Shattered: A Billionaire Romance Series (Contemporary Romance Novels)

by Love, Michelle

  But when Emile left the heady confines of the Cabaret, he began to come to his senses. A still warm heart? What was she asking him to do? He sat in his apartment with the French windows to the balcony open, frigid air rushing in to cool his hot skin.

  You know what she wants. What you must do.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. I cannot, I cannot kill an innocent person…

  Slowly his eyes opened as the idea came to him and the rightness of it almost made him laugh aloud. What was the old cliché? Two birds with one stone.

  Emile began to smile.

  The night was even colder than the previous. Gaston Fournier tucked his coat around him as he kissed Iseult farewell. ‘Until tomorrow, my love.’

  He stepped out into the street and walked briskly to where he knew he could hail a cab. These evenings were a delight – or rather – had been until he realized that Iseult would never fully give herself to him until they were officially betrothed. Oh, they had kissed and once, he had even placed a gloved hand on her bare breast but she had made it clear that was a special treat and there would be no more until he proposed.

  And the trouble was…once he’d been victorious in claiming her heart and stealing her away from that pathetic dullard Emile, some of the luster had been diminished. Iseult was a beautiful woman, indeed, but with that came the personality of a spoilt little girl, whiny and petulant.

  Gaston had no intention of marrying her. His situation was so decidedly above Iseult’s own that Gaston’s father would never consent to the match in any case.

  Gaston had his own ideas about whom he should marry; a German duchess, for instance, with her own castle; a Spanish princess perhaps, with status in public, and no inhibitions in private. He smirked to himself now as he strode along the quiet streets. Poor Iseult. Tomorrow morning, Christmas morning, he would call on her and her family, ever the gracious suitor then in the evening, he would go to the Moulin Rouge and watch the dancing girls, five of whom he’d already fucked.

  He turned the corner and a figure in black stepped out in front of him. He rocked back. ‘St Jacques?’ His voice was low, barely a whisper such was his surprise. They were the last words he spoke. A flash of steel and his throat was slice open, arteries and veins severed, his voice box destroyed. Gaston felt the hot sticky blood gush down his shirt, his knees give way and then he was lying on the snowy ground as Emile, his eyes crazed but determine, cut open his short, and slit him open, from his throat to his belly, reaching inside the cavity. His life slipping away, Gaston watched in shock and terror as Emile yanked his heart from inside him and held it up so that Gaston could watch his own heart beat twice more and fall silent. Darkness came then and for Gaston Fournier, it was absolute.

  The nymphs paid more attention to him this time. As he carried the still warm heart of her former friend, Emile showed it off proudly to low murmurs of approval. To him, and to them, there was nothing evil or macabre about the scene. It was a celebration, of love, of commitment. He took it to Seraphine’s room.

  Seraphine was even more beautiful tonight – her midnight blue eyes shone when she saw the dripping blood, the scarlet musculature of the heart. Emile presented it to her, bowing low. ‘My love.’

  She took it gently from him and studied it before raising it to her mouth and biting down deeply into it. Emile was mesmerized by the sight, the blood dripping down her skin as she ate it slowly, consuming the whole thing with a sensual pleasure.

  Afterward she kissed him and he could taste the blood, rich and sweet. ‘It was good, my love, it will sustain me but still….I could taste bitterness, jealousy. Perhaps this was of someone you were friends with but then grew distant from? Did he wrong you in some way?’

  Emile bowed his head. ‘Yes, my love.’ He didn’t question how she knew the heart had been male or that it had come from someone he now loathed.

  Seraphine took him to bed, straddling him and lowering herself onto his tumescent cock. The blood from the heart ran down her body in rivulets and Emile was at once both aroused and disgusted.

  ‘Next time,’ she said as the muscles of her vagina swelled and closed around him, ‘you must bring me the heart of someone you truly loved, who you gave your heart to.’

  Iseult stood at her balcony on Christmas night. Gaston had not called as promised this morning and her gift to him lay unopened under the tree in the drawing room. Her heart ached with the betrayal of his absence. She was hurt, angry – and more than that, she wanted to return the insult to him. She knew he would creep around with other women, women who would give him the sexual release he continually beg her for. Iseult wasn’t stupid; she knew if she made love with him, she would never see him – or his fortune – again.

