When I'm With You Part V: When You Submit

by BETH KERY

  “Good night, ma chère.”

  It was the last thing she heard before she sunk into the rich decadence of sleeping in Lucien’s arms.

  * * *

  The next morning, Francesca and she jogged side by side, Elise watching with wonder as the round, red ball of the sun crested the shimmering blue lake.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a sunrise before,” she murmured as they jogged.

  Francesca gave her a surprised glance, sending the end of her rose-gold ponytail across her shoulder. They’d met up before dawn in front of the building where Ian’s penthouse was located. Elise had left her backpack filled with things for work with the doorman and Francesca and she had taken off together in the predawn light. This was their first time running together and they were well matched as partners.

  “Really? The first time?”

  “I’ve seen them before, of course,” Elise said. She noticed Francesca’s bewildered expression at her seeming contradiction. “Sorry. I guess I was sort of thinking out loud. I just feel really awake this morning. Good. It’s like I’ve looked at a sunset before, but never really seen it. Have you ever felt that way?”

  Francesca’s dark eyes had a faraway look. “Yes. I think I know what you mean. I remember one early morning in Paris when I was with Ian. It was like the sunlight was hitting the world in a way that made it shine. Everything seemed new.” Seeming to realize how dreamy she’d sounded, she cast Elise a rueful glance. Elise gave her a reassuring smile.

  “Funny, that you should feel more alive than ever before in Paris. It’s where I felt most dead.”

  Francesca looked at her speculatively. “I’ve gotten the impression from some of the things you’ve said in conversation that you led a very . . . privileged life there.”

  “I also led a very empty one.”

  “And you’re happier now,” Francesca more stated rather than asked, her gaze steady on Elise’s profile.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Francesca turned to look at the sunrise. For a few moments, only the sound of the light waves, their padding tennis shoes on the pavement, and the muted traffic noise on Lake Shore Drive hit Elise’s ears. “You’re right.” Francesca smiled. “That sunrise is spectacular. Thanks for pointing it out.”

  “You’re welcome,” Elise said, smiling back.

  “You sound very taken with . . . Chicago,” Francesca said. Elise raised her eyebrows in surprise at the other woman’s knowing smile. “Does that mean you plan to stay here when your training is complete?”

  “That’s my goal, yes. I have an idea. Some plans.”

  “What plans?”

  Elise hesitated, tempted to be honest by Francesca’s sincere curiosity. She liked Francesca, instinctively feeling comfortable with her. Still . . . she hadn’t had the nerve to reveal this to anyone yet. Her secret aspirations made her feel very vulnerable.

  “I have this idea about opening a unique type of restaurant that caters to people recovering from addiction. Not just for them, of course—anyone can come—but with them in mind. And not just a restaurant—a coffee bar and a club that offers music, maybe live bands and dancing. It’s really hard for people with substance abuse issues to go out and have a great time without being tempted by alcohol. Being surrounded by liquor is a real trigger, not just for alcoholics but for all substance abusers.

  “You sound very knowledgeable about it,” Francesca said cautiously.

  Elise flashed her a smile. “I’m not an alcoholic or drug abuser, if that’s what you’re wondering. Although I had my period of partying until dawn, I could walk away from the booze. But yeah—I know something about it.” She inhaled for courage. “I had a very good friend die from a heroin overdose.”

  Francesca’s step faltered. “I’m so sorry. How awful.”

  “Yeah. It was,” Elise said, breathing through the sudden pressure that tightened her throat. “It’s still kind of fresh. He died a little over six months ago. Michael Trent. That was his name.”

  “Were you and he . . .”

  “No,” Elise said, guessing what Francesca was about to say. “We were just friends. Really good friends. In fact, he was one of the few friends I’ve ever had in my life, I’m ashamed to say,” she added shakily. She covered her discomposure with a bright smile. “I used to choose friends very poorly. Or they chose me unwisely. Maybe both.”

