A Vengeful Affair

by Carmen Falcone

  “It won’t work,” he insisted. His fingers sizzled when he touched her arm and turned her to face him.

  “We’ll make it work.” She spoke with confidence, but her blue eyes revealed her uncertainty.

  “Reason won’t have much power over this.” His index finger trailed down her neck, and he smiled when he felt the mad beat of her pulse at the base of her throat. She could deny and lie all she wanted, but her body told him the truth.

  She was wrong for him, but her body, her skin felt so right.

  “Is that what you tell all your lovers to get them into bed?” She pulled away from him, a delicate flush on her cheeks.

  “I never have to.” It was the truth. Women were usually drawn to him like bees to honey. Not that he complained, but over the years he had become a lot more selective about his female companions.

  She rolled her eyes. “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

  “I’ve had plenty of firsts lately.” He shook his head.

  “How so?” Her polished fingernails caressed the metal rail of the balcony. He imagined those soft hands cupping his shaft, her delicate fingers tracing along his length.

  Javier cleared his throat. “The first time I slept next to a woman without having sex. The first time I kissed someone as passionately as we did without going further.”

  “I’m not your new toy,” she warned him, concern flashing in her eyes.

  “No, you’re not. That’s why I’m about to take you out for an innocent Sunday breakfast.”

  “Another first?”

  He nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Five

  The Café Toujours was located in a prime area, famous for its view overlooking the sun-dappled Seine river and for the eclectic crowd of bohemian locals, intellectuals, and trendsetters. Vivian sipped her orange juice as she sat opposite Javier on the terrace outside the café.

  It was a beautiful morning. She squinted toward the river, trying to exhale the tension from her shoulders.

  “Why aren’t you comfortable with your height?” Javier asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I noticed you wore flats the first day I saw you. You tend to slightly hunch instead of walking tall.”

  Vivian straightened her shoulders. “I don’t hunch.”

  “You almost tripped last night.”

  “I’m not a professional dancer,” she retorted.

  “I meant when you were walking in high heels.”

  “Suddenly I’m the hunchback of Notre-Dame?”

  His warm laugh was as intimate as a caress. “Not quite like the hunchback. But why?”

  “I don’t…” She sighed, too tired to be combative. A moment later, she said, “It was my father.”

  “Your bad posture is hereditary?” he teased.

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t know. He left when I was four.”

  She wondered whether to say more. Vivian wasn’t keen on sharing her emotions with strangers—let alone enemies—but life was so uncertain that Javier might be the last person she’d tell this to. What if he threw her in jail after finding out her plan to take the merger away from him?

  “After a few years, my mom remarried. My stepfather was a nice man. She was petite, he was barely average height. I always felt different, being so tall like my biological father. I wanted to blend.” The throaty rasp in her voice gave away how distressing she still found the memory.

  “You thought shrinking your shoulders would help,” Javier said.

  “It’s not something I do consciously. I guess every time we were on family outings or when I looked at pictures of us, my biological father leaving me would be at the back of my mind. I was hurt by him never even wanting to get to know me. He never gave me a chance.”

  “Did you look for him as an adult?”

  She nodded. “After my mom and stepfather died, I looked. But he still didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  And she’d felt so guilty for looking after having promised her mother she wouldn’t. The whole thing had been a fiasco.

  Vivian closed her eyes, feeling the lump in her throat slowly dissolve. She didn’t know if her relief arose from sharing a crucial part of what made her what she was, or simply because she felt at ease telling him the truth.

  “Vivian.”

  Javier spoke gently, and as she opened her eyes, a hot tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it off with the back of her hand.

  Remember why you’re here. Remember.

  “It’s all right, really. My stepfather was a loving parent.”

  “Not everyone is that lucky,” Javier said.

  “You’re right.” She looked at his scar. “Did your mom know?”

  “She thought I was a difficult child. I grew up thinking he was my father, never understanding why he treated me like a second-class citizen.” There was a terrible sadness in his voice.

  “How did you find out he wasn’t your father?”

  “One day, I overheard a conversation between him and my mother, and it all made sense.” His fingers played with the rim of his coffee cup. His relaxed posture couldn’t conceal the pain she saw sparking in his eyes.

  “How long had he known it?”

  “He suspected it for a while, then pressured my mother for a paternity test when I was four.”

  “What about your biological father?”

  “My mother had an affair with a poor man, according to her. When she found out she was pregnant, she broke off the affair without telling him about the pregnancy. Instead, she used it as bait for her then-fiancé, my stepfather, to set the wedding date and marry her.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s just wrong.”

  “That’s life.” He shot her an unconvincing smile.

  “Did you ever look for your real father?”

  “Yes, but it was too late. He died as an ordinary man, without ever knowing he had a wealthy son.”

  “He would have liked to know he had a son, period.”

  “We’ll never know.” He shrugged.

  Without thinking, she moved her fingers over the table to cover his hand, but the waiter appeared with their orders, and she stopped herself.

