‘I told you what she’s like,’ he says.
We both laugh.
The pizza is beautifully simple and delicious. Once Shane has paid our bill, we walk out and start walking uphill. It is hot, and the hill is steep, but we get to the top. We stand outside the majestic old church, Notre-Dame d’Espérance, and look down at the stunning view over the bay.
‘Want to go into the church?’ Shane asks.
‘OK.’
We pass through the old doors, and inside it feels like we have entered a different world. Even the air is cold enough to make me shiver. The stone walls give the impression of damp chill, and the air is hushed and still. Our footsteps echo. Afternoon sunlight falls dustily from high stained-glass windows into the dim interior and lays in milky shapes of color on the floor. It is deserted except for a woman with a black shawl on her head, bowed in prayer in one of the front pews. She does not turn to look at us. I look at the vast, high-ceilinged space in awe.
‘Vellichor much?’ Shane whispers next to me.
I glance up at him. ‘No, I love it. This is far better than any used bookshop.’
He looks at me strangely. ‘Are you messing with me?’
‘No, I’m serious. Ever since this place was built, people have been coming here bringing all their pain, sadness, hopes, gratitude, and joy. The stones have absorbed it. Hundreds of years of human emotion. Can you not feel it?’
He stands very still for a few moments, then looks down at me. ‘Nope.’
‘Shame,’ I whisper, and move forward.
He follows me. ‘Have you never been to a church before?’
‘No. My mother is a non-practicing Christian so she never took us to church. However, I begged and harassed my nanny until she gave in and took me to the temple with her in secret.’
‘How old were you then?’
‘My first trip was when I was five.’
‘Are you a Hindu then?’
‘No. As a child I didn’t go to the temple to pray. I just loved my nanny so much, I couldn’t bear to be parted from her for any length of time. Plus, I enjoyed the trip because it was colorful and the priest allowed me to ring the bell.’
We find ourselves at a side altar with burning candles, and Shane turns to me. ‘Do you want to light a candle?’
‘What does it signify?’
‘It’s a symbol of your prayer that carries on burning even after you are gone.’
I remember Chitra lighting oil lamps and asking her why she was lighting them, and I still recall her answer. Sweet Chitra. I miss her so. ‘It is a way of asking for something from God. The fire lifts your prayer up to God,’ she said.
I look up at Shane. ‘Yes, I’d like to leave a prayer here.’
He drops a note into the donation box slot and takes two candles out. He passes one to me, and we stand side by side and light our candles solemnly. I watch Shane place his in its holder, and I close my eyes and pray. I pray like I’ve never prayed. I pray to any god, Hindu or Christian, who will listen. I ask the stones to absorb my prayer and keep it safe after I am gone and even when the candle burns out. I pray for a bright, silent intercession from the heavens that my actions harm neither Lenny nor Shane.
I open my eyes and see another candle about to sputter out. It seems to grasp desperately for its last breaths of life. I cannot watch it die. I look up at Shane. He is watching me avidly. ‘Can we buy another candle?’
His eyebrows rise, but he puts another note into the box and takes another candle out and gives it to me. I light the candle using the fire of the prayer that is about to sputter out, and plant it next to it. I watch the new flame take over and then I turn to Shane and smile. ‘Shall we go?’
We go out into the afternoon air. It is warm and full of the smell of the sea.
‘Feel like an ice cream?’ he asks.
‘Lead the way, sir.’
‘Step this way, madam, for the best ice cream ever,’ he says when we reach a sweet little shop with a green and yellow signboard and cast iron metal tables and chairs outside. There is a bell at the door that chimes prettily when we enter the shop. It is obviously a mom and pop business. The ice cream counter curves around the entire shop in the shape of a U. A man with a walrus mustache is standing behind it. He knows Shane, and talks to him in French.
‘You can have as many flavors as you want in a cone,’ Shane tells me.
