by C. C. Gibbs
As they moved toward a narrow curving flight of stairs, feeling as though she were refereeing an argument between her siblings, Nicole said, “She seems very nice.”
“She is most of the time.” A touch of complaint still in his voice. “Be careful,” he cautioned more gently as they reached the stone staircase. “The treads are uneven.”
“Has Natalie been with you long?” Nicole asked as they began their ascent.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m assuming you somehow reconcile your struggles for supremacy.”
He shot her a sharp look, then grinned. “Fuck no. It’s a stalemate.”
“But you like her.”
“She tells fortunes.”
“Jeez, I never would have guessed.”
“Smart-ass.” He sighed. “Natalie turned up here when I first bought the place. The cloister was an unholy mess after seven hundred years, the last two when the church was beginning to lose its political power, particularly austere for the order. Expenditures for maintenance had been deeply retrenched. Natalie walked up to me like she owned the place, took my hand, said, ‘I know your fortune,’ and proceeded to recount my life as if she’d read my nonexistent diary. When she finished, she looked at me with those snapping black eyes and said, ‘You need me.’ ” He shrugged. “I figured someone who could see the past so clearly might be able to glimpse some of the future as well. Not that I’m particularly interested in the occult, but as you see, she’s damned likable in her no-nonsense way. Although the deciding factor was her immediate command of the workmen; they were afraid of her. Ultimately, she oversaw the renovation with a keen eye, an iron fist, and the frugality of an accountant.” He smiled and waved Nicole to the right at the top of the stairs. “Natalie considers this her home as much as mine.”
“I sorta got that impression. Does she let you put your feet up on the furniture?”
A tic of a smile. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
Nicole laughed. “We have a housekeeper like that at home. She runs the place; the rest of us live there on her sufferance.”
“Then you understand the dynamic.” He stopped at a closed door, took a small breath, and spoke with a quiet formality. “I just want to say what a pleasure it is to have you here. I don’t generally have guests.”
She smiled. “I like being with you.”
“Same here,” he said, opening the door. “Come in.”
His bedroom suite was a series of small rooms, one opening on the other, originally the mother superior’s apartment with an anteroom, office, small dining room, and smaller bedroom. Rafe had restored the largest chamber into a sitting room, the office became the bedroom, the dining room a dressing room, and the nun’s sleeping cell was now the bathroom. Colorful upholstered furniture, Turkish carpets, painted cabinets, and a number of modern paintings relieved the cool gray stone walls and floor.
He motioned to a scarlet silk-covered chair in the sitting room, the cushions invitingly soft and plump. “Sit down. I have something for you.”
She didn’t move. “You gave me enough already.”
“Don’t worry, you’re not going to beggar me. Sit. Please sit,” he added, since her mouth had firmed mutinously at his first brusque sit. He picked up a small box from Chaumet on a nearby table and after she sat, held it out to her. “Here, take a look.”
She drew back as far as the chair cushion allowed. “What’s this?”
“Take it.” He shrugged. “It’s not a bomb, I promise.”
She took it from him, flipped open the top on the small jeweler’s box, and went still. The ruby intaglio, surrounded by emeralds, was set on a simple yellow gold band.
“Wanna get fake engaged?” He grinned. “Just teasing. Call it a friendship ring, okay? I wanted to get you something myself. Don’t ask me why. I was sober.”
A quick breath, then a nod. “Sure, friendship, fake engaged, whatever.” Taking the ruby ring out, she slipped it on the fourth finger of her left hand. “It fits. How’d you do that?”
His brows rose fractionally. “Sure? Just like that? You do this often?”
“No, don’t freak. You said it’s just for fun. You can have the ring back when I leave.”
“Fiona said you like to take chances even if they’re dicey,” he said, clear and cool, watching her. “That it sometimes gets you in trouble.”
“She said that?” Nicole held his gaze. “Did you want me to refuse the ring?”
He frowned. “No.”
