I’m shaking violently when he picks me up, sheltering me against his chest. He carries me inside and easily closes the door balancing me in one arm. He goes to the bathroom and lowers me onto the rug next to the bath. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering as I watch him open the tap to let the water run warm. The petals and candles are gone. The bath has been cleaned. Housekeeping came in while we were having dinner.
The bath is only a quarter full when he slips his palms under the jacket and brushes it off my shoulders, carelessly disregarding the expensive garment crumpled on the floor. He picks me up and puts me on my feet in the bath. Taking a jar of bath salts from the edge, he empties the whole jar in the bath and scoops water into the jar that he empties over my shoulder.
The warmth dispels the cold. My skin contracts with goosebumps. He refills the jar and drains it over my other shoulder. He does the same with my front and back, and then he crouches down to soap a sponge. He starts at my waist, dragging the sponge from my hip to my thigh before squeezing out the sponge and letting the soapy water run down my calf. Meticulously, he washes me, stroke by gentle stroke removing the blood and the cold.
The bathroom is warm, but I’m still shivering. When the bath is half-full, he turns off the water and guides me to lie down. Twisting my hair in a knot, he trails it over the edge of the bath. The water stings between my legs, but heat envelopes me, melting the last of the bitter frost under my skin and calming my shivers. All the while, he continues to bathe me, washing away the remnants of our coupling in a strangely humble way as if I’m the princess and he the servant.
When my skin starts to wrinkle, he pulls the plug and takes my hand to help me out of the bath. Draping a fluffy towel around me, he dries my body. When not a patch of wetness is left on my skin, he leads me back to the room and makes me sit on the loveseat while he strips the sheets off the bed, leaving the duvet. Folding it back, he looks at me in silent command.
I’m spent. My fight is cold. I get up without arguing, dropping the towel at the side of the bed before getting in. Turning on my side, I face the wall. He gets in beside me, flicks off the lamp, and spoons me from behind with an arm he throws over my stomach to anchor me to him.
Our breathing is quiet. We’re both awake, but neither of us speaks. Light from the streetlamps falls through the window into the room. It plays over the walls, creating a shadowed reflection of the free world outside.
After a long while, he says into the darkness, “If I had the time, I would’ve made you fall in love with me first.”
At the words, I stop breathing.
They’re meant to be a consolation, but they’re stunningly cruel.
Chapter 12
Maxime
The day is gray, the Mistral blowing at full force when we land in Marseille. It was a bumpy flight and a rough landing, but my pilot is skilled. A car is waiting when we exit the plane, Alexis leaning against it. I’m not fooled into seeing it as a one-man welcoming committee. My brother isn’t here for me. He looks beyond me at the woman who stiffly descends the steps. His curiosity is palpable and his excitement sickening.
In an impulsive, possessive act, I find Zoe’s hand and close my fingers around hers. Alexis’s gaze homes in on the gesture. His face folds into a frown as he takes in her fashionable wool coat and patent leather boots.
He straightens as we approach. Not sparing Zoe another glance, he addresses me in French. “What’s going on, Max?”
My smile is fake. “You tell me.” My cousin, Jerome, informed me that Alexis negotiated a deal with the Italians.
He watches me with the attention of a hawk. “Why is our hostage wearing Gucci?”
My voice betrays my tension. “She’s no longer our hostage.”
He lifts a brow. “You were supposed to hand her over to me.”
“The plan has changed.”
“To what? The whore is now our guest?”
I narrow my eyes. My tone is quiet but the violence underneath anything but. “Mind your mouth. She’s my mistress.”
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Max. Father won’t be pleased.”
I open the car door for Zoe. “Does it look like I give a damn?”
“No, you don’t. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?”
It’s not the first time he accuses me of putting my selfish needs before the business. He’s a hypocrite. Alexis has never done anything unless it benefits him.
“Why?” he asks. “Does she have a golden cunt?”
I’m not going to let that remark slide, but I’m not taking him on in front of Benoit and Gautier who are following with our luggage. Alexis will own up to his filthy tongue later.
I keep my smile intact. “Jealous?”
He turns his attention back to Zoe, looking her over as if she’s livestock. “Nah. She’s not much for the eye. Too thick around the hips for my liking.”
That’s because he hasn’t been in her space, hasn’t seen her hopeless faith and quiet resilience. He’d crush a pretty little flower under his two-thousand-dollar moccasins and never even notice it.
“Shut up and drive.” I add mockingly, “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
He grins, not taking the bait, and shifts to behind the wheel.
Benoit and Gautier load our suitcases into the trunk before making their way to the hangar where we keep a couple of cars. They’ll follow.
We don’t talk on the way home. I keep holding onto Zoe’s hand, feeling her tense as we turn through the gates of my property forty-five minutes later. The house stands on an acre of land on the outskirts of Cassis. It’s built on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the sea.
Alexis parks in the front but doesn’t get out. “Welcome home, brother. I’m not going to hang around for the victory drinks.”
Ignoring his mocking tone, I get out and open Zoe’s door. A guard rushes over from his post by the entrance to take our bags from the trunk. Zoe looks up at the two-story mansion with its double chimneys, shutters, and ivy-covered walls. I try to look at it through her eyes, try to see what she sees. It’s a typical southern French design, the house dating from four centuries back. I went to great pains to restore it, as well as with the design of the formal garden and its maze. It must be unfamiliar and strange, not what she’s used to.
The front door opens just as Alexis pulls off. My mother exits, wearing her cooking apron over a Chanel dress. As always, she’s impeccably groomed, her white-gray hair styled into a bob and her makeup cleverly invisible. Despite her age, her face is youthful, a lucky trait she’s inherited from her long line of purebred aristocracy.
“Max.” Her features light up with a smile that freezes when she notices the woman at my side. Her mouth draws down. It’s minute, quickly replaced with a friendly expression, but I noticed. I know her too well.
She pulls herself to her full petite height, her spine going stiff. “I cooked. I reckoned you’d be hungry. God only knows what you had to eat in that godforsaken country. I didn’t expect you to come home with a guest.” She looks at Zoe. “There won’t be enough food.”
“Never mind, Maman.” I kiss her cheeks. “We’ll make do.” I switch over to English. “This is Zoe. Zoe, this is my mother, Cecile.”