  She shivered; the lace of her nightgown not adequate protection against the winter cold.

  ‘Iseult.’

  Starting, she turned and clutched her chest. Her former fiancé stood in the middle of her room, his face in shadow. Iseult let out a deep breath. ‘Emile, for goodness sake, you scared me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my love. I had to see you.’

  Iseult considered him. If she wanted revenge on Gaston, who better? She had thought Emile boring and fastidious. Now, as she looked at him, he seemed older, his face one of character and of passion. Deliberately, she slipped the nightgown from her shoulders and let it fall to the carpet. She knew her body was her biggest asset; full breasts, flat stomach, curvaceous hips. She slid her hand in between her legs and began to rub herself.

  ‘My darling, Emile, it’s been too long.’

  Emile gave a half smiled and opened his arms to her. She went into them, feeling his arms tighten around her. She looked up into his face and gasped. Emile’s once handsome face had grown terrible in its beauty, his eyes burning with hatred and lust.

  Iseult recoiled from this, tried to escape the cage of his arms but instead, his hand came to clamp down over her mouth and a blade was thrust deep into her belly. Iseult moaned in terror and agony as Emile jerked the knife upwards, cutting her open.

  She was only a hair from death when Emile showed her the traitorous heart he had pulled from her chest.

  Seraphine was happier with Iseult’s heart – but still, she said, it was tainted with betrayal and anger. She stroked Emile’s face with bloodstained fingers. ‘My love, if we are truly to be together, you must give me what I asked. For tonight, I must perform. Will you sit and watch me?’

  He readily agreed and was surprise, when he entered the theatre when he saw his friends Django and Hippolyte sitting at the same table as their first night. They greeted him somberly.

  ‘Friend, we sought you out, for we have terrible news.’

  Emile knew immediately what they were about to say and hoped that none of Iseult’s blood was visible on his face. He arranged his features into one of concern and sat down with them.

  ‘What is it, dear ones? Why do you look so vexed?’

  Django and Hippolyte exchanged a look. ‘Emile, we come to tell you that Iseult is dead, murdered in her chamber.’

  Emile made his eyes wide, made them fill with tears. ‘No…goodness, no, how terrible!’

  ‘Indeed. And inside a locked room too,’ Hippolyte’s usual stoic demeanor was missing. He shook his head, his eyes bearing the expression of a man tormented. ‘I just do not understand.’

  Emile could have laughed but he kept his countenance. ‘Regardless of the circumstances between us, I will admit I will miss her pretty smile and charming manner.’ He crossed himself and sighed. ‘What will we tell poor Gaston?’

  Hippolyte started slightly but Django put his hand on Emile’s arm. ‘What a generous spirit you have, friend, to think of your rival in such a thoughtful way. Alas, we are unable to find Gaston – indeed, when I spoke to the police in this matter, they seemed to consider him a suspect.’

  ‘Oh, I hope that he is not responsible for this,’ Emile played the part perfectly, ‘I would blame myself for not protecting Iseult from him.’

&nb
sp; The lights in the theatre dimmed in readiness for Seraphine’s performance. When she came on, Emile heard the startled gasp from his friend. Django leaned over. ‘She is alive then.’

  Emile nodded. ‘A case of mistaken identity, thankfully. I think we’ve all had our fill of blood this night.’

  He hid a smile behind his cocktail glass but then noticed Hippolyte staring at him. He met his friend’s gaze coolly until Hippolyte looked away.

