by Skye Warren
It is perhaps ominous that I don’t know the answer myself.
Chapter Sixteen
In my loft I prepare a gourmet picnic with sliced meats and creamy cheeses. There are plump grapes and ripe strawberries. A baguette from the French bakery so fresh it crackles when I place it in the bag. Most of these items are easy to prepare. The only thing I make from scratch is a moist brioche with hints of orange and white chocolate, soft on the inside, the sugar caramelized on the outside. My mother taught me to make this.
She worked twelve hours a day in a hotel that cost more per night than she earned in a month. She did not have money for luxury or time for hobbies. But in the few minutes she had between waking and work, she loved to cook. Recipes handed down from her mother but spiced with what was available in the open-air markets of Tangier. There was ratatouille made with tomatoes and zucchini and bay leaf, but also couscous and ginger. French lentils with fava beans and cumin. She loved to try new things, both of us tasting from the pot while the meal simmered, heating the small room we shared.
I don’t have her level of curiosity or wonder about cooking, but every meal I prepare is an homage to her. If you would have asked me if I loved my mother, I would have said yes. But I spent too much time fighting in the streets to be what you’d call a good son.
She was the one who let me out of the closet, limping and bleeding and crying too hard to speak. Even then I knew that the police would not help us against a rich American tourist. I cooked every day for her for a week, before she was well enough to return to work.
We did not speak of what happened that night. She didn’t wish to, and I was too angry. Too selfish. Too busy fighting in the streets, thinking I would make something of myself in a city that hardly recognized me as human. But somewhere in my chest was the certainty that I would find that man.
After the cancer took her, it became my only purpose.
So when I met beautiful Melissande, when I found out where she came from—I knew she would be the way to revenge. She offered me the chance to come with her. It seemed almost miraculous, that I had fallen in love with a woman and could achieve my goal at the same time.
She kept me in a state of ignorant bliss in her bed for a year before revealing my purpose in Tanglewood. I would be a prostitute, catering to the wealthy men and women of society who wanted a dark-haired fallen angel in their beds. Someone with an exotic accent and very little inhibition.
That’s when I learned that I could not have love and revenge.
There could only be one or the other.
My mind is in turmoil as the brioche cools on the oven, but I move with determination as I pack them with the rest of the picnic. We won’t need Bea’s tiny kitchen tonight, though I still hope to dine with her. The drive to the hotel is done in silence, without the usual joy I feel when driving the Bugatti.
I feel only a small amount of guilt for using my key card without being invited. It only takes me to the entrance. Once inside I knock on the wall and wait, a strange fluttering of nerves.
What if Bea isn’t here? What if she is here but she doesn’t want to see me? She isn’t paying for tonight. There’s nothing on the books with Melissande until tomorrow—our standing Saturday appointment.
From the elevator car I can see the empty living room. Soft voices filter through the closed bedroom door. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
The door opens, revealing a young woman with blonde hair with pink streaks. “Uh. Hi?”
Not Bea. For a moment I’m so thrown I wonder if I somehow found the wrong building. A different gaudy hotel established by the ex-owner of a French brothel. A different penthouse with an agoraphobic little ex-virgin. “Is Beatrix here?”
“Bea,” the blonde says in a singsong voice. “Have you been holding out on me?”
Her voice comes from deep within the penthouse. “What?”
“There’s a young Cary Grant at your door, so either L’Etoile has seriously upped their staffing game or you have been keeping very big, very sexy secrets.” The young woman winks at me.
“Is there a baguette in that basket or are you just happy to see me?”
I laugh, as comfortable with flirting as she is. “Both, naturellement.”
“A man to please all appetites,” she says as Bea peeks around the corner, hair even more wild and dangerous than usual. It’s untamable, that hair. Like the woman.
“Oh,” she says, though it’s more like a squeak. “Did we have an…”
Appointment, she means to say. “A date? But no, I wished to surprise you.”
“You did surprise me.” Her gaze slides to her friend, who’s watching us with undisguised pleasure and interest. “Harper, this is… Hugo. And, Hugo…”
“Harper,” I say with my best smile, which produces a blush. I recognize her faintly from the society papers, this girl who is related to Christopher from the Thieves Club. The stepsister that makes him scowl every time he says something about her.
“Ohhh my,” Harper says. “Do you just go around smiling on the street, making people fall over and having cars crash around you? It’s dangerous.”
“Non, this one I reserve for private company.” I turn to Bea, who looks torn. She’s biting her lip, leaving indents in the plump flesh. Everything about her calls to me, but it’s almost a relief that she’s turning me away. I shouldn’t be using her for information, shouldn’t be trying to get close to her to find out more about the man who owns this hotel. “I can come back another time. You are clearly having a girls’ night, and I’m the intruder.”
I hid my disappointment rather well, I thought, but Bea still looks crestfallen. Crestfallen and beautiful in a black lace blouse that flutters around her elegant neck and jeans—a more casual look than she’s ever worn for our dates. “Wait.”
“I’m so out of here,” Harper says, pointing a finger at me. “And I’m going to drag the details out of Bea, so you better make them worth our while. Dirty. Salacious. Shocking.”
