Chameleon

by Ashe Barker

  “I cannot.”

  “Fleur, now please.”

  His tone hardened, becoming firmer than she had ever heard from him. Both compelling and troubling, the timbre in his voice made her uncomfortable, unsettled. And she knew that whatever her professional ethics, she was not going to be leaving this room until she’d told Ethan what he wanted to know.

  “Very well. I will tell you. But please, do not repeat this. I would lose my job here if you do. And I need this work. It is just, you are his friend, and you are like him, I think.”

  Ethan nodded slowly. “James and I share many interests. This is true. And our lifestyles are not dissimilar in many respects.”

  Fleur inclined her head, realizing that he’d just told her, in not much code at all, that both James and he were Dominants. But she already knew that.

  “Mr. Conroy came to Marrakesh some months ago, to visit the hotel. He was here for a few days, with a companion. A lady.”

  “I see. None of this is confidential, though.”

  Fleur nodded and continued. “The companion—I am afraid I do not know her name, though it will be in my notes—became ill whilst they were here. I had to attend her in their guest riad. She was experiencing breathing difficulties. It was an asthma attack, which I treated, and she was soon quite well again. In order to treat her, I had to examine her, which meant I had to check her respiration. When she raised her top for me to place my stethoscope on her back, I saw that she had been beaten. There were marks, several of them. Contusions, I would say, caused by a strap perhaps or maybe a belt. I saw them, and she knew that I had seen. Mr. Conroy was not in the room when I examined her. I asked her if she needed any help, if she was happy to remain with Mr. Conroy. She smiled at me, and she told me that she was never happier than when she was with Mr. Conroy. I thought at first she was scared of him, would not speak against him for fear of reprisals. But her face was not fearful. Her expression was one of calm. Despite her injuries, I believed she was happy.”

  Ethan listened without interruption. When Fleur finished, he didn’t reply immediately. She sat on the bed, her body huddled as she waited for him to speak, to tell her she had no business repeating the private details of a medical consultation. Which was perfectly true, of course.

  It seemed that medical ethics were not his primary concern. “You’re right. She was happy. Would have been happy. As would you have been, if your brute of a husband had been more like James in his outlook. More like me, even. And that’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”

  “I do not understand your meaning, Ethan.” There was just the slightest tremor in her voice, more than a hint of defensiveness, but she heard it. Could he detect it too?

  “You told me about your marriage, about how you wanted your husband to treat you—what you’d hoped for when you agreed to marry him. Instead, he accused you of being perverse, wicked, or some such thing. He proceeded to beat the crap out of you, and even though it’s long since over with, and you’ve grown into a lovely, intelligent, successful woman, you still hide behind some pretense that being different, being what some might call kinky, is not acceptable. Am I right so far?”

  “I… I…” To Fleur’s horror, tears pricked her eyes. She never cried—well, she never used to, though she was making something of a habit of it recently around Ethan. But she had not for many years, and certainly not over this. As Ethan had said, those days were long gone. But the chance encounter with James Conroy and his seemingly contented companion had resurrected all her latent uncertainties and confusion, not to mention her deeply repressed longings. Many years ago she’d felt drawn to—something. She had wanted to explore it, discover the mysteries of what she now knew to be her submissive personality. But that had proved to be dangerous, terrifyingly so. Buried for years, totally submerged under her sophisticated veneer of professionalism, she had not anticipated that she would ever be outed. She had even managed to disregard the evidence of James Conroy, until something in Ethan’s quiet, assured manner had reminded her of him.

  “Hey, come here.”

  His tone had softened. Fleur regarded him through tear-filled eyes, gulping back her sobs. It was no good. Despite her determination, ten years or more of pain had to erupt sometime, and it would seem that it was going to be now. Before she knew what was happening, she started to bury her face in her hands, just to be seized and hauled yet again onto Ethan’s chest. She buried her face there instead, and sobbed as though her heart was breaking.

