My fists clenched at my sides, wondering if she belonged to any of them.
Wondering if a gypsy queen could belong to anyone…
But jealousy… that feeling was reserved for someone—something else.
Jealousy was reserved for her violin. For the way she cradled it against her chest like a lover. For the way her cheek pressed against its frame as though begging for more of what only it could give.
And for the way her fingers played over it, knowing just how to push and pull its strings to draw the greatest pleasure from its body.
My heart thundered as her eyes shot open, as though she knew I was watching.
“Esme.” I only breathed her name, hardly certain it made any sound as it left my lips.
Her lips, darkened with lipstick, parted and, once more, she looked for me.
I should’ve left, yet my feet remained rooted like one more tree tethered to the ground of the park.
I was never the one wanted. And I was never the one wanting.
Yet here I was, entranced by a temptress who wasn’t afraid of me, my body on the verge of orgasm from the way she played her violin like it was a lover, wanting the kind of human touch I’d stopped dreaming about long ago.
Her fingers didn’t stumble, but her energy did. Her breathing no longer in sync with the music, instead coming in more rapid gasps as I watched her breasts strain against her dress.
My fingers flexed as uncontrollably as the thought surged unbidden to my mind; I wanted to strip it all from her—everything but what was gold and glittered.
I wanted to strip the light from her skin and shroud her in my shadow.
And then I wanted to fuck her until the sounds of cries came in tune with the chimes of all her baubles. A monstrous melody of my own making.
Over the music, over the cheers of the crowd and the sounds of the city, I heard her gasp, her gaze finding mine, shock and desire exploding like fireworks in her emerald eyes.
And in the split second she blinked, unsure if she believed what she saw, I spun and disappeared into the crowd, cursing myself for my weakness.
With her trance broken, the crowds seemed to be, too.
I was met with the jarring wide eyes of everyone who caught sight of my face as I passed; the sharp inhales of shock and pity were just as painful as the hiss of disgust.
Tugging my hood closer, it did everything except block out the faint murmurs that followed me like ghosts of the group of onlookers.
How monstrous…
Pour soul…
Merde. The path in front of my feet clouded with a fog of bitterness, self-loathing, and lust.
I didn’t return to the cathedral. Not when she might decide to chase the ghost she thought she’d seen. Instead, I detoured on infrequently trodden paths to the Valois training facility on the other side of the river, needing a physical outlet for the emotions that cracked through me like lightning in a storm cloud, just waiting for one more glimpse of her glittering gold to strike.
The century-old exterior of the building morphed into a modern marvel once I entered my code. The bare hallway was gray and sleek and led to a single elevator where I had to enter a different code to access the gym and training rooms housed beneath the ground level.
After an hour of drilling—of straining and striking until sweat drenched my skin and my muscles held together by the very last of their tethers, did I head for the showers in complete frustration. Many of the emotions had burned off, but now how I wanted her—that feeling burned at a temperature only she could raise my body to.
So, I doused it with a cold shower and not much hope it would make a difference.
By the time I left, the night was black and the cathedral stood like a giant tomb, reminding me of the death of Quinton Bossé—the man I was and the man I’d wanted to become.
The man who could want someone like Esme St. Claire.
What was left was a monster who lived in an attic with only the crudest of goals.
Even still, as I walked along the shadows toward the entrance to my hideaway, my attention flicked without warning to the faint areas of light in the center of the church, my mind hearing the faint chimes of her jewelry though I knew she wasn’t there. Only once I was back in the solitude of my attic did my breath fully release, knowing no one would find me here. In my safe and self-imposed cage.
Collapsing onto the small pallet, I rolled onto my back, cursing myself for wasting a night when there was work to be done. My eyes shut, searching for comfort in what my next steps were, but instead, the path of my steps led me back to Esme… back to the sway of her body that was made for sin and the gold-plated desire in her eyes.
La gitane.
Viciously pulling my hair from my face, I succumbed to crudity—to the basest of needs that rooted even stronger in my veins than survival and revenge. My hand reached down and gripped my throbbing cock, a stream of hot air hissing through my teeth in both pain and impending relief. Finally. Working my fist up the angry length, I imagined instead the sway of her hips riding me.
A different kind of groan ripped through my throat, seeing myself held tight against her chest—against the bronze of her tits—as she worked her magic.
Magic that could make me forget everything I’d built my life on.
Magic that could make me forget everything I’d suffered.
And magic that could make me believe a two-faced monster could turn back into a man.
My release came with a violent inhale, as though I’d been brought back to life, and sent hot, sticky desire shooting up my stomach and chest, marking me with my weakness.
Merde, I was a fool—a fool for imagining.
I plunged deep breaths of oxygen into my lungs like the cold blade of a knife, driving reality’s sharp truths into the cavern of my chest.
She was a performer. Une gitane.
I would not trust her. I would not want her.
