Descended (The Red Blindfold Book 2)

by Rose Devereux

  I couldn’t help but rejoice in the primal feeling of hot, heart-pounding arousal. Only a day after I’d feared that Trevor had killed off my desire for good, Marc had restored it. With one kiss, he’d already returned to me what had been brutally ripped away.

  How could I say no to him? How could I resist the only man who’d ever known who I was and what I needed?

  He trailed his hand down my jaw, over my neck, and across my collarbone. When he grazed his finger over my aching nipple, the last of my resistance crumbled to dust. Maybe he was right – we didn’t need handcuffs, or collars, or any of those things. After all, we had this, the deep pleasure of a touch and a simple kiss.

  Surely I could survive three days with him. Couldn’t I? I’d survived Trevor and the loss of my parents – this was nothing in comparison. Odds were that the trip would end in heartbreak, but I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try.

  I took a deep breath, feeling as if I were about to plunge into a cold lake. “All right,” I said. “When do we leave?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two afternoons later, I followed Marc off the train in Provence.

  While he wheeled our suitcases, I carried a new Louis Vuitton duffel that had mysteriously appeared in my hotel room the day before, filled with the clothes, shoes, and perfume Marc had given me. I’d dressed somewhere between the old and new Sophies, in skinny jeans and a sweater and a camel trench coat, with the black Mary Janes I’d worn at the M Society.

  It seemed like a year since Marc had fucked me to a shrieking climax on the restraint table, but it had been less than a week. How quickly things changed.

  Following Marc through the crowd, I marveled at how well I’d bounced back. I’d caught up on sleep and submitted my restaurants reviews to Katherine just before deadline. I’d gone a full day without crying and my bruises were starting to fade.

  Though I was still rattled by flashbacks of being tied and gagged, I’d been putting on a brave face, mostly for myself. I knew I was burying feelings that might resurface later, but I refused to let Trevor taint another minute of my time with Marc.

  I couldn’t erase what had happened. There was no telling what the police in New York might do, or not do. Moving on quickly might be the closest I’d ever get to revenge.

  We walked out of the train station into a bright, Indian summer afternoon. By the time we found our rental car outside the station, I was almost faint from the heat. I took off my coat and tossed it into the trunk on top of my suitcase.

  “I guess we’re not in Paris anymore,” Marc said, pulling off the V-neck sweater he wore over a t-shirt. The hem pulled up as he raised his arms, revealing the structured muscles of his stomach. I swallowed hard and looked away. I couldn’t stop my body from responding to him, but I didn’t have to let it show. He didn’t need to know how much I craved his touch and attention.

  I’d hoped we could pick up where we left off before Trevor, but we hadn’t even texted after our conversation in my hotel room. We’d hardly spoken on the train.

  Was it just the strain of a few days apart? Was there something he wasn’t telling me? I’d tried to talk on the trip down, but he’d buried himself in his laptop and spent an hour on the phone with his partners. Maybe he was just busy. But I had a sinking feeling it was more than that.

  We drove to our hotel, a restored former monastery at the edge of town. While Marc checked in I lingered in the courtyard, a stone-paved area shaded by tall plane trees. Trying to empty my mind and focus on the moment, I watched a flock of birds flutter from one tree to the other, then fly off in a sudden rush over the tile roof.

  “All set,” Marc called from the doorway.

  “Great.” I walked toward him across the terrace. In his hands, he held two keys on old iron rings.

  “Separate rooms?” I said, stopping in front of him.

  He shrugged. “After everything that’s happened, I thought you’d appreciate some privacy.”

  My blood simmered. Everything that’s happened – did he mean Trevor, or the fight in my hotel room, or the awkward trip down? I was too dumbfounded to ask.

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said coldly. “Are we on the same floor? In the same building?”

  “A few doors away from each other,” he said, ushering me inside.

  Scowling at his back, I plodded after him to the second floor. He stopped outside Room 17 and said, “I thought we could have lunch downstairs on the terrace. The restaurant’s supposed to be excellent.”

  I gave him a shrug. “As long as they serve food, I don’t care,” I said, shoving the key into the lock.

  I opened the door to find my luggage already inside. The room was bright and updated, with a pressed tin ceiling and cobalt blue fleur-de-lis stenciling on the walls. It was lovely, the perfect place to spend three days cursing myself for coming here.

  “I’ll be back in about half an hour,” Marc said.

  “Fine.” I shut my door and slumped against it, angrier at myself than at him.

  I’ll be different, Sophie. I have a good reason to be.

  He’d said it out loud, right to my face. What part of it had I not understood? Had I really believed that a little time apart and a quick trip would turn him back into the person I’d fallen in love with?

  The new Marc wouldn’t even share a room. And now I was stuck, committed to another article for Katherine. I had no choice but to stay and get it done. I could not – would not – let my career be affected by a man I couldn’t begin to understand.

  I’d just finished unpacking when I heard a text come in. I ignored it until I’d splashed my face with icy water in a useless attempt to wash away my humiliation. When I finally looked at my phone, a slow chill crept over me. The message was from Julia.

