I stepped into his bedroom and looked around nervously before making a beeline for the closet. He really did have impeccable taste; even the closet was a sight to behold. It was the size of a small apartment, elegantly styled with built in furniture made of lacquered, exotic wood and nickel hardware. A silk Tibetan carpet in muted tones covered the hardwood floors, and a contemporary crystal chandelier cast sparkles of warm light that bounced off an oversized mirror. His clothes hung like perfect little soldiers, evenly spaced apart, ready to be called into battle. After placing the shirts in their proper place, I paused to stroke the luxurious cashmere of his Kiton suits. My eyes fluttered, closing shut as I basked in the sensation of the kitten-soft fabric brushing across my cheek.
When I opened them, I found him standing in the doorway, staring. I wasn’t surprised to find him there. It seemed like we were on some unavoidable collision course. The masculine slashes of his brows momentarily creased in question. Then I watched the realization wash over him that we were alone in the cocooned silence of his personal items. Reading my intensions perfectly, he quickly covered the doorway with his body.
“Wait.” His voice was gentle, another about-face from him.
“Please move,” I demanded, managing to keep my voice steady even though I was anything but.
“I just want to apologize.”
I stood with my arms crossed and watched a mix of emotions move swiftly across his face. He did look rather uncomfortable. “Was that painful? Did you almost choke on that word?”
The side of his mouth melted into a disarming, boyish grin probably unleashed on scores of defenseless women with absolute success. I almost smiled back. Almost.
“I guess I deserve that.”
“So––you’re apologizing for kissing me?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m apologizing for insulting you,” he said in a soft voice, his eyes fixed somewhere far away. “That was…uncalled for. My anger got the best of me.”
“As it often does, seems to be your default setting.”
He cocked his head as he contemplated my words. “You slapped me.”
“You deserved it.”
His lips twitched in silent mirth. “I liked it.”
Huh? “You’re a strange man.” The silence remained for a moment too long. I couldn’t hold his bold gaze, the intensity of it heating my neck. The charge between us gathered momentum so I rushed to fill the silence. “Apology accepted. Although I still don’t understand why you would be angry with me.”
He treated his shoes to a thorough inspection. A heavy sigh escaped him before he spoke. “When I saw you dancing…with that guy,” he shook his head. “It made me mad.”
What? Wait…what? “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” he murmured. His amber eyes lifted and met mine, glowing brightly with a soul deep yearning. It was suddenly hard to breathe. I was shocked by how openly his emotions stared back at me, and shivered with an acute awareness that we were at a crossroads and he had made his choice.
He stepped closer while I stood frozen in disbelief. He was more agile than I anticipated because I found myself pinned between the warmth of his chest, and thousands of euros worth of custom Italian suits. My heart raced and heat rushed over my collarbone.
“We can’t do this…you…you shouldn’t. You have to stay away from me,” I pleaded.
His reply was almost inaudible. “I can’t.” He tugged at the elastic that held my hair in a tight ponytail, and raked through it with his long fingers as it fell loose down my back. My eyes fluttered. I should have stopped him, should have made more of an effort to resist…but it felt soooo good to be touched, my entire body coming alive with the sensation.
His warm lips came crashing down on mine, then gentled when he realized I wasn’t resisting. His fingertips cradled my face, and traced the contours of it. I swayed into him, pulling him closer as I gripped his finely tailored shirt for balance. His hash exhale thrilled me. Slanting his mouth, he deepened a kiss that tasted of peppermint and lust, and a desperate frustration that surprised and confused me. I kissed him back, matching his intensity. Overcome with desire––it was the only way to explain my behavior.
Wealthy financiers don’t fall in love with immigrant housekeepers!! That soft voice of reason was suddenly shouting in my ear with a megaphone. The doubt found purchase. He felt me pull away and redoubled his effort.
“Vera, I…let me…please,” he muttered between kisses. He knew exactly where to touch me to bend me to his will. With gentle persuasion, the remains of rational thought were wiped away, replaced by a surfeit of feeling. I let go, followed his lead without further objection, and let him do as he wished.
The kiss was tender, artful, giving me just enough that when he retreated, my tongue chased his. He discovered the sensitive skin of my throat, licked and grazed it with his teeth while his nimble fingers unsnapped my uniform. His thumb stroked the dip near my collarbone and ran along the line where my demi bra and breast met.
He seemed to know every sensitive point on my body; the skin branded where his magic fingers had been. As my hands wandered over his chest, I felt him quiver beneath my touch, and heard his breathing grow rough and deep. His eyes squeezed shut, either in pain or pleasure. By the look on his face, I wasn’t certain. His fingers hooked over my bra cup and pulled it down, popping my small breast out so smoothly I barely noticed my state of undress. He grazed my painfully sensitive nipple with his hot palm and teased it between his fingers, tugging rhythmically until the tide of pleasure building had me squirming and panting, and made me completely forget that we could’ve been discovered at any moment.
