BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense

by Nelle L’Amour

  CHAPTER 34

  Roman

  We get back to my atelier at some ungodly hour of the morning. Close to three a.m. After hours of extensive tests—X-rays, MRIs, and a CT scan—Sofi’s prognosis: she’s going to be okay. Bruised from head to toe, she suffered a mild concussion and a sprained ankle. Thank fuck, she didn’t have to stay overnight at the hospital for observation. I couldn’t wait to get out of the place. After my car crash, I spent a long, painful month in one and they creep me out. Plus, I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand for some young hunky doctor, or some horny old geezer for that matter, looking up her gown and poking around her body. That’s how possessive I’ve become of her. And protective.

  Something in me changed when I saw her lying at the bottom of the stairs, sprawled semi-conscious on the floor. A panic alarm sounded in my ears so loudly it was deafening. Worst-case scenario thoughts bombarded my head like missiles. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t talk. Maybe she was paralyzed. Or brain damaged in some horrific way. And when she lost consciousness, my mind jumped to the ultimate worst possibility—she was going to die. The thought of losing my precious butterfly put a knife in my heart so deep I coughed blood.

  Still lifeless in the ambulance, she was hooked up to monitors, her pale face covered with an oxygen mask and her head immobilized in a frightening neck brace. The half-hour drive to lower Manhattan’s Presbyterian Hospital was unbearable. As the siren tolled like a death knoll, battling the damn city traffic, I held Sofi’s limp hand, hoping for any sign. My chest throbbed as much as my head. I almost asked the paramedics for something to numb my pain. Quell my fear.

  I never left Sofi’s side as the medics rushed her into the emergency room, my hand gripping the gurney as I kept pace with their hell-bent speed. The wait in the trauma unit reception area while Sofi underwent testing was grueling. I had no idea what was going on and felt helpless and hopeless. With each passing second, I wanted to strangle someone for not giving me the slightest clue. Charge through the sterile halls until I found her and had answers. By the time they gave me the good news she was fine and would recover, I was too drained to do a happy dance. Having an aversion to hospitals, I just wanted to get the hell out of the joint and take my butterfly home.

  Loaded with painkillers and sedatives upon being discharged from the hospital and armed with a pair of crutches, my poor worn-out, battered butterfly instantly nodded off, her head falling against my chest during the cab ride back to my atelier. Quietly, I wrapped my arm around her and held her close to me. Warming her frail body with mine. Relishing the touch of her. So fucking grateful she was sharing the air I breathed. Her heart beating in time with mine. When we arrived at my place, I let her sleep and carried my light-as-a-feather sleeping beauty in my arms inside while the kind cab driver, whom I tipped generously, brought in her crutches.

  “How is she?” comes a soft, concerned voice. Madame DuBois, my ever faithful chief of staff, meets me at the entrance, locking the door behind me. Wearing a long white nightgown and holding a candle, she anxiously awaits for an answer.

  I let out the deep breath I’ve been holding in all night. A sigh of relief. “She’s going to be okay.” Explaining the extent of Sofi’s injuries, my voice sounds hoarse and weary. “She’s going to need a few days of bed rest.”

  “Thank God,” mutters Madame DuBois, tenderly brushing a wisp of hair off her angelic face. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes.” I gaze down at my butterfly. “I’m going to bring her upstairs to her room. Would you be kind enough to bring up her crutches and then get her out of her clothes and into her pajamas?”

  Madame DuBois nods. “Bien sûr.”

  God bless Madame DuBois. What would I do without her? She’s been with me through thick and thin. Life and death. Now, this.

  Ten minutes later, Sofi is sound asleep in her flannel butterfly pajamas, the fluffy duvet pulled up to her chest and her crutches stacked against the wall by her bed. There’s also a glass of water and some Advil on her nightstand. She doesn’t stir as I stare at her. For how long my good eye lingers, I cannot tell you. All I know is I can’t bring myself to leave her. The urge to crawl into bed with her and hold her in my arms consumes me.

