Beautiful Secret

by Dana Faletti

  “Suri, we’re not related by blood. He’s the stepson of my first cousin, once removed.” Tate examined her face in the mirror above the heavy armoire. The exquisite detail of the furniture in the bedroom suddenly caught her attention. Each piece was etched with leafy vines and flowers that looked like hibiscus. Whoever had hand-carved the set was an incredibly talented artist. Turning her attention back to her conversation with Suri, Tate cleared her throat. “It’s not that weird, is it?” She switched the phone to her left hand and dug inside her make-up bag for mascara.

  Suri was quiet.

  “Go ahead, Suri, you can say what you think.” Tate swallowed the sour taste of deviance that sat on her tongue and closed her eyes, wanting to hide even from her own reflection. Here she was, a married thirty-three-year-old woman, acting like a lovestruck teen. Granted, her philandering husband may not be worth fidelity, but still…Michel was technically family. Zia Luisa and Zio Nino treated him like a grandson, blood or not.

  Her second cousin by marriage, though. And, being that they’d never met before this trip, he certainly didn’t feel like family.

  Rolling her eyes at the sketchy string of rationalizations that lit up like neon signs in her mind, Tate glanced at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes until she was supposed to be dressed and ready to leave for Chanson’s party. Not that punctuality was a virtue here; Colette was never on time. She could afford a few more minutes of sorely needed girl gab. But Suri was quiet on the line. For once.

  “I just feel a connection to him, Suri, that’s all. And the weird thing is that I felt it the literal minute we met.” Tate’s breath came more quickly as she recalled that first palpable moment when Michel’s eyes met hers, the heaviness of space inside that crack of time before she choked on a combination of wine, shock, and animal magnetism. “It’s like there’s some strange invisible cord between us, like it’s always been there.”

  “So,” Suri said finally, releasing a sigh of what sounded to Tate like resignation. “Deep blue eyes, dusty blond hair—you’ve always liked dudes with long hair, Tate.”

  Tate smiled. “Michel’s is wavy, chin-length, sexy.” Her stomach tightened, thinking of the way those damp curls had slid across his forehead and over his eyes the day before. “But it’s not really his look that gets me, Sur.”

  “So, you’re saying he’s not hot?” Suri goaded her.

  “That’s not what I said,” Tate replied. But she would never describe Michel as simply hot. His rugged sensuality assaulted her senses when they were together; his eyes, his broad chest, the even honesty of his stance. She was captivated by every aspect of Michel and couldn’t deny the fact that her attraction was intensely physical. His great callused hands, whether they were steadying her during a coughing fit or brushing the skin of her cheek, sent quivers across her flesh. “I don’t think there’s a one-word description for Michel, Suri.”

  “Well, you two must be in sync with each other if he has you talking deep. I’m a little jealous that you opened up to him. And surprised you talked to him about Nathan,” Suri said, a bitterness ringing in her tone at the mention of Tate’s spouse. “You’re usually not so frank.”

  “I know,” Tate said. “I can’t believe it either.” Yesterday, on the banks of the Meuse, Michel had cracked her shell and gently eased the story from her. It had been as comfortable and easy talking to Michel as it was talking to Suri right now.

  Maybe even easier.

  “I felt lighter afterward, Suri. I totally exposed myself, but I felt safe with him,” Tate said, thinking of how Michel had said so little as she’d talked. He’d covered her hand with his own, caught her tears with his thumb when they rolled from her eyes.

  And after she’d relived the nightmare of her marriage, interwoven with the horror story of losing her parents, he’d stayed quiet. Didn’t try to offer condolences or say he’d pray for her strength. God, she hated when people said that. He’d pulled her to him and set his moist lips on her forehead. It wasn’t a kiss; it was more of a promise. And, as she’d felt him inhaling the last of her secrets, she’d known she could trust him, that he wouldn’t betray her truths.

  “I don’t know, Suri. Maybe it’s just being over here, away from everyone who knows me and my sad story.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice on the words.

  “Maybe being a stranger to most just makes it easier to talk about the hard things,” Suri said.

