by Nancy Gideon
“We had nothing together. As I said, we were friends.”
“As you said,” he repeated, not believing her. Not believing any man could just be friends with her.
“Turn your back, please, so that I might dress.”
He smiled at her prudishness but did as she requested. Marchand heard the blanket drop and felt his pulse rate rise in response.
“So, who lives here with you?” Her question was muffled by the yards of fabric she was pulling on over her head.
“Frederic and Musette; they are—” He sought a tactful explanation, then said it plain. “They are lovers. Bebe. And up until last night, Camille.”
There was silence, then her carefully posed question. “You have no one living with you?”
“No one permanent.” A pause. “Unless you agree to stay.”
“And how am I expected to pay for the privilege? I have nothing except what you have seen.”
That was plenty! But he said, “If you can keep this place from looking like a home for swine, it will be enough. Anything else you wish to do . . . would be an appreciated extra.”
He let that dangle; a silken temptation that she could not address.
“I would be grateful for the roof over my head and the meals. I was beginning to think there were no kind hearts in Paris.”
“There aren’t. My motives are purely selfish.” He turned to regard her. She was gathering up the heavy cloud of her dark hair and when their eyes met, she went still. It took him a moment to remember to breathe. Camille had been a lucky man. In a slightly thicker tone, he finished, “All you need do is act my lover when we are with the others, and I promise not to act it when we are alone.” His gaze darkened into a sultry fire. “Unless you wish me to.”
Then he reached up and jerked the curtain open, leaving Nicole to exhale shakily and follow upon legs that went suddenly wobbly.
The others had gathered around glasses of wine at the table. Frederic filled two more mismatched goblets, then somberly lifted a silent toast. To Camille.
Marchand sat. Seeing no other chair, Nicole hesitated until he drew her down to perch upon his knees. His arms curved easily about her waist. Tentatively, she let hers drape along his shoulders. Broad, firm shoulders, she noted nervously. She needn’t have worried that anyone would mark her reluctance for such close contact. They were caught up in other thoughts.
“There was no mistake, then?”
Frederic LaValois regarded his brother sadly. “None.” He sighed. “Poor Camille. I cannot understand why anyone would do such a thing.”
“Do the police know what happened?”
“He had his throat slit. Whoever the vicious animal was that cut him was patient enough to sit around and watch him bleed to death before moving him to where he was found. At least that’s what the police surmised, since there was no great deal of blood at the site, and he was drained of it.”
Nicole gasped softly. No . . . a coincidence, surely. Like the police said; a madman with a knife, not a demon with an unnatural appetite.
Bebe was staring at her closely, suspicious of her pallor. “Did you know my Camille?”
“Yes,” she said without thinking, then amended quickly, “Marchand introduced us. He seemed very nice. Too nice to suffer such an awful fate. Please accept my sincere condolences on his loss.”
Marchand was staring up at her with a veiled intensity. Was he wondering about the ease with which she lied? She knew he thought there was more to her relationship with Camille than she was saying. Let him believe what he would believe. But she would not be thought heartless at such a time.
“That makes the fifth . . . body found in the quartier in less than a month,” Musette said, shuddering delicately. “I’m frightened to go out alone.”
“It’s good that you are,” Marchand told her. “None of us should go out alone until after this, this maniac is apprehended.”
They drank to seal that promise, then drank more until the bottle was gone and the hour late. Then came the moment Nicole had been dreading. Time to bed down for the night with this man who was yet a stranger.
There was one stove in the flat to provide the necessary heat and it was slight at best, so no curtains were drawn to interrupt the even distribution. Frederic and Musette shared the pallet closest to the fire and their silhouettes were cast up in bold relief upon the wall as they embraced and sank down into the covers. Bebe retired to her own empty bed not far from where Marchand marked off his own personal, if not private, space. His clothes were piled high in a basket awaiting a much-needed washing and an odd assortment of serious-looking armaments were laid out carefully beside it within easy reach of the bed.
He sat upon the pallet, stripped off his shirt, levered out of his boots and looked up to where she lingered in an awkward panic.
“Come down here to me, ma petite,” he cooed softly—just for effect, she was sure, but that didn’t keep her pulse from taking startled flight. He put up his hand and she looked at it, then at him. In the flickering evening light, his face was a subtle dance of shadows, highlighting the tousled dark hair one moment, the refined definition of his mouth the next, then playing upon the passions in his liquid eyes. He was more than handsome. There was a dark fascination to him that appealed to the rebellious streak in her. He was the kind of man her mother would bar from the door in fear for her daughters chastity. And that made being with him both dangerous and exciting. In all her life, she’d never been faced with such an unstable situation. All her decisions had been made for her, all difficulties smoothed before her. This was her first taste of adventure and that taste was bittersweet. She slipped her fingers across his palm and he tugged her down onto the thin ticking. She sat beside him, rigid with anxiety, her heart pounding with an anticipation of the unknown.
“I’ve promised not to harm you,” he reminded softly. “Do you mean to sleep in all of this?” He fingered the edge of her sleeve and smiled provokingly.
