by Lynn Turner
“So do it,” she said with conviction. “Maybe in time, Manny will come to understand your vision. He’ll see that you both want the same thing, and it’s okay if you take a different path to get it.”
Turning into the parking garage at Mina’s apartment, he pulled into the number eight spot and switched off the engine. “What he said about food—”
She squeezed his hand. “Zack, you don’t have to—”
“No, I do. I want to. I wish it hadn’t come up this way, but if you’re going to understand me, maybe it’s best for you to know.”
Saying nothing, she simply nodded.
“Food was one of the ways I was punished by Foster Mom Number Three.” The pulse points in his body pounded like opposing war drums. “She’d send me to bed without dinner, because I fought her when she tried to—take advantage of me. I never tried to tell anyone, because she’d threaten to send me back. It might sound crazy, being afraid to leave an abusive home, but enduring her seemed easier than being thrown back into the system. She’d even tell me, if I was bad, they’d send me out of state.”
“Oh mon Dieu…Zack…”
She looked distraught, and it made his chest ache. He could still hear Foster Mom Number Three’s voice:
You’re ungrateful. This is your third foster family. You really think you’re gonna get any more chances? You think you’re fucking Huckleberry Finn, or Oliver Twist? Get out of your fairytales, boy. It won’t get better than this.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he continued. “At first, controlling what I ate felt normal. All the guys I knew were doing it—meal planning, designing special workouts to stay fit, but not bulk up too much. One week, when I was touring in Italy, I ate the same thing every day—mostly because it was convenient and cheap. I was trying to get used to an unfamiliar place, and my Italian was horrible. Completely by accident, I discovered it had this…calming effect on my mind. The routine. Knowing I would eat the same thing, at the same time, every day…it gave me back some control. I don’t do it all the time, just…high-stress situations.”
“Like writing, choreographing, starring in, and directing a musical?” She cupped one of his cheeks in her hand. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Zack. When I first became an Étoile, I’d hold my father’s figurine before every show. It gave me peace of mind, too. Soothed my nerves. If anything, coping mechanisms show our strength, not our weakness. They show we are self-aware, that we want to be better.”
His body heated quickly, and he felt the sting of tears in his eyes for the first time in longer than he could remember. “I meant it when I told you I missed you, petite,” he said, stretching one of her soft curls.
“I believed you,” she said. “In French, we say ‘tu me manques.’”
Letting go, he watched the curl spring back into place. It was deeply satisfying to watch. God, he loved her hair. “I’m a little rusty, but that sounds more like, ‘you miss me.’”
“That’s what it sounds like, but the way the verb works, it translates to, ‘you are missing from me.’”
“That’s very romantic.”
She looked away. “Perhaps that’s too romantic.”
“You know that’s not true.” Bringing her hands to his lips, he kissed her knuckles. “I enjoy being with you. You feel it in the way I kiss you. The way I look at you. I hope you remember that when things start to get crazy, and I’m yelling at you in rehearsals, and the only time we have together is clandestine moments in whatever nook or cranny I pull you into.”
Her eyelashes did the fluttering thing, a tell he was quickly growing to love.
“I like this directness,” she said.
“Good. Keep that in mind when I have to shut down one of your tantrums.”
“My tantrums?”
“And anger management problems.”
“Bah!”
He grinned. “You slapped the shit out of me.”
“It was a-a mistake!”
“Plus, you’re stubborn,” he went on. “At first, I couldn’t tell if you had a superiority, or an inferiority complex—”
“This isn’t romantic at all.” She flushed, snatching her hands away, crossing her arms over her chest. “I hope you don’t write poetry.”
“But…I came to realize, it’s neither. It’s passion, petite. It makes me want to kiss you, to see what that passion tastes like in different places—in the studio, onstage, in the car…your place, mine…in the grass with you on your back and your eyes giving me back the sky.”
She gasped, her bottom lip quivering in shock.
