I lifted my head, my nose twitching at the steam curling up from the mug Remy held. “No more alcohol,” I croaked. Even though the promise of a soothing drink was so very tempting, my throat feeling as if it was on fire—as if I’d been screaming and railing for real instead of simply from inside my own head.
“It’s not alcohol, it’s a toddy.”
Unbelievably, I managed a laugh. Rusty and pained, but a laugh nevertheless. Because this was Remy and this was at least in part why I’d come here, after all. Right?
“I’ve had your toddies.”
“Hush you,” he scolded, bringing the mug to my lips. “I can tell you don’t need any more liquor. You smell like my granddaddy’s still. This is mostly cider with some fresh orange and just a splash of rum to warm you up from the inside. Now drink. Then that bath for your outsides.” As I took a careful sip, he resumed brushing my hair back from my face, mock-grumbling, “I don’t know why you always spoilin’ for a fight, chère. Always givin’ me a hard time.”
With each sip, each teasing admonition to drink up because it was nectar of the gods, and his grandmére swore by it, if with a bit more rum, you understand, I relaxed a bit more, breathed easier, as if I’d managed to escape this … thing that had been attempting to capture me. And the fact that he wasn’t questioning or probing for explanations—that he was just unequivocally wrapping me in care and protection even if it wasn’t something I’d ever requested of him before—allowed a measure of warmth to seep back in that had nothing to do with the hot cider.
“Remy, what’s going on? Who’s that?”
Holding the mug steady, Remy calmly responded, “A friend, Penelope.” Sparing scarcely a glance toward the open doorway where the Bridget Bardot blonde posed, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, the barely buttoned men’s shirt she wore exposing endless legs, shadowy cleavage, and the fact that she was nude beneath the fine white fabric. As nude as Remy presumably was beneath the robe I was only now realizing was what he wore.
It was as if her sudden appearance served as a signal, alerting me to the rest of my surroundings beyond the immediate. Nina Simone, rich and throaty, streaming from the gleaming wood and chrome console stereo, the remnants of what had been an intimate dinner on the café table. The distinctive aroma of melting wax from candles burning low wrapping the room in cashmere sensuality while the various items of clothing strewn across the floor paved a clear trail toward the doorway where the woman still waited.
“I knew you were a faithless bastard, but two women in one night is low, even for you,” she snapped in clipped English tones.
“Now that’s some high opinion of my manhood,” he replied with that all-too-familiar edge of laughter. “Even if it’s not altogether wrong. But really, chère, you think I would’ve gone to all this effort if I’d been expecting to entertain a second lady tonight? I already told you—she’s a friend.” He shifted slightly, pointedly turning his back to her, while I couldn’t seem to stop staring. Why on earth had he opened the door? I didn’t belong here any more than I’d belonged at that ridiculous dinner party. God, but I was a fool.
“Stop it.”
I stared at Remy, the pressure of his hand on my shoulder keeping me pinned to the sofa.
Panicked, I glanced from his set expression to Penelope, whose anger practically shimmered about her. “Of course,” she said, nodding slowly, “a friend.”
“Yes.” His shoulder lifted in a typically Remy shrug. “And—?”
“It’s rather one thing to know about your other birds in the abstract, but to be slapped in the face with it like this? Cheap sewer rat.”
As the slam of the bedroom door echoed throughout the apartment, Remy raised an eyebrow. “Sewer rat? I take offense to that. I’m no dirty sewer rat. Louisiana swamp rat, now that’s another thing altogether. Can’t say I could’ve argued overmuch with that.”
“Oh, Remy,” I finally managed, my hands fisting in the damp folds of my skirt, my thumbnail picking restlessly at the dirty snow and slush marring the once-pristine velvet. “I’m so sorry. I should never have come.”
“Hush,” he repeated as he lifted my chin and brought the mug to my lips once more. “Of course you should. And she should act with the sense God gave a goat. She and I have always had an understanding. Convenient for her as for me, so don’t you trouble yourself a minute over this.” He resumed stroking my hair as I took careful sips, each swallow more pained and difficult and just shy of choking. It wasn’t fair—it wasn’t. I just wanted … wanted…
What did I want? What was I supposed to want? I’d known these things, once upon a time.
