“And Marcus?” Madame asked.
“He is the sharpest knife in the drawer. I cut myself on him.”
Even in the dark he saw the glint of pleasure in her eyes.
“Tell me more,” she said softly. “That’s an order.”
He didn’t need the order. He couldn’t have stopped talking now if she’d cut out his tongue. The vein had been opened. The blood had to flow.
“He’s tall. Very strong. Lean, though. He’s like a wolf,” Kingsley said, remembering his dream. “A white wolf. Dangerous because he’s hungry. Dangerous even when he’s not.”
“How so?”
“Because you see something that beautiful, like a white wolf, and you want to pet it.” He shook his head. “Don’t. You’ll lose a hand.”
“Or your heart?” She was teasing him now.
“At least I had a heart to lose. He’s got ice in his veins. Stone for a heart.” Kingsley took a breath. “And even worse, he plays piano. Beautifully. Everything about him was cruel. Even his virtues.”
“Go on.” Madame’s eyes had taken on a lupine hunger of her own. “I love to hear you talk of him. It’s like watching you flay yourself.”
“We were talking once, sitting next to each other on a bed. I kissed him…out of nowhere, I just kissed him before I went mad from wanting to kiss him. He kissed me back, but only for a second. Then he pushed me down onto the bed. Held me down so hard he nearly broke my wrist. It popped. I remember it popping under his hand.”
“Did you like it?”
“It made me hard.”
“His kiss?”
Kingsley whispered, “The pain.” La douleur.
“La douleur exquise?” she asked.
He smiled. “Exactement.”
“Did he love you?” she asked.
“I loved him. He owned me. If there was love, it was because he loved the owning, not the thing he owned.”
“You were lovers?”
Kingsley placed his hand over Jacques’s ears.
“Not in front of the children,” he said to Madame.
She smiled again. “You were lovers. Tell me what it was like with him.”
“The first time was in the woods, this forest that surrounded our school. I wanted him… God, I never knew you could want someone like I wanted him. I didn’t know it was possible. I pursued him. It didn’t work. Then one day, I don’t know, instead of following him everywhere like I’d been doing, I ran.”
“You ran?”
“Into the woods,” he said. “Something about the way he looked at me, I knew I should run. He caught me. Our first time was in that forest, in the dirt. I was in so much pain after, I had to crawl back to school. One boy at school…” Kingsley paused to laugh. “He asked me if I’d gotten attacked by an animal.”
“Hardly an ideal first time with someone.”
“It was exactly what I wanted,” he said. “Does that sound sick? It does to me, but it’s true.”
“Sick? No. You were so young, both of you. Too young. Like I was when I got married. You don’t know yourself yet. Someone tells you what you are and you, well, you believe them.”
“He knew what I was. He knew, and he was right.”
“It seems he did.”
“I told you he was smart.”
“Regrets?”
Kingsley shrugged. “He was too good at it. How’s that for a regret?”
“What do you mean, too good?”
“After him…it was years before I was with another man. I thought it would be too much like being with him.”
“Was it?” she asked.
Kingsley shook his head. “No. No one is like being with him.”
Madame made a soft murmuring sound, a sound of pleasure.
“Tell me more about him. More, more, more,” she said, turning her hand to indicate he must keep talking. “Your pain is a fine wine on my tongue.” She laughed at her own eagerness.
“You’re a sadist,” he said, smiling.
“Real sadism is an art form. I’m an art lover, and you, right now, you’re the Louvre. Tell me more about how he hurt you and let me see your face while you do.”
Kingsley turned to her, let her see his face, let her see his pain. He didn’t want to, but he needed to. The masochist in him needed to give that to her.
“He broke me. In so many ways, he broke me. He broke me until I was happy I was so broken. The more pieces of me there were, the more pieces of me there were for him to break into even smaller pieces. By the time he was done with me, I was nothing but shards. If I’d spent another day with him, I would have been the dust on the bottom of his shoe.”
“A perfect pair then. A true sadist with a true masochist. Perfect and rare.”
“Perfect,” Kingsley repeated. “Maybe for a little while.”
“Why did he marry your sister if it was you he wanted?”
“Money. His trust fund. He got millions when he got married.”
“He was trying to take care of you,” she said.
“We were poor,” Kingsley said. “Me and my sister after our parents died. Too poor to even see each other, separated by an ocean in more ways than one. If we had money, we could all be together. The three of us. She wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him. When she found out it was me he was… When she saw us kissing, she didn’t take it well.”
“She killed herself?”
“He does that to people,” Kingsley said. “You feel like you can’t live without him.”
“Is that why you joined la Légion? You can’t live without him, so you signed up to die?”
“Or I just wanted to take orders from powerful men,” he said. A joke, but not really. “Why are we talking about this?”
“I like seeing men naked. Nothing strips a man more naked than the things that cause him pain and the things that make him afraid.”
“He was both of those.”
“Marcus?” she asked.
Kingsley smiled.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because I know something about him you don’t know,” he said.
“What is that?” she asked.
“His real name.”
