by Lynn Turner
Mina nodded.
“I don’t regret having you,” Mirielle said softly. “You know it’s the truth.”
Oui, she knew. Which is why she wouldn’t cry. The truth was too precious, and crying might compel her mother not to share with her again. Besides, she’d never intentionally caused her pain. After all, she was here answering questions about her father to avoid revealing the latest tabloid rubbish.
“Okay,” Mina said. “I’m ready.”
“Okay.”Mirielle rubbed her eye with her middle and ring fingers, a tell Mina recognized as supreme annoyance (one step away from strong language). “Just a few weeks ago, those connards printed that you and Étienne were involved. Now, it seems, after digging up what is likely the only photo of you two together in existence—at an opening night party, no less—they think you are a better match for Monsieur Angelo Bernard.”
Merde.
Mina squinted at the sunlight pouring into her room at the late morning hour, casting a shadow of hundreds of fluttering leaves across her bed covers. She felt a sudden compulsion to count them all, one at a time.
Mirielle lifted a brow. “That is not the response I anticipated.”
“Maman…”
“Appropriate responses to this absurd claim might be, par exemple, shock, profuse denial, or perhaps even justifiable anger at the suggestion you were inappropriately involved with one of the wealthiest, most influential men in the world—”
“Maman, s’il te plaît…”
“I usually don’t meddle in your love life, but you’ll understand if I make an exception for a stunning lapse of common sense—”
“He was a regular donor to the ballet. He—”
“Putain de bordel de merde! He was found dead alongside one of your closest friends! I know who he was, minette! I worked for Christie’s nearly twenty years. I’ve auctioned that man’s furniture. It doesn’t matter that he supported the arts, Wilhelmina. All anyone will say is that my daughter, who worked hard all her life to become a ballerina, screwed her way to fame with the man whose name is on two hundred-franc bottles of wine! Had you aimed a bit lower, this would be an overnight scandal—forgotten in no time. But this? Even by French standards it is… sensationnel. That he was murdered in cold blood means a lot more trouble for us than the suggestion of an affair—Nom de Dieu! Stop crying, minette. It’s no use to anyone now.”
Mina tried to stop, but she couldn’t. The guilt was too powerful. She didn’t mind the tears so much—they blurred her mother’s disapproving stare. It was the sobs that were unbearable. Her body was wracked with them, her throat full of them, and she choked.
“Minette…” Mirielle’s voice was softer, coaxing. “Minette, calm down. Just…tout me dire, Wilhelmina, so I can try to fix it.”
Tell you everything? How can I? I’ve kept this secret so long, giving it up feels like… betrayal.
She pulled a few tissues from the box on her nightstand and wiped her nose. “I can’t. It could hurt people.”
“It’s too late for that. Besides, it’s you who will be hurt the most if you don’t let me help. I can call Noémie to assist with public relations—”
“Non, maman. You don’t understand.” Mina shook her head hopelessly.
“Help me understand.”
Mina took a deep, ragged breath…then another, and another. She managed to control her breathing, though the tears still flowed. “It wasn’t me. I-I wasn’t the one involved with Monsieur Bernard.”
“Mon Dieu! Why didn’t you say so in the first place—”
“It was Étienne.”
Mirielle gasped, and then there was silence. The leafy shadows on Mina’s bed fluttered. Their branches swelled up and down, swayed left and right. She hadn’t heard the wind outside until now.
“Minette, I—I’m so sorry, chère. I did not know.”
Mina shrugged. “No one did. I couldn’t tell you, maman. I couldn’t tell anyone.”
“Not even la police?”
“Non. Especially not them. Étienne came out to me in complete confidence. He wasn’t ashamed of it at all, but he was very private. I couldn’t betray him that way, not so he would become a suspect in death—Those bâtards in les tabloïds would have salivated to spin it that he murdered Monsieur Bernard in a crime of passion. It would overshadow everything he’s ever done.”
“So you martyred yourself? It’s a noble thing to do, but a useless one for someone who is no longer in need of protecting.”
“Is it useless, maman? Tell me how he’d be remembered? If it got out that Étienne was in the closet with a man who owned thousands of hectares worth of vineyards and three castles? No one would care how beautifully he danced. You know it’s true.”
More silence. More watching the leaves dance to the wind’s eerie song.
Mirielle took a deep breath. “D’accord.”
“Okay?”
“Tragically, you are right, so I don’t begrudge your reasons. But I’ll have to relay this information to la police—”
“Non…”
“We have no choice, minette. You needed to protect Étienne. I need to protect you. I understand you’re still grieving, but you must consider the possibility this information may help to find the people who did this.”
Mina sniffed. “I told la police Monsieur Bernard sponsored a few dancers, including Étienne. I-I told them that’s why Étienne was at his estate. To sign a contract. It was p-partly true.”
“Allez,” Mirielle said gently. “That’s enough for now. I need to talk to our lawyer, and call Noémie.”
“Okay.”
“It may not be a bad idea to start talking to someone again.”
Mina laughed humorlessly. “So they can say I’m crazy again? Impossible to work with?”