  Ethan held her, his arms around her heaving shoulders, murmuring words of encouragement and comfort that she couldn’t really hear but knew were there. Fleur clung to him, her rock right now, the one solid and certain thing in a tangle of confusion, of missed opportunities and roads not taken.

  Eventually her sobs subsided, and Fleur was seized by panic and remorse. “Please, you will not tell him? It was private, I should not have told you. I should not have told anyone.”

  “Sweetheart, if you betrayed any medical confidences, they were those of his companion, not James. He wasn’t your patient.”

  “No. But he is my employer, and he is your friend.”

  “James is my friend, but he can look out for himself. We won’t talk about him anymore. I’m more interested in you.”

  “Me? I am no one, not that interesting.”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart. You are interesting. I’d say you’re fucking fascinating. Ever since I saw you on that bloody donkey of yours, I’ve hardly been able to take my eyes off you. Christ, was that only a couple of days ago?”

  “I thought you were very handsome—and arrogant.”

  “‘I’ll take handsome. And I have my moments, I suppose, but arrogant?”

  “You watched me, all the way down the road. You were staring. It is rude to stare.”

  “Yeah, I know. Like I say, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you.”

  “But when you took your sunglasses off, I decided you were nice. Polite, after all.”

  “The sunglasses? I don’t get it.”

  “They were dark, very dark, and they hid your eyes from me. You were looking at me, but I couldn’t see you. Then you removed the glasses and looked me in the eyes. I liked you then. And when you slowed down to drive past me, careful not to startle Agwmar, I thought you were more considerate than most tourists.”

  “I wasn’t a tourist.”

  “I did not know that at the time. Then you drove away, and after a few seconds, I heard the screech of your brakes and a crash. I was so scared. I thought you might have been injured, killed even. I am a doctor, but had almost no medical equipment with me.”

  “You took excellent care of me.”

  “I tried to. You were extremely hard to help, Mr. Savage.”

  “So you’ve said already. Ah well, perhaps you saved me from myself.”

  It was on the tip of Fleur’s tongue to return some witty, flippant comment, but she did not. Instead, she considered his words, their earlier conversation, the comfort he’d provided when she was distressed. Maybe she had saved him from himself. And perhaps he could return the favor.

  Chapter Nine

  “Are you staying at the hotel tonight?” Ethan asked the question after he had kissed her as they prepared to leave his riad—he to collect his hire car from the hotel underground parking area and she to open the day’s clinic.

  Both had dressed to face their day, she in her semi-formal dark trousers and neat blouse that she had brought with her yesterday evening in a discreet shoulder bag. She would put on her clinical tunic top when she reached the hotel medical facility. He wore his usual working outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. Fleur noticed his desert boots, and that after studying the communications he’d downloaded from his office in the UK he had packed several bottles of water from the hotel minibar. He looked to be gearing up to spend the day in the desert. She resisted the temptation to warn him to drive carefully.

  “I finish working at ten o’clock this eveni
ng. I am not on duty tomorrow, as it is my day off, so I should go home. My parents will expect me.”

  Ethan simply nodded. It pleased Fleur that he made no comment about this, did not see fit to point out that she was thirty years old and entitled to do as she pleased. In the UK perhaps and in many other places that would be so. But here in Morocco she was careful to project the image that would most help her career. This did not include openly sharing the beds of passing European businessmen, no matter how appealing the prospect might be.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, at your parents’ place. You’d better let me have the address.”

  “I could come here to meet you…”

  “I had the impression you were hoping to be discreet. How would that look?”

  She knew he was right. “Very well. I will write it down for you.” She found a hotel notepad on one of the hall tables arranged around the living area and jotted down the address of her family home. “Show this to the taxi driver. It is not far, but in Marrakesh traffic, it will take about fifteen minutes to get there. You will need to ring the bell at the gate.”

  He took the slip of paper, folded it and placed it in his wallet. “What time should I arrive?”

