Chiromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts Book 8)

by Charmaine Pauls

  “I’m not sure I understand what you want. What are you asking of me?”

  “For now, I’m asking you to trust me.”

  “Why would I trust you?”

  “I don’t expect you to give me your faith for nothing. I intend to work for it.”

  “If trust is for now, what is for later?”

  His gaze penetrated hers. The habitual spark of humor was absent. “I’m going to ask you to love me.”

  She gave a cold laugh. “We’re from different worlds.”

  “If you mean that in the sense of Europe and Africa, then yes. If you mean it abstractly, then I have to warn you that I don’t give a fuck where you come from, who your parents are, or what the color of your skin is.”

  “Look at you, Bono.” She motioned between them. “Spot the difference. I bet that’s a real diamond in your ear.”

  “You want it? You can have it.”

  “I don’t want your damn diamonds.”

  “What do you want? Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Maybe not, but then again, nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

  “You have an answer for everything.”

  “So do you. That’s why I love that smart mouth of yours so much.”

  Damn, why did she hurt? She needed him to want her, but she wanted to punish him for making her need him. What was wrong with her? Instead of standing in her yard baiting him into a confrontation, she was supposed to steal a chip from his watch. It only made the bruise in her heart seep darker and deeper. A meow coming from inside broke the tense silence.

  “I have to feed the cat,” she said, suddenly feeling tired to her bones.

  Bono followed her inside.

  The cat rubbed against her leg. She picked him up and scratched his chin. “Hello, baby.”

  “Have you given him a name, yet?”

  “No.” She left the cat on the bed and took a tin of cat food from the cupboard.

  She couldn’t tell him it was her son’s privilege to name his cat or that she was frightened if she got attached to the pet, Doumar would take him away. She offered no more explanations, and he didn’t push.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Want to go out for dinner?”

  She opened the tin and scooped the food into a bowl. “You look more dressed for a club.”

  “Dinner and clubbing, then?”

  It was hard not to smile for him. The cat shot from the bed and gave her another cuddle before attacking his food.

  Already, despite the dreadful situation, her mood lifted. For just a few hours, she’d forget about reality. She’d pretend. Everybody deserved to pretend once in a while.

  “What shall I wear?”

  “Whatever you like.” He walked to her and put his arms around her. “Whatever is you.”

  Unable to handle the intensity of his stare, she had to break away under the pretense of going through her closet. She selected a short one-piece with thin straps that showed off her back and legs. When she went outside to fill the bowl with rainwater from the tank, Bono followed. She stripped down to her underwear, lathered soap into a cloth, and started washing with the cold water.

  There was an angry undertone to his voice when he asked, “This is how you always bath?”

  “Here, yes. If I want a warm shower, I have one at the club.”

  He scanned the surroundings. “What about toilets?”

  “There’s an ablution building on the outskirts of the property.”

  He crossed his arms and watched her darkly. “What happens if you need to go in the night?”

  “You hold it, or you get up and walk over there. Not all of us live a glitzy life. I’ve never had a bath, you know.”

  “Never?”

  “Only showers.” She smiled at his shocked expression. “I have no idea what it feels like to soak in bubbles.”

  “Your clothes.” He motioned at the outfit she pulled on. “How can you afford it? Does he give you an allowance?”

  “Doumar doesn’t like me to have cash. If he thinks I need something, he’ll take me to buy it.”

  “He lets you choose what you wear?”

  “Only here. At the club, I put on whatever he tells me to.”

  “How about food and other commodities?”

  She pulled her hair back into a slick ponytail. “He drops off a box once a month.”

  “Did he always let you live alone?”

  She glanced at him quickly and then turned to the mirror mounted against the caravan wall to apply her makeup. “I lived with him until I was twenty.”

  “Why did he let you go?”

  Lowering the mascara, she looked at him in the reflection of the mirror, weighing her words. “I had a few … breakdowns. It wasn’t conducive for business, and Doumar found I operated better if he gave me space.” She rounded off her appearance by touching up the red lipstick that hid the cut on her lip. After pulling on knee-high boots, she said, “I’m ready.”

  The appreciation she saw in his expression warmed her from the inside until her skin glowed with a pleasant heat.

  His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Take a jacket.”

  When she returned with a bolero style jacket, he took her arm and escorted her to the street where a Ducati was parked.

  She gave him a surprised look. “You got wheels?”

  “I like my independence. I prefer not relying on public transport.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Today.”

  She hopped onto the back and secured the helmet he handed her. “Does that mean you’re sticking around for a while?”

  His look was piercing, searching her eyes for questions that went much deeper than the one she’d just asked and for truths she couldn’t admit. “Would you like that?”

  Her answer was to place her hands on her knees and spread them wide over the seat.