  Standing at the doorway, Madame DuBois reels me in. “Monsieur, it’s late. You should get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

  I hear myself mumble something compliant, but still can’t tear myself away from Sofi after Madame DuBois patters back to her room. Bending over, I trace my forefinger along her slightly parted lips. Those exquisite, kissable lips. Like a magnet, she draws me closer, the orange blossom scent of her hair making me dizzy with desire. Unable to resist, my lips find hers and lightly touch down, their warmth filling every atom of my being. I force myself to pull away. Unable to leave her, I watch in awe as her lips curl into a smile and spill my name. So piously, so softly, it’s like she’s saying a prayer.

  I confess. Tonight I prayed. I prayed I wouldn’t lose my butterfly. Someone heard me. She’s made me believe there is hope for the flowers.

  Hope for me.

  CHAPTER 35

  Sofi

  Ugh! I feel like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer. Stretching, I groan. Every muscle and bone in my body aches, and I have a throbbing headache. Peeling one eye open after the other, I rub my head, discovering a sizeable bump on the back of my scalp. As I wince, vague memories from last night whirl in my head. I don’t remember much. I was bringing Roman up some coffee, and the next thing I knew, I was tumbling down the stairs, unable to break my fall. I heard Roman and then darkness fell. The rest is a blur . . . the hospital . . . lots of tests . . . beeping machines . . . the cab . . . my Roman . . . and then darkness claimed me again.

  Sunlight filters through the gap between my drapes and I squint, the action only making my head feel worse. It must be morning. I pull down the covers halfway and glance down. I’m in my pajamas and have no recollection of getting into them or getting into my bed for that matter. Slowly, I push myself to an upright position. It’s an effort and I groan again. My mouth is dry and I need to pee. Swinging my legs over the bed, I stand up and wince as my right foot hits the floor. I quickly reach for the edge of my night table so I don’t crumple from the pain. I glance down. My foot is wrapped in a thick Ace bandage and I can’t put pressure on it. I try to take another step, but it’s hopeless. Shit. I’m going to pee myself if I don’t get to the bathroom. Maybe I can hop there? Wishful thinking because I don’t have the stamina. Trying to figure out a strategy, my eyes circle the room and land on a pair of crutches leaning against the wall on the other side of my bed. Having no choice, I sit back down on the bed and scoot to the other side, holding up my bandaged foot. With my battered body, I’m in slow-mo and it takes me forever. I grab the crutches and hoist myself up. Never having used them before, I struggle to hop to the bathroom on one foot. I tune into the slow, rhythmic sound of my crutches clicking on the floor followed by my plodding footsteps.

  Twenty long minutes later, I’ve completed my morning bathroom routine and hop into a shower, keeping my injured foot elevated. The steamy hot spray soothes my horribly bruised body and I stay under the showerhead for a good half hour before hopping out. I dry myself off, put on my robe, and grab my crutches. After downing a couple of Advil, I hobble back to the toilet, where I plop down on the seat and re-bandage my foot, attempting to wrap the elastic bandage around my swollen, black-and-blue ankle in figure eights like it was. The bandage feels good and so does my ankle. And thanks to the shower, I feel renewed. My crutches beside me, I decide to test my ankle. To my great relief and surprise, I can put some weight on it. Screw the crutches. To be honest, they’re ridiculously hard to use and they kill my armpits. I abandon them. Leaving them behind.

  Ten minutes later, clad in a loose-fitting pink dress, my hair tied up in Roman’s butterfly scarf, I limp out of my room. Before I can take another agonizing step (I’ve overestimated how long I could last on my ankle), a gruff vo
ice calls out to me.

  “Sofi, what the fuck are you doing out of bed?”

  I spin around and flinch. At both the pain shooting up my ankle and the sight of the gorgeous clad-in-all-black man facing me. His brows are furrowed so deeply there’s a crease between them, and his lips are pulled tight.

  I flash a pained smile. “I’m going to work.”

  He takes angry steps toward me. “The hell you are!”

  “I’m perfectly fine. And I’ve got a gazillion butterflies that need to be painted.”

  Stifling a grimace, I stir, taking some pressure off my injured ankle. He looks down and then his good eye holds mine fiercely.

  “Where are your crutches?”

  Another quick smile. “I don’t need them. I can walk perfectly fine.”