  “But maybe not,” Tate whispered back, daring to speak the words that were hidden in her heart. “Maybe there really is a deep connection between Michel and me. Deeper than just surface attraction.”

  Silence blared across the airwaves for longer than a second until Suri broke it.

  “Look, Tate,” Suri said. “As long as it’s just flirtation, what’s the harm?”

  Yes, but, what if it wasn’t just flirtation?

  What would Suri say if she knew Tate could drown in Michel’s blue eyes, that she didn’t feel the need for oxygen when she was with him?

  What if Tate admitted that sometimes she got so totally caught up in the music of his voice, she forgot herself at the sound?

  She decided not to voice these thoughts.

  “It’s innocent enough, I guess,” she said into the phone, even as her own dark eyes stared back from her reflection, reminding her what a bad liar she was.

  Tate brushed on a bronzy blush that accentuated her high cheekbones and smoke-lined eyes, thinking about the accusing wild boar statue upstairs and how the word yet seemed to be an inevitable end to so many of her thoughts.

  “Good,” Suri said and then spat out a string of expletives worthy of an army sergeant with major PMS. “Goddamn teenage drivers. Little dumbass pulled right out in front of me. And she’s texting, of course.”

  “You text and drive, Suri,” Tate told her.

  “I’m old enough to text and drive!” Suri yelled. “And don’t change the subject, Tate. I was about to say that I think it’s perfectly fine to have a good time with your Frenchy. And it’s probably natural to feel the way you do. Lots of people have hot cousins.” Suri paused. “Probably.”

  “I’m not blood related to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you said that already,” Suri interrupted. “What I’m telling you is to use this experience to your advantage. Maybe a little fantasy fling with Michel will restart your battery. Teach you how to flirt again. Loosen you up.” She released a long sigh. “I’m not telling you to have the fling, Tate. Just to entertain the fantasy. Don’t cross the line, though.”

  “Yeah,” Tate said, although she seriously doubted her ability to interpret the hazy line that may or may not exist between Michel and herself.

  “So, what are you wearing to the birthday bash?” Suri asked.

  “That red dress we found at Kindred Spirits,” Tate told her friend, and smiled at her recollection of the day they’d shopped together at the chic, trendy resale shop. “You remember the one?”

  “Jesus, Tate, he’s not going to be able to keep his eyes off of you in that dress,” Suri said. “You’d better wear a sign that says ‘Enjoy the view, but keep your hands to yourself.’”

  “It’s not that sexy,” Tate said, but she knew she looked attractive in the dress.

  “Come on, Tate,” Suri teased.

  “Well, I don’t have anything else to wear, so it is what it is,” she said to Suri, noticing how the silky material swished subtly at the sway of her hips. The halter neckline plunged just deeply enough into Tate’s wealth of curves, making her feel feminine but not provocative. Tossing long, soft curls behind her shoulder, Tate realized she felt prettier than she had in a long time. She slipped her feet into strappy black sandals and checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

  “It looks fine, Suri,” she said, admitting only to herself that it looked maybe a smidge better than fine. “A little short, but it’ll do.” Her tight calf muscles looked great, even though they were still screaming at her for putting them through
that sadistic uphill trek earlier.

  “Well, friend, I sincerely hope you have an interesting night,” Suri said. “And make sure you write down every single detail in that journal I gave you. I want every speck of dirt, okay?”

  Tate laughed and smudged some gloss over her plum-colored lips. “Even if it’s super dirty?” She teased back.

  “Oh, especially then. The filthier the better.”

  “Okay, Suri. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  Tate pushed the end button on her phone. Even though she did push Tate into uncomfortable territory at times, Suri was such a breath of fresh air. While Tate was surrounded by all things foreign and unexpected in France, Suri provided a comfortable anchor to reality.

  Placing the phone down on the heavy dresser, Tate considered leaving it there. It wasn’t like Nathan was going to call her over here.

  She sat down on the four-poster bed, at once halted by her thoughts.