My cathedral and my vengeance, they would be enough for me—they would be enough to sustain this monster.
Esme
“I know you’re there,” I huffed into the vast silence, hoping my instincts weren’t wrong.
My stacked bracelets slid down my arms and clinked together when my hands settled on my hips.
Silence.
It was maddening to think he was always watching and then wonder if I was the one imagining it because I wanted to see him again.
I spun on my heels, hoping to catch a glimpse of him or something—anything to confirm my suspicions. I froze and scanned the far walls, the only sound was the settling of the fabric of my brightly patterned boho pants as they swirled and settled around my legs.
Slowly, still searching, I reached up and retied the ends of my scarf at my nape, the bright blue material folded into a headband that restrained my hair.
“I know you’re watching,” I muttered more quietly.
When I was here, I would swear he was always watching me.
It was unnerving, but not in a frightening way. Though I should be frightened—he’d warned me I should be.
But his were the watchful eyes of a guardian gargoyle, observing in protective silence. Though I had to wonder if his restraint was to protect the cathedral from me or to protect me from him.
Whatever the case, he was both never far, but never close enough.
Even when I left after sunset and went back to the lush, Left Bank apartment I’d been provided, he was still there. And my sleep grew more and more fitful as his dominating presence invaded the domain of my dreams. I tossed and turned in the small double bed until I finally gave in, pushing my hand between my thighs, imagining it was his and losing myself in the dangerous black depths of his gaze, until I came with gasping breaths, choking on the ghost of the Gargoyle of Notre Dame.
I waited though I received no response. I refused to believe I was alone. Instead, I noted the way my skin prickled, electrified with a low, carnal current. I measured the increased thrum of my pulse ticking against my
chest. And I felt the steady warmth course through my veins in spite of the cool, damp cathedral.
Grabbing my boundary markers, I walked out from the rose window at the western façade and began to place them, designating the edges of my next scan.
For two weeks, I’d accepted the silence and worked in determined peace. I told myself it wasn’t because I had anything to prove; I was just doing my job. And yet, every movement, every noise, every decision I made, I did so hoping to coax him out from the shadows.
My seminar at the school ran Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday mornings. So, with my Friday completely open, I’d decided to tackle the task of the exterior of the western façade. Since this was also the main entrance to the cathedral, it meant I was up early before the cathedral opened to scan the exterior, and then spent the visiting hours cooped up with my computer importing all of the data.
Today was the first time since I started that I’d attempted to not only import but render the information into something usable, my impatience to learn something about the building having gotten the best of me.
“I took scans of the Gallery of Kings today,” I spoke to the stony silence, my impatience winning out once more today.
Maybe this—maybe learning about his cathedral—would be enough to tempt him out of the darkness.
The Gallery of Kings was the line of statues that topped the three massive doorways at the front of the church. Twenty-eight statues for the twenty-eight kings of Judah, though they’d come to appear as representations of the kings of France as time progressed.
“We’ve known for a long time that the western façade was stopped for almost a decade before the two towers were built on top of it.” I positioned the second marker in the center of the nave before moving onto the third. “We’ve also assumed for a long time that it was because of cost cutting that they halted their progress, only resuming when a new influx of funds allowed.”
I could hear the way the pitch of my voice raised in excitement. My work today unearthed what I knew would be one of many facts sealed into history that only my technology could unlock.
“But when I looked at my scans today, I realized that wasn’t the case,” I revealed with a small coy smile, asking as though he were standing right next to me, “Do you want to know why they stopped?”
I waited.
And taunted him.
After a few seconds, I continued, fueled by the need to share what I’d found with someone. With him. Not because I knew him—I didn’t. But I did know how he felt about this place, and what he worried I might be doing to it rather than for it. And I was determined to break down that wall of distrust.
“My scans showed that the King’s Gallery is point-three meters out of plumb—tipped forward,” I declared boldly, excitement buzzing in my blood. “It tipped forward,” I repeated. “And that’s why they stopped building.”
My grin split my face like an idiot as I walked back to my laser, but I couldn’t have been more excited about my findings. And because he’d worked with me all week (sort of) or maybe because it was one more tally in the scoreboard of my legitimacy, I wanted him to know—to be the first to know.
Maybe then, if he could trust me with the secrets of the cathedral, he could trust me with the secrets of the man who lived inside it.
“I think they started building on unstable soil, and when they realized the front façade was leaning forward to the north, they were forced to stop until the ground compressed enough to make it safe to continue,” I explained further as my fingers dialed in the settings on my scanner. “It had nothing to do with cost.”
My elevated sense of pride in what I’d accomplished plummeted with just as great of force when my revelation elicited no response.
Damn him.
Damn him and his cold, callous—
“Where did you learn how to do this?” The sound of his voice scaled through the space, jerking my back ramrod straight with eager attention.
He was here.
He was listening.
He did care.