  He looks at me sternly. “Go get them. Now.” Another one of his typical bossy orders.

  Make me, I silently say to myself like a defiant child.

  His expression grows sterner, more determined. “If you don’t get them, I’m going to be forced to carry you.”

  “Seriously, Roman?” With a roll of my eyes, I pivot on my foot and walk away, trying to walk as normally as possible when each and every step’s killing me. I feel his good eye pointed on my ass as he trails me. About to tread down the stairs, my right foot gives. I groan in pain and lose my balance. My heart skips a beat and I let out a shriek. Oh God! I’m going to fall down the stairs again! Stupid smart aleck me!

  Just as I feel myself lurching forward, two strong arms grasp my waist, and on my gasp, Roman sweeps me into his arms and cradles me against his chest. I have no choice but to wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and let him hold me. I gaze up at him, and his flame-blue eye burns a hole right through me. Though he looks exasperated, I’m convinced he’s holding back a coy smile. He lets out a resigned sigh.

  “Sofi, you’re so fucking stubborn.”

  I’m too caught up being so close to this man to admit I’m a pain in the ass. His woodsy lavender scent is making me dizzy.

  “When are you going to learn to listen to me?”

  I shrug. When are you going to ever kiss me?

  “Well, now you’re going to pay. I’m a man of my word. I will be carrying you all day.”

  Reality sets in. I quirk a questioning brow. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

  He smirks. “We’ll figure it out.”

  And with that, he carries me down the stairs. With ease. All confident. All smug.

  All man.

  I love every minute of it.

  Who am I kidding?

  I love every minute of him.

  I soon find out that Roman is indeed a man of his word. For the next three days, he transports me everywhere—morning, noon, and night. From the minute I rise to the minute I close my eyes. He carries me effortlessly, his arms so strong and his steps so sure. No ifs or buts about it. It feels so delicious, so safe and cozy to be cradled against his cashmere-shrouded torso I could almost fall asleep in his arms by the end of the day. He seems to love holding me as much as I love being held by him. With his heart beating against me, his breath mingling with mine, I feel like I’m an extension of him. And him, a part of me. Every night, I go to sleep blanketed in his intoxicating scent, his molecules imprinted on me. Dreaming of him until the beautiful reality of him materializes upon wakening.

  Every morning, he also expertly and lovingly re-bandages my ankle. Wrapping the elastic around it as if he’s draping couture fabric, making it feel so cocooned and secure. I’m almost sorry my ankle starts to heal. By the end of the week, I can walk on it with the aid of a single crutch. Fortunately, the sprain hasn’t stopped me from working. Not even a day. In fact, my immobility has kept me grounded and I paint more butterflies than usual, each one different, more exquisite than the one before. Each one awing Roman, Madame DuBois, and the Romanoffs. Patterns cut and the pieces pinned, Roman’s new collection is taking shape and it’s dazzling.

  By Sunday, I’ve developed cabin fever. Plus, all the detailed painting has made me bleary-eyed. Having been stuck inside Roman’s atelier since my accident, I persuade him to let me take a short walk outside. Mr. Overprotective insists on coming along. Fine. But as we’re about to leave, he gets a phone call from one of his overseas suppliers. This time a problem with the shipment of pearls he wants to use to adorn his new collection. Irritated, he paces the atelier. The second he doesn’t have his trained eye on me, I escape.

  God, it feels great to be outside. Invigorating! Free! Though the early June weather is way cooler than I anticipated. Wearing only a lightweight cardigan sweater, I shiver, and my ankle hurts sooner than expected. I’ve overestimated my recovery and physical ability. Clutching my crutch, I hobble around the corner to La Brioche. The café where Madame DuBois told me about Roman’s past. It’ll be a place to sit down and warm up. People-watch and chill. Though I’ve left my backpack with my credit card and phone at the atelier, I can still order something and put it on the House of Hurst account. Roman won’t mind, though I’m sure Kendra will question every penny spent.