  A twinkle lit up his eye. “Tease.”

  He fitted his helmet and threw a muscular leg over the bike. The powerful machine sagged under his weight. He checked on her one last time in the side-mirror before pushing the ignition button. She shifted closer and wrapped her arms around his waist. His back was a wall of hard, warm body. As he shifted gears, his muscles knotted and flexed. She traced the lines that defined his body with her fingertips. The flesh and sinew braided together like strong rope. Deep ridges ran over his ribs on his sides. Under her palms, his heartbeat was strong and steady, a reassuring rhythm that lured her with the false hope that things could work out all right.

  At a red light, his long, slender fingers closed around the brake on the handlebar. The watch on his wrist shone in the dashboard lights. Pressing her cheek against his back, she recalled his scent. He always smelled clean and wealthy, of posh education, cultured gentleman, and money. The subtle fragrance of his cologne served as a reminder that they were worlds apart. If only his intoxicating perfume could anesthetize her conscience.

  Bono pulled up in front of Melk. It was a club with a glamorous reputation where the rich and famous played. A concierge took their helmets and the key remote to park the bike. Smoothing down her hair, she took Bono’s hand and followed him to the dining area in the front. The hostess knew him, because her face lit up with a brilliance that would put a choir of angel faces shining down on earth to shame.

  “Bono!” She rushed forward and kissed his cheek. “You didn’t tell me you’re in town.”

  The way the woman’s manicured hand lingered for a second too long on his shoulder was like a splinter under Sky’s skin, but Bono pulled her under his arm and said, “This is my companion, Sky Val.”

  The women exchanged a cool, polite greeting.

  “I haven’t booked—” Bono started, but the hostess silenced him with a finger on his lips. “My best table for you.”

  She ushered them to a window table at the back with a view over the canal. “Champagne, as usual?”r />
  As usual? Even if she deserved no better, it hurt to know she was a ritual, one out of many with whom he’d gone through the same sequence of seduction. When the hostess was gone, she turned to Bono. “You didn’t tell me you were a regular in Amsterdam.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “You deceived me on purpose.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You said you haven’t done the tourist thing.”

  “It’s the truth. I don’t get to visit many tourist sights. More often than not, I’m on standby.”

  “I assume you get around.”

  “In my line of work, yes.”

  “Is it true what they say about pilots?”

  The light caught the humorous glint in his eye. “What do they say?”

  “That you have a woman in every town with an airport.”

  The hostess arrived with an ice bucket and their champagne. After serving them, she proposed the set menu of the day and fluttered off with a smile over her shoulder directed at Bono.

  He lifted his glass to Sky’s. “There’s only one town where I’d like to have one.”

  She pouted. “A charmer, too. Tell me all the places in the world you’ve been.”

  Toying with the stem of his glass, he regarded her for a second, seeming to weigh his words. “There aren’t many places I haven’t seen.”

  She’d given him the golden opening to talk about himself, to boast about his conquests and adventures, and most men would’ve jumped at the opportunity. Instead of rubbing his freedom in her face, he asked carefully, “Have you been outside of the Netherlands?”

  There was no pity or contempt in the loaded question, which made it easier to answer. “A slave doesn’t get to travel, at least not without her master.”

  “Doumar doesn’t take you places?”

  “He hates to fly, so no.”

  “There are trains and buses.”

  “He doesn’t like to travel, no matter the means.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Of course.” She couldn’t hide the bite that invaded her voice. “Who wouldn’t want to come and go as they please?”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Many people don’t like traveling, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, beautiful. I’m getting to know you, that’s all.”

  She took a gulp of her champagne and then a deep breath. “Yes.” She let her lungs deflate slowly. “I would like to see more than Amsterdam.”

  “If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”

  “Morocco.”

  His lips tilted. “Why Morocco?”

  “I love the colors. The gold and ochre reminds me of the sun, of warmth, and a happy place. Then there’s the space. It looks free.”

  Leaning forward, he took her hand and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “I’d love to take you there one day.”

  There would never be a one day for them. She pulled away and changed the subject. “Black isn’t your real surname, is it?”

  Their starters arrived. Bono waited until the waiter had served the salmon tartare before he replied. “It’s Niang. Black was my nickname at the flight school. It kind of stuck. That’s how Joss came to know me.”

  “Maybe you changed it for security reasons?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Joss’s job offer must’ve come with a handsome remuneration.” This restaurant was one of the most expensive in Amsterdam. Not many men, even commercial airline pilots, could afford to walk in without a reservation.

  “He pays me well, but I work for Joss because I respect him.”

  “As a boss?”

  “As an employer and as a man.”

  “You believe he’s a good person.”

  He let go of her hand to allow her to eat. “He is.”

