“Look, Isabella, you’re new to the life. You’ve let all those voices fill your head with ideas of what you should be, how you should act, what’s appropriate, what’s moral. It will take time to shut all that bullshit out, but keep one thing in mind. Guys like Jacques and I love strength. Need it, in fact.”
“Because if a woman isn’t strong, what’s the value of her submission,” she parroted Jacques’s words, wondering how Jacques and his friends seemed to be able to read her so easily.
“Exactly. You’re strong. Very strong. You have nothing to prove to anyone who thinks otherwise. Another?”
Without waiting for an answer, Sabin got up and opened the fridge. They drank their second beer in silence, then he took another trip across the tile. As he handed her a bottle, he said, “You’re something else too.”
“Pathetic,” she mumbled.
He looked her deep in the eyes with a small shake of his head. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
“Jacques said that too.”
“Of course, he did. He listens to me and I am brilliant, after all.” He gave her a teasing grin.
In the face of that concerned stare, Isabella found herself talking. “I don’t have the strength to face this, Sabin. I know what I have to do, but I don’t have the strength and I can’t turn to the people who care about me. I’m frozen.”
“Well that sucks, doesn’t it?”
What? No trying to solve my problems. No pushing for more.
“Say it, Isabella. Say, ‘it sucks,’” was all Sabin said.
“It sucks.” The words came out on a sad little voice. Pathetic. She gulped her beer, almost half of it.
“It sucks, Isabella. Get angry,” he prompted.
There was no judgment in the command and she was angry. So fucking angry that she couldn’t see straight, but the Catholic in her didn’t do anger. Acceptance was the correct response. The normal response. The thought made her angrier.
She wasn’t normal. She was just Isabella and Isabella couldn’t accept what was happening to her. She couldn’t accept falling in love only to lose it. She was a good person. She tried to help other people. How could God let her see what she’d seen at the Institut only to have her suffer the same fate as the people she cared for?
The thoughts swirled faster and faster through her mind until she opened her mouth and screamed, “It sucks.” It felt so liberating that she did it again. “No. It really sucks.”
“Louder, Isabella. It SUUUCCKKS!” Sabin threw his head back and shouted the words. “Come on, girl. Let’s hear you howl.”
Fury filled her. She had a life. She had people who loved her. Maldita sea, she didn’t want to die. She wouldn’t accept it. She was strong. Strong enough to fight. The shouts became a battle cry. “It sucks! Sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks!” She was screaming so loud her throat hurt.
“You’re not going down without a fight, Isabella. Whatever it is, you’re not going down without a fight.”
Her fist slammed on the counter. “You’re damn right, I’m not.”
Sabin’s thumbs slipped over her tear-stained cheeks - she hadn’t realized she’d started crying – and he looked her hard in the eye. “Good girl. And you don’t have to go around your elbow to get to your thumb.”
“What?”
He smiled an embarrassed smile that looked, well, kind of cute on that supermodel face. “She speaks boy, but she doesn’t speak southern. Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Isabella. Use all that beautiful strength and take the first step. Just one. All on your own. I know you can do that. After you do, you can figure out who to tell and whether they can help you.”
He was right. Dios mío, it's so simple. One step at a time. How many times had she said that to her patients? If you tried to go too far down a scary road before you even began, you’d never begin. All she had to do was begin.
“I can and I will.”
Admiration lit those baby blues, “You can and you will, darlin’.”
Oh, this guy is good. Really good. He’d tricked her into opening up and she hadn’t even known it. “Who says I don’t speak southern? You played me like a fiddle, cowboy. Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. “But I still don’t get what that has to do with my elbow.”
Sabin started to laugh. She laughed too and in an instant, they were both laughing louder than they’d been yelling. Sitting in Jacques’s ridiculous kitchen, drinking beer and laughing their asses off.
*****
What can it hurt?
Jacques slipped into the back of the chapel and was greeted by cool air scented with bygone incense and candlewax, the kind that only exists inside hallowed stone walls. An odd sense of harmony in the midst of his frantic pursuit of Jerard settled over him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church, but perhaps he shouldn’t have stayed away so long.
He marched up the center aisle. He definitely shouldn’t have stayed away so long. There were more than a few things he had to say to the guy hanging over the alter. He knelt at the Communion rail and pressed his face into his hands, trying to remember the prayers of his youth. Nothing came to mind. He looked up at the Christ figure above him.
“Alright God, I surrender. I know I’m a shithead and have no right to ask you for anything, but I’m asking anyway. Show me what to do.”
Not exactly humble, are you, Meszaros?
Well no, but he was born this way so God must approve.
Jacques wasn’t sure what he expected. Lightning, thunder, a quick descent into hell for his arrogance, but he waited, kneeling in the dense silence of that ancient church. Surely his Maker wouldn’t fail him in a time of dire need. Even if his faith wasn’t strong enough perhaps his request could piggyback on the faith of the thousands who’d come here before him.
As he waited for some sign, an old woman entered through the side door and walked toward to him.
He sneered at the statue above him as he stood, “Guess not.”
She stepped next to him and asked, “Can I help you, young man?”