Putting the now-empty mug on the coffee table, he immediately gathered me close again. “You think I don’t see how hard you try not to rely on anyone else? How you hate takin’ anything that might be considered charity?” His voice floated above my head, accent even more pronounced and lilting than usual. “My mama didn’t raise no fool, chère. If you’re here, it’s because something’s happened and you finally trust me. Far as I’m concerned, that trumps all else—even spectacular blondes.”
He rocked me back and forth, humming along with the music, lulling me into a drowsy sense of security interrupted only by the bedroom door opening once again to reveal Penelope, now fully dressed in a crisp stewardess uniform, hair neatly wound into a twist beneath a navy pillbox. The heels of her stilettos punctuated each step with a sharp click as she followed the trail of clothes across the wood floor, flinging the occasional piece into a leather flight bag. She paused behind the sofa, indecently sheer black lace dangling from one hand, her narrow-eyed gaze raking over us.
“You should be bloody ashamed of yourself.” Stuffing the lingerie into the bag, she stormed toward the door, pausing only just long enough to snatch a dark coat from the curlicued wrought iron stand from which it had been hanging.
“I ain’t never done nothin’ to you to be ashamed for, chère and you’ll be feeling mighty foolish you thought otherwise when you’re back in your right head.”
“I meant about her.” She thrust her arms into the coat. “She’s an infant—totally in over her head with you.”
“What you think you know and what’s truth are worlds apart, so you’d best mind your business.” Remy’s voice never changed tone or volume—yet something unmistakably harder had crept in. “Such a shame, chèrie. I liked you well enough, but God don’t like ugly.”
She paused in the midst of pulling on leather gloves. “Y’know, just because you’re fabulous in the kitchen and in bed doesn’t make you any less of a miserable wanker.” Picking up her bag, she stood there a moment longer, tense and wide-legged. “Well? No pithy Creole retort?”
With smooth, unhurried elegance, he rose strolled to the front door, opening it with a small flourish. “Laissez le bonne temps roulez?”
The sharp sound of a slap was followed by the door slamming hard enough to cause the record to skid and skip halfway into the next song. After making certain the locks were turned then casually straightening a framed picture left skewed by Penelope’s dramatic exit, Remy finally turned to face me, our gazes meeting, the silence between us stretching thin until it finally broke into an enormous wave of laughter. Laughter that had me clutching my sides and wiping tears away although I had absolutely no business laughing. Not with what I’d just done.
“Remy—”
“Forget it.” He returned to stand in front of the sofa, smiling and far more relaxed than I would have expected, given the circumstances and the livid red mark decorating his cheek. “It was nearing the end of its time anyhow. She just wanted to be the one to do it, on her terms.” One eyebrow rose. “I suspect she wanted one last night if only so I’d be left well aware of what I was losing and really, who was I to deny her the pleasure?”
“Or yourself.”
“I’m an Abelard man.” He shrugged, thoroughly unconcerned. “She’s just peeved it didn’t unfold according to her plan of making sweet, sweet love before leaving me at
the very least marginally devastated by her departure. A role I would have played, along with a nice touch of regretful understanding. Now, however, she has to deal with the unhappy realization that life does go on—at least for me.” White teeth and dimples flashed in a brief, unapologetic grin, then faded as he pulled me up and led me, unresisting, down a short hallway.
A quick glance as we passed by the open bedroom door revealed the bed, sheets tangled, dents in the pillows, a rich red paisley throw spilling from the foot and puddling on the wood floor. It was a scene both luxurious and primal, the overall effect hitting hard and low, threatening everything I’d consumed this evening.
“You been in these clothes too long.” I blinked back sudden tears at the anger in his voice. Through a shimmering veil I watched him drop to a knee and slip off the ruined shoes. “Goin’ more pale by the second—” Whatever else he was grumbling in his familiar patois was lost amidst the sounds of the taps squealing as they were spun open and the rush of water splashing against the porcelain surface of the claw foot tub.