“I do aim to please,” I say, my smile lazy. Of course I would love for the night to be dirty, but that depends on quite a lot. Like whether Bea will even speak to me after crashing her night.
It only takes a moment for Harper to grab her things—a model of phone that isn’t available commercially yet and a handbag shaped like a panda. Then she leaves down the elevator, making promises to call Bea the next day.
As soon as we’re alone, Bea shakes her head, her smile both exasperated and fond. “She’s never going to let up asking questions about you now.”
“I’m sure we can give you plenty to tell. That is, if you wish to spend the evening with me.”
“Of course I do.” She pauses as if to check herself. “But I didn’t book this time with the agency. I thought you were coming tomorrow.”
“This isn’t through the agency,” I say lightly, to pretend it’s no big deal.
Of course it’s a huge deal. When was the last time I spent a night with a woman without being paid for it? The thought would disturb me, if I didn’t have an ulterior motive for being here. It’s not quite as much distance as money, but it’s enough to keep this from meaning too much.
She looks at me, skeptical, uncertain. “So this is… what?”
“Why does a man spend time with a beautiful woman? It’s a date, if you’ll give me the honor. That’s what this is.”
I am not so worried about deceiving her, or at least, this is what I tell myself. She may not have paid for this night, but she understands the nature of this relationship. And soon enough, once she’s gotten over her initial nervousness about sex, she will move on to a man more appropriate for her. Maybe one who will finally help her leave this tower prison of hers. I will merely be a distant memory to make her embarrassed.
Her green eyes are deep tonight, without the usual walls that keep her hidden. I can see her fear and her excitement. She looks impossibly innocent like this. “Do you want to come in?” she asks, a little shy.
“Non. I wi
sh to take you outside.”
Dismay. “You know I can’t.”
I make a noncommittal hum in my throat. “Whether you can or you can’t, I won’t ask you to set even one foot off the property. At least not tonight.”
“Really?”
“But of course.”
She narrows her eyes. “You know, it doesn’t escape my notice that you’re carrying a picnic basket. Where are you planning to spread that out? The lobby?”
All she gets is a half smile. “You will have to trust me for that.”
“Trust you?” she asks, so incredulous it would wound me if I didn’t know how deeply her fear of the outside runs. She doesn’t trust anyone.
“You trust me with your body,” I remind her. “With your most private places. With your pleasure. I’m only asking for a little bit more, mon ami. Trust me with tonight.”
She takes a shuddering breath, which flutters the lace at her throat. “Okay.”
It moves me more than it should, her trust in me. Silently, urgently, I swear to myself that I won’t betray that trust. She may never know my true interest in L’Etoile, but my feelings about her are pure. I like her. I respect her. And I will do nothing to make her doubt those things.
It takes only a little coaxing to bring her into the elevator.
Only when I press the UP button does she start to breathe faster. “What are you doing?”
“Taking us to the roof. There’s a beautiful garden up there. I’ve seen it through Google Maps. And you have exclusive access to it. I’m shocked you don’t spend all your time there.”
“That’s not…part of the…hotel.” She’s breathing faster now, close to panic.
I take her face between my hands, both gentle and firm. “It is part of the hotel. The same structure where you spend all of your time. You do not have to leave to see the stars.”
“That’s what windows are for.”
My laugh comes out, surprised, unexpected. “Non.”
“We can spread out the picnic on the carpet. It will be fun.”
“Perhaps another time. Tonight we will dine in the night air, and you will be fine.”
She searches my eyes. “What if I’m not?”
Trust. That’s what she’s giving me right now, and the gift is worth more than a thousand nights. “I’ll be with you every second, Bea. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Chapter Seventeen
From the aerial view on my computer I saw the small greenhouse full of lush plants. The elaborate black iron table and chairs for dining. The expanse of wooden deck and brick walls. It’s a beautiful space, meant to be enjoyed, meant to be lived in. The only person who comes up here is the caretaker. Not Bea, even though she’s the only occupant of L’Etoile allowed to use the space.
The elevator doors begin to close behind me. I put my hand out to stop them. Bea looks at me with wide, unblinking eyes. Like a rabbit, I think. Too afraid to run away.
“Come here,” I murmur.
A jerky shake of her head. “Can’t,” she says between gritted teeth.
“What will happen if you come?”
“I don’t know.” Her gaze darts behind me. The view is peaceful, but her expression is full of turmoil. Violence, even. The certainty is a blow to my stomach, making every muscle in my body clench. Because of what happened to her parents. Such a strange and random thing, to be killed by pirates.
And yet it wasn’t random at all. They were targeted because of their wealth.
Which means she could be a target, too. No wonder she does not step foot outside. It’s a wonder that she let me through the door that first night. My dismay only strengthens my decision to help.
“I imagine that if I tell you nothing will happen, you won’t believe me.”
Her eyes plead with me, beautiful and haunted. “I do believe you, with my head. It’s my body that doesn’t seem to understand. It doesn’t even let me come outside. I’m stuck here.”