17
Madame smiled, but this time it was a cold smile. She clearly didn’t like that Kingsley knew something she didn’t know. Knowledge was her weapon. Her power.
“What is it? Rumpelstiltskin?” she said.
Again, Kingsley smiled but didn’t answer. He wouldn’t if she’d put a gun to his head.
“Keep your secret,” she said. “If it makes you smile like that to keep it.”
“Worthless secret,” he said, the smile fading. “I haven’t seen him in seven years. I only call him by his name when I dream of him and sometimes not even then, if I wake up before…”
“Before what?”
“Before he kisses me.”
He looked at her once, then looked away. “Let’s talk of something more pleasant,” he said. “Wars. Famine. The Black Plague.”
“Let’s talk of fears then. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of someone knowing my fears,” Kingsley said.
“Our fears are the bastard children of our longings. You hold one of my children. Let me hold one of yours.”
“I’m afraid of dying,” Kingsley said.
“A very human fear. The nothingness waiting for us on the other side of our last breath.”
“It’s not that so much. Before I was born, I didn’t exist. Not existing doesn’t scare me. I did it for eons. I’m afraid of dying before…”
“Ah,” she said. “Dying before what?”
“Dying before I have children,” Kingsley said.
“And?”
“Dying before I can see him again.”
“You said he taught at your old school in Maine. You could probably find him in two phone calls.”
“I can’t,” Kingsley said.
“Pourquoi pas?” Why not?
“I don’t want to find him. I
Madame tilted her head to the side and tut-tutted like he was a naughty boy who’d said a very dirty word. “Men,” she said. “You’d rather die fighting than surrender to happiness. You are your own worst enemy.”
“You know what they say,” Kingsley said. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Being my own worst enemy is as close as it gets.”
“What is it, really? What keeps you from finding him?”
“Jealousy,” Kingsley said. “Not a trait I’m proud of.”
“Jealous of what?”
“That he’s moved on. He could have a dozen lovers worshipping at his feet as we speak. He could be married; he could have children. Our first time together… There are still pieces of me there in that forest. I need to believe, you know—”
“You need to believe there are still pieces of him there, too?”
Kingsley only shrugged.
“Poor child,” she said, shaking her head.
“You’re wrong about one thing,” he said. “I can’t find him with two phone calls. Last summer, I had a weak moment. I called our old school to talk to him.”
“And?”
“He’s not there. And he’d left instructions not to give out any information at all about him to anyone. I’m not vain enough to think it’s me he’s hiding from. But still…”
“If he would have answered the phone,” Madame said, “what would you have said to him?”
Jacques yawned against his shoulder, and without thinking Kingsley kissed the top of his small head. “I would have said…” Kingsley swallowed, his eyes burned.
“What, Kingsley? What would you have said if your Marcus had answered the phone?”
“I was in the hospital when I called. I think I would have…I would have said, ‘Please, come get me. I want to go home.’ ”
He met Madame’s eyes. She was looking at him almost in shock, almost as if he’d slapped her across the face instead of simply answering her question. “Like a little boy,” she said, “sick at school, calling his maman.”
She held out her hand as if to touch him, to comfort him, but then seemed to think better of it. She lowered her hand to her side and turned her back to him as she stood at the balcony doors.
Jacques had fallen asleep on his shoulder. As much as he wanted to keep holding him, Kingsley carried the boy to the cradle and gently lay the infant down again on his back. He gazed down at him a long time. Madame came and stood at his side.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
“I put Jacques down. Game over.”
“The game is never over. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Do you remember,” he began, “being a small child and falling asleep in the backseat of the car or in the sitting room on your father’s big chair? And a few hours later you would wake up in your own bed? You remember that?”
“Oh yes,” she said, a slight smile flitting across her lips. “I was a picky eater. My mother would make me sit at the table until I finished my dinner. I was a child during the war. We were lucky when we had food at all. But I wouldn’t eat. I’d sit there, stubborn, defiant, until I finally fell asleep at the table.”
“She’d carry you to bed,” Kingsley said. “While you were asleep, your mother or your father would carry you, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember that moment when you woke up and didn’t know where you were? That moment you were confused and afraid and lost? Then you realize you’re in your own bed, and you’re there because someone who loves you has carried you there and tucked you in…”
“A perfect feeling,” Madame said. “The beauty and innocence of childhood in one split second, the moment you wake up lost and confused and then know you’re safe and you’re home. Is that what you were thinking of?”
Kingsley nodded. “I was thinking that’s something I want to feel one more time in my life.” He smiled. “But it’s a stupid dream. That doesn’t happen when you’re grown.”
Kingsley adjusted the blanket over Jacques. He didn’t want it too close to the boy’s face.
“What bed is it?” she asked.
“Hmm?” Kingsley looked at her.
“When you imagine yourself waking up in that bed, what bed is it? Who’s bed?”
Kingsley knew he was expected to answer. And he would. After he took a breath or two, then he could answer. “One night I talked back to him. I did that a lot.”
“What did you say?”