  “I’m sure that’s all changing now.”

  “Thanks,” Elise replied gratefully. “I’d like to think so, anyway. Michael really changed the way I looked at things. Not just his death, or the realization of how impermanent, how fragile life is. His life changed me. I know people have a preconceived idea about heroin abusers, but Michael wasn’t a stereotype of anything. He was unique. Wonderful. I met him at chef’s school. He was the most talented of us all—a true culinary poet—but he never hesitated to offer any of us support and help when we were struggling. He just had this demon. He did battle with heroin addiction daily. Hourly. He finally succumbed to that monster, but his life had meaning. He counted. To me, he did.”

  She swallowed thickly and blinked the bright sunshine out of her eyes.

  “And so you want to create this restaurant as a tribute to your friend’s life?” Francesca asked soberly.

  “Yes. But it’s more than that,” Elise said quietly. “My life was going nowhere when I met Michael. I was a shell, empty on the inside. I might not have had as malignant of a demon as heroin abuse to conquer, but my life was spiraling out of control. He infused hope into me . . . meaning. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”

  “He must have been very special.”

  “He was,” Elise said, striving to control her emotions and succeeding. “So that’s why I came up with this plan for the restaurant. It’d be great. Family members and friends of people struggling with addiction often feel like they can’t take their loved ones out anywhere for dining and entertainment, for fear of triggering a relapse. This would be a place where people could go without worrying. Michael told me that in rehab, they learn a lot about nutritious food and cooking. Their bodies get really run-down from all those chemicals. A lot of them turn into foodies—like Michael did—but have nowhere to go and celebrate their love of food and dining. It all sort of goes together really well.”

  She glanced anxiously at Francesca, worried one incredulous or condemning look would silence her idea forever. Francesca hardly seemed disdainful, however.

  “What a fantastic idea. You know who else it’d be great for? Dieters. Or not dieters, necessarily, but people trying to have healthier eating habits. It’d have everything. They could dress up and show off their new bodies; they wouldn’t have to worry about the extra calories of the liquor and they could go dance off their dinners,” Francesca said, grinning.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Elise said.

  “Overeaters are addicts, too,” Francesca said, her knowing manner piquing Elise’s interest.

  “You say that like you have some personal knowledge on the matter,” she said, echoing what Francesca had said earlier.

  “I do,” Francesca said matter-of-factly. “I was an emotional eater as a child. Very overweight. It’s one of the reasons I took up jogging when I went to college.”

  “It helped you with your addiction?”

  “It helped me take back control of my body. My life. Well, I love the idea. You know who you should ask for help with the idea? Lucien.” When Elise didn’t immediately respond, Francesca turned to study her. It just so happened they were nearing the tall tower where Lucien—where she—lived.

  “Don’t you think that’d be a good idea? He has a surprising amount of contacts here in the city. Ian always says he can’t believe he just moved here last year, the number of people he knows. Ian also has mentioned Lucien was at the center of the entertainment and restaurant scene in Paris. He’s well on his way to becoming a hub here in Chicago, too.” Something seemed to occur to her. “Hey . . . did you ever meet Lucien b
efore you came to Chicago? Did you ever go to his restaurant there? Ian says it’s very popular with the late-night crowd.”

  “Renygat?” Elise asked. It would be strange for her not to be familiar with Lucien’s landmark restaurant if she’d lived in Paris. It’d be okay for her to at least acknowledge its existence. “I think I went once,” she said elusively, staring distractedly at Lucien’s building. She was thinking about what Lucien had said last night about asking for what she wanted. She’d been thinking about that a lot.

  Should she bring up her idea with Lucien? She hadn’t yet because it made her feel far too vulnerable. It would hurt, to see doubt on his face in regard to her proposal. It was one thing to put herself on the line to Francesca. She was a new acquaintance.

  Lucien, though—that was different.

  “That’s Lucien’s building, isn’t it?”

