by P. Dangelico
“He’s a journalist. A decorated war correspondent. Travels constantly. A week ago he was at the India/ Kashmir border. Next week, who knows,” she said with a smile.
“You must be very proud…does it worry you, that he’s always in danger?”
“Yes. But he’s a grown man. I haven’t been able to protect him since he was a teenager.”
“And his mother?” I asked, consumed with curiosity.
Marianne’s face fell, her expression pained as her gaze steered back to me. “Murdered when they were still living in Algeria, walking home from grocery shopping late one evening.”
Tragedy and heartbreak, the great equalizers. Young, old, rich, poor––no one was safe.
“Do you want a child? I know you have ambitions for your career.” The magnitude of that question caused my breath to stall, the panic it evoked mitigated only by the gentle tone of her voice. There was no judgment in her expression while she waited patiently for my answer. My heart began to beat wildly as the truth came to light.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “With him.”
A small, knowing smile tipped up the corners of Marianne’s lips. “All is not lost––oui?”
“Oui.”
As much as I wanted to believe my full strength had returned––it hadn’t. After helping Marianne prepare the side dishes for dinner and cleaning up the kitchen, I was ready for another nap. I hadn’t heard from Sebastian all day. The screaming silence had given me a tension headache. This chasm between us seemed to be growing wider by the minute.
It was early evening when I saw him again, right after my shower, as I entered the bedroom finger combing my short wet hair and wearing one of his t-shirts with the Stanford logo on it. In some strange way, it made me feel closer to him.
The French doors that led to the balcony were open. He stood with his back to me, the heels of his hands resting on the wrought iron railing and his gaze fixed on the red slash that marked the horizon. We both watched the remains of the day faded away in a final blaze of glory.
The intensity of my feelings for this man still took me by surprise at times, making my heart race and my stomach drop as if I was dangling fifty stories high with no parachute and no voice to scream for help.
He looked so alone, remote, holding himself apart from anything and anyone that could hurt him––including me. The urgency to wrap my arms around him and ruffle up some feeling was irresistible. I was about to do just that when his words checked me.
“I don’t recognize what I feel for you. And it’s not because I’ve never been in love before,” he confessed. The words seemed to flow out of him on a deep, exhausted exhale, the weight of his thoughts bearing down on him. “Calling it love doesn’t seem enough.”
When he turned around, his face was absent of emotion. That concerned me more than his anger, or disapproval. He looked like the man I had met all those months ago, locked up behind the impenetrable walls of his fortress. His eyes roamed over the t-shirt I wore. “I’ve never asked you…have you?”
This was a conversation I was not prepared to have. We had always tiptoed around the subject. He had never come right out and asked, and I’d never felt the need to pick at that scab.
“Have I what?”
“Been in love before?”
I picked my words carefully. “Once…a long time ago. But it’s not the same thing. No two loves are alike. I was young and impressionable back then. I’m different now––I…I know better.” My eyes left his face for a moment when it dawned on me that my behavior clearly illustrated otherwise. I had never thought of myself as a hypocrite, and yet, apparently I was.
“Who was he?”
“Someone from home.” I caught the knee jerk reaction. It wasn’t home. It hadn’t been home in a long time. “I mean––back in Tirana…we were engaged.”
Not only had Sebastian been married before, but almost a father. And yet, for some odd reason, the look of shock on his face made me feel guilty, as if I had somehow betrayed him.
“Engaged?” he repeated absently. I could see him digesting this new piece of information and trying to make sense of it, trying to rationalize his feelings; his face told me everything I needed to know. It didn’t take long for curiosity to replace surprise. “Why did you break up?”
My focus shifted to the hem of the t-shirt I was busy fiddling with. “He wanted to move away and I didn’t want to go with him.” My eyes lifted to find his still glued on me, assessing me shrewdly. The silence grew heavy. Then, after an eternity passed, he nodded.
