“I told Marianne that I’m going to dry out this weekend…I told her that I need you with me,” he said, without making eye contact. I watched him throw his navy trousers onto the chair next to the fireplace. Without thought, I picked them up and hung them neatly on a wooded hanger. When I turned towards him, he was staring with a spark of amusement in his eyes.
“What did she say?”
I wanted to be there for him, but Mrs. Arnaud had a keen mind; she would find it suspicious.
“She said it was a good idea. Unless I wanted to go do it at a clinic, and I have absolutely no intension of doing that.”
“Did you speak to your orthopedist?”
“Yeah, he said the NSAIDs should be enough and to make an appointment to see him soon.” He removed his dress shirt and threw it on the ground. I walked over, picked it up, and placed it in the hamper.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” he answered, his voice on the verge of breaking out in laughter.
He stripped his boxer briefs off and handed them to me. I took them from him and placed them in the hamper as well.
“Are you laughing at me?”
He lifted his chin and a blinding grin stretched across his face. “Do you realize that you do that all the time?”
“Do what?”
“Follow me around, picking up my mess.” Then his face fell, grave all of a sudden. His dark lashes lowered over his eyes. “No one’s ever picked up my mess before. It’s usually the other way around,” he mumbled.
He rarely opened up about himself, played his cards close to the vest, and I didn’t want to say anything to discourage him. I knew he had revealed more than he intended so I tried to lighten the mood. “That’s because you’re a slob.”
His lips quirked. He clasped my wrist and brought me gently against the warm shelter of his chest. “Your slob,” he said seductively, prompting a smile on my face too.
He made love to the delicate skin of my neck bellow my ear while his fingers smoothly unbuttoned my uniform. His sex hardened against my stomach as he began licking and biting the exposed skin of my bare shoulders.
“So…about this weekend?” The hint of something vulnerable in his voice didn’t escape me. His gaze caught mine. Apprehension and hope took turns flashing in his eyes.
“I’m here for you,” I whispered. Because I was. And I was done denying it to myself and to him.
* * *
It was chilly that night, even though it was already the end of June. He lit a fire and we made love on the rug in front of the fireplace. Relaxed, replete, I stretched every limb like a cat sunning itself on a hot pavement in summer. He rose up on an elbow and picked up a ripe strawberry from the bowl we had stolen from the kitchen.
“Those were supposed to be for the tart Marianne was baking tomorrow.”
With a seductive spark in his eye, he bent his head and kissed my nipple. “I’m having a tart right now.” I giggled when he raised his eyebrows playfully. I hadn’t laughed this much since I was a child. He had a gift for breaking through the stiffness, the formality I wore as a shield. He teased me mercilessly, until I was loose and easy and putty in his hands.
“You’re completely incorrigible.”
“Damn right,” he purred, placing a string of lazy kisses on my breasts. “Whatever that means.” Then he bit the tip of a ripe strawberry and let the sugary juice spill onto my stomach, pooling in my navel.
“What are you doing?”
“You asked about my work. This is your first lesson. How to recognize a pattern on a trading chart.” He took the juicy strawberry and ran it along my feverish skin. “This is called a head and shoulders pattern.” He drew on my body, up and over one breast, down the valley in between, then over the other breast. I giggled and squirmed.
“Sit still,” he crooned, licking the sticky juice off my body. “Or I’ll give you an F.” After his expert demonstration, we crawled onto the chaise lounge and watched the fire’s dull roar turn into a moan until it extinguished. He lay back in the chaise gloriously naked while I straddled his lap, the dying flames highlighting the perfect angles of his face. “I haven’t read that one,” he admitted, pushing the silk curtain of my hair back off my shoulder. I caught his hand and kissed the pale, pointy scars one by one, his gaze softening as he watched me.
“You haven’t read Jane Eyre? You haven’t read much,” I said between kisses. His sultry lips curved up.
“Jesus, you’re like one of those stern Catholic school teachers. Are you going to paddle me?”