My skin prickled in every direction, reaching out for any chance to be closer to him while my heart beat heavy against my chest, its rapid rise pressing my breasts against the loose white fabric of my blouse.
My gaze scanned the sea of gray stone and grayer shadows, searching for any sign of him to no avail.
I folded my arms over my chest and replied warmly, keeping my eyes alert with the hope it would draw him out.
“I went to school for architecture to study the medieval buildings I’d always loved. And the more I learned, the more I realized how little we knew.” I took a few absentminded steps toward my bag and reached inside for my notebook.
“I realized we knew most of what happened, but not why.” I paused and looked around again. “And the why is what brings it all together. It’s like someone admitting to murder with no evidence or confession to indicate their motive. It’s an empty win.”
Like gaining his response without his full presence.
I didn’t want to just share the secrets I’d learned with him—I wanted to trade them for some of his.
With a sigh, I flipped open to my last page of notations and went back to my computer to input the various settings I needed for this location.
“It’s important to know why people do the things that they do, don’t you think?”
Like live in a cathedral, hiding from the world.
After another second or so, I worried that was all I would get from my guardian gargoyle, but an unmistakable grunt of agreement scattered the silence from somewhere behind me, and I tipped my head slightly in its direction.
Biting my lip, I tried to conceal my small smile of success and said, “So, it’s like detective work for me. Working back through information that I have and using my own tools to try and uncover the reasoning… the plan… behind it all.”
There was a brief hum, his continued presence stirring the air around me.
“Do you ever find yourself searching for the reason something is the way it is?” I asked into the void once more.
“All the time, Madame St. Clair,” he finally said.
I didn’t turn this time—I forced myself not to.
“All the time?” I replied with slight surprise, feeling my breath enter my lungs like over an unsteady drawbridge, tipping and shaking before reaching safe shores.
“Even at this very moment.”
A blush heated my cheeks, the dark drawl of his voice inching closer with bitter, breaking restraint.
Steeling myself, I hit the ‘start’ button on the laser, watching the green light shoot out and reflect back before I turned slowly toward the other side of the cathedral—toward him.
“That doesn’t seem like a normal task for the caretaker of a church,” I mused, holding my breath.
I wasn’t lying when I told him I had the detective gene running through my DNA. I’d been enamored to the point of obsessed with the thought of scanning Notre Dame. Until I’d met him. And all of a sudden, the greater mystery of who he was and why he was this way dulled all the other secrets I’d been so enamored of uncovering.
Even the success I’d had with the King’s Gallery was like a picture of a firework rather than seeing the sky-starring, ear-popping experience in person. And my elation had been tempered with that realization.
So, I searched every inch of the internet during my breaks this week, hoping to come across some information about the mysterious caretaker of Notre Dame. But all I came across were the men in charge of the ministry and the bureaucrats in the French Ministry of Culture. None of them with a beautifully scarred face.
It was as though he didn’t exist except for this church… and for me.
“So, I am a caretaker now?” The faint crunch of gravel under footsteps punctuated his question. “First a hunchback, now a caretaker.”
“The hunchback was also a caretaker,” I said. “But what else would you have me call the man who haunts its every corner
and threatens anyone who comes inside?”
I grabbed my camera and strolled down the nave and toward the right transept to grab the panoramic image of the area I’d scanned yesterday.
“Wise.” The word boomed and my steps slowed, looking to my left; his voice had just come from an altogether different place.
How did he do that—be everywhere around me, yet nowhere at the same time?
This time, it was I who let the noiseless pause elongate while I set up my camera on a different tripod and aligned the shot. Having done the task so many times, it allowed my mind to refocus on what I was really trying to find out.
“Do you have any other hobbies, Monsieur Gargouille, aside from watching me while I work?” The shutter clicked as it began to capture the image.
“You are not a hobby, madame, merely a headache,” came the terse reply.
Even though it was an insult, I couldn’t help myself from smiling. Whoever he was, after two weeks of watching me do what I do—time to confirm my presence wasn’t perilous, at least to the church—I had to believe he was no longer watching me purely out of concern.
I wanted to believe he watched me for the same reasons I always looked for him.
“A headache?” I feigned offense. “Maybe I should play for you.” I clicked the shutter off and pulled the camera off the stand to confirm the image I’d taken was adequate. “Did you know I play violin some nights when I’m done with my work here?”
I held my breath, hoping he would admit to following me last weekend—to seeing my performance.
I swore I’d seen those bottomless black eyes watching me between falling raindrops from the crowd. I’d blinked to be sure, only to find them gone, leaving me wondering if the music had carried me away in my desire.
The stillness rumbled. “Where did you learn to play?”
My stomach tightened. It wasn’t a full admission… but neither was it a flat-out denial.
“My second foster family gifted me a violin for my birthday the year I stayed with them. It was their daughter’s old one and they thought she would be more inclined to play if I learned with her,” I explained, keeping my tone light. “From there—”
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 9