Grace: A Disgrace Trilogy Novel

by Dee Palmer

  “No!” I scream, and fight and pull at my motherfucking restraints until I feel my wrists snap from the pressure. So much pain yet nothing compared to the absolute heartbreak ripping me apart inside.

  Eviscerated and desolate, I silently scream my heart out.

  I sit bolt upright, terror gripping my heart so hard I can’t breathe. I grab at the unGodly pain in my chest, and I swear my heart is going to explode. I’m dripping with sweat, and I get a cold chill as the breeze from the open window hits my shaking body. What the hell? Sucking in some deep, steadying breaths, I wait for my heart to calm the fuck down. My shirt and trousers are drenched, and I start to shiver.

  Only a few minutes pass and my heart rate is no longer a jackhammer in my chest. I swing my long legs over the side of the bed and start to strip down. I hit the shower for a blast of much needed heat and take some time under the spray to collect myself. That was fucking horrible. The searing water does the trick, and I rid myself of not only the chill but the slick of the nightmare that seemed to coat my skin.

  Wrapping a single towel around my waist, I grab a handful of mini bottles from the fridge. It doesn’t really matter what they are, I’m not having another dream like that tonight, and if an alcoholic coma is required to ensure that happens, so be it. I shake the residual water from my hair when there is a knock on the door. The porter hands me some binoculars, and without checking the room service menu, I ask for a burger and a bottle of Jack. He nods and disappears down the corridor silently before the door closes. The doors to the balcony is still wide open, and the noise has ebbed to a bearable thrum with some occasional classical music drifting above the hubbub.

  It’s dark now, and looking below, a person would think it was still midday with the thick crowd. I only give them a cursory glance because my attention is fixed farther afield. The whole reason I’m staying here rather than the Aman Grande is because of that fucking yacht anchored where the main canal meets the open lagoon.

  It takes a moment to focus the sight and zoom in to the back of the yacht. The deck is crowded with guests, smartly dressed in tuxedos and cocktail dresses. There’s a quartet playing, and it’s all very sedate for Gabriel, the quiet before the storm. The Gathering is anything but sedate. Debauched is a more apt description, I should know. I scan the upper and lower decks as much as is possible from this distance and even with the excellent zoom I’m having trouble picking out anyone remotely familiar. Then I spot her. Damn, she’s beautiful. She’s got her back turned but I would recognise the curve of her spine and long dark hair from a million miles. She’s standing just on the edge of the crowd and the man next to her is offering his hand, which she shakes her head to decline. Good. She’s holding a glass but has yet to take a sip, and she moves off to stand alone, leaning her forearms on the railing and gazing out into the darkness across the open sea.

  Her hands move to her neck, and she looks around. Her back straightens and her head snaps in my direction. I drop the binoculars with a sharp intake of breath. Shit. I quickly replace them again and try to find her, but the spot where she stood only a second ago is empty. I search frantically, cursing my stupid reflex. It’s not like she could see you, idiot. I finally see her near the staircase. She’s leaning up to kiss a man’s cheek, Gabriel’s, and fuck if he doesn’t pull her into an embrace. Motherfucker. He kisses her cheek, and she hurries away, down the stairs and out of my sight. Damn it all to hell. My phone rings at the exact time to stop me from storming out to get her.

  “What?”

  “Whoa, just calling to see how you are, brother.”

  I’m still reeling from my nightmare and fucking Gabriel. “Not fucking good. Does that answer your question?”

  “I take it you’ve seen her.”

  “Yes, just now, and it’s fucking killing me that I can’t go and drag her off that damn yacht.” My tone is openly irritated and curt.

  “You can’t?”

  “No. Gabriel obviously doesn’t want me near her, and I doubt I’d get a chance to set one foot on board without him knowing.” I twist my neck as I speak to pop the tension in the bones, left and right. “I can’t risk him telling her and her taking flight. He’s just the sort of man to have the resources to keep her hidden from me if she asked.”

  “You think she would?” I hear the uncertainty I don’t happen to share.