“What then? Am I supposed to be more impressed that the studly, every-woman’s-dream Rafe Contini has done me this great honor?” Mocking. “Is that it?”
“Jeez, you’re a bitch.”
“And you don’t know how to ask a woman to be fake engaged,” she said flatly. “It’s not a trip to the dentist, dude. A couple of smiles wouldn’t be out of place.”
He grunted.
An angel face, real as fuck. “That’s not a smile.”
“You drive me crazy.”
“I know, but you like me anyway. And I adore you. I’ve already told you that.”
His smile slowly unfurled, the corners of his gorgeous mouth tipping upward bit by bit until pleasure lit up his eyes, warmed her heart, and made them both glad they’d met. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better,” he said. “But even a fake engagement is pretty radical for me.”
“Call if friendship then.” She gave him a wink. “Although I like radical.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know you do.”
And his smile that time would have lured every nun who’d ever lived in this cloister into his arms and straight to hell.
“One more thing.” He picked up the second package, wrapped in pale peach handmade paper and tied with green hemp string, from the table. “It wasn’t easy to find on short notice. I hope you like it.”
When she untied the string and unfolded the soft paper, she stopped breathing for a second. Two small books lay inside, the smallest, on top, the oldest from the looks of the worn cover. She glanced up, still breathless with delight. “Hafiz. You remembered.”
“I checked him out. His poetry is incredible. The book on top is the first edition in English, 1771. But I also got you a later edition, ’cause the eighteenth-century fonts are hard to read.”
“You’re not getting these back. The ring, yes, but not Hafiz.”
“Not a problem. I’m glad you like them.”
“Like them?” She grinned. “Wrap my happiness in diamonds and pearls and pigeon egg rubies.”
His happiness was somewhere in the same zip code, but he didn’t want to think about any of this too much because he’d panic. To calm his historically uninvolved nerves, he told himself there was nothing wrong with a spontaneous, carpe diem, let-the-good-times-roll friendship with Nicole. Regardless of his occasional lapses into romantic sentiment, their time together wasn’t forever. That’s what made it manageable.
A month.
Perfectly acceptable.
Then back to normal.
“So did I do good? Did I do better on the smiles?”
“Better everything, Rafe. Thanks.”
She hadn’t called him by his given name before. It was stunning how good the small intimacy made him feel. As if she’d stepped over some prohibitive line and offered him more than her volatile sexuality. As if he’d ever wanted more than sex from a woman. That perhaps he did now stopped him cold for a moment.
But fuck it. It was what it was until it wasn’t. Period. “You’re welcome, pussycat. My pleasure. Now, what do you want to do? We have a few hours until we pick up Ganz and Madeline.” He took one look at her expression and chuckled. “Silly question, right?”
“Well, we are engaged.” Her smile was the image of innocence. “So you are allowed to kiss me now.”
“I see,” he said. “Had I known the rules, I would have given you a ring sooner. What do I have to do to fuck you?” An infinitesimal lift of one brow. “I’m assuming that invo
lves a priest.”
She met his eyes, blank-faced. “Being in a cloister house perhaps allows us some latitude with a sense of religiosity in the air. Surely a priest must have been here many times.”
“From what I hear, some of these nuns might have enjoyed having him over.”
“I’m shocked.”
“I could shock you a little more if you like.”
“You understand, I have to resist you at first or risk losing the moral high ground.”
“Not a problem, tiger.” He grinned. “I like it when you resist. Let me show you my bedroom.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You can tell me if you like the decor.”
His bedroom was cozy, even the bed was close to normal size—a simple pine bed without bed curtains, the coverlet plain quilted indigo cotton. A rush chair sat beside the bed like in Van Gogh’s bedroom in Arles, a cherrywood table used as a desk, the only touch of luxury in the room—discounting the splendid late Kokoschka paintings—a sumptuous long sofa with down cushions upholstered in peach silk velvet.