  Funny, Suri hadn’t once protested against Tate’s “fantasy fling,” as she’d called it, on the basis of Tate’s marriage. Funny, but not really surprising. If Suri disliked anyone, it was Tate’s husband. It was a miracle their friendship had survived the numerous attacks Suri had made on Nathan both before and after the wedding. Suri had always sworn he would hurt Tate.

  And even though she’d been dead-on in her estimation of Nathan, Suri had never once said “I told you so.” Even after Tate had landed on Suri’s doorstep, frazzled and tear-soaked, clutching the credit card bill that sealed Tate’s suspicion of the other women crowding her conjugal bed, Suri had opened her arms and gathered Tate in, naïvely trampled heart and all.

  So, as much as Suri might shake a finger at her for having a crush on Michel, Tate was sure that was where the judgment would cease. Tate knew her friend would no more lecture her about cheating on her husband than she would advise her to wear a pair of skinny jeans, which, in Suri’s opinion, looked bad on just about everyone.

  Tate smiled to herself, relishing the feel of having a friend who knew her so intimately and accepted her despite their stark differences in personality. Suri was the sunshine that broke through Tate’s heavy clouds, shining color into the overcast gray that was often the backdrop of her days.

  Taking one last look at her reflection in the mirror, Tate grabbed her phone and tossed it into her clutch, wondering why the hell she’d splurged on the unlimited plan. She might as well bring it with her. Maybe she’d text Suri for a pep talk if she was too tempted to cross a line she shouldn’t.

  Then again, she thought, maybe she’d just bask in the blur.

  * * *

  “We go to Haybes now, Tatiana,” Colette said, as she scanned the kitchen for her keys, acting less worried than Tate imagined she herself would have been. They were already leaving late, and the party was supposed to be starting in half an hour.

  “Oh, putain,” Colette cursed in French, standing still and running a hand through her still-messy hair. Although the woman had applied makeup and was dressed in a handsome black pantsuit with a chic gray vest, her hair looked like she’d just rolled out of bed.

  Maybe it was a style statement, Tate thought, catching a glimmer of brass from under one of the kitchen chairs.

  “I found them!” Tate exclaimed, snatching the set of car keys from the tile floor.

  “Brava, Tatiana,” Zio said, clapping his hands once and heading for the door to the garage. Zia followed him. Tate noticed she was limping.

  “Very good, cousin. We go?” Colette held the door for Tate, then stomped her foot, turning back toward the stairwell. “Merde. I am forgetting my purse. Go ahead to the Mercedes, Tatiana. I arrive in just one minute.”

  Tate was curious about Zia’s left leg but didn’t want to ask her in the car in front of Zio. Instead, she told her aunt how pretty she looked in the pale blue silk dress she had chosen for the party. Unlike Colette, Zia had gone to the salon that afternoon, and her hair was styled neatly with wisps of curl framing her face.

  “Merci, Tatiana,” Zia thanked her for the compliment. “J’aime bien ton robe rouge.”

  She liked Tate’s red dress? She mustn’t find it too over-the-top sexy, then. Take that, Suri.

  “Thanks, Zia.” Tate smiled warmly at the woman who she was coming to love like a second grandmother.

  “Me, too,” Michel said, surprising Tate by sliding into the backseat next to her, sandwiching her between Zia and himself.

  What the hell was he doing, riding with them?

  “I, too, like your red dress, cousine.” He grinned at her and placed a warm hand on her bare knee.

  Why wasn’t he driving himself to the party, and what was he doing squeezing the sensitive skin on her lower thigh?

  Holy hell, was it hot in this car.

  She might pass out before they even made it to the party at Haybes. A sheen of sweat rose on the back of her neck as she tried to breathe slowly, inhaling the musky scent that was him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Suri’s voice was saying something about boundaries, urging her to scoot closer to her aunt in the backseat.

  Ignoring Suri, she turned her body to face Michel and looked him full in the face.

  His eyes narrowed, hinting that a seriousness might be hiding beneath his playful smile. Leaning into Tate, he brought his lips to her ear and spoke softly in that throaty voice that made her back arch and her lips fall open. “You look very pretty in red, cousine. I like this color against your skin.”