“Would you like me to?”
A wicked glint flashed in his eyes before he kissed me, devouring my mouth. When his lips lifted, the space between his brows creased and his expression turned solemn. “I never did much reading until the accident. I was bedridden for a long time…that’s all I could do.”
The previously light mood turned to lead. As I caressed his beloved face, he closed his eyes and turned to kiss my hand, then covered it with his own, keeping it in place on his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered softly.
“All that time to think––that was the hardest part.”
“Tell me.”
“There isn’t much to tell.” His eyes darted away from mine, his voice flat. “I killed my wife.”
“That’s not true,” I argued quietly.
“I was driving, wasn’t I? I’m the one that drove the car off the side of the road. She died because of me.”
I had to tread this scarred territory lightly. I didn’t want to discourage him from opening up, and the emotional wound was still tender.
“Darling, look at me, it was an accident. You didn’t cause anything, and you certainly didn’t kill her. There was nothing you, or anybody else, could’ve done to prevent it from happening. As powerful and capable as you are, you’re still just a man. And I’m so grateful you were spared.”
His eyes flared. I watched my words sink in, watched his expression transform from tortured to thoughtful. I had succeeded in reaching his intellect, cutting through the smothering blanket of pain. He wrapped his arms around me, binding us together tightly skin to skin, and hid his face in the curve of my neck. “Don’t ever leave me, Vera.”
I swallowed the angst rising up my throat because I couldn’t tell him what we both wanted to hear––and I wouldn’t make promises I couldn’t keep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Unexpectedly, something wonderful happened the next day. I received a letter from one of the hospitals in Geneva informing me that interviews for their residency programs would begin in December and that I had been scheduled in.
My heart almost exploded with joy. I read and reread it several times to reassure myself that I wasn’t imagining it. The first thought that came to mind was that I couldn’t wait to tell Sebastian. This was awful. I was slipping and sliding deeper and deeper into love and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Except…make sure that he didn’t know. That was the only way my heart would survive the aftermath of having to let him go.
“I have news.” I leaned forward while he squirted soap on his hands and cleaned my back with languid, sensual strokes, rubbing the sore muscles of my shoulders.
It was midnight. He had insisted we take a bath after gifting me with not one, but two excruciating climaxes; each time drawing the pleasure out, prolonging it until I was begging him for relief. I wasn’t sure if it was the begging he wanted from me, or something else. Something drove him–– something he hadn’t gotten yet.
“Is it good?” His voice was low, husky. He kissed the top of my spine, nibbled on my earlobe, making me shiver and want him again. For heaven’s sake…I was no expert but it just didn’t seem normal. My head fell forward and water splashed up as he rinsed my back.
“Don’t get your dressing wet,” I ordered. Although the effect was ruined by my panty, breathy voice.
“Yes ma’am, what’s the news?” His wicked hand snaked around to the front of my body, inside my t
high, up to…
“I can’t speak when you do that. I can barely think after what you did an hour ago.”
“Hmm, is that a bad thing?”
“No. Yes. I mean…do you see what I mean?”
His gentle massage had moved on to my eager breasts. I could feel his shaft getting hard against my rear end, and any blood left in my head swiftly traveled below my waist. “Oh my God,” I gasped. “How is this even possible?”
“Let me get this straight, you don’t want to want me?” His voice was steady, and yet there was a hint of something wounded in it.
“I couldn’t stop wanting you if my life depended on it.” I felt his satisfied smile on my skin as he kissed my shoulder. “Sebastian, has this ever happened to you before?”
He answered without hesitation, “No.”
“Me neither.” I sank back against his chest and his arms wrapped around me protectively, both of us quiet for a while, absorbing the enormity of that truth. “I received a letter from one of the hospitals today. I have an interview for their residency program in December.”
He guided my chin around to face him. His eyes were bright and happy for me. Sweet, beautiful man. “That’s great news. François can drive you in.”