Mirielle ignored her hysterics, keeping her voice calm and even. “Think about it, minette. No need to decide right now. In the meantime, I’ll take care of this. Say nothing to anyone. The performance from the Tonys still makes news here, and those swine cannot stand that you left Paris to be une américaine star. On the bright side, at least they aren’t still comparing you to Sylvie Guillem.” She smiled an ironic smile. “You know you’ve made it when you have les tabloïds all to yourself.”
*
“Something tells me you haven’t been obeying doctor’s orders.”
Mina walked through the door of the rec center, from blindingly sunny day to colorless, dark gym.
“Cat got your tongue, petite?”
She squinted. “Non, I’m waiting for my eyes to adjust to this cave so I can glare at you.”
Zack chuckled, taking her elbow to steer her away from the squeak of sneakers, the slap of hands, and the clash of body against body on the court. “Today is an excellent day for sunglasses.”
“Oui, it’s perfect,” she said drily. “I’m sure my mugger will look fantastique in them.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
She tilted her head, her brow quirked in agreement, but said nothing else. They crossed the gym the short way, behind the basketball hoop. She flinched as the ball ricocheted off the backboard and someone yelled “Brick!”
“We’re up after the game,” he explained, leading from the gym and into a brightly lit hallway.
They walked away from the sound of aerobic machines coming from a workout room at the other end of the hall, past some offices and restrooms, to an inconspicuous door at the end of the hallway. He let go her elbow to fumble for keys in his pocket…in his back pocket, which was lucky enough to exist over the generous, perfect curve of his beau cul. A little zing rippled through her body, like her veins were made of copper wire, and her blood was a live current.
She stumbled. “A-after the game?”
He twisted around to face her, and her eyes tracked the movement hungrily, moving up from his butt over his tight waist, to the muscled length of his torso and chest. His T-shirt was light gray and looked impossibly soft, like it’d been laundered a hundred
times, thinned to a worn perfection that left little to the imagination.
Bon Dieu.
“The gymnasium doubles as a studio,” he explained, opening the door to a storage room. “When they’re done playing ball, they mop up court and set up the mirrors. We keep the mirrors in here.”
Mirrors?
How could she think about mirrors when every groove and swell of muscle on his torso was practically embossed on his shirt? It was a work of art—like the kind she had made as a child, scribbling over a sheet of paper to reveal the beautiful pattern of a leaf’s veins underneath it. She was close enough to reach out and trace over the pattern with her palm, to feel some of that hardness give a little at the press of her fingers…
“You keep the mirrors in a closet?” Her voice sounded strange.
At that, he did a slow scan of her face, of her dark mass of spiraling curls, then looked down her body. Her breath caught and held as she tracked his gaze to her lips and throat, then to the shoulder and collar bone left bare by the draping neckline of her silk top. His eyes lingered there, until she could feel the gentle stroke of his fingers.
Her skin prickled.
She was more covered up now than she’d been in the studio in past weeks. Still, she felt so much more…exposed. Her pale pink top was more fitted below the neckline, grazing the peaks of her breasts, cinching her waist, hugging her hips and upper thighs. Skin-tight black denim stretched down to cropped ankles, and her feet breathed in three-inch heeled sandals. She’d chosen her outfit carefully. She was French, after all—there was a standard. Part of her was thrilled for him to see her in something other than sweaty leotards or glamorous evening clothes.
To see all her colors and textures.
The hardness and softness.
Darkness and light.
To see…her.
By the time he finished, her whole body felt licked, from neck to toe. The heat of it made her shiver in a way that was entirely unquestionable.
Merde. Her skin flamed, and she focused on the pulse in his neck.
“How are you, Mina?”
How dare he ask her how she was in that low, velvet voice? A voice that said, I know exactly how you are, you little liar. Thinking you can stay away. Thinking you can resist this thing between us.
Predictably, her subconscious was delighted to chime in, Look at you, panting like une chienne in heat!
At least if she were a bitch in heat, he’d be kind enough to mount her from behind and hump enthusiastically until they both quivered in satisfaction.
Merde. Merde. Merde.
Her eyes ascended slowly from his neck. His stared back, dilated to almost completely black, only slightly rimmed with green. She gasped. Had it been only three days since she’d seen this beautiful beast? Since she’d smoothed her hands over so much soft skin and taut muscle? Dug her fingers into him, absorbing all that power and dexterity until he’d spent himself inside of her? Her fingers tingled and curled into her palms.
“You thirsty, petite?” The corners of his mouth lifted in an arrogant smile.
How can you tease me when you just ate me with your eyes? she screamed inwardly. Outwardly, her features were soft. She was quickly learning how his game was played.
Giving him an alluring smile, she whispered, “Lion.”
He cursed, and before she could blink, he’d dragged her through the door, across the small storage room, and through another door into the light of day. It was a secluded little corner of the world, suitable for a smoke or a bit of fresh air. A quick glance around was all she had time for, taking in the few square feet of fenced-in sidewalk and little else, before Zack’s presence overtook it, wrapped her up in its shadow, and pressed her back against the rec center’s sun-warmed brick wall.