“I could sleep in a suit of full armor at this point,” she told him, hoping it was true. But she could see the wisdom of removing her gown. It was the only one she had and not easily replaced. Knowing he’d seen her in much less didn’t keep a blush from coloring her cheeks as she shed her dress and carefully folded it away in the cleanest spot she could find. Wearing only her low necked princess-style petticoat, she regarded him with a becoming timidity. He tossed back the covers and gestured for her to recline. When she hesitated again, he mocked, “Do you plan to sleep sitting up?”
Forced to present a brave front, she made a face and dropped down upon her back, determinedly shutting her eyes. She heard him chuckle, then went stiff all over as she felt his weight distribute itself alongside her. The enveloping heat of his nearness was immediate and somehow more inviting than threatening. But wasn’t that a threat of a different nature?
“Bonne nuit, cher.”
The last thing she expected was to fall instantly and deeply to sleep. But she did, exhausted in body and mind and, regardless of her worries, secure in this room full of strangers on her second night in Paris.
The expression was “Make your own bed, then lie in it,” but Marchand had never understood the contradiction until now. Beside him, breathing softly in slumber, was the most desirable creature he’d ever seen. She’d inspired him to act against his every principle. He’d taken her in when he didn’t want, and couldn’t emotionally manage, the involvement. He let vital questions go unanswered; like who she was and why she was here. And he let her get close, so close the movement of her chest was rubbing him into a rare state of arousal.
Then he’d done the truly insane. He’d promised not to touch her. He may not have been the best of men, but he prided himself upon being a most honorable one. His word was not lightly given, and never broken. Except the one to Camille. The one in which he swore to keep them all saf
e.
Movement within the room’s shadowed interior jerked him from his troubled thoughts and personal torment. His hand stretched out instinctively for the feel of fine Toledo steel. It was then he recognized the soft pattern of footsteps and heard the first muffled sob.
When he moved up behind her, Bebe turned so quickly into his arms, he had to wonder, somewhat unkindly, if she’d staged the sounds of grieving just to bring him to her. The long lush lines of her barely clad body were familiar to him, but then, she’d been with him briefly before attaching herself to Camille. She used that familiarity and his fondness for her to her best advantage now by angling his face toward hers, by fitting her mouth over his in a hungry kiss. He allowed it for an instant because she was very good at kissing, then he turned his head away.
“Bebe, this is not the kind of comfort I meant to offer you.”
“But it’s the kind I need tonight. Oh, Marchand, I can’t be alone tonight.” Her palms pushed over his bared skin with an impatient eagerness. In his own defense, he caught her wrists and stilled her hands.
“I miss him, too, but this will not make the mourning any easier.”
“Yes, it will.” And she leaned into him, sketching the line of his jaw with hurried kisses.
“No, Bebe.”
She jerked back and sent a scalding glance across the room. “Because of her? Marchand, it should be us together now.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “The proper thing would be to wait until Camille is at least cold before working to replace him. Your grief is very shallow, cher.”
“What do you know of my grief? I loved Camille, but he would understand that I have to take care of myself.”
“I am not going to be your next lover. Had I wanted things to be that way between us, I wouldn’t have let Camille have you.”
She spat a low curse at him; he was quick to catch her palm before it reached his cheek. Very gently, he pressed a kiss upon her knuckles while she stood trembling and uncertain.
“We are friends, you and I,” he affirmed with a quiet passion. “Nothing more, nothing less. You have a place here with us for as long as you choose. We are like family and this is your home. No one is going to turn you out, Bebe.”
He let her hug to him tightly because now her tears were sincere. He held her for a long moment until the tempest of her sorrow seemed to stem. Bebe was a strong woman loathe to let true emotion show. She quickly shored up her composure. He admired her for that.
With a kiss to his bare shoulder, she murmured, “I think I love you, Marchand,” but he couldn’t tell what she meant by it and didn’t ask. Best he didn’t know. He waited until she returned to her blankets and had settled into a restless sleep before seeking his own.
And therein lay his other torment, all sweetly displayed in thin white lawn and lace. Who are you, Nicole? What is it about you that makes me willing to concede so much in return for so little? He wondered these things as he watched her sleep, aroused by Bebe’s passionate touch, wishing it had been hers. She looked innocent as a child, so weary and frail, but he couldn’t forget the tenacious way she’d fought in the alley. Like a tigress, all tawny-eyed and dangerous. A courageous enigma.
And he couldn’t forget how soft her skin was. As smooth and flawless as fresh cream. Knowing to let his thoughts trail in that direction was unwise didn’t stop him from easing his hand along the gently rising curve of her ribs. He could feel how delicate she was beneath the shift of pristine petticoat. How had someone let such a fragile flower escape them? Didn’t they know how harsh the world could be upon such a tender soul?
Just then, she moaned in her sleep and began a feeble thrashing in the throes of an unpleasant dream. How much unpleasantness had she seen in her young life? Nothing compared to his, he was willing to wager. But he didn’t like the thought of her in distress, so he gathered her up close against him, hoping to provide a buffer to her troubles, liking very much his role as her protector.
