A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  Alone? Yes, very alone. “No, not for a long time.” I was about to list all the valid reasons for choosing to be alone––fear of getting arrested and deported being the most significant––when something entirely different came out of my mouth. “I guess I’m alone because I haven’t met anyone that interests me enough.”

  She smiled knowingly. “I see, a romantic.”

  “Me? No, not at all. I’m a very practical person, but I have to feel something.” I thought of Aleksander. His betrayal had been devastating, although, in hindsight, a necessary evil. I had been so naïve, much too open and trusting.

  Mr. Bentifourt walked into the kitchen sneezing.

  “90 mg of zinc, olive leaf extract, and at least a thousand milligrams of slow release Ester C…you’ll be over it in no time,” I casually advised while my eyes remained on the seating arrangements.

  “I haven’t asked you, though, have I?” His brusque reply spawned a series of uncharitable thoughts I kept to myself. His pocket rang and he retrieved an iPhone from it. Raising it closely to his face, he grumbled, “Bloody phone. I can’t read the bloody thing.”

  “That’s because your glasses are on top of your head, Olivier,” Mrs. Arnaud reminded him, all warm tolerance. He rolled his eyes and placed his glasses on, his eyebrows rising comically high as he read.

  “Vera, Mr. Horn would like a bottle of Pellegrino. Bring a chilled glass with you.” Me, again? I almost huffed. “Do hurry, he doesn’t like to wait.”

  I grabbed the Pellegrino bottle and a glass from the refrigerator, refrained from slamming it shut, and stalked out of the kitchen muttering a series of vulgar words under my breath that I rarely, if ever, use. I worked myself up into a juvenile fit of temper as I walked back to his office. My knuckles rapped loudly on the door.

  “You don’t have to break the damn thing down. Come in!”

  For the first time in ages, I choked down a laugh. “You rang, sir?” I knew I was asking for it and I didn’t care one iota. I actually managed to keep a totally impassive expression as he glared at me. I stepped closer to the desk, his eyes following me the whole time, and handed him the frosty glass, then the bottle. He took one look at the glass and scowled.

  “Why is this chilled?”

  Is this a trick question? “I don’t know.”

  “Go back and get me another glass. This will leak all over my paperwork. And if you’re not smart enough to get it right, send somebody that can.” It was as if he knew exactly what to say to turn my mind black with rage. His eyes returned to his paperwork, dismissing me. After a deep, calming breath, I walked out.

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Arnaud cocked her head in confusion when she noticed the glass I held up. “He doesn’t want it chilled.”

  “Absurde, he always has it chilled.”

  Naturally, when I returned I pounded on the door again. It was beyond my capacity to behave where he was concerned. The dogged, bullheaded facet of my personality beat reason and intellect over the head and seized the controls. “Come in, damn it!”

  Good. I was glad he was irritated. The little voice of reason spoke up, begged me to back off. This is not a man to be toyed with, it screamed. So of course, I ignored it.

  Inside his office, I found him standing in the middle of the room, leaning on his cane, his other hand casually resting on his hip. What checked me wasn’t the subtle tension in his shoulders, it was the volatile energy lurking beneath the stillness.

  I looked up into the beautifully severe face that loomed over me and held out the glass. My hand hung for what felt like a long time. He didn’t take it, just narrowed his eyes, indicating that retribution would be forthcoming. “Put it on my desk,” he said, his voice so calm it bordered on mockery.

  I walked around him, giving him a wide berth, and placed the glass next to the bottle. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “No.” His hard, tight smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I want you to go get a lint cloth and dust all the TV screens.”

  When I explained it to Mrs. Arnaud, her smile fell. “Unbearable…j’en ai marre…what’s wrong…don’t understand,” she grumbled, banging drawers open and shut in her search for a dust cloth. That sparked a satisfied twitch of my lips. Good. Let her be annoyed with him too. “Here,” she said as she handed me the cloth, “let’s pray he’s in a better mood the rest of the day.” I stalked back to the office and opened the door without knocking.

  “Aren’t you a quick study,” he drawled, his sensual lips curving sardonically. I was ready to wave the white flag. He had won this round soundly.