  “Would late afternoon be all right? We tend to eat quite early.”

  “I’ll be there. I’m going to miss you today. And I’ll miss you even more tonight.”

  Me too. Fleur did not say this, though. Instead, she bowed her head and followed him from the riad and along the guest walkway leading to the hotel’s central courtyard where they would go their separate ways.

  * * * *

  Despite the heat and the dust, Ethan’s day should have passed quickly. Sociable by nature, he nevertheless enjoyed his own company. When he was out on site, alone, anywhere in the world, he prided himself on his ability to concentrate on the job in hand, to focus totally. He was known for it.

  But not today, it would seem. Today, a rather lovely Moroccan doctor continually interrupted his concentration. Her voice, low and sultry. Her scent, which he was astonished to note, put him in mind of a light spring day at home. He recalled the way her skin felt under his fingers—smooth, with a tendency to shiver ever so slightly when he brushed past one of her more sensitive spots, like her ears or the backs of her knees. He especially loved the little sounds she made as she came and wondered if he would hear those again. Probably not. He wouldn’t see her tonight, and tomorrow he would leave her at her parents’ home. The day after that he was booked on a flight back to Heathrow.

  He’d had no plans to return to Morocco for a while. He might have to revise his schedule.

  After he had left her in the hotel courtyard, he’d intended to make straight for the car park. Instead, he’d found himself chasing down the formally attired head of the reception staff and asking him to recommend a local florist. A few minutes later, he’d completed his business and was on his way out to the desert again. He really needed to complete his fieldwork today if he was to keep most of tomorrow free for writing up his final conclusions and recommendations, and his dinner appointment. He might even get in a little pool time.

  * * * *

  For Fleur, the day dragged. Just when she might have appreciated an epidemic of Moroccan tummy or maybe a few poolside bumps and grazes, no one seemed to need her services. Her charges were the very epitome of rude good health and safety consciousness. Feeling somewhat superfluous, and with altogether too much time on her hands—time in which she might think on matters perhaps better left untroubled—she fell back on an overdue stock take of the medical supply cabinet. She busied herself ordering bandages and gauze, even tidied the medicine fridge in a final act of desperation. She almost wept with relief when reception called her to attend a woman who had experienced a dizzy spell in the bar, though she suspected that the sudden onset of symptoms owed much to over-indulgence in the local liquor. Even so, she managed to sport her most sympathetic expression as she recommended plenty of bottled water and a lie down out of the sun.

  Fleur didn’t know what she had to complain about. Usually a quiet day was a blessing, a chance to catch up on paperwork, check supplies, read the latest medical journals. And ordinarily she was a lot more tolerant of the foibles of holidaymakers than she felt today. She loved the hotel atmosphere, the multinational nature of it all, the constant coming and going, the chatter of different languages, the fascinating mix of cultures and traditions, all jostling around and generally having a good time together.

  She could have easily found a job in the hospital where her mother was a senior pediatrician or in one of the other medical facilities in the city. Sometimes she wondered if her skills might not be better invested in caring for the local population, but she preferred the Totally Five Star. She was in her element here, enjoyed the hustle, loved meeting new people—interesting people who converged here from all corners of the globe. Her language skills were an asset, as was her gender on the whole. Most of her patients were women or children, so a female doctor was usually preferred. Although her initial contract was a temporary one, Fleur was optimistic regarding her prospects with the hotel chain—as long as she didn’t screw up right royally by offending the CEO. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d discussed his private life with another guest—his friend at that. Talk about professional suicide. Ethan had promised to keep her lapse to himself, though, and she trusted him.

  Fleur’s faith in Ethan was further bolstered when she called out “Enter” in response to a tap on her office door, to admit a young local man carrying a long, white box.

  “Delivery for Doctor Mansouri.”