Kicking off his sandals, Rafe dropped onto the sofa in a lazy sprawl and watched Nicole walk around the room surveying his paintings. “There’s a very small Lautrec over the desk,” he said.
After looking at it, she turned to him with a smile. “I see why you like it.” The nude young lady was lying on her back, her legs spread wide, raising a glass of absinthe at the viewer in added invitation.
“She’s a pretty young thing—not as beautiful as you, pussycat. Would you like your portrait done? I could have someone come over.”
“Like that?” She flicked a finger at the painting.
He shrugged. “Not necessarily.” After a decade of faceless women, he found himself wanting a memory of these days.
“Take a picture.”
“Not the same.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He looked at her. “No one else would say that.”
“I’m not here for what you can give me”—she grinned—“other than the obvious. And I’ll be greedy as hell about that.”
“Not a problem.” If nothing else, he’d take a picture; the mere thought made him flinch. So his voice was blunter than he’d intended when he said, “Speaking of greedy, what can you do for me?”
She shot him a sharp look. “Is that an invitation?”
“Yeah, greed to greed.” At her quick eyebrow lift, he got himself together, telling himself to keep it casual, he wasn’t going to feel this way forever. “Hey, sorry. Old habits. I don’t want to fight. Okay?”
She scanned his face and made her own decision. “Me either. So while you have me in this forgiving mood,” she said, suddenly grinning from ear to ear, “first as an apology and then as a thank-you for my fake engagement ring, would you like me to kneel at your feet and say—make myself useful?”
He grinned back. “Are you kidding? I’d pay to see that. Not you—just in general,” he quickly added to clear up any misunderstanding. “Hell, you don’t even have to do anything. Just kneel there.”
She laughed. “Like this?” As she dropped to her knees in a pouf of her tangerine Missoni sundress, she watched his dick rise under his khaki slacks.
“Oh, yeah.” Narrow-eyed, he sucked in a breath. “That’s way out of character, tiger. You take something I don’t know about?”
“Come on—am I really that difficult?”
He looked startled for a moment, then broke out laughing.
“It’s not that funny,” she grumbled, morphing into the pissy, difficult girl she was questioning.
Still chuckling, he said, “Okay, now there’s my real pussycat.”
“I can be docile if I want,” she said with a flash of annoyance.
His laughter died away. “Show me.” Sitting up, he swung his feet to the floor and looked at her steadily. “Find that crystal bikini from Rome, change into it here”—he pointed at the floor near his feet—“then you can make yourself useful.”
She hesitated.
“See,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t do it.”
A small mocking smile. “And you can’t control your dick.”
He flicked his glance downward, then up. “Come here. Take him out. We’ll discuss it.” A small pause as he waited. “You say you want to be useful”—his eyes met hers—“but you can’t take orders. Only give them.”
“I can too take orders… well, maybe I can.” She sucked on her bottom lip, trying to come to terms with the complicated intangibles between desire and obedience, knowing full well that if he’d been anyone else, she’d have walked out.
“It was Empress Eugénie’s ring,” Rafe said, understanding her struggle because it was his—who gave what to whom, how much, how little, whether it mattered. Changing the subject to give her time. “The one you’re wearing,” he added, with a slight lift of his hand. “Did I mention that?”
She looked blank for a moment, until her brain caught up with her auditory senses. “No, who’s she?”
He smiled. “Don’t know your history?”
“Maybe your dick doesn’t care if I do or not,” she said with a glance at his blatant hard-on.
He laughed. “No shit. For future reference, tiger, Eugenie was Napoleon the Third’s wife.”
Nicole looked at her ring, then at him. “She had good taste. What was she like?”
She was a little bitch like you, but also beautiful like you. Instead of saying that, he said, “She was very pretty. I have a small portrait of her downstairs. Natalie supposedly found it at a flea market. I’m not so sure, but I like it, so I’ll check its provenance someday and give it back. It’s probably stolen. Natalie has interesting friends.”
“Could I see it?”