  He sat in a club chair facing a wall covered in flat screen televisions, his injured leg stretched out straight, the other bent. I ignored him, held my tongue; one of us obviously had to be the adult. I began to dust the sets with quick, gentle strokes, stretching up on my toes and bending forward to reach the top of them. All the while I could feel him watching, scrutinizing every inch of me. My ears burned in embarrassment. “To the left more.”

  In a moment of temporary insanity, I fantasized about slapping the cold, arrogant look off his face––then kissing him…and then I wanted to beat myself black and blue just for thinking that. “Did I miss anything?”

  “No. You can go,” he mumbled. His voice was tight. I turned to get a better read on him and found his color high, his eyes downcast. He scowled at the carpet and the hand on the armrest clenched and released repeatedly.

  Not smug at all. Huh, strange. How in the world had his wife put up with him? This mystery required either a stiff drink, or a lobotomy. I stood there anticipating another snide remark but none came. When he looked up again, his eyes were shuttered, closed for business.

  “You can go,” he said quietly.

  So I did.

  Chapter Seven

  Touch, vital to life yet so easily taken for granted. I had been denied that basic human need for six long years. I hadn’t missed it, hadn’t even noticed its absence with all the other needs taking precedence. Now it was storming back with a vengeance.

  By the time I dragged by achy body into the shower, it was late in the evening. I turned the water on as hot as I could bear it and bent my head, allowing it to beat down my neck. I closed my eyes and a catalogue of fuzzy images elbowed their way to the forefront of my tired mind. Scruff on a lean jaw the color of summer wheat. The dense crowded edge of a fan of lashes. A pair of brandy colored eyes.

  No. No…No.

  Desperate to purge the images, I flipped through my memory bank in search of anything to distract myself with. Aleksander. All dark handsomeness and subtle charm. He had a way of carrying himself that made him seem more worldly than everyone else around him; a quality that most women didn’t fail to notice. I certainly didn’t. His features were perfect, almost pretty for a man, and he knew it. He used his assets with the lethal precision and skill of a trained predator. He was flirting with a girl with long, blonde hair when I first saw him. She hung on his every word, staring as if she had just discovered the sun. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear, looked across the university courtyard, and our eyes tangled. Stunned, I couldn’t look away, trapped by the charismatic glint in his obsidian eyes. Then he winked at me and returned to seducing the blonde. I wanted him as I had never wanted anything or anyone before. I thought we were destined for each other. Destiny, however, had other plans.

  I tried to hold onto the memory of Aleksander’s face but it sidestepped my grasp, and the harder I tried to reach for it, the quicker it escaped. As soon as my head hit the pillow, an image of long blunt fingers sweeping through tawny hair drifted in. Too tired to fight them off, I let them all tumble in. The tiny scar on his top lip. The trail of dark blonde hair that started at his navel. The set of his broad shoulders.

  My hand slipped under my nightgown, caressed the tip of my nipple until it pebbled hard and sensitive. I pulled it between my fingers until I could feel the gentle tug coalescing heat and desire between my thighs. My palm skimmed the warm surface of my
taut belly and traveled lower, searching for that neglected place that needed attention. I turned onto my stomach, my arm beneath me, and bent one leg, hitching it up. My hand moved in a steady rhythm, opened the folds, brushed over that tender nub where all feeling converges. A fever was growing. I quickened the pace picturing those delicious hipbones, the valley next to them, the cobbled muscles of his stomach. And then a wave of bliss so powerful broke over me that I almost cried with relief.

  It must be the long stretch of abstinence, I told myself. I hadn’t been touched in ages. Maybe it was time I considered finding a nice man to spend some time with. The thought wandered away as I drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Any pretense of decorum or courtesy quickly disappeared. We began treating each other with open hostility, going at it like the Serbs and the Croats. Well, maybe not that brutally, but it still managed to shock the rest of the staff into incoherent gasps and wide-eyed stares when they witnessed it. He didn’t seem to be troubled by it, not one bit. On the contrary, he seemed to relish the opportunity––although my knee jerk reactions to his taunting did not speak well of me either. He also lingered around the estate more. That was annoying. He seldom slept at the manor during the week when I first arrived, electing to stay at his apartment in town because of its proximity to the office. Now every time I turned a corner, he happened to be there. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought he was purposely seeking me out to antagonize me.

