scratches his head and thinks for a moment. ‘I suppose because Olivier has the house in Paris.’

  ‘There’s a house in Paris?’

  René nods, looking at her curiously. ‘I didn’t know that you knew so little about the Leducs,’ he says.

  She feels her cheeks burning with shame. She is a fool. That is how she looks in René’s eyes. ‘You must think I am very stupid,’ she murmurs.

  René smiles at her kindly, his grey eyes like the points of a lead pencil behind his thick glasses. ‘Not at all, my dear . . .’ He pats her arm. ‘I think, once you have listened to what Felix has to say, you will realise you have made rather a fuss unnecessarily . . .’

  Her back arches. ‘I don’t think discovering the man you love has lied to you – has a wife – constitutes an unnecessary fuss.’

  ‘Just let Felix explain . . .’

  That is what René and Olivier keep saying: ‘Let Felix explain.’ Well, she is fed up of waiting in this draughty hall. Why should she give him time to make up more lies? She wants to see him face to face now. All of a sudden, she doesn’t care if the wife finds out about her, because surely it’s better for her if she knows, anyway. It occurs to Maria that everything about Felix is a fabrication, like one of his films. She will not be made to wait in the hall. She will not suffer it any longer.

  ‘Maria, wait! Where are you going?’ René calls after her as she storms down the corridor the same way that Oliver went. ‘We have to wait here!’

  She shakes her head, her hood falling down, her dark curls tumbling free upon her shoulders. Her anger from earlier has returned to her, it propels her down the corridor. She passes silent door after silent door until, at last, she sees one with a line of light at its base and she can hear voices behind it. Without hesitating, she turns the handle and walks in.

  Her lover faces her. She has never seen him so smartly attired. He is wearing dress trousers, a starched white shirt with a black silk bow tie, gold cuff links and a black waistcoat. His unruly grey and black hair has been tamed and is a glossy sheen, combed back, revealing the whole of his face: his broad, clean-shaven cheeks, his mouth a deeper red than she remembers.

  ‘Maria!’ He looks horrified. The expression on his face fans her anger further. He doesn’t want her here. She stares right into his eyes, afraid to look elsewhere, afraid of the figure she can discern out of the corner of her eye, sitting on the sofa behind him. ‘My God, Maria, what are you doing, bursting in here . . . ? Olivier told me you were waiting in the hall.’

  Without thinking, she steps forward and slaps him roundly on the cheek. The sound of her hand on his flesh echoes in the vast room. There is a shocked silence, broken by René tumbling into the sitting room. He has the sense not to speak, and instead helps himself to a glass of wine and a seat at the edge of the room.

  Felix stands, staring at her, his hand to his cheek. The look of horror has now been replaced by an unreadable mask of indifference. It hurts even more to see his lack of reaction to her slap. She focuses on the red mark of her hand upon his cheek and then she lets her vision widen, as she takes in the room. Here, at least, some paintings have been replaced. A fire crackles in a grand fireplace, despite the warm night, and all the windows are closed, crimson velvet curtains drawn. The room is oppressively hot. She sees Olivier sitting on a chair by the fire, surveying her coolly, and on the sofa beside him, facing her, is a woman. It can be no other woman than the wife. She turns her gaze to Maria and the two of them look at each other. Maria is expecting hostility and yet the woman is gazing at her in awe. She can see that she was attractive once, but she must be at least twenty years older than Maria, and her face looks pinched and tired, her eyes sad.

  ‘Oh, Felix,’ the woman says. ‘This must be her.’

  Maria jolts in surprise. The woman speaks as if she knows who she is. Indeed, she is certainly no madwoman or invalid. She turns to Felix, her heart on fire. ‘Why did you lie to me?’ she hurls at him.

  ‘But, Maria, I didn’t lie to you,’ he answers, truthfully. ‘I just never spoke to you about my wife.’

  My wife. The words cut into her. He will never call her those words. ‘How could you be with me when you are married?’ she demands.

  ‘Please, calm down,’ he almost snaps at her. ‘Sit down and have a drink, then I can explain to you.’

  She remains where she is, standing in her red cape.

  Felix turns to René. ‘My instructions were that you were to wait in the hall.’

  ‘She just ran away; I couldn’t stop her.’

  ‘And why the hell did you agree to drive her down here in the middle of the night in the first place? Why couldn’t you stop him, Olivier?’ Felix turns to his brother.

  ‘It was her,’ Olivier says. ‘She was determined to see you.’

  Felix turns his attention back to her. ‘For God’s sake, sit!’ he commands her, and, to her surprise, she flops down on a chair the other side of the fire.

  Felix goes over to the sideboard and pours a large glass of red wine from the decanter. He hands it to her, skillfully avoiding looking at her. She wants to touch his hand, feel the warmth, the intimacy of his flesh on hers, but she holds back.

  No one speaks. The only sound is the hiss and flare of the fire. The tension is almost unbearable but, after her outburst, Maria feels drained, like a shadow of herself. The whole scene doesn’t seem real. Is she really
here in this castle, confronting her lover and his wife? Even more confusing is the calmness of the other woman – the fact that she seems to know of Maria’s existence and it doesn’t bother her.

  ‘Felix,’ she now hears the wife speak. ‘I think you need to tell this girl everything.’

  ‘But, Matilde, we are supposed to limit the number of people who know to the essentials.’

  ‘This is essential, I believe, Felix.’

  Maria notes the coolness with which they speak to each other, and the fact that Felix doesn’t sit down next to her but remains standing.

  ‘Why couldn’t you trust me?’ He now turns to Maria, and she hears the emotion in his voice. His façade of indifference to her is cracking. She knows she is not imagining it.

  ‘I did . . . but then I found out you’re married.’ Her voice breaks against her will. ‘Felix, how could you?’

  She is self-conscious in front these strangers and yet no one steps out of the room. Maybe it is just as well. Maybe she would weaken and fall into his arms if they were alone.

  ‘Because I thought you would understand . . . I hope you still will . . .’ He pauses, licks his lips.

  ‘Is this lady,’ she can hardly look at the woman sitting on the couch, ‘your wife?’ she whispers.

  ‘Yes, this is Matilde Leduc,’ Felix says, avoiding her gaze again. ‘She is my wife, but only in name. We have no relationship anymore.’

  ‘If that is the case, why are you living together, in this house—’

  ‘We are not living together. I live in London, remember?’