“C’mon, chère—let’s get this off.” He gently grasped under my elbows and drew me closer, pushing damp turquoise wool from my shoulders, still murmuring. “Damn, I’m some kind of fool, not getting it off you right quick. Thing’s wet clear through. It’s all right … shh … it’s all right—” Long-fingered hands stroked up and down my arms, a calming motion, meant to soothe the sudden tension that stiffened me into immobility as I stared at the hair-dusted vee of skin left exposed by the deep burgundy silk lapels of his robe, bringing to mind the throw on the bed, the draperies cocooning the windows. How was it I’d never known that Remy liked red so very much?
So much I didn’t know.
I could feel his gaze on the top of my bowed head. “You don’t have to say a thing, Natalie. You don’t owe anyone anything. Not a damn thing.” Carefully, he turned me away—as he did, I caught a brief glimpse of my face in the medicine chest mirror, a washed-out oval with dark, bruised splotches where my eyes should be. I couldn’t even claim the look in them was lost because the overwhelming impression was that there simply wasn’t anything there.
“I’m gonna unzip this pretty dress, help you with anythin’ else you need, then leave you to take your bath,” he said, his voice dropping back to its lilting croon. The slow rasp of the zipper’s metal teeth parting took on an almost hypnotic sound, the air teasing the skin above the strapless long line brassiere delicate and refreshing. “Do you want me to get this for you?”
Remy’s fingertips brushed—hesitantly, it felt—against the skin between my shoulder blades, just above the first hook. Probably assumed I had finally reached my limit in accepting assistance. Or was trying to be a gentleman, because no matter how much he teased or protested otherwise, Remy, was at heart, very much a gentleman.
Turning my head slightly, I took as deep a breath as the constricting garment would allow. “Yes, please.”
Again, there was a pause, a sense of hesitation, then I felt the first hook release, then the next, and the next, each one allowing breath to flow a bit more freely, the humid air bathing skin left irritated and hot from its many hours of constriction.
“Merde.” A fleeting touch brushed against my back before it moved to my chin, turning my head a bit farther, just enough for his gaze to meet mine. “There are oils and such in a basket by the tub I keep handy for … guests.” He lifted an eyebrow, an obvious attempt at his usual teasing banter that was completely undone by the fierce red suffusing his olive-hued skin. A rare blush I only caught the merest glimpse of before I reached up with both hands and pulled his head down to mine, capturing and swallowing the soft, surprised noise that tried to escape.
Oh God.
Oh … God.
Panic nearly overwhelmed the desire driving me to do this. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to do this. I hadn’t done this in so very long. Not since Nico. Those … boys. I’d never permitted them that. Not that they were ever interested in more than nominal fashion in anything above my neck, so deterring them had been surprisingly easy. And that’s when I understood how this one act of what I’d always thought of as defiance had been more about self-preservation. Retaining a piece of myself, however small.
Unfortunately, it also made for a clumsy meeting of mouths—lips sliding wet and awkward, the surreal dull pain of teeth bumping together, scraping delicate skin. No, no, no—I so wanted this to be an act I could execute with the smooth perfection of a movie kiss—so desperately wanted it to be good. But the harder I tried, the worse it got, my nose colliding against Remy’s, arms trapped into immobility by my dress.
As his hands covered mine, I leaned in further, tried to deepen the kiss, make it better, anything to keep him from pulling away and I couldn’t … I needed …
“Shh … Natalie. Let me …”
In less than a breath, he’d turned me fully into him, one hand firm between my shoulders, the other sliding into my hair, his thumb teasing the surprisingly sensitive skin in front of my ear. This time, our mouths met smoothly, effortlessly, our bodies drawn flush against each other, Remy molding my body to his, supporting my weight.
Oh, yes.
Yes.
This was what it was supposed to feel like.
I’d forgotten.
And felt tears, hot and accusatory, that I’d forced myself to forget.
