There is nothing except for a matchbox with a design on it, like stars.
And the letters L’ETOILE.
Mama takes the wallet from me, very quick, the way she would do if I had taken something I shouldn’t, if I had done something wrong. “We have to give it back.”
“At least keep the money.” I don’t know what we will do with the money. Buy food or a better lock for the door. Maybe a knife so I can stop another man who tries this.
Her eyes become dark. “I do not want his money. I’m not a kahba.”
For the most part Mama speaks French or the English she learned working at the hotel. That word is Arabic. It means the girls who stand on the streets. The ones who visit the lounge late at night and leave with American men. They would get to keep the money.
That’s what I learn that night.
Chapter Seventeen
I wake up with a racing heart, as if something has gone terribly wrong.
Vaguely I remember the dream. The night I wish I could forget. The image of L’Etoile’s logo stamped into my brain. Decades later, and I still have the same fucking nightmare.
A sound comes to me, keening that makes the hair on my neck rise. Heavy shadows in the past keep me in the dark longer than I should be. I blink against the too-bright moon, struggling to remember where I am. Hands are grasping at my arm. An urgency pounds in my skull, too hard and too fast.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
The words filter through my blurry consciousness, making me snap to alertness. Beatrix. And she sounds like she did last night, afraid and trembling, only much worse.
My heart clenches when I look down at the sight of her. She’s curled up into a ball, clinging onto my arm like it’s a life raft in a wild ocean. Her wild hair sticks to the side of her face, her skin slick with sweat. “Oh my God,” she whispers, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Bea, I’m here. I’m right here.”
“It’s not enough.”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks, because of course it’s not enough. I would never be enough. “I’ll take you inside. Can you stand?”
We’re only a few yards away from the elevator. The dining area and large concrete pots with plants in them block our path. She shakes her head, burying her head against me.
I would rather convince her to come with me, but her whole body shakes violently. Small sounds of distress are coming from her, as if she doesn’t even register I’m here. I need to get her out of this situation and back where she feels safe—the penthouse.
She whimpers. “Hugo?”
Crouching over her, one hand on her arm, the other resting lightly on her head, I have never felt more helpless. This woman is suffering. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a physical punch in the stomach; it’s clear she’s hurt. And it’s my fault. I’m the one who brought her here. “I’m going to carry you inside.”
Her body relaxes only a fraction, but I’m in tune with her enough to feel it.
Which is also why my body is tied up in knots, my usual calm gone, any ability to seduce or reason with her disappeared into the early dawn. Anxiety clenches hard around my throat, as if we’re connected, part of the same body.
That’s how it feels when I lift her in my arms, when she curls herself into me—like I can finally take a breath. Her hair tickles my nose, curls itself around my face. It makes me pull her closer.
I press a kiss to her head, already striding toward the elevator. “Almost there, sweetheart.”
“Sorry,” she whispers. “Sorry. Sorry.”
She’s apologizing to me? Mon Dieu. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
The elevator takes approximately twelve years to make its way up, even though it’s private for the penthouse suite. When the doors finally open I step inside and press the P button to return to her suite. We are now indoors, in a place that she’s been herself many times, but she does not relax. Instead she clings to me even harder, her arms tight around my neck, her hands clenched in my wrinkled shirt, as if these familiar places have become new and scary.
“Almost there,” I murmur on the twenty-four-hour ride down one floor.
The doors slide open, revealing the penthouse suite…that is full of people.
I recognize some of them as hotel staff. The head of concierge. Jessica from the front desk. A maid. And a man in a suit, directing them all with an angry and authoritative voice.
“Where are the police?” he demands, before turning toward us.
For a moment we stand there facing each other, this man who must control Bea’s life. The one who’s kept her in this tower, whether she sees it that way or not.
“Leave,” he says to everyone else without breaking eye contact with me.
The room immediately clears, hotel staff filing past me and leaving the way they came, silent and obedient. Meanwhile I move deeper into the room. Past the stranger, to the bedroom. It’s hard to let go of Bea’s trembling body, but I lay her down on her rumpled sheets. This is where she should have been sleeping. Where she should have woken up, so that her body wouldn’t be flushed and trembling.
“Don’t go,” she whimpers, grasping my arm.
“But no,” I manage to say lightly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes meet mine, almost glazed from the terror she felt being on the roof. There’s pleading in her eyes, whether because she still wishes to apologize or because she’s worried I’ll abandon her like this.
“Who are you?” a voice asks coldly.
Without letting go of Bea’s hand, I turn to face the man in the suit. Only now, with Bea safely tucked in a place familiar to her, can I consider what I know. I thought I would know him immediately, on sight, this man from my nightmare. It seemed clear to me that I would, but now that I look at him I’m not sure.
The man in my dreams is ten feet tall with large muscles. He has a smile that’s terrifying, but those are the imaginings of a scared little boy. Now that I’m a man, this one looks ordinary.
Is it him? Or is it merely some other rich asshole with ties to this hotel?
“I’m Bea’s lover,” I tell him, because I want him angry. Well, he’s already angry. I want him frothing and helpless, the way I feel right now, unable to help the woman I care about.
“You’re lying,” the man says, his lip curled. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend? Non. I am her lover. Surely you understand the difference.”
He snarls in a way that is almost, almost familiar. But his hair is peppered with white, his stance leaner than I remember. Is it him? “I don’t know what kind of scam you think you’re running, but this girl is under my protection.”
“This woman does not need protection against me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Stop!” Bea is sitting up in bed, but only barely, holding up a hand as if to ward us both away. My heart breaks for her, that she needs to worry about this when she should be focused on herself. “Please, don’t fight. Edward, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” he says, taking a step forward which I block with my body. He isn’t getting near when she’s in this state. He gives me a dark look but stays on his side of the bedroom. “Maria came to do turndown service and you didn’t answer the door. She came in and you weren’t here.”