  What did he just say? Against her skin? She shuddered, imagining the dewy shadow his warm breath had left on the nape of her neck. Dizzy with need, she fought against the urge to close her eyes.

  “Thanks,” she told him, swallowing the saliva that was pooling at the edge of her lips. She leaned back from his unshaven face, if only to get a good look at his thick, full mouth.

  His hand inched, nonchalantly, just a hair further up her leg, then closed around it as if he were staking claim to it. She could feel his fingernails tickling the sensitive area behind her knee, and her breath caught. As rivers of current snaked their way up Tate’s legs, heating and charging her to the core, she almost lost herself in the moment.

  Until Colette, purse in hand, hopped into the car and pulled the door closed behind her.

  “Okay,” Colette said, turning the key in the ignition. “Now, we go to Haybes.”

  She revved the engine and backed quickly out of the driveway, swerving in reverse then gunning forward. The force slammed Tate sideways into Michel, who wasted no time taking his hand from her leg and placing it solidly around her shoulders, sweeping her body protectively into his own.

  And there go the lines, Tate thought. Right out the window of the Mercedes, and we haven’t even left town yet.

  Zia let out a hearty giggle and gave her niece a perceptive once-over. Tate sucked in her cheeks in and tried to smile at Zia, feigned cheerfulness fading from her eyes as they wandered brazenly to the callused hand clutching her arm.

  Surrendering to heat and circumstance, Tate melted into him.

  Chapter 12

  Tate

  It was the dancing that freed her. The way she let her hips twist and slide over his, laughing away all inhibitions.

  Spinning in his arms, the crimson tide of her dress splashing at her legs, joy lapping at her feet and spraying her all over.

  Italian polkas playing and replaying.

  Being passed from one arm to the next but always landing in his when the music stopped.

  Giddy from motion and buzzed on denial, Tate kept reminding herself how innocent all of this was. It was just dancing. The bounce of the music affirmed and exonerated her until it slowed and Michel’s arms rested on her waist, his eyes probing inside hers.

  “Tatiana, you like dancing?” he asked her.

  “Not usually.” She really wasn’t one to cut loose on the dance floor on a regular basis. Whatever had gotten into her tonight—too much champagne, not enough food—she’d found her groove.

&n
bsp; “Tonight, you like dancing,” he said, leaning his face into the crook of her neck and inhaling deeply.

  Jesus.

  Didn’t he realize they were in a room full of people, including his parents and grandparents? Her great-aunt and great-uncle? She recalled the knowing look Zia had shot her in the car earlier, her aunt’s lips upturned at the corners as Tate had tried to act like it was perfectly normal to be wrapped into Michel in the backseat. Just like it was perfectly normal now for Michel’s mouth to be slightly open, his teeth grazing her shoulder just enough to raise the tiny hairs along her spine. She winced, edging back an inch, fighting the urge to lean into him.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner, Tatiana?” he asked, seeming to sense her need for a neutral subject.

  “I did,” she told him. “I was afraid to try it, but it was delicious.”

  When she’d read the menu, seared foie gras in a tart cherry sauce, she thought she’d rather starve than eat goose liver. But when dinner had arrived, it had smelled heavenly, and she’d dared to take a taste. The deep burgundy sweetness of the cherries paired with the delicate, velvety meat created a rich flavor that was like luxury on her tongue. She’d found herself using warm, crusty hunks of French baguette to sop up every last morsel of the delicacy from her plate, washing it down with bubbly champagne.

  “You never before tried foie gras?”

  “No,” Tate told him, swaying to the slow French folk song that sounded somehow familiar. “It’s not commonly served in America.”

  “Ah,” he said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “It is good to try new things, no?”

  Again, Tate felt hot moisture fill her mouth, goosebumps creep along her arms. “Uh-huh,” she said, trying really hard to think of French food instead of Michel’s lips.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her, his blue eyes calm but serious.

  “I’m just a little hot, that’s all.” Understatement of the century right there.