I sank further into Remy, into the rediscovery of this odd, strange, thrilling, incredibly intimate act. The sensation of stubble abrading skin, the subtle pain feeding growing arousal. The way lips, tongue, and teeth were no longer separate entities or impediments, but worked together in concert, taking what was offered, inviting me to explore in my own right. To relearn not only the sensations but the tastes. Those remnants of spices and wine and something vanilla-sweet and further back, the faint, bitter tang of tobacco, creating layers and texture. Demanding that I delve deeper, take more, until finally, a small pause, a measure of physical distance as Remy drew back, a mere heartbeat of space, close enough so our breaths still mingled as if continuing the caress.
“We both know I’m no one’s idea of a gentleman, but one thing I don’t do is take advantage of damsels in distress.”
A damsel? How could he possibly think that? Couldn’t he see? All the stains? The hands that had probed and grasped and touched with no purpose other than to take and to please themselves? Couldn’t he see how I’d allowed that to happen? Damsel? No. Not for a very long time.
“I’m hardly anyone’s idea of a damsel.”
Grabbing his hands, I drew them between us, brazenly placing them over my breasts. With the stiff boning and the closeness of our bodies still holding my dress in place, his hands cupped mostly fabric; however, the longer we stood there, the more pliant his fingers became, a soft, “Lord, Natalie,” escaping between shallow breaths as his hands shifted. His fingers brushed against bare skin, stroking the upper slopes of my breasts and dipping beneath the fabric, molding and caressing, his touch gentle, but with an underlying tension and impatience. Emotions I was overjoyed to recognize, that fed my own, making my stomach clench with desire even as I closed my eyes in gratitude. I could feel this. I wanted to feel.
“Remy,” I breathed out on a sigh as his head lowered, his mouth finding that incredibly sensitive spot where neck and shoulder met as his hands moved to curl around the edges of my bodice. Tension balanced on a razor’s edge for an achingly long moment before he murmured something unintelligible against my skin as he released the fabric. One finger rested at the base of my throat, right in the hollow where my pulse beat, erratic, but strong and growing more rapid the longer we stood there. Could he feel it? How much I wanted this?
He lifted his head, his hand returning to my back and resuming a slow stroking motion. A touch to ease and calm, not seduce. Those intensely dark blue eyes scrutinized me so long and so intently, the individual colors began revealing themselves—shades of indigo and navy and sapphire and pewter. Utterly masking
whatever he might be thinking. An open book, Remy, until you looked into his eyes. I began to fidget, despite the soothing nature of his caresses, wondering what, exactly, he was looking for. What he might be seeing.
“You are absolutely a damsel and don’t you dare ever let anyone say otherwise.”
Tears clogged my throat as I sensed the one anchor, the one bit of comfort I’d felt in so very long drawing away. His hands returned to the edges of my bodice, carefully lifting the shoulders of my dress up, ensuring that it wouldn’t fall away as he moved to spin the taps on the tub closed. Between the steam in the room and the tears threatening my vision, he took on the blurred nebulous edges of a ghost as he moved around, draping a clean washcloth along the edge of the tub, making certain shampoo and soap and towels were all within easy reach before pulling me close again. Warm and undeniably real, one hand closed around mine as the other pointed at the back of the door where a heavy, white terry robe hung on a hook.
“Don’t no one use it but me,” he said quietly, holding tight to my hand, as if afraid I might disappear otherwise. “You want me to make you something to eat? An omelet or some toast, maybe?”
Silently, I shook my head, unable to look at him.
“Bebe—” Fingertips brushed against my cheek with a delicate, feather light touch. “You don’t want this to happen—not really. Not now. God knows, I want to and if it was simply a question of you bein’ innocent—” He leaned in closer, his voice resonating low, like a tuning fork struck right beside my ear. “Believe me, the devil’s sittin’ right on my shoulder, urging me to take and it wouldn’t be the first time I listened and not thought twice afterwards. But this ain’t about you being innocent. Whatever happened tonight—whatever brought you to this place—if we did this, you’d hate yourself afterwards and we can’t have that.” Both hands moved to frame my face, tilting my head up. “I can’t have that.”
Stunned, I searched his face for the lie. The false assurances offered in order to keep me from completely shattering, leaving him to pick up still more pieces when it wasn’t a task he’d ever asked for in the first place. Instead, I was met with a slow smile, one tinged with a hint of something more—something indefinable.
Between Here and Gone Page 10