  She stood and strode around her desk, puzzled. She had ordered new supplies but they would not be delivered until tomorrow at the earliest. She checked the name on the delivery note, and took the proffered ballpoint pen to sign, accepting the package. As the door closed on the courier, she slid the lid from the box and gasped.

  Dozens of lilies, all pure white, filled the box, topped by one exquisite crimson rose.

  The scents bursting from the flowers were heady, delicate, yet they filled the small room instantly. Fleur’s practical self hoped that no hay fever sufferers would be seeking her help today, while her romantic soul soared. Ethan. Who else? They have to be from him. Apart from her parents when she had passed her final medical exams, she couldn’t recall that anyone had ever sent her flowers before.

  There was a card, discreetly tucked among the blooms. She retrieved it, opening the small pale yellow envelope carefully to extract the tiny handwritten card.

  Fifty. One for each hour since I first saw you. I couldn’t resist the rose.

  Fleur sank into the chair behind her desk, staring at the box lying open in front of her. Fifty hours. Was it really only fifty hours? Two days? For over ten years, she’d managed to keep the lid firmly slammed shut on her secret, wicked yearnings. And he’d managed to pry it off in just two days.

  There was only one question left, she supposed. What was she going to do about it?

  * * * *

  As her shift ended, Fleur took off her doctor’s tunic and hung it up neatly on the back of her office door. She picked up her box of lilies and her medical bag before exchanging pleasantries with the agency nurse, who would hold the fort until her medical colleague came on duty at eight in the morning. She herself was not due back for thirty-six hours, but would be here in time to say goodbye to Ethan as he checked out for his flight back to his usual life—a life that did not include her.

  She made her way along the staff corridor, headed for the Totally Five Star central courtyard. From there she could hail a taxi to take her to her parents’ riad, where a late supper would await her. Her mother was working all night, she knew, but her father would be there, keen to hear about her day. He would quiz her about Ethan, without doubt. Yvette had clearly taken to Ethan. She would not have invited him to their home otherwise, and by now, she would have told her husband all about him. There were no secrets between her parents.

/>   The Mansouri household was by no means a typical Moroccan family, and Said Mansouri was far from the traditional Muslim father. Fleur knew he would have no real concerns regarding his daughter forming a relationship with a man not of his own faith. That said, her father was deeply religious himself and a man of no faith at all would cause him to raise his eyebrows. Fleur had seen no evidence to suggest that Ethan would meet her father’s expectations in that regard, though, in fairness, the subject had never arisen.

  Fleur had no reason not to go home, no reason not to want to sit and drink tea with her father, tell him all about Ethan Savage. Well, not quite all perhaps, but she knew her father would assume they were at least close. He would be too tactful to pursue the matter, but her mother would be more direct. They had that to look forward to when Ethan joined them for their evening meal tomorrow.

  She had no reason not to leave, to get into her taxi and put the Totally Five Star out of her mind for a while. She might go shopping tomorrow, or perhaps play tennis. Her sister was always pestering her for a game. Or maybe she would read. It seemed a long time since she’d just put her feet up and relaxed with a good book. Her mother would no doubt like some help with the preparations for the evening, though Fleur was no cook, really.

  No, there was definitely no reason at all not to head for home, but she still found herself settling into a deep sofa in one of the Totally Five Star lounges, almost deserted at this hour when most of the guests were in either the restaurants or the bars. She ordered a coffee and settled back to enjoy it—and to think.

  It was true that she had only known Ethan Savage for a couple of days, but she felt closer to him than she ever had to anyone, even her family, beloved though they were. Ethan understood her, knew her most private yearnings and accepted her. He wanted her. He was not shocked at her failings, nor even surprised. She had told him of her marriage and he had taken her side. There was nothing of the condemnation she had feared, just contempt for her husband. Ethan seemed to regard it as sheer bad luck that she had found herself shackled to a man who had no understanding of her needs and had even suggested that had she married someone more like James Conroy or himself, her life might have been very different.