“I have a theory that the more you suffer, the more deeply you love,” I mumbled, surprising even myself with that admission. No doubt it had something to do with a driving need to earn his forgiveness.
“That explains what I feel for you.”
“Sebastian, I––” I wanted to tell him how sorry I was but the words rang hollow in my own mind. He was right. I didn’t recognize the feeling. Calling it regret didn’t do it justice.
“You won’t even give me a chance to disappoint you,” he said in a low voice, a frustrated sigh tacked on the end. “You don’t trust me and I don’t know how to change that.” Facing me, he squared his shoulders and crossed his arms.
My pride rushed to defend itself. “That’s not true. I do trust you.”
His demeanor transformed instantly, his eyes narrowed and his chin tilted down. “Don’t lie to me––ever.” The glare he followed that up with was lethal. The discussion I had with Marianne months ago, in which she warned me of Sebastian’s inability to forgive any form of duplicity, came back to me in a sudden rush. All I could do was lay my cards out on the table and hope he accepted the offering.
“Before you, I loved two men my entire life. My father and the man I was engaged to. I was betrayed by both of them…you’re the first person I’ve loved that hasn’t let me down––I do trust you.”
“Then who the fuck is Veronica Savarini?” He was battling to contain his anger. As clear as day, it was in his voice, in the taut lines of his muscles. He pulled something out of his back pocket. My Italian passport. He held up my Italian passport. He must’ve found it when they searched my apartment in Pâquis. On his face was the verdict. In the court of his opinion I had been tried and convicted as a liar.
After a beat he walked past me and into the bedroom, where he began undressing. Yanking off his tie. Unbuttoning his French blue shirt with quick, jerky movements of his hands. It gaped open. He hadn’t worn an undershirt that day and the lines of his cobbled abdomen tugged at my attention. I watched his fingers unsnap his pants and slide the zipper down, exposing a trail of fuzzy dark hair and his black boxer briefs slung low on his lean hips.
Almost instantly my entire body heated. My gaze climbed back up to his face. I found him staring at me with a mix of lust and fury in his eyes.
“I did what I had to to survive.”
“You didn’t answer my question!” he shouted. It startled me. But the anger festering inside of me began churning like a cyclone, gathering power and momentum. I snapped, accusations and blame springing out of me.
“How dare you stand there and judge me! When have you ever missed a meal or lost sleep because you didn’t feel safe? I’ve spent the last six years looking over my shoulder, in a state of high anxiety over something I had nothing to do with and no way to prove it! I’m not lord of any manor. I can’t just throw money at a problem and it disappears! Yes––I bought the passport because it made me feel just a little bit better to know that I had something to fall back on––a way to hide. And this wouldn’t even be an issue if I hadn’t met you. If I’d never fallen in love!”
The silence that followed stretched for miles. We both stood there staring each other down, measuring each other up. He was the one to break the stalemate.
“Who is she?” he asked quietly, his anger conspicuously absent.
The fight left me all at once, the aftertaste of adrenaline making me weak. I walked over to the chaise lounge,
near the fireplace, and slumped down on the armrest. “A dead girl,” I confessed. My gaze fell to my hands, palm to palm, fingers laced together neatly. “She looked like me. That’s what the guy I bought it from said anyway.”
Slowly, he walked over and cupped my face, tilting it up to search my eyes. “Do you ever regret…us?”
I’d never seen such stark vulnerability on his face before, as if the fate of his life hinged upon my answer. On their own my hands came up and clasped his wrists. I could feel the anxious beat of his heart under the pads of my fingers.
“When I was on the run, when things seemed completely hopeless and I was certain I would be caught and sent back to Albania, the one thing that gave me peace was you. I could never regret loving you…you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Leaning in, he kissed me with such passion I fell off the armrest. Then he sat in the chaise, and pulled me onto his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my face between his throat and collarbone––in the spot that belonged to me, in the place where I belonged. Pressing my nose against his skin, I breathed in his comforting scent.
“We’re meeting with an attaché from the Albanian government in a few days.”