  “I don’t think it. I know it. That’s exactly what she’s done. I don’t blame her, yet I have to see her. I have to explain face-to-face, and the only chance I’ll have is at the Gathering. I’m not going to blow it now by jumping the gun, not when I’m so damn close I can almost taste her.”

  “She might just need a little time, Jason.” If he’s trying to comfort me, he’s way off the mark. The only comfort I’ll get is when she’s in my damn arms.

  “She’s had a little time,” I retort.

  “She’s had two weeks.”

  I let out a humourless laugh. “Yes she has, and I’m feeling generous. I’m going to give her one more night.”

  “I’d wish you luck, only you sound determined enough not to need it.”

  I repeat his earlier sentiment. “Luck is for pussies.”

  “Now where have I heard that before?”

  I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I felt him. I don’t know how, but up on the deck last night, with the enchanting music playing for all the beautiful people Gabriel had gathered, I felt Jason. The hairs on my neck didn’t just stand on end—they came to life. My stomach twisted, and I lost all the composure I thought I had gained these last two weeks. Damn him. I tossed and turned all damn night in a bed far too big for one person, reliving that feeling. As fleeting as it was, that spark of life felt so good, so very good. My feelings for Jason are undeniable; that has never been in doubt in my mind. Two weeks haven’t changed that; I doubt a lifetime will. Nevertheless, my heartbreak is so much easier to compartmentalise with him out of the picture. It’s just me, my baby, and my broken heart. It isn’t pretty, but I’m getting by. What now? Fuck, my head is a mess, a constant confused loop of unanswered questions, doubts and dormant desire. Damn him.

  I wrap the thick terrycloth dressing gown around me and make my way to the upper deck for breakfast.

  The area is completely clear of any revellers. Every surface gleams, polished within an inch of its life, spotless. I take a seat at the corner table, which is laid out for breakfast. I’m not sure how many guests might’ve stayed, still I’m hoping they had such a late night, I will have a quiet, undisturbed morning to myself.

  I’m served a fresh fruit platter with toast and jam. My cravings are for all things sweet and carb loaded at the moment. I have refrained from cooking pancakes because they remind me too much of Jason. Besides, Gabriel’s chef has banned me from the galley. I burnt milk when I tried to heat some for late night hot chocolate. It stunk up the whole lower deck, and it took ages to clean the hob. I still can’t stomach coffee; however, I can now drink normal tea, very weak. I sit back and sip my morning brew and try, once again, to process what I’m feeling, if Jason is really here. I know he’s here. So the pertinent question, if I assume I know why he’s here, is, what the hell am I going to do now?

  I finish my breakfast alone and decide, as decadent as it is to lounge around in a robe on a luxury yacht all day, I’d better get dressed. I need to busy myself today or I will go crazy thinking about Jason and the Gathering. Shit! The Gathering.

  I pad barefoot down toward Gabriel’s suite. It’s nearly midday now so I hope I’m not just waking him up as I tap quietly on the door. If he’s asleep, he won’t hear and I’ll leave. If he’s—

  “Come.” His deep throaty voice sounds strained. I open the door, and when invited, I step inside.

  “Jesus, Gabriel!” I squeeze my lids shut but I can’t unsee that shit. My hand flies to cover my eyes just in case any stray image might burn through my tightly closed eyelids. “Damn it, Gabriel, you said come in.”

  “I think you’ll find I said come
.” His voice isn’t remotely irritated that I have crashed his morning orgy; if anything, he sounds amused. I turn away because I can’t trust myself not to drop my hand or to open my eyes out of curiosity. Did I really just see that?

  “I’ll come back when you’re—”

  He dismisses me with his interruption. “You may as well ask now. We’ve really only just started.” I can almost see the salacious smile spreading wide over his face.

  “Not saving yourself for the Gathering then?” I quip. I’m stalling to regain my composure. It’s too early for this shit.

  “I’m the host, darling, and from past experience, I find it better to be fully sated before the activities commence. That way, I’m able to fully enjoy the whole evening, not just the first hour.” His voice is so calm if it wasn’t for the accompanying sex sounds, I would think we were just having a chit chat over coffee.