  I heard NYPD went to talk to Trevor today. He said it had something to do with his week in Paris. Do you know anything about this?

  Without a second thought, I deleted her words and didn’t write back.

  “Everything all right?” Marc asked after we’d ordered lunch.

  I’d just brutalized a few lines of French at his urging, mortifying myself in front of a waitress who couldn’t tear her big blue eyes from Marc’s face. That she was pretty and confident in that effortless, skinny French way made it even worse.

  “I’m a little tired, that’s all,” I said, squinting off toward some arid-looking hills. I’d forgotten my sunglasses in my room and the sun was so strong I could hardly see.

  “Are you still up for looking at properties this afternoon?” Marc asked. “I’m supposed to see four while we’re here.”

  The French country table setting was so charmingly perfect, I found it annoying. “Up for it or not, I have an article to write.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes?” He smiled as if I were a child whose tantrums were getting really old, really fast.

  Baffled at his casual beauty, I watched him text his real estate agent. He’d changed into blue linen pants and a well-worn white button-down rolled up to his tanned forearms. His legs were crossed and he lightly shook one loafered foot. As he tapped, his sensual lips moved slightly, making it impossible not to imagine them on my mouth, my nipples, between my legs.

  Just the thought filled me with despair. Now I understood how hate was the flip side of love, how I might never want anyone else to have him.

  I had the urge to ask why he’d invited me here if he was only going to imprison me in a separate room, but couldn’t think of a way to say it that didn’t sound bratty and desperate. I ate my salad in silence and resigned myself to three days of hell, followed quite possibly by a lifetime of the same.

  After lunch we drove to the countryside near an ancient Roman town. Marc chatted about the scenery as if we’d just met this morning. It was no wonder he’d been able to repress his desires for so long. He was an expert at burying what was inconvenient, covering it up with small talk and an upbeat attitude.

  At that moment, sitting in the car beside him, I di
dn’t believe I’d ever shattered his self-control. I no longer thought such a thing was possible.

  We pulled down a dirt driveway flanked by tall cypress trees and got out. In front of us was an old villa, still grand despite its decaying walls and crooked green shutters. In the distance I could see the red clay roofs of a tiny village, and beyond that, a shimmering range of mountains.

  “Good view,” Marc said.

  The real estate agent, a balding Englishman named Matthew, stood at the front door waiting for us. We followed him through the house, ducking under low doorways into rooms with soiled stone floors and birds nests in the rafters. Dirty sunlight streamed through windows of cracked leaded glass.

  I listened to the questions Marc asked – about plumbing, reliable contractors, putting in an infinity pool – and despised myself for wishing that we were looking for a vacation home together. How differently I would feel picturing our bed in one of the rooms, saying things like, “It might be okay if we knocked down this wall.”

  I looked at Marc, hoping to read the same sorts of thoughts in his expression, but for half an hour he hadn’t even glanced in my direction.

  iPad in hand, I trailed him up steps and down narrow passages. We almost ran into each other in the attic, our eyes meeting, hands grazing as we passed. Immediately I was hot for him, and blood flooded the surface of my skin. But I could tell by his distracted look that he hadn’t felt the same magnetic pull that twisted my insides into knots.

  “What did you think?” he asked when we got back in the car.

  I lowered my window and stared out, too dispirited to answer.

  “Sophie?”

  “I don’t have a personal opinion,” I said. “I’m just the writer along for the ride.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was the idling of the car. “You really believe that?”

  I shrugged. “What else am I here for? If I mention you and your company in not just one but two articles, it’s more publicity for you. Isn’t that the whole point of having me along?”

  As I said the words, I knew they’d only push him away. I wanted a reaction, a fight, anything but the indifference he’d given me all day.

  “I’m doing you a favor,” he said, his tone clipped. “You’re writing about this experience for your website, as I remember.”

  “A favor?” I said, whipping my head around to look at him. “I’m perfectly capable of speaking to real estate agents and interviewing buyers myself. In fact, that’s what I’d planned to do before you convinced me otherwise.”

  “Okay, then. If you don’t want to be here with me you’re free to leave. I can drive you to the train station or another hotel. It’s up to you.”

  We glared at each other across the gear shift. There was so much heat between us the air almost crackled. I glanced down for less than a second and drew in a quick, surprised breath.

  Our conflict excited him. I could see the rigid proof in his jeans and the heavy rise and fall of his chest. If he couldn’t let himself tie me up and spank me, he could get off on a struggle of wills.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, glancing away as if I hadn’t seen. “That wasn’t fair.”

  I expected him to start driving but he went on staring at me, his expression gradually softening. “Is it Trevor? I know it’s only been a few days. If I’ve been thoughtless I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m not sure how to handle it, honestly.”

  “Neither am I,” I said. “It changed everything between us. I mean, you and me.”

  “It illuminated everything,” Marc said. “That’s different.”

  He started the engine, his curved, sexy lips pressed in a firm line. Aroused or not, he wouldn’t change his mind that easily. A man who’d denied his deepest urges for almost a decade could deny them another two days, or as long as it took me to finish my research and board a plane for New York.

