“Why?” I ask him, my voice, my gaze sincere. “Who exactly am I trying to impress?”
His barely contained smile is unnerving, filling me with wariness. “Only one of the most powerful men in the world.”
Forty-Five
Summer
I arrive at the restaurant at exactly eight o’clock, letting the wind in with me as I push through the heavy doors. It’s a chilly night, and I’m clad in a thick black faux fur coat Monty found for me on our shopping excursion. It’s short, but just enough to cover my minidress, my legs still completely exposed. They glow from the exfoliation treatment I gave them in the shower earlier. I paid special attention to my entire body for tonight, Monty instructing me to do so. He wanted me to prepare myself as if I were going to have sex with the King of Sultan, direct quote.
I don’t know where he gets his silly ideas, but I went along with it, enjoying the pampering. Since I’ve been in Paris, I haven’t indulged in much self-care. I’ve been too busy, trying to keep my mind and body active so I won’t sink back into the memories that haunt me.
This last week with Monty has felt like a high fantasy moment. Giving me a glimmer of my old life, when I naively believed Whit would gladly relinquish everything to be with me. That week leading up to Thanksgiving were some of my favorite moments with him. When he chased me all over the Lancaster estate, finding me in dark corners where he would then ravish me with his beautiful mouth and hands as my prize.
I miss that mouth and those hands. I even miss the dark, disturbing things he would say to me. No one made me feel like Whit Lancaster.
No one.
An imposing set of marble stairs rises before me, draped in blood red carpet. I carefully walk up them, my ankles wobbly thanks to the five-inch heels of my stilettos. They’re whisper thin, as are the silver straps that cross my feet, and I know it would take nothing to topple me completely over, planting me on my face.
Reaching out, I grab the balustrade, holding onto it for dear life as I reach the top of the stairs. The floor is covered in black and white marble tiles, my heels clicking as I walk across them, toward the single open doorway with the restaurant’s subtle sign to the left of it. The room within beckons, dark and mysterious, and I frown, surprised I don’t hear the low murmurs of conversation, the delicate clink of silverware hitting fine china.
I hear nothing at all.
Still not quite sure of Monty’s motives, or what he’s all about in regards to tonight’s dinner. I feel like I’m his doll and he’s playing dress up with me. He wants me to look a certain way, to be this sort of—sex bomb to drop men to their knees or whatever. I kept questioning him about tonight’s dinner guests, but he remained frustratingly mum. It’s annoying.
I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose, wanting to be mysterious. It’s working.
Too well.
Once I enter the overly warm restaurant, my hands go to the front of my coat, and I wish I could rid myself of it. A man in an elegant gray suit materializes out of nowhere, stepping toward me with a polite smile as he helps me out of it. I smile at him, murmuring, “Merci,” as he takes my coat for me.
His gaze remains trained on my face the entire time, never once looking at my body, and I wonder if someone warned him of what I could be possibly wearing.
Though the idea is ridiculous. Why would anyone need to do that?
“Right this way, mademoiselle,” he says, his French accent heavy as he holds his hand out, indicating where I need to go. The restaurant is small. Dark. Intimate. There’s no one else in the room, which is strange. It’s Friday night. It should be bustling with business, every table full of people eating and drinking and talking.
We pass through many connected rooms, every single one of them empty, before we stop in the last room. There’s a singular round table in the center with only two chairs and place settings in front of them. Frowning, I glance over at the man but he merely smiles and nods before he leaves me completely alone.
Our dinner party is really only for two? Me and Monty? That’s it?
Disappointment floods me, and I revel in it for a while. I’d hoped to meet someone new. Other people that are Monty’s friends who I could laugh and drink with. Instead, it’s just the two of us, and for a moment, I allow myself to be sad.
But that only last for a few minutes. I’ve wallowed enough about things almost my entire life. Time to move on and be strong.
I walk around the room, trailing my fingers along the dark gray-paneled wall, until I stop in front of the window, staring outside at the busy Paris night. There is an endless stream of cars on the street below, and people walking along the sidewalks. The trees are starting to bloom, lovely and hopeful in the dreary, windy weather, those blossoms clinging to the branches for dear life. I touch the cool glass with my fingertips, my nipples tightening from the outside chill.
It’s when I feel the presence of someone entering the room that my body stiffens, and I keep my back to him. It’s a man. I can smell his cologne. Rich and distinct, I inhale discreetly, not recognizing the scent. Did Monty change his signature cologne? Highly doubtful, since he bought a vat of it at Hermes when I was with him, and it smells nothing like this.
Seconds pass, gaining quickly on a minute, and still the man says nothing. I avert my head, about to glance over my shoulder, when he barks at me:
“Don’t turn around.”
My heart thumping wildly in my chest, I do as he says, vaguely recognizing the voice. It’s purposely deeper, as if he’s trying to disguise it, and I wonder who he is.
In the darkest, deepest recesses of my soul, I recognize him. I know him. He draws closer, my entire body lighting up, and I close my eyes, hope against hope filling me. I’m trembling, a mixture of fear and excitement swirling within me. He pauses directly behind me and I dip my head, glancing down at my feet. I can see his dark dress shoes, the hem of his black trousers. My breath lodges in my throat as I wait for something, any sort of acknowledgment.
A shaky exhale leaves me when I feel it. A single finger drifting down my back, featherlight, goose bumps rising in its wake as he goes down. Down. Until he’s touching the base of my spine, his finger tugging on the mesh fabric pooled there, his knuckle brushing against my flesh.
His finger is gone, filling me with disappointment, but seconds later, he settles his hands on my shoulders, gripping me surely. I breathe a sigh of relief, my body responding immediately to his touch.
“Whit,” I breathe.
His grip tightens on my flesh, keeping me in place. I open my eyes to see my face reflected in the window, and his too, right behind me. I drink him in greedily. He’s just as beautiful as I remember, maybe even more so now. He looks older. More like a man. His jaw is just as sharp, as are his cheekbones, set-off by that plush, delectable mouth. I study him unashamedly in the reflection, realizing that he’s doing the same to me, though his gaze is elsewhere.
Traveling all over my body.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he asks, his deep voice full of wonder. “Did Monty choose this dress on purpose to drive me out of my damn mind? Because it’s working.”
I stiffen beneath his touch, trying to jerk away from him, but he won’t let me go. “You planned this with Monty?”