She relaxed her legs a little and let her face slide against his, rubbing it back and forth, nuzzling quietly. She shushed in his ear as she ran her fingers through his hair, patterns of love entwined in her fingers with every swirl. Mmm. He sighed again and felt his body completely relax as his arms slotted in beneath hers, wrapping her up into him as he did and drawing her closer. Breathing her in. Resting in her arms and adoring the way she embraced the thought of them. Such a beacon of light shone from her being. It might lie behind clouds, forever casting a torrid storm over them, but it would endure him. It would heal him as she grew stronger, give him the home he’d never wanted, the peace he’d never craved before now, and he would give her everything in return for her acceptance of him.
Eventually, after much languishing and trying to absorb every minute detail of the experience, he realised that they were still in an old art shop fucking like reprobates. Hormonal teenagers at best. He smirked into her neck again as she fidgeted beneath him and considered whether he’d actually fallen asleep or not. Love, apparently, was an exhausting thing.
He shifted his weight a little, giving her more room to breathe, although there wasn’t one part of him that savoured the idea of movement in any form unless it was to fuck again. His brow cocked at the idea, his cock doing the same thing still buried inside Lilah, causing him to groan in delight at the vision. His love, it seemed, was not so intrigued by the idea, as he heard her wince.
“Are you in pain?” he asked into her neck, licking the spot his tongue happened to be next to and smiling at the thought.
“Fuck you,” she mused, not essentially complaining about the fact, only confirming it and moving herself again to ease whatever discomfort he was causing. Nothing else moved once she’d settled herself again and continued stroking his back. Only the throbbing of his overly excitable cock seemed to disrupt the calm in the room. He pulled back a little and slid into her again slowly, enjoying the another slight wince that followed. She sighed eventually and let go of his skin, stretching her hands above her head and allowing him to continue rocking in and out of her, which he would do forever given half the chance.
His mind, unfortunately, began to wander somewhat. Perhaps this was what happened when true obligations and decency encroached on one’s life. His daughter was with Ruebin and Thomas, waiting for him. And much as that was acceptable for a short while, they had now been gone too long regardless of the shutters he had closed on the building to protect them all. She did not know either of them well enough. Although he doubted Claire would be fazed by such things. She was probably trying to teach them French and Spanish by now. She would definitely have found the chess table. Not that Ruebin could attempt such a game. Thomas could, though.
Still, they should go now. Go and get their plane to Rome. From there, he could deal with Jon and keep everyone safe. Hide them.
“You know, I could be pregnant,” she said, not mincing her words around that fact at all.
Hmm. She could, he supposed. He raised a brow again and continued licking her neck, then smiled, replying with the one thing he knew to be true. The one thing that would ensure she knew she would always be safe within his arms, regardless of circumstances or concerns.
“And I would still love you.”
“Much better.”
She shoved at his body, pushing it away from herself and getting to her feet. So he rolled onto his back and watched her as she stretched her frame once more and then leaned to retrieve her clothes from the floor.
“You are simply divine, my love,” he said. She was. Heavenly, if not very clearly laced with touches of the devil. Touches he adored for obvious reasoning.
“Mmm. Well,” she said, pulling the dress up her skin and until she could zip it up then clasping the belt around her waist again. “I don’t feel entirely divine with your come dripping down my thighs when I’m about to see Claire again.”
“Divinity, my love, surely comes from the combined efforts of love, hmm?” he said, getting to his own feet and crossing the floor for his clothes, too. She stared for a second or two, looking slightly perplexed, and then giggled, snorting out a laugh after the miraculous sound and kissing him on the cheek as she opened the door abruptly and left him alone in the room.
He pondered his own words as he pulled his shirt around his chest and felt it sticking to the fresh blood left on his back. He was not positive, but he was sure he had just embraced the thought of having more children, and told her so with the words that had left his lips. Hmm. Perhaps he was. He was certainly ready to love her, to be with her, to offer her monogamy even should she choose it. That was a disconcerting thought. Although, he doubted she would. She knew him too well for that, too. Knew he’d need more. Except that he was not sure he would. Only the constancy of Alexander. Perhaps the man himself would have an answer, when and if he managed to make it to Rome without his Rose interfering in those plans.
He pulled his boots on and looked at the ruined paintings that had crashed to the floor in the midst of their escapade, scanning the price tags. Hmm. Expensive fuck. She would be, wouldn’t she? He quite liked the smaller oil painting. It was of a gloomy, cloud-laden sky, all dark blues and greens, a Victorian dressed woman standing and looking up at the sky in the corner. How relevant. It reminded him of the painting he had in his office in England, the one Lucinda the bitch had given him. Perhaps he should change it. He picked up the slightly damaged frame and carried it with him as he opened the door and ventured out onto the staircase, only to hear the sound of subtle laughter rising its way up the stairs towards him.
“Ah, there you are,” she said, beaming up at him and laughing again with a shot of what looked like vodka in her hand. “Hubert here offered me a drink, thought I’d need the sustenance after all that banging. He’s quite right. I do.”
He scowled at the old man, although why he was not sure. Perhaps it was jealousy? He needed to do something about that stupendously irritating emotion.