  If I was going to lure the real Marc back to me, I would have to try much, much harder.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After dressing and putting on makeup, I took one last look in the antique mirror above the sink.

  Red lip stain. Black liner on my upper lids. Smoky eyeshadow that brought out a trace of green in my eyes. I was one part femme fatale and one part innocent gamine, a combination I hoped would wreak havoc on Marc’s self-control.

  I dressed in pink silk panties and sheer thigh-high stockings and the ruched jersey dress Marc had given me the week before. It was so beautiful, I couldn’t let it shrivel up in my suitcase after wearing it only once. And if it made him notice me for even a second, it was worth the time I’d spent ironing it.

  “What’s the occasion?” he asked when I joined him in the hotel dining room. His smile was stiff, as if he hadn’t prepared to see me in seductive clothes with my nipples showing through the thin fabric.

  “It’s a pretty dress,” I said, allowing the maître d’ to push in my chair. “Why waste it?”

  “Good question.” Marc opened his menu and held it up in front of his face.

  I sat squinting at the black leather cover, vacillating between stinging disappointment and the impulse to smack the menu out of his hands. I hadn’t gone to all the trouble of getting ready for nothing.

  Since Marc wasn’t going to pay attention to me, surely it was okay to be friendly with our blonde, high-cheekboned, broad-shouldered waiter, who introduced himself as Julien. I’d seen him from across the terrace at lunch, not dreaming that he might be helpful to me later on.

  If Marc was as aloof as he seemed, then a little flirting shouldn’t bother him. If it was an act, then his jealousy would flare like a bottle rocket before dessert.

  Every time Julien came to the table, I talked to him. I asked about the food, the crystal, and the history of the hotel. Tossing my head back, I crossed my bare leg, giving him a clear view of my thigh and sinfully high sandal. He locked his eyes to mine and ran the tip of his tongue over his full top lip.

  Still, Marc said nothing.

  No matter how hard I tried to provoke a response, he just watched me with one eyebrow raised as if confused by my sudden personality change.

  “Talkative tonight, aren’t you?” he said, after Julien disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I’m being nice, that’s all.” I reached for the bottle of Bordeaux and topped off my already-full glass.

  “Keep that up and you’ll have a hell of a hangover,” he said, watching me guzzle two big swallows.

  “I have a high tolerance for wine,” I lied. What did it matter how I felt in the morning? I was going to be unhappy anyway. Would a splitting headache make any difference?

  As he signed the bill I got up, almost tipping back my chair.

  “Careful, don’t fall,” he said.

  His voice was amused with a hint of pity. Maybe he could tell it was all a pathetic game, or he just didn’t care anymore. I knew one thing for sure – if he was this blasé after two hours of being baited, I wasn’t going far enough.

  On my way back from the ladies’ room, I glanced through a window and saw Julien in the garden by himself, smoking a cigarette. Without a second thought I went through the crowded lounge and out an open French door, stepping onto the terrace with a light click of my heels.

  “You’ve abandoned your post,” I said, and frowned at myself. That was my best attempt at a pick-up line? Sad.

  He blew out a plume of smoke and ground his cigarette under his shoe. “Sorry,” he said, waving the air in front of his face. “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Bad habits are hard to give up,” I said. I swayed a little and took a step toward him, holding his arm to steady myself. “How old are you, Julien? You look about twenty.”

  He lowered his eyes. “I’m twenty-two.”

  “Really?” I said, struggling to sound interested. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true.”

  I was trying to think of something else flirtatious to say when I heard a sharp hiss behind me. “What’s that?” I said, turning a
round and making myself dizzy. Marc stood just outside the door, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Uh oh,” I said, though I couldn’t help smiling. At last I’d roused the hibernating beast.

  “Sophie?” Marc said. “A word?”

  I rolled my eyes and gave Julien a smile. “Don’t go anywhere,” I whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

  Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, I went across the terrace. “What do you want?” I asked.

  Marc yanked me inside by my wrist. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  “Lost my what? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That idiot waiter is barely out of nappies. One would think you had no standards at all.”

  “He’s old enough,” I said, trying hard not to slur. “Twenty-two, to be exact.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yeah. A second ago. I asked.”

  Marc grabbed my arm. “Upstairs. Now.”

  “Hey!” I said. “Let me go. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “The hell I can’t,” he said, his grip tightening. “I’m not going to let you embarrass yourself in public like a common tart.”

  “Why not? You never cared about embarrassing me before, making me kneel down in the middle of a restaurant in Paris.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “So? What does it matter to you?”

  He looked down at me, his eyes scorching. “You’re right. Do exactly as you like.” He dropped my arm and stalked back to the dining room.

  Straightening the shoulders of my dress, I couldn’t help feeling triumphant. After two hours of concerted effort, I’d cracked his façade. At least I could still make him feel something, even if it was only fury. Anything was better than being ignored.

  I was too tipsy to make it upstairs by myself and the idea of going to bed alone was intolerable, so I walked back across the terrace. Julien was sitting with his ankles crossed on a low stone wall.

  He smiled when he saw me. “Everything okay?”

  “Absolutely. No problem at all.”