“I’d much rather be slapped by you, than kissed by anyone else.”
“Zack,” she moaned.
“For the record, I’d prefer you kiss me, but both leave me reeling.”
Gripping his shirt in both fists, she pulled him to her with almost superhuman force. “Zachary.”
“Yes, petite?”
“Shut. Up.” And she kissed him.
Chapter Twenty
They kissed in the car, and from the car to the elevator, and from the elevator to the hallway, where he backed her up against the wall next to her door, sinking his fingers into her hair on either side of her face.
“Zack,” she whispered, feeling his response shudder through his body.
“I love how you say my name.”
Her gaze moved slowly down the length of him, his arousal pressed against her lower belly. Sliding his hands down to the curve of her hips, he pulled her to him snugly, pressing his fingers into the sore muscles of her butt, a reminder of just how far she’d run that morning. Stroking his abdomen, she enjoyed his sigh, and the way his muscles contracted under her touch. He took her mouth again, until it was soft and open and malleable, the muscles of her lips so weak from kissing, they could barely press back. Until their kisses were silky slides of lips and tongue, hot and wet and messy.
“Come to bed with me,” she whispered.
“You know I want to, petite.” As if to emphasize his claim, he squeezed her inner thigh. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I know what’s coming in the weeks ahead. I think…a cooling off period, just for a little while, so we—so I—can focus…might be a good idea. If I come in there with you, I’m not leaving until morning.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of it?” She swirled hot kisses on his neck, cupping and rubbing him firmly with her palm. “Or into it?”
Groaning, he pressed himself into her hand, as if he couldn’t help himself, letting her rub and rub him, until he cursed and gripped her wrist, gently pulling it to his lips. “I don’t have anything on me, petite.”
“We don’t need it.” She kissed his chin, his cheek… “I’m on the pill, and I’ve been tested recently—Pas de problème.”
“Me too.”
“Oh, you’re on the pill?”
“No, smartass.” His fingers dug into her thigh. “No problems for me, either.”
Her lips touched the corners of his mouth as he said it, and he shuddered, flexing his body into hers.
“Fuck it,” he growled, pulling her up off the floor and kissing her again in earnest.
Shifting, he pressed her up against her apartment door—and stumbled, hard, through it, the door swinging wide. Their curses tore from them at the same time, and she clutched at him desperately to keep from falling to the floor.
“What the fuck…” He lowered her to her feet, immediately tugging her behind him.
It took her a few seconds to process that it was an instinctive move to protect her, because her body was still shaking free of arousal.
And because her apartment had been completely upended.
Drawers and cabinets were open and emptied, their contents scattered—some broken—on the floor, and all over the countertops. Books and photographs and trinkets from the shelves had been thrown to the floor like garbage, the coffee table and chaise flipped upside down. Papers were strewn all over like giant confetti,
and the television was turned on its face on the floor. She recognized the Bordeaux-red of her passport atop a messy stack of papers, the national emblem of France emblazoned on the front.
Roaring flames licked through her body.
Her blood ran hot.
Her heart beat painfully in her chest.
Screaming a string of French curses, she dove to the floor.
“Mina! No!” Zack was next to her in a flash, plucking her from her hands and knees like she was a rag doll.
“Non!” she cried, flailing. “Let me go! I have to find it!”
“We’re getting the fuck out of here.” His long strides already carried them into the hallway. “Whoever did this could still be in there.”
“L’aisse-moi! S’il te plaît, Zachary!” she screamed, struggling to no avail. “Please, let me go!”
“Everything okay?” someone asked, peering through the crack of her chain-linked door.
“Call nine-one-one,” Zack barked, ducking Mina’s hysterical assault. “Goddammit, petite! Stoppit!” Grabbing her arms and pulling them down, he restrained her tighter. “Stop,” he said gentler this time. “It’s a crime scene, Mina. You can’t touch anything.”