“We have destroyed things,” he snapped, putting the picture gently on the counter and digging around in his coat for a card or chequebook.
“Expensive fuck, then.” Quite.
“How much do you require?”
“None, apparently. Just a drink with a pretty lady,” Lilah said, tipping her glass at the man and laughing again. He mused over her frame for a moment, watching her pull her long leather coat around herself and down the shot in one. She glowed most effectively within the small area, filling it with hedonistic thoughts, most of which were deplorable indeed. “You’ll have to pay for the paintings, though. We can’t leave Hubert out of pocket, can we now?”
“Mmm. Of course not.”
He leant on the counter, quickly scrawling an appropriate amount on a cheque, not caring that much for the cost, and then ripped it from the book. It was time to go, but he couldn’t stop himself from gazing around the space with a sense of amusement, maybe even longing. Of all the places such a thing could have happened, this was not one he could have imagined. The façade was tired, the easels and stands near useless as they laboured in an ungainly fashion. The space was dingy and not acceptable for such fine canvases and drawings. Something that, for some inexplicable reason, disturbed him to the point of thought on the matter.
“You have been here long?” he asked the old man.
“Thirty-four years,” Hubert replied. “Not that I’ve achieved much, but I’ve enjoyed my time.” Hmm.
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and searched for Monsuier Deblay’s card. Perhaps another act of decency was in order for the day. The old man could paint well.
“You know Frederick Deblay?”
“Of course.”
“Call him, and tell him I have asked for a landscape of the castle. He will arrange things with you. Flights etcetera. You may stay there while you complete the task if you choose, hmm?”
There was due nod from the gent, but he didn’t particularly notice because the beaming smile coming from Lilah’s
mouth seemed far more intriguing.
“Counts and castles, huh?” she said, walking her way to the door and waving her goodbyes to Hubert. “What a terribly nice thing to offer. Quite sweet really.” Sweet? He was not sweet. His head spun to face Hubert as she left them alone.
“I am not, in any way, sweet. Do not be fooled by her analogy. I will expect excellence of the highest order. And priority.” The old fool crooked a brow and wandered back to his painting, chuckling a little and pocketing Deblay’s card, along with the cheque, with a nod.
“I don’t doubt it, but I thank you for the opportunity. I’ll do the best I can." Hmm. Good. Quite. He nodded at the man and turned to walk to Lilah who was leaning on the outside window looking utterly radiant in her orgasmic haze. Perhaps they were due some romantic evenings. Evenings of honesty and debauchery and loving moments. Yes, indeed. He should just get this irritation with Jon out of the way and then they could relax. Be as one. “Does your mother’s picture still hang in the building? I know you modernised it, but did you keep the oil?” His feet halted, and he spun once more to face the man.
“Excuse me?”
“The one with the emerald necklace?” His eyes narrowed at the man as he took a step closer and snarled. Hands were shot up in the air in some manner of surrender, a slight look of panic on the old man’s face as he gently laid his tools on the counter and attempted a peaceful expression. “I painted it. I just wondered if it had survived the renovations.” He raised a brow at the thought. Poor him, frankly. Although the information was useful, he had always wondered who the artist was. There had never been a signature.
“You knew my mother?”
“Yes, she was,” the man paused for a while, perhaps searching for the right words. Bitch was probably appropriate. “Charming.” He rolled his eyes at the fool. Clearly, the man knew nothing of his mother, only the version that the world encountered when she obliged them with her deceitful flawlessness. He turned to wander away again, bored with the man’s ramblings of old paintings and charming mothers. Charming was the façade to cover repugnance, nothing more than that. “She made me put a letter in the back under the dust cover. Did you ever find it? It was for you.”
His interest sparked again at the same moment as Lilah knocked on the window and scowled at him. He turned back to the man again and frowned. No, he had not found a letter. What letter? How did the fool even know who he was?
“I have neither the time nor the patience for this game. Who are you, and what do you want? There is no letter. Nothing but a rotting picture of a false-hearted witch. One I should have destroyed many years ago.” The man sighed and walked around to the front of the counter, shaking his head and pointing out towards Lilah.
“You love her?” he asked, smiling out towards the street.
“Yes.” Not that it was any of the man’s damned business. Impertinent fool.
“I was in love once, too. She was one of the warmest women I’ve ever known, Pascal. You should read the letter. Maybe you’ll understand more after that.”
He reared back at the use of his name, furious at the man’s familiarity, but justifiably intrigued by his words. What did he mean by understanding more? Was he suggesting they had had an affair? Not. It was not possible for his mother to have been in love with anything other than herself. She was a bitch. A cold, heartless bitch.
Chapter 8
There’s been nothing but silence and the occasional huff of irritation since we left the art shop. I don’t know what happened in the ten minutes when I went outside, but something did. We’ve raced roads as if they hardly exist and he’s now staring at the side of a gilded metal cage, which is in fact an elevator. He’s completely closed down. Shut off. Much like this rather ornate building when we arrived with all its shuttered windows and huge metal gates on display. He’s all the more damn fascinating because of it, too. I haven’t touched him or tried to ask what the problem is. He’ll tell me when he’s calmed down. It’s not me; I know that. Certainly not after our session in the back room. It was perfect. Beautiful. Time altering and, without doubt, the most enchanting thing I’ve ever been a part of. Magical.