And he was equally lost in this thing that had ignited between us. In a primitive act of ownership, I felt him sink his teeth into my trapezius muscle, his hand skate between my thighs. His other palm caressed my rear end, squeezing, urging me closer. Not needing any encouragement, my hips hitched up, my body molding itself to his perfectly. The feel of him, hot and hard against me, demolished the tattered remnants of my self-control. I needed more of him, a lot more. And I wasn’t about to stop until I got it.
Then we both heard it, the other servants moving around outside. We broke apart panting loudly. In a panic, I covered myself up and raced out of the closet without sparing him another glance. When I caught my reflection in the massive Regency mirror in the hall, my mouth practically fell open in shock. I didn’t recognize the person staring back.
My pale skin was flushed. My hair was a teased mess. My full lips were an unseemly red from the bruising kiss. I looked like a teenager that had been thoroughly shagged in the back of a car––except I wasn’t. I was a grown woman that didn’t know how to resist the proverbial forbidden fruit. After quickly gathering my hair in a messy ponytail, I rushed back to the safety of my room to regroup. But as I was taking the stairs by two, I looked up and found Isabelle staring at me with a lethal look in her eyes. Her scrutiny made me uneasy.
“Vera––”
“Can’t talk.” I walked around her with my head down in an effort to avoid eye contact. If she suspected anything she could cause me a world of trouble, if not outright disaster. The one thing I had going for me was that she had personally witnessed the skirmishes. She was aware of the antipathy Sebastian and I had, or seemingly had, for each other.
I locked my door and fell face first on the bed, moaning in despair. For whatever reason, this man awakened something in me that I scarcely recognized. Desire. Having to scrape by for so long had worn me down, obliterating any need for intimacy. It was an after-thought. Except it hadn’t entirely vanished. It was just buried deeply, waiting for him to come along and play archeologist.
I was way out of my depth. I wasn’t about to fool myself about that. You could fill a teaspoon with what I knew about carrying on an affair, and the risk incalculable. One bite of the apple could certainly ruin me. I wondered whether once the physical need was satisfied, sanity would
return and life could resume as usual. The little voice of reason insisted there was a flaw somewhere in that theory. This seemed more than a passing curiosity. It already felt like a full-blown addiction. At least, it did to me.
Chapter Eleven
The estate was buzzing with nervous energy. The gardeners were in a state of frenzy over the pruning of the rose garden, Mrs. Arnaud was arguing with the butcher over the size of the lambs she had ordered, and the cleaning wasn’t even close to being done even though the guests were due to arrive in a couple of days.
I was bestowed the privilege of wiping down all one thousand of the crystal glasses and goblets. Needless to say, I never wanted to see another piece of stemware for the rest of my life. And Charlotte, after her fingernails had turned black from polishing the silver, felt equally disgusted about flatware.
I was grateful for Charlotte. She was a good friend to me. I felt unbearably disloyal keeping what had happened with Sebastian a secret from her. But I couldn’t risk it and I still couldn’t explain it––even to myself.
I hadn’t seen him in three days. He had slept at the apartment. Maybe he regretted it, thought twice and found me lacking. How depressing. Now that I’d had a taste of it, I wanted him with an urgency that was shameful. In any case, I would know soon enough where we stood. There was no avoiding each other once the guests arrived.
The Horn family hosted a house party at the end of spring every year, a tradition that had been handed down from generation to generation. We would all be pressed into service attending the whims of bankers, socialites, and investors. Since some of the guests would require extreme patience––Bentifourt actually said ‘the patience of a saint’––he admonished us to be on our best behavior. Charlotte, never missing an opportunity to offer her opinion, rolled her eyes theatrically while I pushed down the urge to giggle. We were all in the kitchen, wiping down an infinite amount of china, when Mr. Bentifourt walked in.
“Marianne, Mrs. Redman will be joining us as well. Make the arrangements.”
Mrs. Arnaud pursed her lips. “Merde.”
Well, that said it all. I leaned in closer to Charlotte. “Mr. Horn’s mother,” she whispered, “very high maintenance. And he gets even crazier and nastier whenever she’s here––as if that’s possible,” she added with another comically wide-eyed stare.
“What are you gossiping about, Charlotte?” Isabelle interrupted in a snide tone.
“We weren’t gossiping you meddling bitch.”
Mrs. Arnaud eyed her sternly. “Charlotte.”
“Mrs. Redman?” I asked.
“The name of her fourth husband, chérie.”
* * *
It was way past midnight. I sat in bed staring at the screen of the laptop. I couldn’t bring myself to call it my laptop because I couldn’t risk getting attached to it. Although I was probably already deeply attached and in complete denial about it––just looking at it made me quiver in excitement. It had been a long time since I was connected to the world. Cell phones, the Internet, all the technology we take for granted these days, I had learned to do without. I had pawned my computer and cell phone years ago. Besides, there was no one left to stay in touch with.
It had been weeks since I had dropped off the query letters at the hospitals and still hadn’t heard anything. A bit demoralizing, even though I knew persistence would eventually pay off. Filling their requirements wasn’t the issue. My medical school grades were impeccable and The University of Milan was well regarded. I spoke fluent English and Italian, had a working knowledge of French. German would have given me an added advantage, but there weren’t enough hours in the day. Besides, the Swiss German spoken in some Cantons is so harsh and unique that even native speaking Germans have a problem understanding it.