The woman wore black from head to toe. Long silver hair was neatly knotted into a bun at the base of her neck and although her skin was softened with age, her face was remarkably beautiful.
“I don’t think you can, madame, but thank you for offering.”
Old fingers rose to her lips as she looked into his eyes. Despite the wear of years, her hands were lovely too, delicate and graceful.
“Is something wrong, madame?”
“No, monsieur, it’s just…your eyes. They are so unique. They remind me of someone very special.”
“A lover?” he grinned down at her.
“And a husband.”
He looked at the modest dress, the black clothing and stockings, and recognized the attire of a widow. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She rolled her eyes up with a smile. “He gave me a happy life. Fifty years. He’s waiting for me, but God must have another purpose for me, so I suppose I’m here for a little longer.”
There was so much warmth in this gentle woman. She reminded him somehow of Isabella and the thought made him smile.
“You remind me of someone as well, madame.”
“A wife?”
He chuckled a bit at the thought of himself as a married man. “No. A lover.”
“Someday, a wife perhaps.” She grinned and he could see the vestige of youthful mischief in her eyes.
“She’s a magnificent woman, but I’m not the marrying kind, madame.”
The words seemed to bounce off the stone walls back into his ears.
The lady gave him a little bow of her head and he had the distinct sense that she didn’t believe him, but what did it matter if she did. He knew what he was.
“I will leave you to your prayers, monsieur,” she said as she turned away. “Thank you for the beautiful memory.”
He looked up at the cross annoyed that he received no answer to those prayers and asked absently, “What mem
ory is that, madame?”
She raised a hand to his cheek and said, “Fifty years of a happy life.”
Her eyes reflected the depth of a love forged over decades, a kind he’d never hoped to know. A quiet joy lived inside of this gentle woman and a little bit of her peace slipped into him with her touch.
For a fleeting moment, Jacques saw Isabella’s face reflected in hers. He shuddered and jerked away from the old woman’s hand.
If she was offended, she didn’t show it. Only smiled at him and said, “Prayers aren’t always answered in the way we expect, but they are always answered. Be well, monsieur.”
His heart was still pounding in his chest as she left the church as silently as she had entered it.
*****
Isabella stirred the paella one last time before grabbing the cellphone. Her gut clenched when the line engaged.
“Dr. Boucher’s office. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to make an appointment.”
A professional voice answered, “Dr. Boucher doesn’t have any available appointments, but I can refer…”
“This is Isabella Rey.”
The voice changed and the woman on the other end of the line spoke quickly. “Mademoiselle Rey, at last. Dr. Boucher asks about you several times each day. He’ll be so relieved that you called. Can you come in tomorrow?”
Dr. Boucher asked about me? He must not be as detached as he seemed. Somehow the thought made Isabella feel stronger.
“Not tomorrow, I’m away from Paris, but I can be there anytime the next day.”
She heard the clicking of fingers flying over a keyboard. “First appointment, 8:00 in the morning. We’ll see you then.”
“Yes, I’ll see you then. Thank you.”
That wasn’t so hard, she thought as the line disengaged.
But the next step? She wasn’t as sure.
Sabin asked her to be honest with Jacques. Said to keep her secret if she had to, but to be honest about why she was leaving. Sabin even offered to beat Jacques back with a stick when he got all bossy about letting her take care of things by herself for a while, nailing Jacques’s character and the reaction that would certainly follow if she told him she had a problem.
Guess they really are close.
A pang of guilt crept into her mind. She’d let Sabin go on with his assumption that after she dealt with her problem, she planned to resume a relationship with Jacques.
She didn’t.
Isabella left the kitchen to find Jacques. She would give him one more perfect night and then she was going to end it.
For good.
13
Blue
Jacques had barely stepped over the threshold when Isabella came running.
“Is that my shirt?” he asked, struggling to shake off his worry for Jerard.
She took him by the hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind, Jacques. I didn’t want to get stains on any of the dresses you bought for me. They’re too expensive. Demasiado caro.”
Nope, he didn’t mind. Didn’t mind at all. Isabella looked perfect wearing his clothes. Best not to mention that the T-shirt she was sporting set him back a few hundred Euros.
“I can’t stand feeling useless so I cooked dinner.”
Useless. There was too much truth in that word. Neither of them could help Jerard until he asked and for the moment, he wasn’t asking. The thought used to make Jacques angry. Now it made him sad.
“You didn’t have to do this, Isabella. I have staff who can cook for us.” He could hear the exhaustion he’d planned to hide from her in his voice.
Deep brown eyes said his compassionate Isabella heard it too. Delicate hands touched both shoulders. “That’s not the same. I wanted to do something special for you. Siéntate, por favor.”
He didn’t have the strength to argue so he sat.
“You didn’t find him,” she said as she fished out a few plates and some silverware, and laid it before him.
“No.”
The stupidity of allowing himself to remain so ignorant of Jerard’s behavior was a harsh lesson learned too late. He’d spent the day chasing his tail because he had no idea where Jerard went when he wasn’t with him, had no connections in Jerard’s shadowy world to guide him. He would never remain that ignorant of someone he cared about again.
