* * *
—
Richard and Judythe had planned to go out and walk around Paris, but got waylaid by their bed and a bottle of champagne that had been left for them in their room. They wound up making love for several hours, before going for a long walk, arm in arm, down the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and eventually ended up in the Tuileries Gardens, and sat on a bench kissing. Neither of them could believe that they had a whole life together now, and nothing could stop them. All the bad stuff and the legal issues were behind them. They had corrected their mistakes, paid their dues, and now it was smooth sailing ahead.
They ate dinner at a little bistro before they went back to the hotel and made love again. Life had never seemed more perfect. And what better place to celebrate it than Paris? They had dealt with all the complications in their lives, and the trip was their reward for it. They knew that this time, when they married, it wouldn’t be a mistake, for either of them.
* * *
—
Olivier Bateau had begun to relax, sitting in his office behind the front desk. He could breathe again when Yvonne walked in and reported that all was well in their world, except that the phone system still appeared to be failing at times, but a team was working on it, and promising it would be fixed shortly.
“Except for the phones, all is peaceful,” she said, smiling at him, as he shook his head.
“For the moment,” he added. “That could change in an instant. Hotels are complicated. They’re like living, breathing beings, with a mind and life of their own.” She had already learned that he was a pessimist, wracked by anxiety, and he always saw doom lurking around the corner.
“I think for a first week, things have gone pretty damn well,” she said. He hesitated and then nodded. It made him think of the minister of the interior in the glorious suite they had upgraded him to. Olivier couldn’t help wondering who Patrick Martin was meeting there that night, and there was no doubt in his mind whatsoever that he was cheating on his wife. And whoever it was, Olivier was glad they had given him the big suite. He was sure that when Patrick became president, he would remember it.
Chapter 3
Patrick Martin paced the room periodically, while he waited for the person he was meeting to arrive. He stood at the window several times, but remained concealed by the filmy curtains, so he wasn’t in plain sight. He had finished two scotches by the time he heard a knock on the door. He had texted the room number, and told his guest to walk straight to the elevator, and not make inquiries at the front desk. Patrick had received a brief “Okay” in response. He felt certain that everyone at the desk would be too busy to notice a self-assured stranger arrive, and wouldn’t stop him.
When the knock finally came, Patrick opened the door quickly, and a breathtakingly handsome, truly beautiful, graceful young man entered. He was in his early twenties. He was Russian, and had trained as a dancer in Moscow at the state school. Since arriving in Paris three years before, he had been modeling, not dancing. He was strikingly good-looking with straight blond hair to his shoulders, and an exquisite body with every muscle rippling. When Patrick looked at him, he felt the same things he always did, fierce, overwhelming attraction, anger, and revulsion all at once. His attraction to Sergei Karpov made him feel like a prisoner. As Patrick watched him move with the stealth of a cat, or a long, lean leopard, Sergei smiled at him, reached for the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket, opened it, poured two glasses and handed one to Patrick.
“I like the room,” he said with a wicked smile, as Patrick refused the champagne.
“I’ll stick with scotch.” Sergei shrugged, to indicate he didn’t care. “They upgraded me,” Patrick said.
“You’re an important man,” Sergei confirmed, as he continued to prowl and investigate the room, opening things and closing them, while Patrick sat looking uncomfortable and watched him. You never knew what Sergei would do next. “You’re especially important now that you’ve decided to run for president next year.”
“That’s not entirely sure yet. It was foolish to come here. It’s too showy, and too public. We should have met somewhere else. I thought they’d be too busy with the opening to notice us.” But the upgrade proved otherwise.
“Bad hotels depress me. I deserve this. So do you.” Patrick didn’t comment. Sergei seemed totally at home as he settled in a Louis XVI chair, his long, graceful legs stretched out in front of him. He reached for the phone then, and before Patrick could stop him, he called room service and ordered foie gras, caviar, and vodka, and smiled at Patrick when he hung up. “I’m starving.” As he said it, he reached over and grabbed Patrick roughly and kissed him. He taunted and tantalized him, which was his stock in trade, as he pulled off Patrick’s clothes and his own. Sergei was an expert at sexual delights, which Patrick knew only too well.
He could never resist him, and a minute later, they were naked on the bed, which Sergei had pulled open, and engaged in brutal, raw, animal sex, as both men made guttural sounds, and Sergei finally roared like a lion. It had been quick and violent, as always. They had barely finished when the room service waiter rang the doorbell, and Patrick shoved Sergei roughly toward the bathroom, dumped their clothes on the floor, and grabbed a terry-cloth hotel robe. He looked disheveled and severe when he opened the door and let the waiter in, told him to leave everything on the rolling table, signed for it hastily, and prayed that Sergei wouldn’t come out before the waiter had left. Sergei was unpredictable, wild and unmanageable, which made him even more irresistible. He knew better than to come out, and waited until he heard the door close behind the waiter. He strolled out naked, with his spectacular body in full view, and helped himself to the caviar and foie gras, and then poured himself a glass of the chilled vodka. He offered some to Patrick, who shook his head. He wasn’t enjoying the performance, but Sergei clearly was. Every minute of it. He knew he was in full control of Patrick, and had been for two years. It was an agonizing relationship of sex, hatred, and lust.
He glanced at Patrick then and asked him, “Did you bring it?” Patrick nodded, sitting in the robe, looking miserable. “Where is it?” He pointed to his briefcase. “Bring it to me,” Sergei commanded in a silky voice. Patrick hesitated, with a defeated expression, got up, brought the briefcase to Sergei, and handed it to him. Sergei smiled broadly, both at the subservience, and at the prospect of what Patrick had brought. He opened the briefcase, and took out neat stacks of euros, set them on the table, and counted them, still naked and unbearably beautiful. He made every gesture a sexual act that was excruciating to watch and aroused Patrick immediately, just as it had since they met.
“It’s all there,” Patrick said in a low growl.
“It is and it isn’t. I’ve been thinking,” Sergei said. “We agreed on that amount before you decided to run for president. You’re worth a great deal more now. You’re a very, very important man. I want more.” Patrick looked ill as Sergei smiled evilly at him.