  Javier sipped an espresso and ate a pastry, his fingers touching his jeans pocket from time to time as if he was waiting for his phone to ring.

  As if their conversation had never taken place.

  Chillness engulfed her. It was unsettling how he could switch from real person to distant businessman at the drop of a hat. She could tell he didn’t share that story with a lot of people. It was difficult for him to talk about his childhood. Being abused by his mother’s husband must have shaped him into the man he was today.

  And what kind of man is he?

  The more she knew about him, the more complicated everything became.

  “We have some time to kill,” Javier said with a breezy smile. “How about another first—we can visit an overcrowded landmark. The Eiffel Tower? Sacré-Coeur?”

  Vivian couldn’t help smiling. “How about the Louvre?”

  “The Louvre it is.”

  “Okay. Can we stop by a souvenir shop first?” He frowned, and she explained, “I’m entitled to have my ‘I Love Paris’ shirt.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t want any memory of being here against your will.”

  “A souvenir will make me appreciate life more once I’m back.”

  “There’s a store not too far from here.”

  “Good,” she said. They left the café and strolled along the pavement. Vivian spotted the bodyguard following them at a distance that was short enough for him to catch up quickly if he needed to, yet distant enough for them to forget about his presence—a reminder that although they had shared painful childhood memories, Javier still didn’t trust her on her own.

  And considering what she was about to do, that was probably wise.

  …

  “Which one do you like better?” Vivian feigned indecision and for
the third time showed Javier two very similar magnets.

  “This one.” He pointed at the left one, visibly annoyed. They were inside a crowded souvenir shop, and she was torturing him.

  “Really?” She looked at the one he’d picked and made a face. She was about to select a couple of other souvenirs when his phone rang.

  “I need to take this,” he said.

  “I need cash. You took my wallet.” He handed her a couple of large bills before moving a few feet away from her to take his call.

  With Javier busy on the phone she stood in line to pay, smiling to herself. There were a couple of tourists chatting happily in front of her, but if the cashier worked fast enough, she would get what she wanted. She randomly picked out a shirt, magnets, and some of the pens that overflowed from bins close to the register. What she needed most was displayed on the wall behind the counter.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw Javier focused on his call. The bodyguard was outside, his back turned to the window glass. “I’m going to need one of your prepaid mobiles,” she told the cashier. “Please be discreet and wrap it with the shirt.”

  The cashier retrieved a phone from behind him. “It comes with fifty minutes of prepaid talk time, and if you look inside, there’s a number.”

  “That’s fine. Just pack it up, okay? I’m in a hurry.”

  The cashier nodded. As he was placing the last items into a plastic bag, Javier returned.

  “Are you done?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “I have everything I need.”

  …

  As they stepped out of the souvenir shop, it began to rain.

  “We need a cab.” Javier stretched out his hand, and after a brief hesitation she accepted it.

  The traffic was chaotic. She didn’t see any available cabs, and soon thick raindrops replaced the initial drizzle. Pedestrians sought shelter inside cafés or headed toward their parked vehicles.

  Vivian blinked, glancing toward the unexpected dark cloud in an otherwise clear sky. Her white cashmere sweater clung to her like a second skin. She looked down at her soaked clothes, suppressing a chuckle. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten soaked in the rain. Her hardened nipples were visible through her white lace bra and dampened sweater. When she lifted her eyes, she found that Javier, too, was looking, and she felt a wave of heat flush her cheeks.

  With wet hair and raindrops rolling down his face, Javier looked undeniably male.

  “Venga.” He pulled her a couple of steps off the street, pressing her against a wall beneath a narrow, dripping awning.

  Vivian found herself sandwiched between damp, cold brick and Javier, who was not fully sheltered from the raindrops, though he didn’t seem to mind.

  A diabolical smile spread across his face, and a knot rose in her throat.

  His grin disappeared as he leaned down to touch his full lips to her parted mouth. As soon as the kiss began, his urgent, hot tongue intertwined with hers. An ache grew between her legs. She felt a hard bulge against her thigh. Their clothes became a loathsome nuisance.

  A current of need shook her from head to toe. Vivian moaned when he withdrew his lips from hers for a brief, painful moment. He murmured in coarse Spanish, and she imagined him making erotic promises of all the ardent things he wanted to do with her…for her…to her.

  With her pulse pounding, she nibbled on the sexiest male lips she’d ever tasted. She wondered, for a moment, how they would feel on her…

  And then, as suddenly as the summer storm, a faraway police siren broke the spell, and Vivian thought, I will regret this.

  Shaking her head, she attempted to move away from Javier, but her slight sway molded their bodies into a more perfect fit. She widened her eyes.

  “I—I can’t do this,” she gasped. “I have to get out of these clothes.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He rubbed his fingertip against her hard nipple, her thin, soaked clothing barely a barrier between his warm finger and the erect bud.

  “I mean I can’t do this. Us, being intimate. I have to go back to the hotel to change out of these wet clothes.”

  “Why can’t you?” he asked, without loosening his grip on her.