Abruptly, she jerked from his arms to sit bolt upright, the breath sobbing from her in huge gulps. Her eyes were wide open but registered nothing, showing no spark of recognition as he sat up beside her.
“Nicole?” He kept his voice low so as not to disturb the others.
“No, it can’t be true. It can’t be true!” With that soft wail, she looked to him blindly. At the sight of her tortured, tear-washed face, all the regimented restriction that guided his life fell away. His heart was gone.
Her arms flew about his neck in a despairing circle and he quickly cinched her up tight. The violence of her weeping alarmed him and the notion that she’d loved Camille to the point of such agony woke other feelings not so easily identified. What could he say to lessen her sorrow? Words alone held no charm. This was the second female he’d consoled in one evening; the first out of friendship and this one out of need. He couldn’t remember ever wanting to grant peace of mind to another quite so badly, not even his own brother. So he crushed her in his embrace and moved his body to and fro in a soothing rhythm until finally her frantic clutching eased and he could feel her awareness returning. And with it, confusion.
He let her pull away. For a long moment, she simply stared at him, not accusingly, not fearfully, just with a deep bewilderment, as if she couldn’t understand why he was being so kind. Then she returned to his arms, pressing up against his chest and snuggling her damp cheek upon his shoulder in a monumental gesture of trust.
He wasn’t sure what exactly happened. One moment she was all clinging vulnerability and the next, her purpose shifted to a seduction more aggressive in intensity than even Bebe’s had been. Grasping fingers began a hard kneading pressure along the muscles of his back and shoulders while her supple body pressed against him. He almost pulled away; not because he didn’t like it but because it was such an unexpected change.
Her breathing stroked along the side of his neck in light, panting whispers. He held his own suspended, then it gusted out in an explosive sigh when he felt the first soft brush of her lips there, just below his ear, followed by the lingering rasp of her tongue. Her fingers had come up to rub along his jaw in a demanding passion, then clamped with a paralyzing sharpness into the cording on the other side of his neck. In a brief spike of surprise, he realized he couldn’t move. Then he didn’t want to. He forgot about struggle. He wasn’t thinking about making love to her, or even of how to respond to what she was doing. He was lost, hypnotized by the seducing caress of her breath upon his throat. Beneath the urgent press of her mouth, his pulse was lulled into a seductive sluggishness. He was aware of his eyes closing, of the world darkening. Mon Dieu, was he going to swoon?
Suddenly, Nicole shoved away from him, forcing him to scramble for balance. He shook his head, trying to free his mind from its odd lethargy.
“No,” she cried out in anguish. “I won’t. I can’t.”
“Nicole,” he slurred as if dragging himself up through a drugging daze. “What—?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Marchand.”
With that, she curled up in his covers with her back to him. He could see her shoulders shaking with silent weeping, just as he was shaking from a consuming rush of weakness.
What had just happened between them? A moment of impulsive love play? He would never have suspected that she’d like such stormy games. He lifted an unsteady hand to the side of his neck. The muscles had gone from numb to a fierce ache. Such strength she had! His skin was warm and wet from her kisses. But they hadn’t been kisses of passion or promise.
They hadn’t even been kisses for him.
It was Camille. She’d awakened from a nightmare to find it wasn’t a dream and that her lover was truly dead. Just as Bebe had tried to do, she’d transferred her frustrated longings to him, swamping him with her desire for another until he was helpless to care or resist. Then came her realization that he was not Camille, bringing
guilt and remorse and rejection. And to him, an anxiousness he couldn’t understand. For a moment, he’d felt powerless in her embrace, and that sensation was both terrifying and exhilarating.
And he found himself wondering desperately what it would take for her to want him for himself. At the same time, he was wondering if it would be wise to find out.
This Nicole of the no last name was no ordinary woman looking for a cozy alliance to see her through the winter.
He wasn’t sure what she was.
But Nicole wasn’t weeping for a man she’d barely known, nor had she been dreaming about his death. In her nightmare, she’d seen eyes that burned like the fires of hell and had felt the pull of damnation upon her soul.
In Marchand’s embrace, she’d known brief comfort. He was so strong, so overwhelmingly male. She’d been captivated by the hard drive of his heartbeats, by the satiny heat of his body. She’d wanted to absorb that warmth, that strength, that beat into her. She wanted it with an uncontrollable urgency.
And when she’d touched her lips to the vital channels of his throat and had ridden the mystic pulse of his life, what had overcome her senses then, left her quaking with horror now.
For what she’d wanted with an unnatural desperation was to bite.
And to drink.
Chapter Five
IT MUST HAVE been close to the noon hour when Nicole finally roused from a restless sleep. Weak sunshine slanted across the dirty floorboards. A quick look about told her she had the room to herself. She was glad not to have to confront any of her flatmates, for she was groggy and slow to come around to her full senses.
Then she sat up in alarm.
Had it been a dream or part of a waking nightmare?
Had she been within a heartbeat of becoming the same kind of beast her father was? The sensations came back so sudden and strong she could feel the anticipation rise all over again. A desire so dark it seemed obscene in the light of day.