She means that she’s rooted to the spot in the elevator, but it’s more than that. She’s stuck in this old hotel. Stuck in a life she was never meant to lead. Her parents were tech moguls and famous concert pianists. Their gifts should have been a privilege for Bea. Instead it’s trapped her.
“What does your therapist say?” I don’t wish to damage her, despite my own certainty that she needs to leave this place, that it’s imperative for her. Life or death.
“I don’t see her anymore.”
“Why not?”
She mumbles at the marble floor of the elevator. “She wanted me to leave.” Then she meets my gaze, almost angry. “She didn’t understand. You don’t, either.”
“Explain it to me.”
“I mean, I really can’t move. Physically. My body won’t let me.”
I cock my head, examining her the same way I looked at Minette huddled behind the dresser, needing me to take her out. “What if I move you?”
She shakes her head miserably. “I’ll just freak out. Screaming. Crying. I’ve tried that before.”
With who? I want to know who she trusted enough to take her outside, even if it failed. The same person who put her here in the first place? “If you scream, if you cry, I’ll bring you back inside.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Not easy.” No one looking at her, the strain around her eyes, the tension in her body, could think this would be easy. “But you’re strong enough to do it. With me, Bea.”
I set down the picnic basket so that my hands are free. Then I move so that I’m facing her, my foot still blocking the door from closing. She stands in front of me, inside the elevator that she must have taken hundreds of times. Thousands of times. She knows this elevator too well, while a single step outside feels like a wild jump across oceans.
Her lower lip trembles, and I lean my head close, waiting for her to jerk back. There’s every chance this won’t work, that we’ll end up having the picnic spread out on her bed.
She holds still as my lips press against hers, and I’m suspended in that moment. Stuck, that’s the word she used. I’m not stuck, though. I’m floating. Free.
Our breaths come together, her skin flushed and fragrant.
Her hands are in mine. I could pull her out—one inch, two. I could carry her over this threshold, but I wasn’t lying when I said she was strong enough. Strong enough to make the step herself.
A small swipe of my tongue over her bottom lip.
Then I move back, leaving only a moment between us. She sways toward me, wanting more. I surrender to her for a second, this time a kiss to the corner of her mouth. And then retreat again.
She comes closer, leaning toward me, her feet in the elevator.
“Bea,” I say, gaze dark on hers. In my eyes I let her see every ounce of desire I have for her, which is more than I really should. It makes me naked, this look, more than if I stripped down to nothing.
Her lips part the slightest amount—an acknowledgment. A plea.
The kiss that follows is clumsy as she steps forward onto the hard wood, almost falling into my arms, caught by me, making a little panicked, pleased sound in my mouth.
Ding. The elevator doors close behind her.
I realize that I can’t use her. Not tonight, anyway.
It means too much, that she would trust me this way. And so I hold her, safe and willing in my arms. Perhaps she feels the change in me, because she relaxes into my body.
Chapter Eighteen
We feast on cheeses and fruit, not quite acknowledging the buildings that peak around us like mountains. She trusted me enough to stay on the roof, and for now that will be enough.
The sun sets in a glory of golden blue while she sips champagne, her gaze studiously on my own. I fill my own glass and take a drink, because I need the courage more than her. She’s already the bravest woman I know. I’m the one wondering how I care about her so much after so little time. Wondering what I’ll do when she’s done with me.
I may have decided
not to use her for revenge, tonight, but that does not mean I’ll ask no questions. In fact I’m brimming with questions. Running over with them. I set the glass down carefully, wondering how much to ask. Needing to know the answers.
“Will you tell me now why you wanted to lose your virginity in this way? I know there’s more you aren’t telling me. More than loneliness.” I suspected that from the very first night, a secret motivation that drives her, something close to desperation. It would have stopped a moral man from touching her.
Unfortunately for her I gave up any semblance of morality long ago.
She sighs, looking out at the city. Has she ever seen it without a panel of glass blocking it? A cool wind touches my skin. It gives her hair a sense of ceaseless motion, as if it’s alive. “There is a reason. I mean, I was curious. I’ve always been curious, but when I turned twenty…”
At her pause I force myself to stay silent. This is her story; I have to let her tell it. But I do take her hand in mine, because that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? My body and the comfort it can bring. It’s all I have to offer.
Her hand squeezes back. “Someone proposed to me.”
Shock tightens my stomach, though I don’t know why I should be surprised. She’s a beautiful, smart, extremely desirable young woman. Even trapped in her castle, she has suitors. There’s a churning inside me, a strange mixture of jealousy and loss. She was never mine.
“What was your answer?” I’m pleased that my tone comes out light.
“I said I’d think about it, but I don’t want to marry him.”
Worry furrows her expression, and I feel myself grow hot from anger. “Are you afraid to tell him no?”
If there is someone threatening her, I have no problem standing up to this faceless, nameless asshole. I may live a life of ease and luxury these days, in high-rise hotels and satin sheets, but I was a street mongrel once. I fought and scraped and clawed my way through Tangier’s back alleys. A rich frat boy in Tanglewood will not stand a chance.