  She paused and then sighed. “Because it will only make what I have to do harder.” She pushed him away enough that she could think more clearly. “Because you slept with Molly, Javier.”

  “Several months ago, when you were not in the picture.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and sighed. “If she were alive today, I’m sure she would have moved on.”

  She couldn’t disagree. Molly had been too vibrant to suffer over any man for long.

  But wasn’t that the point? This man had made Molly suffer.

  He’d done worse than that. He’d ended her life.

  Maybe.

  “Stop thinking for a moment,” he said. “Let’s go to the hotel and have all the sex we need to get this out of our systems.”

  His words brought her back to reality.

  “Sex. Of course,” Vivian said, upset at the disappointment in her tone.

  If there were no Molly, no two-faced Javier, no kidnapping of her to Paris…if their surroundings were completely different and he was just a man and she was just a woman… Even then, this would never work.

  A cold chill rushed through her veins as he spoke softly. “I want you very much, Vivian. I know you feel the same.”

  She closed her eyes, massaging her temples. How could she deny it after practically mauling him in public? She glanced around, but they were alone. Well, not quite. The bodyguard still hovered at a safe distance.

  “Is it because of the circumstances?”

  “No. Even if things were different… I’m not like you, Javier. I’m not sophisticated, and I don’t have sex with people I barely know and move on.” She spoke with a quiet dignity. Damn him, it was hard enough moving away from him literally, to disentangle her limbs from his, to dismiss his kiss… She could not imagine how catastrophic it would be for any woman to climb out of his bed after a night of passionate lovemaking.

  I’ll never know. I won’t ever be that woman.

  “That’s how you see it.” He cursed in Spanish under his breath.

  “I can’t stop thinking. I’m sorry.”

  Stopping thinking is a luxury I can’t afford.

  “We’ll change our clothes at the hotel,” he said. “Separately.” She heard his frustration in the way he pronounced the word. “And then we’ll visit the Louvre.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  …

  They hailed a cab and returned to the hotel, and to her relief Javier didn’t make her feel awkward about what had occurred between them. Once alone in her room, Vivian tossed the plastic bag on the bed and got out of her wet clothes, changing quickly into a sand-colored wool dress.

  She set up the prepaid mobile and called the number on the piece of paper.

  “It’s Vivian,” she said when the other person picked up after the first ring.

  “I’m glad to hear your voice at last. What do you have for me?” Roger asked.

  “Yesterday, we went to Mr. Broussard’s charity fund-raiser. But I didn’t know who he was until the end. Mr. Broussard, that is.” Vivian cupped one hand over the mobile to keep the sound of her voice from carrying. “I was able to ask him to look into Molly’s death.”

  “Good girl. What else did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t have much time.” She looked at the door to make sure she was still alone.

  “Don’t back down, Vivian. Rivera got off easy, paying for Molly’s funeral expenses and walking away.” Roger’s tone was terse.

  “What do you mean? You told me her mother was stuck with the expenses.”

  “I thought so, too. But afterward I found out he paid for the funeral.”

  Something about that didn’t make sense. “Why would Javier pay for the funeral if he was trying to buy her silence? Why wouldn’t he offer her
a lot of money to keep her from causing a scandal?”

  “He probably fooled the poor woman somehow, got her to accept even less than she deserved. But since when is he ‘Javier’ to you?”

  “He isn’t.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I’ve confronted him about killing Molly, and he denied it. He didn’t deny that he slept with her or that he left her an angry voice mail.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “What if the investigator he hired had something to do with it?”

  “The investigator?” Roger laughed. “Vivian, don’t be ridiculous.” When he spoke again, his tone had sobered. “Don’t lose sight of what you’re there for. That’s not what Molly would have wanted.”

  The urge to reply burned at the tip of her tongue. Who has he to talk about what Molly would have wanted?

  “I’ll be in touch soon,” he said.

  Vivian ended the call. She’d barely had time to dry her hair when she heard the knock on her door. Javier appeared, looking as handsome as ever in dark trousers and a short-sleeved light gray polo shirt. Memories of his touch on her skin, his tongue in her mouth both troubled and exhilarated her.

  The heavy load of guilt kept her in check. She couldn’t allow herself to indulge her attraction to the man who may have taken her best friend’s life.

  She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t.

  …

  “You like museums?” Javier asked as they entered the European paintings department of the Louvre.

  “The Louvre isn’t a museum. It’s more like a parallel universe.” Vivian stared in awe at the masterpieces on the wall. This was heaven for anyone who enjoyed the arts, and in a different situation she would be much more at ease. But it was getting harder and harder to relax—or to pretend she wasn’t in utter turmoil inside—when he was around.

  “Beauty and brains. Why doesn’t the man you called from the restaurant see that?”

  She continued looking through the museum directory, her fingers playing with the flyer. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

  “What kind of man sends his lover off to the lion’s den?” When she raised her eyes to meet his, the little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. His gaze pinned hers, and she felt trapped.