And he genuinely cared about the woman who’d stolen his clothes.
Jerard may be gone, but Isabella was still here. The gentle sway of her hips under his T-shirt and the lovely curves of her bottom peeking from beneath the hem distracted him from his broken heart.
Isabella scooped the food into a bowl and sat on his lap. “You will, but for now it’s my turn to feed you.”
He loved the way Isabella stole these little liberties, snuggling into him like he was her teddy bear. He reached out and twined his fingers in her hair, her prophetic hair, and tried to draw her in for a kiss.
She twisted back and reached for the wine. “Oh, no, you don’t. I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he purred as his hand slipped down the curve of her spine to raise the T-shirt. Feathery fingertips swiped little circles over the bare skin at the small of her back.
“Stop that.” She shifted over his lap, moving closer rather than away. “You know that’s my weak spot.”
He almost laughed out loud. Isabella’s entire body was a weak spot.
“There’s more than one,” he whispered as his fingers moved up to stroke along the hairline at the base of her neck.
Her head fell into the crook of his neck.
“There’s this one.” He turned to run his tongue along the delicate skin at the edge of her ear and she shivered.
“And this one.” He kissed the hollow behind the lobe and her fingers dug into his shoulders.
“You’ve made your point,” she said, her voice thick with rising arousal.
“You don’t really want me to stop, do you, Isabella?” He could feel her body respond to his invitation, but his fiery angel was determined.
That pretty head snapped up. “You’re trying to make this about me, but you need someone to take care of you, at least for a little while, Jacques.”
I need you, he thought as he pulled her closer.
“Please don’t spoil it.” The begging eyes were adorable. They were her only chance to stay him off and she knew it.
He rolled his. “I can’t seem to refuse you anything, Isabella.”
He was rewarded with a brilliant smile.
She raised a wine glass to his lips. As soon as he swallowed, she leaned in and kissed him. “I like this.”
“I do too.” Sort of.
He’d never let anyone care for him. Even his own mother. She was a good woman, but childcare was left to the servants. And his lovers. None of them ever got this close. In fact, he couldn’t remember sharing a single meal with any one of them, let alone allowing himself to experience something as indulgent as being fed. The whole experience with Isabella was foreign to him and the vulnerability she’d awakened felt uncomfortable.
“Open.” She held a fork to his lips.
“How do you expect me to concentrate on eating with a half-naked woman curled on my…”
The food hit his tongue.
“…Wow. This is fantastic,” he said through a mouth full of the best thing he’d ever tasted. “What is it?”
“Paella. The secret recipe de mi abuela. If I tell you what’s in it, I’ll have to kill you, so don’t ask,” she said, laughing.
The sound warmed the entire room. Hell, Isabella warmed everything, including him. He melted beneath her. “Thank you, Isabella.”
The delight in her eyes wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He twirled her hair around his fingers and let her do what no woman had ever done. He let her take care of him.
As she fed him, she asked, “You like playing with my hair, Jacques. Why?”
Because it shows that you’re my destiny. �
�I love the color, Isabella. Red is my favorite and your hair is the most beautiful shade I’ve ever seen.”
She looked at him as if he was crazy. “When I was younger, I wanted to chop it off. The girls at school teased me about the color constantly.”
The idea horrified him. “Promise me you’ll never cut it.”
“That’s a little caveman even for you, don’t you think?”
He grunted and thumped a fist to his chest.
She burst out laughing. “I promise. No chopping.”
As she offered another bite, he put his fingers into the fork’s path. “You have to eat too.” Grabbing the underside of her backside with both hands, he huffed, “Wouldn’t want to ruin this gorgeous figure.”
She giggled and shoveled the huge forkful into her mouth.
Jacques sat back, bewildered at how naturally he slipped into this woman’s care. With each mouthful, his guard dropped a little more. She fed him another.
And another.
And another.
And…
“Stop. One more and I’ll explode.”
A pout slipped across her face.
“What?”
“You can’t be full, Jacques. It will ruin the best part.”
The little thrust of her bottom lip was too tempting.
“What’s the best part?” he asked leaning in to suck that plump pink offering between his teeth.
“I made flan and you know what they say.” She flashed her sexy grin at him. “The best way to eat flan is naked.”
“Then I guess I’m going to explode.”
Jacques tugged on the T-shirt and she raised her arms so he could slip it over her head. God Almighty, it was a sacrilege to cover that body. Then he took the fork from her hand and lifted her by the bottom onto the table.
“Wait a second, I’m feeding you.”
“Yeah, Paradis, you are.”
He ran the tines over the waistband of her panties. Isabella must have registered where this was headed because she leaned back across the table. The wisp of black lace joined his T-shirt on the floor and she opened her thighs in silent offering.
He inhaled deeply, breathing her essence, and his eyes drifted closed. Isabella was beautiful even without sight. He remembered her taste as he blew soft breath over her folds. He didn’t touch or kiss her, only caressed her with warm breath. When he lifted his lids, chocolate eyes stared as if with utter awe.
Paradise: The Masters of The Order Novel Two Page 18