  Seraphine coiled her way across the stage, following by her dancing troupe, a slow sensually beat playing. She did not sing tonight, just swayed in time to the music, her supple body undulating to the rhythm. She was hypnotizing, the audience holding its breath as she plucked ice cubes from one of the glass bowls and slid the ice around her bare nipples then stroking them into her sex. She moved into the audience, teasing both men and woman with her sexuality. When she moved to Emile’s table, she stroked the faces of his friends then straddled Emile’s lap. Emile smiled up at her, and picked one of the ice dildos, sliding into his mouth before plunging it deep into her cunt, fucking her right there in front of the audience. They burst into noisy applause as she writhed and moaned her way to orgasm then kissed Emile tenderly. She made her way back to the stage where a nymph was waiting with a red cushion. One the cushion laid a knife carved from ice and Seraphine lifted it into the air, letting the audience see how deadly the shard of ice was before with a cry of utter pleasure, plunging it into herself as the curtain fell. The audience gave gasp of horror then burst into loud applause as the curtain opened and Seraphine bowed, perfectly healthy.

  ‘That’s a good trick,’ Django said, his eyes wide. He studied Emile’s face. ‘Friend, while you may get all the pleasure in the world from that woman, I think you may also need to get some sleep. You look exhausted.’

  Later, at homes after he and Seraphine had sated themselves in each other and she had sent him away, he took a long soak in his tub and thought about what Django said. He did feel utterly extraordinary at the moment, so alive, so vital. He looked down at his naked body and saw only glowing skin, firm muscles, a healthy weight. When he shaved, the face in the mirror seemed firm and bright. Emile shook his head and gave a little laugh. Django must be seeing things, he thought fondly, as he rinsing his face of soap.

  Then he stopped. Django. His oldest friend, his companion through his schooldays and during service in the Great War, his confidante. Django, the purest heart he knew…

  No. No, he could not take Django’s life, he would not do that. Even for his love Seraphine, he could not willingly spill Django’s blood.

  His thought were interrupted by a knock on the door. Emile glanced at the clock and frowned. A little after midnight. A sudden thought crossed his mind – was it the police? Had they found Gaston’s body and traced the spilled blood to the Cabaret?

  No. He had been more than careful. He strode to the door, slipping into his smoking jacket on the way, and pulled it open.

  ‘Emile.’

  Hippolyte stood filling the doorframe with his immense size. Emile considered that he no longer felt nervous with this man, that his love of Seraphine had made him feel invulnerable, invincible. ‘Hippolyte, my good fellow, do come in.’

  ‘I hope it is not too late in the evening.’

  ‘Never for you, dear friend. May I offer you a drink?’

  Emile gestured for Hippolyte to sit down and then turned to pour them both a scotch. Hippolyte, his hands twisting his hat in his hands, thanked him for the drink. He took a sip then looked at Emile steadily. ‘Emile, I have something to ask you, and I want you to know, that whatever you say, it will go no further than this room, between you and me. It’s driving me crazy.’

  Emile knew exactly what Hippolyte was about to ask but he felt no fear. ‘Please, go ahead.’

  Hippolyte looked away from him, down at the floor. ‘Emile…did you kill Iseult? Did you murder her, slice her open and rip out her heart? Because, Emile, I can’t help but notice that you seem different and – ‘

  Emile laughed softly. ‘I am different. You see before you a man in love, Hippolyte and to answer your question, no, I did not kill Iseult. Perhaps you ought to look to the missing Gaston for your killer.’

  Hippolyte didn’t look convinced but he nodded. ‘Perhaps. You don’t mind me being direct?’

  Emile smiled. ‘Not at all. I would be the second most obvious suspect, no?’

  After Hippolyte left, Emile considered that his world was no longer of Paris but of that small portion of it that include the Cabaret – a world of hedonistic pleasure and otherworldly creatures.

  Emile had grown up a sensible boy but now he could see that his meticulous and well-ordered life had been a lie. More and more he craved adventure, risk, the danger that his love affair with Seraphine brought to him. She was like a drug coursing through his system and the only relief he could feel was when he pleased her.

  Which is why, the following night, he stalked his next victim and convinced himself he was saving poor Django from a life of boredom and disappointment. He followed his friend down to the gentleman’s club and lay in wait for him. Sometimes, after an evening of cigars and port, Django would clear his head by walking down to the banks of the Seine and strolling for a time. Django had often tried to persuade Emile and Hippolyte to join him but they always demurred.