Huh? My brows lowered over my questioning gaze. “Drive me? How do you know it’s not in Zurich?” Something flared in his eyes. “Did you have anything to do with this?” He blew out a deep breath and looked away from me. “Look at me,” I ordered softly.
“Okay, I put in a good word. That’s all.”
I was stunned, angry, and grateful at the same time––a strange mix of emotions that left me feeling awkward. “I guess I should thank you.”
“You don’t look like you mean it.”
The water was suddenly cold. I stood up, dripping into the tub in front of him while he looked up at me with supplicating eyes. He ran his hand around my calf, caressing it; the only place left on my body that was warm. His hand slipped away as I stepped out and wrapped myself in one of his decadently luxurious white towels.
“Vera, don’t be mad.”
When I turned towards him, I found him standing in the tub, water sliding down the utter physical perfection of his body, and almost got distracted. Almost. Stepping out of the tub, he grabbed a towel and began drying his hair…his hair. He stood there deliciously dripping wet…drying his hair. The shameless sex god knew the effect he had on me and was prepared to use every weapon in his arsenal.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I know what you’re doing,” I warned, punctuating the seriousness of the situation with a raised eyebrow. He continued to towel dry his hair while he inched his way closer to me.
“What am I doing?” he asked with poorly feigned innocence.
“I just…it’s just that I thought I did it all on my own. Don’t you understand? And now, I know I didn’t––even though I’m unbelievably grateful for your help.”
Dropping the towel, he brought me up against his warm, wet body, and hugged me tightly, his cheek resting on the top of my head. “Vera, you’ve done everything in the last six years on your own. You’ve done more on your own than most people accomplish in a lifetime.” The comforting sound of his deep voice reverberated off his chest as he spoke. Softly adding, “Let somebody help you for once.”
I hated it when he made perfect sense.
* * *
“I don’t…know…if I can…do this.”
It was midnight, twenty-six hours since his last pill of oxycodone. Alternating between cold chills and burning sweats, he was in full-blown withdrawal, shaking so violently that I had to get on the bed and press the entire weight of my body on top of him just to give him some relief. I did anything and everything I could to ease his suffering. I rubbed his back while he threw up. The last few times were painful to watch as he dry heaved until he almost passed out. I tried to keep him hydrated but it was difficult because of the nausea. I held him when he shivered; it seemed to make him feel marginally better.
Sifting my short nails through his hair and scratching his scalp, I murmured, “You can do this. The worst is almost over, I promise.”
That was a major lie. It wasn’t anywhere near being over.
“Keep…doing…that…pleeeeze.”
Heartbreaking. In the midst of excruciating suffering, he was grateful for every little thing I did for him. There was always a ‘please’ and a ‘thank you’ after I emptied the bucket with his vomit, or rubbed his leg, or changed his sweat soaked t-shirt. He seemed surprised that I would do that for him.
It was bad enough finding out that no woman had ever cooked him a lousy meal, other than an employee, but I was beginning to wonder if anybody had ever done anything for him ever. It seemed preposterous that a man that was so generous, so kind, never had a woman want to take care of him. Specifically, this supposed angel he had married and was still in love with. It didn’t make sense and, frankly, it made me furious.
“Talk…to…me.”
“Okay, let’s see––” I struggled for a neutral topic, my mind lazy from lack of sleep. “I’m really scared of pigeons. I never even got to see the inside of the Duomo, the cathedral in Milan, because I could never get past the army of pigeons. Umm, what else? Oh! I love how quiet it gets when snow falls.”
I glanced down and discovered his face had softened. His thick lashes cast shadows on his high cheekbones. My dissertation on pigeons and snow proved to be a powerful sedative. He had fallen asleep. Thank God. He needed some relief. Sweet dreams, my love, I thought, while I stroked the hair off his forehead.
The door cracked open and Mrs. Arnaud peeked her head in. I crept off the bed quietly and tiptoed into the hall.