He locked her in with a hand to the wall beside her, above her head, and the other on her bare forearm. “Ten-to-one you haven’t been home licking your wounds.”
The challenge was spoken so gently, her breath caught, and she stood there staring at him mutely, picturing his tongue flicking over her wounds. He must have taken her silence as defiance because he tilted his head a bit, studying her more intently.
“You don’t want to tell me.” He ran his hand slowly up her arm to the swooping neckline at her shoulder. “Well, I can guess.”
His fingers slipped beneath the silk, his knuckles brushing the length of her collar bone—which sent a shock of sensation through her so violent, she shivered all over. Curving his lips in a sultry smile, he tugged the neckline to the side, exposing her right shoulder. Frowning, he traced his fingers softly over the fading blot of a bruise, then pinched the joint. She winced slightly but didn’t flinch.
“Good, you’ve been staying off that arm,” he murmured, tickling her shoulder with his breath.
He dropped a kiss to the sore spot, then spun her around, pressing the length of her body back against his. She gasped, her hands shooting to the brick wall for support—though it didn’t help much, with her butt cradled in his thighs and his arm tightened around her waist. Bending his head, he stroked her soft, voluminous curls with his cheek, from her temple to her neck, the new growth at his jawline scraping gently at her sensitive skin.
“I love your hair like this, petite,” he breathed, and her whole body dissolved in desire. “It smells amazing.” He tugged the supple neckline again, exposing the nape of her neck and a hint of her back, both of which he kissed. “You felt the need to wash it again since last night?”
He drew his fingers down the length of her spine, and her back arched involuntarily. “Oui,” she whispered.
Pathetic response, of course. She should have balked at his condescending tone, defended her right to practice excellent hygiene as often as she liked. Unfortunately, her brain cells seemed to be suppressed by the nerve endings in the rest of her body.
“Hmm.” Nudging her legs wider, he released her to pat her body down, starting at her waist with a squeeze, then her thighs, and the still-sore muscles of her calves—which made her jump. “Uh-huh.”
Standing, he turned her back around in one svelte move, resting his hands at her waist. “Tender calves, heels that don’t qualify as stilts…You went running—far, from the looks of it. You were told to stay put for two days, but you couldn’t last one.” He shook his head. “You are hurting, aren’t you, petite?”
She groaned—partly because he’d found her out, and partly because his voice got deeper, and his fingers dug into her waist at hurting, like he knew what he was doing to her and had the nerve to find it amusing.
Connard.
There was nothing funny about the way she was hurting, the way she was hot and damp and weak with arousal, the way her nipples tightened and brushed against unforgiving silk, the way he lowered his gaze to stare at her obvious reaction—as if her breasts had sent smoke signals to his eyes…the way his eyes held no trace of green anywhere when he pried them from her nipples and locked them on her lips…
“So what?” she snapped, resisting the urge to fold her arms over her chest.
“So, you’re frustrated,” he said gruffly, dropping all hint of humor. He pulled her body forward, his chest expanding on a deep breath. “So am I. I’m hurting, petite. I’m dying of thirst, too.”
And while her body was still shuddering desperately from that confession, he opened his mouth over hers.
Grasping the back of her neck, he buried his hand in her hair, positioning her the way he wanted, then moaning in satisfaction. At the first flick of his tongue, she sighed, her body swaying fully into his. He tasted so warm and vivid—so alive, and Dieu, she needed that feeling, wanted to bury herself in it until it seeped into her bones, sample it until it was imprinted on her tongue.
They kissed on and on, with stroke of tongues and gently scraping teeth, lips pressing and rubbing together. Her hands wandered mindlessly over the muscles of his back and abs and chest, her fingers flexing, digging into him. He felt so good, so hard yet graceful, his muscles contra
cting beneath her touch, his hard breaths snatching air from her lungs. Holding her tightly against him, between him and the wall, he hauled her to her toes, pressing her hips to his lower abdomen. She nipped his bottom lip with a frustrated growl.
It wasn’t enough.
He was too tall for the pressure she needed. Further irritating her—they had on too many clothes. Sucking in a ragged breath, he pulled back to look at her. What must he see? Did her eyes look like his now? Dark and needy? Was her face as desperately naked? Whatever he saw made him grab her hips and press her back to the brick wall, wrapping her legs around him. She gasped, and he sought her lips again, his mouth so greedy.
“Mina.” Her name was gruff along her skin, just like his hands, which rubbed the soft silk of her top over her skin, massaging it into her muscles and ribs and breasts.
The sky dimmed a little, like the sun had dipped behind some clouds to give them more privacy. Behind that fence, shrouded in Zack and the minutes before dusk, and wearing clothing that felt like neither armor nor costume, Mina felt—free. The feeling spiked her blood until she felt drunk on it, until her lips and hands moved uninhibited wherever they could reach.
Pulling her kneading hand from his chest, he kissed each finger, then her palm, then her wrist. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, breathing into her palm, scraping it tenderly with his teeth.
She shivered.