He was right, and fighting him was futile anyway, so Mina went limp, trying not cry—Only because the neighbor across the hall had her hawk eyes narrowed on Zack, and Mina realized the woman probably thought he was kidnapping her.
Putain de bordel de merde.
“You okay, miss?” the woman asked.
Zack cursed, carefully letting Mina go and scowling at the woman. “Lady, I’m not a serial killer, okay? I’m a friend. She’s been robbed. Will you please call the fucking police?”
“I think she can speak for herself.” The woman looked at Mina. “You okay?”
“Oui—I—yes. Merci, but it’s true.” Mina was grateful for the woman’s thoughtfulness. If the situation had been different, she might have saved her life. “We came here together and found my apartment vandalized.”
Zack hiked an angry brow, and the woman nodded, disappearing into her apartment.
The police arrived in seven minutes.
“Good thing we weren’t being stabbed to death,” Zack said tersely. “Or we’d already be hacked to pieces and stuffed into the walls.”
Wisely, they did not respond. Maddeningly, because it wasn’t a crime-in-progress, no one was missing or murdered (and left at the scene), and the intruder wasn’t kind enough to sustain bodily injury during the breakin and leave a trail of blood for DNA analysis, there wasn’t much the officers could do.
As soon as the officers finished their walk-through of her apartment, Mina trudged through the mess to take note of what was stolen. Puzzlingly, the thief had made off with her laptop and tablet, but nothing else. To her immense relief, every swan was accounted for, and perfectly pristine. Though they were scattered all over the place, her expensive jewelry and shoes were also accounted for, along with several pieces of designer clothing, and decorative pieces her mother had probably spent far too much money on. Mina clutched the swans from her father and Étienne, as the officers took her statement.
“Jimmy-proof lock,” the female officer (Warner) said when she’d finished taking Mina’s statement. Angling her head, she frowned. “Looks new.”
Zack scoffed, and Mina quickly spoke up. “Oui, the manager replaced the lock after I was mugged yesterday.”
“We need to talk to him,” the male officer (Rodriguez) said to his partner. “Rule out anyone with a key.”
Warner shook her head. “Looks like the perp picked the lock—substantial scratching around the keyhole and the thing’s brand-new. Probably used some kind o’ twist flex tension tool, and a standard hook pick to get in.”
Mina shivered. The whole thing made her feel so…violated. Bordel! They’d plundered her underwear drawer, touched all over the utensils she put in her mouth, tore apart the bed where she slept. She didn’t spend a lot of time here, but it was her sanctuary. Nothing had given her more relief after her mugging, than to seek asylum in her apartment, and now she didn’t feel safe at all.
She gasped. “Do…you think the two incidents are connected?”
“Could be,” Rodriguez said. “Could be a coincidence.”
“I don’t like this kind of coincidence,” Zack said.
“Neither do I.” Warner nodded toward the living room window. “This is a high-risk neighborhood. Lotta traffic, fancy apartments. No security, but you’ve gotta be buzzed in. Whoever did this probably blends in. Doesn’t seem threatening. They put their neck on the line to get in here, just to leave so many valuables behind.”
Mina thought of something. “Why would they want my computer? My tablet? My shoes cost more than those.”
“Could it be a stalker?” Zack asked. “Some asshole’s been following her around—now he has her phone, her computer, and her tablet. He has access to photos, contacts…personal information—”
“We don’t want to speculate, sir,” said Rodriguez. “And we don’t want you to panic, ma’am. It’s important you keep a level head. We still don’t have enough to go on to determine whether it’s the same person.”
It was all incredibly overwhelming, and though she was grateful to be unharmed and retain most of her personal items, it was still a horrible note to end the day on. Less than an hour ago, she was going to share her bed with Zack, and now she wanted to get as far away from it as possible.
He caught her gaze, giving her a sympathetic look, then turned to Warner. “Can you at least dust for fingerprints?”