There are so many unusual flavors it is difficult to choose, but in the end I decide on four different types of chocolate: Ecuadorean dark chocolate, Mexican chocolate with cinnamon, Rocky Road, and white chocolate with ginger. Shane has salted Turkish pistachio, grape nut and black raspberry. Shane pays for our ice creams, the man gives us napkins, and we carry our treasures out into the sunshine to sit at one of the tables outside. I carefully lick the white chocolate ginger bit first. It is delicious.
‘Good?’ he asks.
‘Very,’ I say looking up at him through my lashes.
‘Are you flirting with me, little rabbit?’ he asks, his lips covered in ice cream.
I remember how they felt and tasted last night, and feel a rush of something through my body—what, I do not know, but it is exciting. I like that about him. The way he makes me feel so alive. ‘Maybe,’ I say boldly.
His grin is wolfish, his eyes full of light. ‘Works every time,’ he says.
‘What?’
He takes a lick of his ice cream. ‘Feed a girl ice cream and she gets an appetite for love.’
‘I said maybe,’ I remind pointedly.
He chuckles and looks at me with lazy eyes, his whole body relaxed. ‘Maybe, definitely, what’s the difference?’
The sun is warm on my skin, I am with the most dazzling man on earth, and suddenly I feel bold. I lean forward and lick his ice cream. ‘This is maybe,’ I say softly. Then I stretch forward and, going close to his face, lick his lips. ‘And this is definitely.’ I lean back and try to look nonchalant. ‘See the difference now?’
Something flashes in his eyes. Suddenly he doesn’t seem so tame and friendly anymore. It’s like waking a sleeping tiger; I can’t tear my eyes away from him.
He smiles slowly, invitingly. ‘I’m a bit of a slow learner. Would you mind if I run through that again?’ he asks.
My heart begins to race. I can’t believe I started this. What on earth was I thinking of? And yet, I can’t back off now. ‘No,’ I say huskily.
‘So this, then, is maybe,’ he says, and, bending down, kisses me, his lips gentle, but persuasive and insistent.
I try to keep my head, I really do, but, by God, the blood is drumming in my ears and all kinds of winged insects are fluttering in my stomach. The man can really kiss! He lifts his head. I gape at him stupidly. His eyes are heavy-lidded.
‘Now, let’s try definitely.’
He takes my lips again, but this time his mouth is more sensuous, more—far more seductive, urging mine to open. His tongue slips in. Waves of dangerous pleasure sweep through my body and stir my blood awake. I begin to respond to him. Oh God! I think dazedly, my whole body feeling like it is blazing with need. I want him inside me!
He ends the kiss, and I feel his face move away from me.
‘I think I got the difference now,’ he drawls, his eyes languorous.
His hand reaches out and straightens mine so my ice cream cone is no longer tilted at an almost horizontal angle. I look at my hand as if it is separate from me. There is a puddle of melted ice cream on the sidewalk. I turn back to face him. His face is deliberately neutral. He stretches like a sun-warmed cat.
‘We should be getting back,’ he says, and stands.
We walk down the hill in a kind of pregnant, expectant silence. Neither acknowledges it, but both of us know. This is just the beginning. There is no denying this thing burning between us.
Monsieur Chevalier is leaning against an old wall, smoking a cigarette and waiting for us. He drives us back to Saumur in good spirits. The men talk in their own way with hand gestures and half-under
stood French, and I hang my head out of the car and breathe in the scent of France.
Who knows if I will ever come back here again?
Fourteen
SNOW
We agree to meet in the great Salon at seven. I have an hour to soak in the bath and dress. I get into a two-piece dark grey cocktail dress. It has a high scoop neckline with cut-in shoulders. The crop top is encrusted with floral beading with a keyhole opening at the back and a scalloped trim along the midriff. The short flaring skirt is layered with organza fabric and stops just below the knee. I slip into beaded high heels and pull my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. I line my eyes, brush the mascara wand a couple of times over my eyelashes and color my lips a deep red.
The effect is sophisticated and sleek.
Feeling nervous and excited I go down to the salon. Shane is already there. He must have heard my footsteps on the marble floors because he is standing by the window, a glass of some amber liquid in his hand, looking at the entrance. I stand at the doorway for a second. Both of us drink in the sight of the other. This is the first time I have seen him dress up and he is, well, there is no other way to describe it, breathtakingly, extraordinarily handsome.