His casual announced wreaked havoc on me. “What am I going to do?” I breathlessly mumbled.
“You mean what are we going to do?” he corrected. I pulled away far enough to examine his face, and gave him a slight nod because in reality, I was powerless to do anything except admit defeat.
A predatory glint spark in his eyes. His lips curved up slightly. “We’re going to throw money at the problem.” Then, before I could utter another word of objection, he kissed me.
Chapter Five
Although the staff went about their business as if nothing of great consequence had occurred, smiles were tight and eye contact rare and shifty. Even François avoided talking to me, unsure how to approach the subject no doubt. An invisible line now existed between us that never did before and the awkwardness marked the boundary. I’m ashamed to admit I did my best to avoid them, too.
There was no avoiding the two heavily armed men who trailed after me everywhere I went though. The loss of privacy was a serious annoyance. Like when I had to pick up tampons at the pharmacy only to have them standing right behind me, an arm’s length away. I was so irritated I turned and asked Justin what brand he used. The one time I attempted to discuss it with Sebastian I was leveled with a searing gaze that could’ve turned me into a pillar of salt.
My strength had almost fully returned. Less than a week had passed since I’d been out of the hospital, and already I’d stopped needing to take breaks, or naps. That’s why when Mrs. Arnaud informed me that Sebastian’s beloved hawks needed to be fed their lunch, I volunteered.
My head plagued with heavy thoughts, I decided that fresh air was exactly what the doctor ordered. Doctor? I hadn’t given thought to my career once since waking up in the hospital. Strange how losing something I never knew I wanted had reprioritized my entire life.
The pale blue sky was cobbled with white cumulus clouds, the humidity thick. I wandered aimlessly through the manicured gardens shielding my eyes under the roof of my fingers from the summer sun. The flowerbeds were in full bloom. A sight for sore eyes. The irises a shock of ultraviolet so intense it was impossible to ignore them. The rosebushes hadn’t been pruned yet. A tumble of flashy pink spilled over the boxwood hedge that did a poor job of containing their glory.
“How do you feel?” Charlotte stood a few paces behind me. The joy of seeing her put a huge grin on my face. I gave her a wry glance, my eyebrow hitching up. “Many things, but above all, tired of everyone asking me that. I’m fine––where have you been by the way? Hiding from me?”
That elicited a hesitant smile out of her. “I wanted to give you two some time.” Her shy voice faded away. That made me think about how little time Sebastian and I had spent together.
“I’m going to feed the falcons. Want to join me?” I said, before my mood went sour.
Nodding quickly, she jogged to close the distance between us. The silence seemed to mark the boundary of an important conversation we both didn’t know how to begin.
She blew out a deep breath. “You can’t even imagine what it was like around here when…when Gideon told him what had happened.”
I could imagine. That’s what bothered me most. I noticed her examining my head and automatically ran a hand over my short hair. Our eyes met. “What?” I asked when she rolled hers.
A wide smile broke across her face. “Only you could make a shaved head look chic. Being your friend is kind of annoying at times.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at her dramatic delivery.
“Hardly, although it seems to be growing in quickly. At least, I can’t see my scalp, or the stitches any more.” An awkward silence followed. “Charlotte, you understand why I did it?” Her blank stare induced me to explain. “Paisley found out and threatened to ruin him, to go to the tabloids and make it sound like I was after his money, that his judgment had been compromised. I’m an illegal…I was pregnant––not to mention the trouble I’m already in.”
“What trouble?”
“Remember the scandal I told you about? The one that involved my father?” She responded with a quick nod.
“He…” I swallowed the bitter taste of shame. “I’m…suspected of embezzling money from the university where my father was the president.” At her wide-eyed stare, I rushed to defend myself. “Which I had nothing to do with of course––proving it is a different matter though.”
“Shite.”
“Exactly. It could destroy Sebastian’s reputation. It still might. I haven’t been able to speak to him about it, and I’m really worried.”