  Not tonight. As Django descended the stone steps down to the bank, he was surprised to find Emile waiting for him.

  ‘Dear friend!’ He exclaimed, shaking Emile’s hand and smiling widely, ‘I haven’t seen you for a few days. I trust you are well?’

  Emile nodded. ‘I am very well, Django, very well indeed. I felt I needed to come tonight, given all that has happened, to spend this night with you.’

  Django smiled happily. ‘Well, then let us walk. I confess, I have been in a somber mood these last days, thinking of poor Iseult. That monster Gaston must be found and brought to justice.’

  ‘You are convinced of his guilt?’

  Django nodded. ‘Most assuredly. Why else would he disappear?’

  ‘Perhaps he is dead too.’ Emile couldn’t resist a sly grin and Django looked surprised.

  ‘That would be troublesome…who would kill them both?’

  ‘People in love do crazy things.’

  ‘Yes.’ But Django looked disconcerted. Emile glanced over at him as they walked.

  ‘Django, how long have we known each other?’

  ‘Since childhood, Emile, some twenty five years. You are my brother.’

  Emile smiled. ‘As you are mine. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, dear friend. If there’s anything I can do – ‘

  ‘There is.’ Quickly, Emile withdrew his knife from his pocket and thrust it hard into Django’s throat. Django clutched at the knife, his eyes shocked and horrified but Emile jerked the blade, opening a wide chasm through which Django’s life blood flowed.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear brother,’ Emile said softly to his dying friend, ‘but she needs your heart and I need her. She is my life, Django, and you are the purest person of my acquaintance. I’m sorry, dearest…’

  Django was on his knees now, and then as Emile pushed him to the ground, he stared up at Emile in confusion as Emile opened his chest. ‘Dear god…you have become a monster,’ Django gasped, barely coherent, his voice a gargled mess of blood and fear. He expired as Emile reached in tore out his heart, lifting the still beating organ into the freezing night air. Emile kicked Django’s body into the Seine and immediately set off for the club.

  Django’s heart was still beating as Emile presented it to Seraphine and together they feasted upon it as they made love. Emile felt changed, the sweet hot blood of his friend’s organ pulsing through him as he fucked his beloved Seraphine, the snow white furs of their ice bed turned red with blood.

  They lay in each other’s arms afterwards and Emile, confident, asked her if he had finally satisfied her. Seraphine’s kiss was sof
t but her eyes were serious, almost cold.

  ‘My darling,’ she purred the words, ‘until the heart you bestow on me is utterly free from anything but your love, you will still be separate from me.’

  Emile ran his hand through his hair in frustration. ‘My love, I have killed my closest friend, the one person in this world who was good and pure and who I love liked a brother.’ He got up from the bed, pacing the room. He noticed, in the middle of his ruminations, that he no longer felt the cold of the ice under his bare feet, the chill of the air on his skin. He was changing but into what?

  He looked back at Seraphine, her lithe body curled up on the furs. ‘My love,’ he went to her and cupped her face in his palms, ‘up to now, I have done everything you have asked without question. Now, I must ask…who are you? What are you?’

  Seraphine was quiet for a moment then, ‘Emile, the moment that I tell you will set you along a path with only two resolutions.’

  Emile breathed in deeply. ‘Which are?’

  She smiled serenely. ‘That, my love, I cannot tell you.’

  ‘You speak in riddles!’ He was up again, annoyed. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘The real question is, my precious Emile, is what do you want?’

  He dropped to his knees beside her. ‘You, my love, all I want is you.’

  She smiled. ‘Then I have told you that you need to do.’ She uncoiled herself from the bed.

  ‘I wish to be alone now, my love. Remember, the Cabaret will leave Paris at the stroke of midnight, January 1st. We do not wait for anyone. You know what to do.’

  Emile returned home dejected. He pushed the door behind him, not noticing that it didn’t quite shut. He pulled off his clothes and went to stand on the balcony again. Snow was falling again over Paris, thick and heavy and even the light from Eiffel Tower was cloaked. He stood, trying to feel the ice on his skin, trying to feel the cold, risk the hypothermia. But he felt nothing.