‘Will you walk into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly,’ he says.
‘Oh no, no, said the little Fly, ‘for I’ve often heard it said, they never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!’
He walks up to me. ‘I promise I’ll eat you and you’ll live to see the day,’ he murmurs, his breath whispering into me.
I find myself blushing. He touches my cheek and my throat feels suddenly parched.
‘What will you have to drink, pretty little fly? Vodka and Orange?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll have a glass of wine.’
‘We’re having a Beaujolais with our starter. Want a glass of that? Or would you prefer champagne?’
‘The Beaujolais sounds lovely.’
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he says and disappears out of the room. I walk to the window he had been standing at and look out. It faces the side I have not explored. An open meadow borders a forest. I wonder if that is where the wild boars live.
I hear him come up to me and I turn around to face him. He holds out my drink.
‘Thank you,’ I say softly.
He lifts his glass. ‘Here’s to the fireflies.’
I lift mine. ‘The fireflies,’ I repeat, looking into his eyes and knowing that we are not drinking to the fireflies.
First course is Madam’s famous Soupe à l’Oignon Gratinée made to a century’s old recipe. As the dish with a thick golden crust is put in front of me, Shane explains the laborious technique that Madam used to make it.
‘Baguette toasts, half an inch thick, are spread with butter and layered with grated Emmental cheese, sautéed yellow onions, and tomato purée. Over this construct she gently pours salted water. The dish is then simmered for thirty minutes and baked uncovered for an hour at 350 degrees.’
‘No wonder it looks almost like a cake,’ I say.
‘Bon appétit,’ he says.
‘Bon appétit,’ I reply and dip my spoon into it. The inside is so thick and thoroughly amalgamated it is impossible to discern the cheese from the onion or the bread. I put it into my mouth and catch Shane looking at me.
He raises his eyebrows and waits for my verdict.
I exhale and widen my eyes. ‘It’s to die for.’
He grins, happy, wholesome, irresistible. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’
When the soup bowls are cleared away, Madam serves pineapple tartare, finely diced raw pineapple mixed with salt and a hint of chili. It is the perfect palate cleanser after the richness of the starter.
Outside it gets dark and Madam lights candles. I notice that no lights have been turned on anywhere in the house.
‘Is there no electricity this evening?’ I ask.
‘Lights affect the fireflies. It interferes with their mating process so we keep it to a minimum during this season.’
In the flickering candlelight the dressed up Shane seems like the perfect host, sophisticated, charming, and urbane. A beast that can only be admired from afar. I almost wish for the Shane in the T-shirt and jeans that was just good fun.
A spruced up Monsieur Chauband wheels in the main course. ‘Gigot d’Agneau Pleureur,’ he announces proudly.
‘It translates as a crying lamb gigot because the meat is cooked in an oven, slowly, on a grill, with sebago potatoes and vegetables placed on a rack underneath it. The meat’s juices, the tears, fall on the vegetables and cook them,’ Shane explains.
I bite into a piece of meat and it is tender and succulent.
‘Tell me about your father. You never talk about him,’ Shane invites as he pours red wine into fresh glasses from a bottle of Merlot that Monsieur brought in.
I pick up my glass and take a sip. The wine is robust and fragrant. ‘I told you a lot about my family and my childhood, but you told me nothing about your family or your childhood. What was it like being from two different types of gypsies?’
He spears a capsicum on his fork. ‘I actually know very little about my Romany heritage. My mother doesn’t speak much about her family. All I know is when she fell in love with my father, she had to elope because my grandfather was so furious with her. Not only had she chosen someone outside the clan, but she had chosen a well known gambler. On the day she got married he disowned her. She could never again go to see her family. Even when her sister died a few years ago her family were forbidden to tell her.’ A shadow of sadness crosses his face. ‘I know my mother misses her family very much, but there is nothing anyone can do while he is still alive.’
‘That’s so vindictive. Didn’t you say your father has already passed away?’