“He was making me suck him off,” Kingsley said.
“Making you?” Madame said.
Kingsley grinned. “And he didn’t like the way I was doing it. I told him if he didn’t like my style he could do it to himself.”
“I’m remembering my marriage.”
“He punished me by making me sleep on the cold hard floor of the old cottage where we’d go to be together. I know I fell asleep on the floor. I remember wishing for a pillow. But when I woke up a couple hours later I was in the cot we shared.” He paused, trying to remember something he’d spent seven years trying to forget.
“My God, how did you survive that boy?”
“I’m not sure I did,” Kingsley said. “You know, it probably didn’t even happen like that. I probably woke up for a few seconds and crawled into bed with him and forgot I did it. I’m sure…I’m sure that’s what happened. He wouldn’t have picked me up…” He met Madame’s eyes. “Would he?”
He didn’t know why he asked her except perhaps he thought only another sadist would know the answer.
“You want me to say ‘no,’ ” she said, “so you can tell yourself he didn’t love you. I’ll say ‘no,’ for your sake. No, of course he didn’t lift you while you were sleeping to put you to bed beside him. No sadist would ever do anything so tender. We’re heartless and cruel and incapable of love.”
“I thought so,” Kingsley said.
Madame leaned close, touched his face gently, the same way he’d touched Jacques. “I told you I liked to lie, too, sometimes,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes and turned his face into her hand.
“You should go back to Polly,” Madame said, lowering her hand. Kingsley was certain he noticed some reluctance on her part when she did. She inclined her head toward the cradle. “In about ten minutes, that one will be screaming for a nappy change.”
“I will leave him in your capable hands,” Kingsley said.
He started for the balcony door.
“Take the hallway,” she reminded him. “It’s warmer.”
He would have objected—grown men didn’t need coddling—except he liked her concern. He went to the hall doorway.
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Sleep well,” she said. It sounded like an order. “I hope you don’t dream of him again.”
“Merci. Moi aussi,” he said, but already knew he wouldn’t dream anymore that night.
He started to open the door when Madame spoke again.
“Thank you for telling me your fears. You’re beautiful when you’re naked.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I’d like to see you that naked again,” she said.
“I might not like it.”
“Ah,” she said with a smile, rocking in her chair again. “Perhaps you should not have told me your fears then.”
18
Once in the hallway, Kingsley glanced over his shoulder to see Madame’s eyes close. He shut the door.
Now was his chance.
So far, he’d been on the guided tour. He’d been itching to do a little reconnaissance on his own. A window had just opened up, with Madame preoccupied and Polly asleep. If somebody caught him snooping around, he could simply say he’d gotten lost on his way back to Polly’s room. He was new there, right?
Quietly as he could, he slipped down the hall on his bare feet. He wasn’t looking for Leon—not specifically, not yet. What Kingsley really wanted was to find the catch. There had to be one. If something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. And this place definitely seemed too good to be true.
Beautiful, intelligent, kinky women.
An elegant luxurious château.
Quiet. Serenity. Refinement. Fucking amazing food.
A sadist. An exquisite, vicious, delicious sadist…
Oh, there had to be a catch.
He passed a gold carriage clock on a hallway table and checked the time—a little after two in the morning. Surely everyone was asleep.
Or were they?
At the end of the quiet corridor, Kingsley found a set of double doors, heavy oak and richly carved. He pushed one open a crack and smelled old, cold air. He shivered but slipped through the doors and into what had to be the older wing of the house.
He found himself in a foyer on black-and-white chessboard tile. A fanlight window provided the only light to the small anterior room, but he saw another set of doors before him.
There was no way he could plead ignorance if he got caught in the old château.
Here’s hoping he didn’t get caught.
Surely Madame really wouldn’t kill him. Still…he wished he’d thought to wear his shoes.
Kingsley pushed through the doors.
Once inside he stopped, blinked, let his eyes adjust. It wasn’t nearly as dark as he’d expected in this ancient wing of the home, nor nearly as cold.
Nor as quiet.
He heard voices. He started forward.
The long corridor was dark and gloomy with a musty scent of rooms in need of airing out. Red carpeting on dark wood floors. Dark wood-paneled walls. Closed doors with heavy wrought-iron latches. It made him think of a convent for some reason, not that he’d ever been in one. Or an old hotel. He liked it. If he owned a place like this, he’d do exactly what Madame had done—turn it into a private little kingdom for her and all her lovers and kinky friends. A safe place. A hiding place where he didn’t have to hide.
Kingsley moved toward the voices.
As he crept down the hall, he checked every room. The doors were unlocked. The rooms were empty, except for antique furniture—beds, dressers, tables, and cold fireplaces—covered in linen sheets. No bodies. No skeletons. No whips or chains. No cuffs and no canes. Certainly no prisoners. He also found no radiators, which backed up Polly who’d said the old wing was too cold in winter to use. Pity. This part of the house must have been built and furnished in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. His father had been an importer, and though Kingsley didn’t know much about the antiques trade, he did know a real Louis XVI chair when he saw it.
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