There was no question that being a foreigner was a disadvantage, I just wasn’t certain how much. I expanded my search to include hospitals in Zurich, and crossed my fingers as I hit the send button along with a Hail Mary to help my cause.
An iMessage bubble popped up on my screen addressed to [email protected].
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘You’re up late.’
I froze, my fingers suspended over the keyboard. My emotions took a hairpin turn from confused to appallingly thrilled.
[email protected]
‘How do you know my email address?’
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘I set up an account for you when I bought the computer.’
Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. And now that I did, I wasn’t certain I liked it.
[email protected]
‘I’m writing letters to hospitals in Zurich.’
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘Why Zurich?’
[email protected]
‘I can’t afford to be picky. I’ll go anywhere I’m accepted.’
The silence was deafening. Then I heard the bling of an incoming message.
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘You can’t leave Geneva.’
What does that mean? It wasn’t even a question.
[email protected]
‘Of course, I can. There’s nothing keeping me here.’
No response. I wanted to end it on a good note so I rushed to fill the silence.
[email protected]
‘Why are you up this late anyway?’
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
[email protected]
‘Pain?’
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘No.’
I waited patiently, hoping he would explain. God knows why I cared, but I did. Then I heard the bling.
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘Thinking of you.’
I felt blindsided, at a loss as to how to respond. Before I could spontaneously combust from nerves, the bling of an incoming message sounded.
SCHorn@Horn&Cie.com
‘Good night, Vera.’
[email protected]
‘Good night, Sebastian.’
It was the first time I had called him by his name, crossing another invisible line. Concentrating on the letters after that was impossible. My mind wandered, my fingers wandered. I hit the Safari button and stared at the cursor until my fingers started moving without consent.
‘Sebastian Horn’
Don’t do it. Do not do this! This was wrong. Every intelligent cell in my brain screamed for me to stop. I hit the enter button anyway, then the images icon.
-Sebastian at a charity event for Sudan, Bono standing next to him.
-Sebastian on a sailboat.
-On the beach in St. Barth with some model.
-In Aspen, with a tall blonde TV reporter.
…and then I saw it.
-Sebastian and India Horn.
I clicked on the picture. They were on a sidewalk, outside a hotel. The caption read: Four Seasons, New York City. He was dressed in a sleek black coat, a grey scarf wrapped around his neck. Only his stoic profile was visible as he pulled her along with his fingers laced through hers. Turning towards the cameras, she wore a wide, bright smile on her delicately beautiful face, her pale blue eyes sparkling with joy, her long, chestnut hair flying behind her. Tall and thin, they were a matched set. She looked blissfully happy…and in love.
I was crestfallen. My stomach sank down around my feet. Somehow I knew what I would find. The evidence of what had been nagging me for some time.
Why me? Generally, I find myself attractive. I’m considerably intelligent, although not brilliant. I’m a reasonably good cook. I’m an excellent housekeeper. I’m loyal but sometimes impatient. I’m stubborn like hell but not quick to get mad. In other words, I’m an ordinary woman. I couldn’t fathom why he wanted me.
It was common knowledge that this man was considered the catch of the century. Wealthy, successful, intelligent, beautiful…beautiful beyond compare. He could have anyone just by pointing. Why me? I couldn’t work it out and the reason was before me in vivid detail.
They looked like they belonged
together. Birds of a feather, if you will. Two magnificent swans. I’m more of a sturdy mallard than a swan.
I clicked on an article about the accident. It happened in January on the road to St. Moritz. He was driving a Range Rover. The roads were icy, though it hadn’t snowed in weeks. The writer speculated that an oncoming truck caused Sebastian’s SUV to careen over the side of the mountain. The Rover hadn’t dropped far, but it had landed on the passenger side badly, killing her on impact.
Phantom tears stung my eyes; the real thing refused to fall. When she had been an anonymous, faceless specter, I hadn’t given her much thought––anyone willing to work in medicine needs thick skin and a strong stomach. After seeing that picture, though…so much joy, so much hope. I knew what that felt like. I also knew what it was like to have it ripped away. I closed the computer and crawled into bed. This couldn’t be anything other than a passing whim on his part, a sexual curiosity. The question was––what was I going to do about it?
* * *
The guests began arriving early on Thursday. I watched a metallic blue Porsche pull up to the entrance from the window of the upstairs den. A man, handsome and well dressed, stepped out of the car and handed Bentifourt a Louis Vuitton duffel bag. He was extremely fit, evident by the cut of his jacket, young, around thirty, and he was handing a seventy-year old man his bags to carry. This was going to be a long weekend. A woman stepped out of the passenger side and my eyes widened. Paisley. That would make him, Marcus, the husband; all the details from that scandalous night indelibly branded on my mind. She threw her arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick peck on the lips. They disappeared inside while Bentifourt slowly trailed behind, weighed down by their luggage.
A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1) Page 11