‘My father was murdered, Snow.’
My eyes widen in shock. ‘Your father was murdered? How horrible!’
His face tightens with an old anger that cannot be forgotten. ‘Yes, he made the stupid mistake of stealing from his boss. Unfortunately he was not just any boss, but a mean gangster. So Jake, being the oldest, was forced to go and work for the man who slit our father’s throat from ear to ear, and pay off the debt.’
‘Oh my God,’ I gasp.
‘Yes, it was a very traumatic time for us, our family fell apart after my father’s death. For a very long time Jake was lost to us. He put food on the table and paid all our bills, but everyday he became colder and more unreachable. I think he hated himself and what he was being forced to do. My poor mother used to cry at night when she thought no one could hear, and my brother Dom became an angry rebellious stranger. Only my sister Layla, because she was so young, remained mostly unaffected by our tragedy.
He pauses and takes a sip of wine.
‘Then one day for no reason, Dom turned over a new leaf and that made my mother a bit happier, but things really turned for the better when Jake was nineteen. That was when he fought back and took over the organization. Once he had done that he streamlined everything, moved away from all the illegal aspects of the business, and concentrated all his attention on gambling dens and strip clubs. He started to make a lot of money, and I mean really a lot.’ He pauses and smiles, a clean, gorgeous, heart-throbbing smile. ‘That’s when he got both Dom and me in to act.’
‘So you got into strip clubs and gambling dens too?’
‘Not gambling dens. Not even Jake does that anymore. Our family invests mostly in property and aspects of the entertainment sector: restaurants, gentlemen’s clubs, and normal clubs.’
‘Hmmm … so you must meet a lot of beautiful girls.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he says with a cheeky grin. ‘But when you own a candy store you don’t actually eat all the sweets in it.’
‘This reminds me of a joke,’ I say so lightly, it trips off my tongue.
‘Yeah?’
‘A woman treats her husband to a strip club on his birthday. At the club the doorman says, “Hey, Jim. How are you?�
� The wife looks at Jim and asks, “How does he know you?” “I play football with him,” he tells her. Inside the bartender asks, “The usual, Jim?” Jim turns to his wife, “Before you say anything, dear, he’s on the darts team.” Next a stripper comes up to them and touching herself sexily says, “Hi, Jim. Do you want your special again?” In a fit of rage the wife storms out dragging Jim with her and jumps into a taxi. And the taxi driver says, “What’s up with you, Jimmy Boy? You picked up an ugly one this time.” Jim’s wife gave him a very nice funeral though.
Shane throws his head back and laughs and I do too, a little, but when the laughter dies down, he looks at me teasingly. ‘You won’t have to give a nice funeral, Snow.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not holding it against you, but I could tell the moment I laid eyes on you that you’re a playboy.’
He fixes his gaze on me. ‘I’m not going to pretend I’m some saint. I’m a man and I have needs, and sure, there are always women willing to satisfy them, but I happen to want you.’
‘So that’s what I’ve become. Part of the horde of women always willing to satisfy your needs.’
He stares at me curiously. ‘Don’t you think we’d be real good together?’
‘I have not thought about it,’ I lie.
‘I think we’d be earth-shatteringly good together,’ he says softly.
My heart thumps in my chest.
‘You know you want me too.’
I open my mouth to protest and he raises his hand. ‘There’s no reason to be ashamed of your body’s urges, Snow. When you’re ninety you’re never going to think oh hell, I wish I hadn’t slept with that Shane guy. You’re going to regret every opportunity you didn’t take.’
‘So sex with you has become an opportunity, has it?’ I scoff.
‘Don’t knock it until you try it, sweetheart.’
‘Just because you’re handsome—’
‘First I’m sexy, now I’m handsome too …’ he says, a playful glint in his eye.
‘In an obvious playboy sort of way, of course,’ I say.
‘Of course. What other way is there?’ he drawls.
Before I can respond, Madam Chaumbond appears at the door, her demeanor, formal. ‘Etait-il bon?’ she asks, her voice carrying over the vast space.
You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1) Page 24