  Elise blinked, rising from her thoughts. “Uh . . . maybe. I think it might be.” She noticed Francesca’s amused, wry glance. “What?”

  Francesca rolled her eyes. “Come on, Elise. You really can’t believe that I think you’re so casually aware of the details of Lucien’s life.”

  Elise’s heart seemed to bound ahead of her feet. She almost faltered. “Why wouldn’t you believe that?”

  “Just an observation,” Francesca said. “There’s some pretty strong chemistry between the two of you.” She glanced aside and saw Elise’s open-mouthed look of incredulity. “He can’t take his eyes off you whenever you’re near. Ian has noticed it too.”

  “He . . . he has?” Oh no. Lucien was going to be so irritated.

  “Yeah. But it’s no big deal, is it?” Francesca asked when she noticed her stricken expression.

  “No, I just . . .we thought we’d been discreet.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Francesca said confidentially. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business. But just so you know, I think it’s fantastic. He’s a wonderful man.” Francesca gave her a gleaming sideways glance. “And sooo gorgeous. And that voice . . . the accent—so sexy. Well, you have the accent, too, so I guess you don’t think it’s as hot as we would here in the States, but—”

  “I think his voice is sexy,” Elise said before she could stop herself.

  Francesca grinned. “We’re in agreement, then. Are you going to speak to him? About your restaurant idea?” she urged.

  Elise bit her lip. “Maybe.”

  “Well, if you decide to do it, good luck. I know Lucien can seem a bit intimidating—I used to feel the same way about Ian. They’re alike in that way. But I happen to know Lucien is a very good guy.”

  “Thanks. And you’re right about the intimidating part. I think I need more nerve than luck,” she muttered under her breath.

  Especially because she wanted to be honest with Lucien about more than just her business idea. She wanted to take his advice and tell him how much she desired him . . . how much she wanted to submit to him. Putting such a fragile, vulnerable desire into words felt like one of the most daring, difficult challenges she’d ever faced.

  * * *

  That night she left Fusion before Lucien, as soon as she’d finished her duties. She was waiting for him when he entered the penthouse past midnight. She sat up, peering over the back of the couch, watching him as he walked into the living room. He was checking messages on his cell phone, a slight frown on his face. It took him a moment to notice her. Elise took advantage of the opportunity to study him at her leisure.

  She’d left his arms reluctantly that morning when the alarm sounded, all too aware of his solid warmth pressed against her backside as he spooned her with his long body. She’d risen from sensual dreams with his scent in her nose and the feeling of his heavy erection pressed against her bottom, a few layers of thin fabric the only thing separating them. It was a heaven almost too difficult to comprehend, the concept of waking up in Lucien’s arms every morning.

  He’d stirred when the alarm sounded but had fallen back into sleep when she’d shut it off. Once again, she’d had the vivid fantasy of touching him while he was vulnerable, taking his full cock into her hand, putting her mouth all over bulging muscle and smooth skin, kissing, licking, biting . . .

  It was precisely the type of thing her mother might do to take advantage of a man—seduce him while he was sleeping.

  He’d tightened his arm around her in an instinctive gesture after she’d shut off the alarm. Elise had had to use every ounce of her will to leave his embrace.

  Now here she was with him again and he was fully awake, and she was the one who experienced acute vulnerability.

  He looked up suddenly from his cell phone screen, pinning her with his light eyes. A small smile took the place of the scowl he’d been wearing.

  “What are you doing sitting back there watching me, quiet as a mouse,” he murmured, coming toward her.

  “I was waiting for you,” she said, feeling a strange mixture of contentment and anxiety at hearing his familiar rich voice in the hushed room. He wore a European-cut, sharp-looking black suit today with a tailored, cuffed shirt and a silvery-blue tie. He looked crisp and exotic and so masculine, it made her ache. He briskly removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and unfastened several buttons before he sat on the cushion where her feet rested. She smiled when he picked up her feet and placed them in his lap. She moaned appreciatively when he began to rub them.