“She found out you were pregnant?” she asked, her tone overly careful.
I looked out over the meadow as I spoke. “Yes.” The silence caused my gaze to return to hers. “Are you mad that I didn’t tell you?”
“Not mad,” she replied, shaking her head. “Maybe a little disappointed––I wish you would’ve let me help.”
Sweet Charlotte. I was so grateful for her friendship. “You couldn’t have helped. Nobody could have.”
Suddenly, her face lit up. “I thought he was going to tear Isabelle limb from limb. Mrs. Arnaud is the only thing that checked him.”
“Why are you smiling? I don’t particularly care what happens to her, but she must’ve been scared out of her mind.”
“Oh she was, trust me.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. Bear gave her a ride into town.”
I made a mental note to talk to Sebastian about it later. I didn’t want to see anyone wind up destitute and homeless on my account. After all, she was only the messenger.
When the mews came into view, a strange sinking sensation took hold of me. Something didn’t feel right. My pulse quickened. Instinctively, I began scanning the area. Whatever Charlotte was saying faded away as the rustle of the oaks and the singing of birds drowned out her voice.
“Wait,” I said, placing a hand on her arm to stop her.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
When nothing in particular caught my attention, we continued on. Still, the feeling refused to go away. Only when we got closer did I realize how right I was. The bloodcurdling scream Charlotte let out mirrored the one I heard in my head. Except I couldn’t speak––I couldn’t make a sound if I tried.
There was blood everywhere. Stained crimson, downy white feathers lay scattered around the yard, some tumbling away with the wind. Soft footsteps approached. The snapping of a tree branch startled me. I whipped around and found Bear and Justin standing right behind me; I was completely unaware that they had been following us the whole time.
“Fuck,” one of them quietly swore.
Sebastian’s hawks were dead. Those beautiful, noble creatures had been heinously butchered. The birds had been skinned and behead
ed. The evidence nailed to the posts the birds once used as a perch, attached to the wood with a large hunting knife. Behind me one of the men murmured something on the phone. His words lost their shape, the sound of my heart breaking blotting everything else out.
“Did you speak to him?”
“To Ben––they’re both on their way,” Bear distractedly answered while he inspected the crime scene. In the distance, I noticed some of Ben’s other men walking through the forest surrounding the estate, heavily armed and on a mission.
“Who would have done this?” Charlotte sobbed, her fingers resting over her mouth. Tears pooled on her bottom lids and caught on her lashes. She wiped at them furiously before they could run down her cheeks. I rubbed her arm in comfort.
“Whoever tried to kill Sebastian did,” I answered, the evidence plain to see. Like the bullet he took months ago, this was another warning.
Justin touched the carcass nailed to the post. “Cold.”
“Vera, I have to get you to cover. Let’s go.” Bears voice, however forceful, held a hint of fear in it as well. Bear and Justin’s extra large bodies moved into position, flanking Charlotte and me. They scanned the area furtively as we walked at a brisk pace until we reached the safety of the house.
Twenty minutes later I heard gravel firing off under the tires of the Mercedes 550––a trip that should’ve taken at least forty-five minutes. It skidded to a stop in front of the manor. The front doors banged open and loud voices followed.
I hurried out of the kitchen to find Sebastian eating up ground in my direction, Ben right behind him. His fiery gaze was pinned on the man standing next to me.
Poor, Bear. I knew what was coming.
“How the fuck could you have let this happen!”
More men I didn’t recognized poured in through the front door. At least twenty and all of them heavily armed. The air was suddenly thick with too much testosterone. It would’ve take garden shears to cut the tension.
Sebastian hadn’t yet spared me a glance. Instinctively, I reached out and placed a quelling hand on his forearm. He jerked, as if only now realizing that I stood a foot away. His eyes slid to me, traveled over every salient point on my face and body. His lips tightened, anger emanating from every fiber of his being. Standing this close, I’m surprised I didn’t get a third degree burn from it.