  A few nights ago I was asked to bring a glass of whiskey to his office. Entering quietly, I stopped short when I found him speaking on the phone. The warm, dim light casting a glow around his profile made him look like a gilded icon. The fact that I could actually entertained such a ridiculous thought made me want to punch myself in the face. His long body was sprawled out on the plush, coffee colored couch, paperwork everywhere. His chin tipped down and the cold glare of the laptop resting on a side table illuminated his face.

  That’s when I realized how tired he looked. His hair was messy, like he had run a worried hand through it repeatedly. For some demented reason that I can’t explain, I had the overwhelming urge to smooth it back into place for him.

  “What are the margins? I think we need to sell. I don’t give a shit, Tom, stop stepping on your dick and do it… I’m in no mood to fuck around…what else…I’ll decided what’s below the bar…we’ll hash out the details tomorrow.”

  As the call ended, he glanced up at me. For a split second I thought I saw the beginning of smile, but it disappeared just as quickly. His intense gaze immediately snapped back to his paperwork, the sight of me too unpleasant to bear apparently. I placed the glass of amber liquid on the side table and waited for him to say something.

  “You know…Switzerland is paying illegals to repatriate.” He continued to stare at his paperwork while I stood there frozen in disbelief, stunned by how easily malice fell from his lips. It took me a while to gather my wits and walk out. Unlike him, I was an amateur at mental warfare and did a poor job pretending that his jabs didn’t leave a mark. And for the life of me I couldn’t understand why he didn’t fire me if he wanted me out of his sight bad enough to suggest I should leave the country altogether.

  A day later, as I walked by his office, I heard Isabelle’s throaty French accent floating out of the wide-open doorway. I turned to look and found her bent over him, her large breasts a short distance from his face as she arranged the lunch tray on his desk. When our eyes connected, I saw him flinch. Surprisingly, a deep flush developed under his tan. I stood there basking in his discomfort while satisfaction shaped itself into a sly smile on my face. The feeling of triumph was fleeting though. And as it faded, all that remained was an empty sadness.

  We passed each other in the hall later that same day. Turning a corner, I almost bumped into him. His hand shot out to steady me for only a moment, before he quickly pulled it back––as if I had some incurable disease he didn’t wish to be infected with. Then I watched his eyes wander over my average breasts. “You can always buy yourself a pair,” he muttered. I stood there slack jawed while he walked away. He always did get the last word.

  I was living on an emotional tight wire. It was exhausting, and worse, sucking up precious energy that I needed to focus on my career. The thing was, though, that as soon as he managed to convince me that he was the devil in the flesh, he did something that shocked me into believing there was still a scrap of humanity left in him.

  Shortly after the ‘we’ll pay you to leave the country’ incident, I overheard the muffled sound of crying coming from the kitchen. I didn’t want to interrupt someone’s private moment so I stood at the bottom of the staircase, out of sight, and listened as Mrs. Arnaud gently consoled Claire. “Don’t you worry, Claire, we’re all here for you. If you need money to pay Jack’s legal fees, we’ll all chip in.” Another muffled sob from Claire.

  “It’s the damn drugs, Marianne. They’ve ruined his life, you know. I don’t know what to do no more.”

  “He’s only twenty-five. He can still turn it around if he wants to,” Mrs. Arnaud tried to assure her.

  “What the fuck’s going on? I called the kitchen phone and nobody answered.” My heart skipped a beat. He sounded irritated and impatient, in other words, his usual self. There was a heavy pause of silence before Mrs. Arnaud spoke.

  “It’s Claire’s son, Jack. He was arrested again.”

  All I could do was pray he wouldn’t be cruel to Claire at a time like this.

  “I’ll call David. He’ll bail him out. We’ll get him out of this mess.”

  “David is the best lawyer in the country, Claire. You see––it’ll all be fine.”

  If a unicorn had suddenly trotted into the room, I would have been less astonished.

  “Claire, can you convince him to go to rehab. I’ll pay?” he asked in a soft, low voice.

  “I don’t know. I’ll try.”