  “Oh, that feels good,” she said, watching his large hands on her feet, mesmerized by the sight. He looked so masculine in comparison to her, so strong, his veined hands striking in contrast next to her smooth, pale feet. “Why were you scowling?”

  “Was I?” he asked, pausing momentarily to meet her stare.

  She nodded, noticing his slight distraction in addition to his desire to hide it from her. “Bad news?” she asked, nodding at the phone he’d placed on the coffee table a moment ago.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said after a moment.

  “Lucien?” she prompted, concerned by his worried expression when he didn’t continue.

  “I’ve discovered that the executive I hired to manage the Three Kings Corporation has been embezzling money,” he said tersely, referring to the three luxurious hotels in Paris that had come under his reluctant control when his father had been sent to prison.

  “Oh no,” she said sympathetically. “What will you have to do?”

  “Deal with it,” he said brusquely after a pause. “Monsieur Leboeuf will be arrested as soon as I get there to provide concrete evidence of the embezzlement. But I’d rather not think about it at the moment. I’d rather hear from you why you were waiting up for me.”

  Her heartbeat began to throb in her ears. “Are . . . are you sure you don’t need to leave for Paris . . . book a flight right now?” she asked nervously.

  His eyes ran over her face. “Yes. I will have to leave. Very soon. It’s my fault, what’s happened to the Three Kings.”

  “How can you say that? You hired that man because you trusted him. You had no idea he was going to steal from you.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “My father’s property was not a responsibility I wanted. But it is mine nonetheless. I’ve let hundreds of employees down because of my refusal to take part in his businesses . . . because of my stubbornness.”

  “Lucien, that’s not being fair. You know it’s not. It’s a complicated situation. You being repulsed by your father’s fortune and properties, by his legacy to you, is very understandable.”

  “Understandable, yes. Forgivable? Given the possible consequences, perhaps not,” he said, meeting her stare levelly. “Why were you waiting up for me?”

  Something about his tone told her the topic of the embezzlement and his guilt at what had occurred was closed.

  “I . . . I wanted to talk to you about something, but that was before all this happened,” she said, waving at his phone. “I don’t want to bother you with unimportant things.”

  His hands enclosed both of her feet at
once, his thumbs pressing gently into her arches. “You’re not bothering me, and I consider what you have to say very important. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  She swallowed thickly. He seemed so calm, so expectant . . . as if he knew precisely how difficult this was for her. How did one begin talking about their hopes . . . their desires? She felt naked, despite the summer dress she’d donned upon arriving at the penthouse.

  “I . . . um . . . I was talking to Francesca this morning and . . . she encouraged me to talk to you about this idea that I have.”

  “Idea?” he asked. As he spoke, he began massaging her feet again. Did he instinctively sense her anxiety and was trying to relax her? She’d never known anyone who could read her the way Lucien could. “Elise?” he prompted when her words got clogged in her throat. A shadow fell across his face as he studied her closely. “Just tell me,” he insisted gently.

  It all spilled out of her. Everything she’d told Francesca about Michael, about their friendship . . . the trauma of losing such a unique man. She told him her idea about the restaurant she wanted to open, the words coming out of her in a pressured fashion. She couldn’t meet his eyes the whole time.

  “And so that’s all of it, I guess,” she said after several uninterrupted minutes. Lucien still held her feet in his warm hands. Through the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see that his head was turned, and that he stared at her face. “Francesca said something about mentioning the idea to you because you know so many people in the industry. I thought maybe you could . . .”

  “What?” he asked gently when she faded off.

  “Help me,” she whispered.

  “Elise, look at me.”

  Her throat convulsed. She dragged her gaze off his reflection and met his stare.

  “Did Michael give you those pearls?”

  She nodded, tears burning in her eyes. “For my twenty-fourth birthday, just weeks before he died. He didn’t really have the money to buy me a gift like that.”