“Sure. Put on the crystal bikini and I’ll go get it.”
“Jeez, is everything always about negotiation with you?”
He smiled. “Other way around, pussycat. Only with you. Everyone else does what they’re told.”
Not a blink, just a nod, then a graceful wave and Nicole was walking toward his dressing room. He felt as he had so many times since meeting her, that he was being given a gift; appreciative as ever, he smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, Nicole was standing, slender and natural, in the center of his bedroom, unaware how stunning the image—all jeweled, pale beauty, the glittering bikini a whimsical illusion meant to catch the eye, invite interest, and cover very little.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes lighting up as Rafe approached, holding the painting so she could see it. “She’s lovely.”
“She was. Every painter of note wanted her to sit for him.” Rafe propped the portrait on his desk, leaning it against the wall. “Natalie has a good eye. Eugénie looks very young. Perhaps this was done before she left Spain.” Bending, he kissed Nicole’s cheek. “Take your time. I’m going to have a drink. Would you like one?”
“Uh-uh,” she said without lifting her gaze from the portrait. “Why isn’t this signed?”
“It could be under the frame. The lack of a signature may be the reason it was at a flea market—if that’s even true.” Pouring himself a whiskey, he sat on the sofa and enjoyed both his whiskey and his house guest. Either Alessandra had asked about Nicole’s eye color or he’d mentioned it because the Swarovski crystals were sewn onto a blue silk fabric that matched Nicole’s eyes.
She had the most remarkable eyes—like blue skies and sunshine. Although when her temper was up, the brilliance turned explosive. What he liked best though was the warm, summertime blue as she floated in a postorgasmic daze. He smiled. She was sweetly vulnerable then.
“Something funny?”
He looked up to see her standing a foot away. “No, fond memories. Of you, pussycat,” he added honestly, when, as a rule, honesty was rare in situations like this.
“Smooth.” She smiled. “I almost believe you.”
He shrugged. “It’s the truth. Come here. I’ll help you take that off. It’s beautif
ul, but not very flexible, right? Then sit with me. You don’t have to do anything. No orders. Promise.”
“I might want more than just sitting.” She said it kindly, examining him as she spoke, not sure what to make of this new, surprising individual.
“Sure. Just tell me what you want, and if it’s something other than sex, I’ll have someone find it for you. Anything at all.” She was an island of happiness in his seriously fucked-up world. Carlos had taken out the advance team on Ganz’s trail, but more were on their way. A helluva lot more. The danger was real, ominous, and unspeakably violent. Nicole would have to be sent away sooner than he’d anticipated. Sooner than he wished.
A small bewilderment drew her brows together; he seemed to be lost in thought. “You okay?”
He concentrated his gaze on her. “Yes. Fine. Sometimes life could be a little easier, that’s all. Not your problem.” For a moment it seemed he was going to say more, before he visibly regained command of himself. “But my dick’s always interested in you,” he said with a playful grin. “So what’s on your agenda?”
He was trying to be accommodating; it was touching. “Nothing. I don’t have an agenda. Sitting’s fine, really. Here, help me with the hook in back.” She turned and glanced over her shoulder as he sat up straighter and set his drink aside. “I think I fucked it up somehow.”
A moment later, she was on his lap, sans bikini, his arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. “Tell me about your school schedule,” he said, wanting the world to stop for just a few hours, wanting all the cold-blooded killers to disappear so he could enjoy this small private temptation properly.
“I don’t have one.” She shut her eyes, feeling his solid warmth melt through her body, wanting to never move. “Only Fiona knows. I haven’t told my family. They think I’m on my way to Columbia next month.”
“Why aren’t you?” he asked with a mixture of flattery and real interest.
She sighed. “If I knew I’d tell you.”
“Sounds like you need a break from academia.” He almost said more—about staying, about a future, about impossible things with the various hit squads on the move requiring an aggressive defense and his full concentration. But he didn’t; he rarely put a foot wrong. He’d learned that lesson very young.