And now, he’s kicking the cage. Well, one swift kick anyway. Raising my brow at the movement, I take a step to put myself in front of his eyes, which he instantly tries to get away from by lifting his chin and looking the other way.
“Stop being a child,” I say, quite amused at his theatrics and consumed by the anger lingering in those emerald eyes. “Are you having a temper tantrum?”
He doesn’t answer, but does swing his eyes to me, frowning and glowering as if he might just snap me in two for being rude. It’s enough to cause to me to laugh out loud. One thing I am not anymore is scared of him.
“Whatever it is that’s happened, can I suggest you calm down before you walk in on your daughter? She won’t want to see you like this. Amusing as it is.”
I get nothing but a slight growl in response, which only reminds me of the come still staining my thighs. That leads me on to thinking about children, pregnancy, and him saying possibly the only correct answer he could have given me. And I will still love you. Quite lovely. Not that I’m in any rush, which means I should definitely get myself to a doctor and sort myself out. Still, nice to know there’s the possibility of me becoming a mother one day should I think the timing’s good. Or that he’s ready to start again. But I’ve got quite an important job to get on with in the meantime. If Alexander ever resurfaces and remembers he’s offered it to me, anyway. Without him, I’m a little bit screwed.
“We pack for Rome immediately,” he says, barging his way around me to get out of the elevator and then continuing to storm along the hallway. I watch his arse leave, still smiling at his flamboyance as he mumbles away to himself about something, and knowing that I don’t have a thing to pack. It’s all in the new suitcase or my backpack. I’m packed. Done. Ready to rock and roll on whatever adventure he’s taking me on. Yum.
I amble along the corridor after him, striding along with a self-assurance that I’m really beginning to understand. It ebbs through me as my leather coat swishes around my ankles, calming what once felt angry or rushed. Maybe the confusion is beginning to pass. Perhaps it’s all finally becoming crystal clear and less bewildering. It’s all mine for the taking—job, man, life. As long as I hold true to my instincts and say what I mean, when I mean it, everything seems to be falling into place. I do still need to understand how the whole Alexander thing works. I’m not, nor will I ever be his, regardless of his hold over Pascal. I’m not sure how that’s going to play out. One thing I do know, though, is Alexander knows. I’m damn certain he understands everything that’s happening around him.
I’m greeted by Pascal’s backside, frozen in place as he stares up at a painting in what appears to be his living room. I flick my gaze around the sumptuous furniture to see Ruebin and Thomas sitting in armchairs. Ruebin is looking straight at Pascal as he places his drink down on a side table, and Thomas isn’t the slightest bit affected by Pascal’s presence. It strikes me that the young man seems relaxed rather than the hassled, wary boy I saw last time. In fact, he looks just as Pascal would if he were bored with something.
“Who’s that?” I ask, taking a step closer and gazing up at the painting. The moment I really look at the woman in the picture, though, I don’t need an answer. It’s very clearly his mother.
“Grootmoeder,” Thomas says behind me, his voice rolling around the word just as Pascal’s would. I nod my head in response, wondering why Pascal is so honed in on the work of art. Did something happen regarding his dead mother in the ten minutes in that shop?
“Problem?” I ask, turning my face away from the woman to look at Pascal instead. “And where is Claire?”
“She is sleeping,” Ruebin says quietly, lifting himself up from his chair and skirting the boundary of the room cautiously. I instantly notice the way his body tenses as Pascal flicks his eyes towards him then stares back at the picture. �
�I will go and check in on her again, Sir.” Good boy. I like Ruebin. I should probably apologise for running out on him and barging him out of the way to escape. Or maybe not. I can’t even remember if I hit him or not. It all seems so long ago.
“She is a bitch, yes?” the man I love snarls out next to me, flicking his gaze to me.
Who’s a bitch? His eyes go back to the painting. Oh, her. Is he asking me or telling me? How would I know? I’m sure if he thinks she is then she must be. I nod a little, assuming that’s what he wants to see, and then I move to sit in Ruebin’s chair rather than lingering mindlessly at Pascal’s side.
“Why should I give her space in my mind now, hmm? It is confounding that she can distress me so after all these years.”
“You’re the one who still has her picture hanging,” I reply. If I hated someone absolutely, I wouldn’t still have their picture hanging. No amount of pretence that she’s not important is going to swing with me. It would be a lie, something we’re not doing anymore.
“I think you should answer your own question rather than pretending it’s not relevant, don’t you?” He growls into the air, shoving his hands into his pockets as a schoolboy would and turning to look at me.
“Will this probing into my thoughts be extensive?”
“Mmm. Quite intrusive, just the way you like it.”
“Bitch.” There was a time when that response would have hurt me, or at least make me question myself, us, life. Not anymore, and my smile shows it. I know him. Maybe not all the details yet, but any emotional response from him is tantamount to love. It’s his way of showing care. Showing interest.
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