  “Good to know.” I can feel my cheeks heat, and I silently puff out a cooling breath. It’s not that this is shocking behaviour for Gabriel, it’s just I wasn’t entirely prepared. Totally my fault, I really should know better, this is Gabriel after all, hedonist extraordinaire.

  “It’s good advice, Mistress. You are most welcome to join us.” His voice is smooth, inviting, and I snort along with a sharp laugh.

  “Oh it looks like you have more than enough holes to keep you occupied.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that because you would never find me referring to you as a hole.” His tone isn’t remotely amused.

  “No,” I scoff. “Not if you value your bollocks.”

  “Quite.”

  “Right. Well, I came to say I can’t do tonight.” I keep it brief and grimace, waiting for the fallout.

  “What!” He’s incredulous, and I hear some rather unsavoury squelching noises. “Do not move.”

  “I’m not moving.” I say.

  “Not you,” he mutters with considerable frustration in his voice. There is some undetermined movement, some heavy footfalls, and then Gabriel is standing directly in front of me, stark naked with an impressive glossy erection. I don’t flinch; it’s not the first time I’ve seen him naked or this flustered.

  “I’m sorry. You did say to tell you now. It could’ve waited.” I shrug and offer an apologetic, thin-lipped smile.

  “No, it couldn’t.” His harsh tone softens mid-sentence. “What is it, Mistress? Please, if there is anything I can do. I must have you there tonight. My reputation depends on it,” he pleads, not quite holding his hands together in supplication. His eyes could melt a much harder heart than mine.

  “Ah hell, Gabe. You do not play fair.” I fist my hands on my hips with obvious agitation, letting out a heavy sigh of utter exasperation. I shake my head. “I can’t, Gabe. I felt him last night.” I hold his gaze, and he holds his tongue until I explain my change of heart. “Jason. He’s here and I know he’s going to try and get to me at the Gathering. I’m not ready to face him. It’s still too fucking raw.” I blink to stop the tears that are collecting.

  “He won’t. You have my word.” Gabriel is adamant, earnest, and I owe it to him to believe his word.

  “Gabe.” I try one last futile plea.

  “I promise, Sam. He won’t get in,” he states flatly, brooking no further argument, so I try a different and equally important tack.

  “I don’t have my whip.” I know it’s a flimsy line of defence. I can pretty much use any bullwhip with the same level of skill. My handmade red is just my favourite. His lips carve a wide, wicked smile.

  “Wonderful.” He claps his hands. Relief and joy saturate his handsome face.

  “Why is that wonderful?” I scowl, though it seems even my fiery glare will not dampen his spirit. Smug bastard knows he’s won somehow.

  “Because you have just agreed.” He flips his hand in a brush off of my last objection.

  “I don’t think I did.” I counter.

  “Your whip is in my office. I had it couriered here the moment you agreed.” I arch a dubious brow. “Very well, I had it couriered the moment I decided you would be giving your grand finale at my Gathering,” he declares with absolutely no shame.

  “Do you ever not get your way?” I mutter.

  “You are proof that I don’t, Mistress, or I would have you somewhere between me and those other fine bodies on my bed.”

  I shake my head at his brazenness. “What time do you need me ready?”

  I’m defeated but not totally despondent. He’s happy, and I do trust his word. I know I will have to face Jason sometime soon. I didn’t lie when I said I’m not ready, and tonight Gabriel wants Mistress Selina, London’s incomparable dominatrix. Whoever wins will have paid good money to be on the receiving end of my whip. I couldn’t guarantee that if I had to face Jason, I would be anything other than a blubbering mess, not quite the experience the winner would be expecting.

  “We leave at nine. The banquet begins at ten this evening, auction at midnight.” He interrupts my internal musing.

  “Right, well don’t let me keep you.” Before I can turn away he takes my hand as if greeting me for the first time, lifting it slowly to his lips he kisses the back. Utterly charming, even in his birthday suit.

  I lost count of the times I ran the length of the Riva degli Schiavoni just hoping the catch a glimpse of her this morning. Because, despite what I told Will, I think if I saw her right now, I would do my damnedest to steal her away and end this fucking nightmare. All I managed to achieve were muscles begging for me to stop and some curious comments from the waiters setting up for the day, yet there is no sight of Sam. I ignore the insidious seed that’s burrowing inside my gut with the notion that she somehow knows I’m here. Maybe she saw me last night and has already fled. No, not possible, I feel her. It’s like her essence is in the air, all around me, and for the first time in the longest fucking two weeks of my life I can breathe her in.