“Vera, you look terrible. You need to eat and rest. You’ve been going for over a day.”
She was right. Even though my mind was racing, my body was spent. “I’m fine, really. He’s finally asleep. The last few hours have been…difficult.”
“Let me sit with him.” I shook my head but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I insist, now go, or you won’t be any good to him tomorrow.”
Exhaustion finally caught up with me. I ate and showered in a listless fog. When my head hit the pillow, I fell into a coma, sleeping like the dead through the night. The light filtering in at dawn woke me. Jumping out of bed, I dressed in a hurry, mindful that poor Mrs. Arnaud had been there all night and was probably ready for some sleep herself. As I was taking the stairs two at a time, I crashed right into Isabelle. “Sorry!” I shouted.
She narrowed her eyes as I hurried past her. A cold sense of foreboding followed me up the stairs. Undoubtedly, I would have to deal with her later.
In Sebastian’s bedroom, I found Mrs. Arnaud snuggled into the oversized armchair near the fireplace with her legs up, snoring loudly. Sebastian was still asleep––restless and fidgety but asleep. I placed my hand on Mrs. Arnaud’s arm and she jerked awake. “Go to bed,” I whispered.
Nodding weakly, she pushed herself out of the chair and left. Her warmth lingered in the empty space she had occupied only moments ago. I dropped into it and watched him sleep for hours. My very own sleeping beauty, I thought, as he twitched uncomfortably. If only.
* * *
“I need a shower,” he said, when he woke from a nap.
Day three. His face still looked drawn, with dark circles painted under his eyes. At least the tremors and hot flashes had subsided. He was weak, standing under a hot shower wasn’t a good idea. I fluffed his pillows and placed them behind his back so he could sit up in bed more comfortably.
“I’m running the water for your bath right now. But I want you to have some broth first.”
“I can’t.” He made a feeble attempt to turn his head away as I drew closer with the cup of steaming liquid.
“Sebastian, please, you need nutrients. You’ve already lost weight, and you’re probably dehydrated… just a cup.” I brought the cup to his lips and he sipped it slowly, watching me the whole time. His expressio
n was a mixture of fascination and caution, as if he were expecting me to peel back my skin and reveal something alien.
When he was done, he closed his eyes and his head fell back against the padded headboard. Utterly beautiful in the midst of his struggle. So vulnerable, and yet so brave. I knew how difficult it was for him to appear defenseless in front of anyone, and the fact that he wanted me here made me love him even more.
“You’re right. I feel better.” He cracked one eye open, then the other. “You never talk about yourself.”
“There’s not much to talk about. I’m not the handsome, rich bachelor traveling the globe and dating supermodels.” My childish attempt to distract him didn’t work. His eyes filled with sympathy instead of disapproval.
“How did you get to Milan?” The silence was heavy. He waited patiently for me to respond. How could I deny him? He had placed himself in my care, trusting me so completely that I felt compelled to take at least a tiny step forward.
“A friend of mine from university––his father ran a ferry from Durres to Otranto, near Bari, Italy. I packed as much as I could carry and met him at the docks at midnight…it was so cold that night.” Lost in thought, the edge of my vision bled, a rush of memories hitting me all at once. “There were seventeen of us on board. The water was choppy and the boat was old. I was scared––you know I’m a terrible swimmer––but there was a little boy, maybe six, traveling with his father. So I pretended the swaying of the boat was fun.” I turned to look at him and found his soft eyes unblinking. He squeezed my hand––the hand I hadn’t even realized he’d been holding the entire time. “The boat crashed on the rocks in Otranto. I can still smell the gasoline in the water…my teeth chattered so loudly. The boy and his father made it. Although the Italians caught two others that were with us. We were lucky. I heard another ferry sank a week later.” The conversation left me feeling raw and exposed. I shrugged trying to mask my discomfort. “The rest was easy. I took the train when I could and walked the rest of the way.”
A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1) Page 27