  The small, charming café, as usual, is bustling, with chatty downtown shoppers seated among others silently working on their laptops. It never ceases to amaze me how many people no longer work in an office or from their homes in this social media–connected world. Scanning the interior, I find a vacant table for two in the corner and make my way to it. Perching my crutch against the wall behind me, I take a seat and my regular server, a tall exotic girl about my age, immediately comes up to me. With her waist-length ebony hair, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped toffee eyes, she’s as beautiful as her name: Kimana. She’s happy to see me. After inquiring about my injury, she takes my order. A café crème along with a plate of assorted macarons.

  She returns quickly with the coffee and colorful almond pastries. Mmm. They smell yummy. Eagerly, I lift the foamy cup of coffee to my lips and take a sip. The rich aromatic hot liquid trickles down my throat and instantly warms me. As I’m about to dip one of my macarons into the French brewed coffee, a too-familiar snarky voice drifts into my ears.

  “Boo-hoo. Well, if it isn’t the poor little wounded butterfly.”

  My eyes dart up, my nerve endings sizzle, and I clench my teeth. It’s Kendra . . . dressed to the nines in a creamy leather jacket, miniskirt, and ankle boots . . . and dangling one of her enormous designer bags.

  “Mind if I have a seat?”

  Without waiting for a response—Yes! Get your own table!—she lowers herself onto the bistro chair opposite mine. Not bothering to take off her jacket.

  Her steely blue eyes roam the café from corner to corner. Studying the chalkboard wall menu, she makes a face.

  “Don’t they serve alcohol here?”

  “Nope.”

  Kendra huffs. “How ridiculous!”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask after taking another fortifying sip of my coffee.

  She glowers at me. “Honestly, it’s more a question of what are you doing here.”

  Her contemptuous voice is a trigger. The memory of falling down the stairs sprints into my head. I jolt and almost spill my coffee. She was there. Her blouse open; her boobs hanging loose. She brushed right past me. Almost knocking me down. Or maybe she did. I can’t remember. She disappeared. Why didn’t she stop and help me? Was she drunk out of her mind? And yet another question taunts me: Why was she half-undressed and so disheveled?

  Cutting my ruminations short, my attentive server returns to our table and asks Kendra if she wants to order something. My unwanted companion dismissively shoos her away and refocuses her attention on me.

  “So, Sofi.” She laughs at the alliteration before continuing. “We should have a little tête-à-tête while I’m here. You know, a girl-to-girl talk.”

  My muscles tense. This vile woman is the last person on earth I want to chat with. Her disdain for me is palpable. Despite my urge to bolt from the table, I stay. Maybe, she can shed more light on what ha
ppened the night of my fall. Explain what she was doing there, though I’m not sure I want to find out. Reflecting on how little I know about her, I take another sip of my café crème.

  My decision to hear her out is a big mistake. Her next statement hits me like a brick to my chest.

  “So, how does it feel to be Roman’s latest whore?”

  I choke on my coffee and gulp down the hot mouthful before it shoots out. “Excuse me?”

  Kendra snickers. “Your kind is a dime a dozen. He has a pattern. Hump them and dump them.”

  Setting my coffee cup down, I chew my bottom lip so as not to tell her I’ve never slept with Roman. Though I’ve fantasized about it countless times. It would just arm her with more information she could use against me.

  “You’ve only lasted this long because he’s paid you a ridiculous amount of money he had no right doing without my approval. You think you’re his muse? Ha! Concubine is more like it! His personal cocksucker!”

  My blood bubbling, I can feel my cheeks flaming with mortification. I ball my fists before I fling the remains of my coffee at her and leap out of my seat.

  Her poisonous eyes stay on me. “He’s already told me you’ll be gone way before his new collection is done. Haven’t you noticed how short his attention span is?”

  Breathing in and out of my nose, my blood still simmering, I say nothing.

  “Do you want to see a copy of your termination notice?”

  Termination notice? What!? My chest tightens as I struggle to swallow past the painful lump in my throat. Then, my initial shock gives way to boldness. I feel a fire light behind my eyes.

  “I don’t believe you! Roman needs me!” My father always told me actions speak louder than words, and I know deep inside my heart that Roman is grateful for all I’ve done for him. He even let me be there for him at his darkest time.

  Kendra smirks. “Then believe this.”