  “Have you seen something you would like to try, signore? The elderly gentleman serving as the costumier must be about a hundred years old. Nevertheless, he’s spritely, and I have watched him scale steep ladders and hook impossibly high masks from the wall with the agility of a much younger man.

  “I need a costume for the Gathering.” There’s no point being coy. If this shop does, in fact, cater to most of the guests, he will know exactly where I’m going and, most probably, exactly what I’m looking for.

  “Very good. I can recommend any of the Bauta masks.” His hand sweeps across a row of white and gilded masks. The individual decorations may differ, but they all share the grotesque protruding nose and thick, prominent brow, long chin and no mouth. “Or the Medico della Peste, the plague doctor, are very ugly no?” He beams, and the myriad of wrinkles deepen on his face with the wide pull of his thin pale lips. His cheeks may hollow to resemble the skull beneath, however his eyes sparkle with life.

  “Yes very, they are wonderful too, but yes, those are a little disgusting.” I shrug as way of an apology, only his face seems to light with overt pride.

  “That is the point, is it not? They do the job very well, and you wish to be hidden, of course?” He steps aside to let me further into the shop.

  “Of course.” I give him an absent nod as I continue to look at the hundreds of frozen faces, some so distorted they are practically demonic. I can feel the hairs on my neck rise with the chilling recall from my nightmare. I shake it off and point to a much simpler half mask. It is just as dramatic, with the extra-long nose turned up at the end, bulging eyebrows and low forehead. I touch the one nearest to me and feel that it’s made of soft leather. I tap my finger to indicate my choice.

  “The Zanni, are you sure, signore?” The intonation and curious smirk that pulls at his lips makes me question my choice.

  “There’s a reason I shouldn’t pick this one? I kind of like that it’s not all glitzy or too creepy.” I argue at his quizzical expression.

  “Zanni is from the stage, the low brow is a sign of stupidity, and the longer the nose,
the more stupid.” He chuckles and goes to take the mask from my hand, but I pull it back and place it on the counter.

  “Then it’s pretty perfect.” I flash a tight smile, which seems to confuse him. The look I send his way is loaded with meaning. “Because I’ve been a fucking idiot.”

  “Very good, signore. Now we have the mask we can take you to get the clothes.” He places the box in a large bag and clasps his hands with bubbling enthusiasm.

  “Take me where? You don’t keep the costumes here?” I frown and can see many garments hanging which would indicate otherwise.

  “The cape and the tricorn hat, yes. Also you will need the Venetian trousers, silk shirt, waistcoat, gloves. All of it you will need and all of it we have. Come follow me.” He motions briskly for me to follow, and I do, through the shop and up a narrow stepladder that is easily as old as the proprietor. The loft space is vast, airy, and has a hazy dust laden glow from the numerous skylights. I need a moment to take in the rows after rows of costumes and fully dressed mannequins. It’s like Aladdin’s cave of dressing-up treasures. I imagine the costume archive at the Victoria and Albert Museum would run a close second to the stunning array of clothes hidden in this little gem of a shop.

  I have attended only one other Gathering, but that year, Gabriel held it in New York, and the masks were the only homage to anything remotely Venetian. I’m not sure about this. Signore Canovaccio stands back from the almost floor-to-ceiling, gilt-edged mirror in order to do the great reveal. I’m really not sure about this. The black velvet trousers are cut just below my knee, which just feels wrong, and the fact that I am wearing knee-high socks that he called tights, is never to be mentioned again. The silk shirt is more like a blouse, with billowing sleeves and lace cuffs which gather tightly at my wrists. A lace jabot ruffles at the front and apparently isn’t supposed to be hidden with the three-quarter length black velvet dress coat. The thick black braiding finishes the design with elegant detailing. I tug and can’t help shifting uncomfortably, even though the materials are very good quality and the fit feels as if it has been tailor made.