Warner finished her notes, then looked up. “We’ll throw some dust around, but I don’t expect to get a decent print from this mess. Whoever did this was skilled and very organized. My guess is the perp was in and out in fifteen minutes or less.”
“We’ll canvas the neighborhood,” said Rodriguez. “Show the sketch of your mugger to the neighbors, local bodegas, see if anyone recognizes him. Someone could’ve let the perp in without realizing it. If a person looks friendly enough, people will hold the door open without thinking twice about it.”
“Jesus Christ.” Zack swiped his fingers through his hair. “It’s like being humped twice.”
“Look,” said Warner. “I’ve been doing this twenty years. Unless it’s a crime in-progress, the best you can do is file a police report, including property damage, and anything that was stolen, so you can try and get some compensation.” She looked at Mina. “You got renter’s insurance?”
Mina nodded solemnly.
“Good. I’ll see if the serials for your laptop and tablet turn up anywhere, but it’s a long-shot. We’ll get on the manager’s ass about getting better locks—something that can’t be picked in thirty seconds. If you can stay with someone for a couple days, do that. De-stress, talk to someone. Maybe get someone to help you clean up, so it starts to feel like home again.”
“And stay alert.” Rodriguez handed Mina his card. “You think of anything else, or anything suspicious comes up, gimme a call.”
“Merci.” Her shoulders sagged. “I-I will.”
In the thirty minutes it took for them to take Mina’s prints (for comparison), dust for viable fingerprints, and leave, Mina had two suitcases packed, she’d changed all her passwords and put a freeze on her credit cards, and Zack had helped put all her cherished photos, figurines and other effects into a box. She locked the door behind them with disdain. It certainly hadn’t done its job, so what the hell was the point? She supposed a locked door might deter any opportunists looking to score some runny tights, or a decorative vase by some obscure French designer…or some very good artisanal cheese.
They didn’t talk on the ride to Alex’s house, and Mina was grateful. She felt she could communicate to Zack without words, as though he knew, instinctively, she’d rather weight the entire experience with rocks and toss it into a river in the back of her mind.
When at last they arrived at Alex’s beautiful brownstone, it was well after m
idnight, and they quietly lugged Mina’s things to the fourth floor. His room had a calming effect on her nerves. It was familiar and warm, with pieces of her imprinted on his bed, tacked to boards, and scribbled in the margins of the Lady in Red script on his desk. Most of all, he was there. He made her feel safe, and it’s what she needed to feel more than anything right now.
To feel protected, to reconnect with the person who was the closest thing she felt to being home.
Without a word, he stripped them down to their underwear, then pulled the covers back so they could slide into the warmth of his cavernous bed. Opening a drawer, he shook out a few of his downy-soft T-shirts, comparing their sizes and settling on the smallest one.
“You can wear this one.” He rolled up the hem to slip her head through the neckline.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm, smoothing over his bicep to the curve of his shoulder. “Not yet.”
“Petite?” He studied her face with those beautiful, darkly lashed green eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.” Stepping closer, she rested her palm on his chest, over his heart. “Thanks to you.”
She wrapped her arms around him as tightly as her fatigued muscles would allow, his body heat warming her chest and stomach, and the legs she lifted and wrapped around him. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he held her, stroking her back.
“Dieu.” She pulled away a little to see his face. “I could get used to hugging you.”
“Stars, hugs…is there any other normal thing you tragically haven’t been able to experience?”
She shrugged. “There is no word for ‘hug’ in French. People back home don’t hug much, unless it’s a child…” She caressed up and down his torso hungrily. “…or a lover, but never in public.”
His gaze held her almost as strongly as his arms did. She stared back, caught by the sexy curve of his snarky mouth, the passion in his eyes, the strong bones of his face…and dark brows drawn together in deep concentration. Tracing over those well-formed brows again, as she’d done in the park, she savored his expression with the tips of her fingers.