  I stepped further into the kitchen, still unnoticed.

  “Try real hard,” I heard him say. And then his eyes snapped up and found me. For a moment, I felt something soft, a silken tentacle, reach out for me but it was gone in an instant. His gaze darted away. Then he turned and walked out, leaving me to sort out what had happened for hours.

  I couldn’t put him in a box, label it heartless monster, and throw it away. That’s what messed with my head worse than anything. So I did what I always do. I forged on, tried to put a brave face on it even though I was completely demoralized.

  I was in the kitchen, slicing fresh zucchini and contemplating how to extricate myself from this quagmire, when Mr. Bentifourt rushed into the kitchen holding the arm of one of the gardeners.

  “Marianne! Marianne! Giovanni cut himself. I need the first aid kit!” he shouted, grave concern etched on his face. Servants poured into the kitchen, the loud commotion stirring everyone’s curiosity.

  Giovanni was short and stocky, around thirty years of age. The smile almost always fixed on his boyish face had begun to sag with the loss of blood. He had a dirty towel wrapped around his forearm. Mrs. Arnaud toddled as quickly as she could on short legs to a cabinet and unlocked it. Visibly shaken, she squinted at the labels on the vials as she tried to read without her glasses. I peeked inside and found a small refrigerator well stocked with vials of anesthetic and antibiotics.

  Years of education and instinct propelled me into action. I coaxed her aside, her expression a mix of confusion and anxiety as she watched me grab everything quickly. Antibiotics, anesthetic, a package of sterile needles, syringes, and thread. “I know what I’m doing, madame. Trust me.” Consenting with a quick nod, she stepped away and gave me room to work. “Charlotte, I need clean towels, and grab the cotton and bandages I have here.” Charlotte scrambled forward and I dumped them in her arms. We moved towards the table where Giovanni, his usually florid countenance turning sallow, looked close to passing out.

  Bentifourt stepped in front of me before I could reach for Giovanni. “Now see here young lady�
��–”

  “I have a medical degree, sir.” It must have been the pronounced note of authority in my voice because, although he did it apprehensively, he moved out of my way.

  I lifted the bloodstained towel and inspected the wound. It was deep, but it appeared that no major vessels had been cut. When I looked up, Giovanni gave me a wane smile. “Someone needs to hold on to him,” I said, looking around. “He’s going to hit the floor in about ten seconds.” Two young men I recognized as gardeners grabbed his shoulders. They held Giovanni steady while I cleaned the wound, disinfected it, and stitched the jagged cut that wrapped around the top of his forearm. As I finished wrapping it in surgical cotton and securing it with medical tape, I glanced up and found a devilish glint in Charlotte’s eyes. Her lips parted into a bright grin. Mrs. Arnaud still hadn’t recovered from the flurry of activity, her pudgy hand clutching her chest while it rose and sank with each agitated breath she took.

  “I would never have consented to such a thing, but there was so much blood…and I thought,” Bentifourt sighed, “an artery had been cut. I must say, I’m relieved, the nearest hospital is an hour away.” His voice was weak and stressed, reminding me of his age.

  “He’s not in any danger. Nevertheless, he may have cut some ligaments. I’m not an orthopedic surgeon. He needs to be checked out.”

  Bentifourt motioned to the two young men holding onto Giovanni. “Theo, David, take the truck and don’t speed.” As they escorted him out, Giovanni turned to me with a wobbly smile. “Merci, mademoiselle.”

  I was just happy to have been of service. It was a rush, being called into action, doing what I was meant to do in life. I glanced at the staff members crowding the kitchen. There was a newfound sense of respect in their open expressions, even a bit of excitement to have discovered something special tucked among them.

  I was flying high when I felt his presence. I could always feel him, a soft touch on my skin. I looked over my shoulder and found him standing in the doorway, his features carved in stone, eyes fixed on me as if he were seeing me for the first time. Servants scattered as if someone flipped a light switch on a colony of roaches. Bentifourt walked towards him and drew his attention, disrupting the current between us. He blinked out of a trance and abruptly left the kitchen. Would he be furious with Bentifourt? I didn’t want him bearing any anger on my behalf, even though the old man hadn’t exactly made me feel welcome.