  A man in a chef’s uniform exited the kitchen and walked to their table with outstretched arms. “Bono!” He spoke in Dutch. “How are you?”

  Bono got to his feet and pulled the older man into an embrace with a slap on the back. “I’m good. You?”

  Bono spoke Dutch? After a quick exchange, Bono introduced her.

  “Welcome,” the chef said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  They chatted for another minute, and then the chef excused himself to get back to the kitchen.

  “You didn’t tell me you spoke Dutch,” she said when Bono took his seat again.

  “A very broken Dutch. I barely manage.”

  “What other languages do you speak?”

  “German and a bit of Italian.”

  “Impressive. You must’ve attended a prestigious school with fancy language courses and impractical, bourgeois subjects like Latin and Philosophy.”

  He refilled their glasses and said without blinking, “For many years I worked as a houseboy for foreigners in Senegal. That’s how I picked up the languages.”

  She stared at him in surprise.

  He chuckled. “My life hasn’t always been roses and sunsets, either.”

  “I’m sorry.” A flush of shame heated her cheeks. “I took you for a cliché, again.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “I was rude. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “I’m not ashamed that I’ve grown up poor or that I worked as a servant. It was a good, honest job.”

  “How did you go from servant to pilot?”

  “I got a job cleaning aircrafts for the Red Cross. One of the pilots saw potential in me and offered to train me in exchange for volunteering for rescue operations. He taught me to assemble pre-fabricated helicopters and to fly just about anything with a wing and an engine. After I’d built up enough hours, I got my commercial license and chartered planes for a private company, but then my accident happened,” he pointed at his eye, “and I was grounded. The company kept me on as an aircraft mechanic, but refused to let me fly another plane, even if I passed a medical check-up and got the green light to fly again. They didn’t want to worry their customers about my disability.”

  “How did you end up flying, again?”

  “I serviced Joss’s private plane. His pilot happened to fall ill. We’d talked a bit before flights, so he knew about my history and asked if I could fly him, since his business was urgent. It was a tough flight, and Joss liked the way I handled it. When we got back to the base, he offered me a permanent position.”

  “How long have you been with him?”

  “Long enough to call him family.” He gave her a dashing smile. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about me.”

  “If you brought me here to show me you’re sought after by every female in Amsterdam, then you’ve succeeded.”

  “Even if that was true, which it’s not, that’s not why I brought you here.”

  “Why did you?”

  “To dance.”

  “Why?”

  He gripped her chin and asked in a chastising tone, “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “Only when I want the answers.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  His thumb brushed over her chin. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “You want me to?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I don’t want to?”

  “We can leave.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Just like that.” He leaned over the table and planted a chaste kiss on her lips. “We’re not going to do anything you don’t enjoy.”

  There were plenty more questions she wanted to ask—for starters if the boss he respected so much still planned on killing her—but for now she kept those questions to herself.

  When they’d finished their meal, she dabbed the napkin to her lips and got to her feet. “Excuse me, I have to visit the ladies’s room.”

  Bono followed suit, standing when she left the room. God, he was such a gentleman, unlike any man she’d ever met. She walked down the carpeted hallway, her heart pou
nding in her throat with the bitterness of her betrayal. It was all so very wrong. Before long, when Bono learned of her deceit, he’d never look at her again with that adoring light in his eye, as if, only for tonight, she was the center of his well-traversed universe.

  Inside the ladies’s room, she touched up her lipstick and fixed her hair. Bono was waiting outside the door when she exited. He held out his hand to her when he saw her.

  Accepting his proffered hand, she asked, “You were waiting for me?”

  “Making sure you’re safe.”

  “Nobody’s going to attack me in the toilets at Melk.”

  “It doesn’t matter where we are. It’s my responsibility to take care of you.”

  He led her to a private table in the VIP area of the club where bottled water waited.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  She motioned at the water. “Aren’t you drinking?”

  “I’ve had enough. I’m driving.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  He opened a bottle and poured her a glass. It was still early, and the music wasn’t pumping, yet. The dance floor was empty. Resting her hand on his thigh, Sky got a perverse kick out of the way his muscles bunched under her caress. She liked what her touch did to him. Sipping her water, she looked around the room. She’d been to plenty of clubs with Doumar, but they were nothing like this. The places she’d been were dark and dirty. Cheap beer was served in plastic cups, and the girls were dressed in outfits meant to degrade or arouse. Their company had been people who dealt in sex, or drugs, or both. Although Doumar had never allowed her to leave his side, she’d seen the men his friends shared their female companions with. They didn’t wear tailored shirts and expensive cologne. They didn’t wait for their partners outside the toilets to make sure they were fine. Her world was one in which you could never let your guard down if you wanted to survive, and you could certainly not trust anyone, especially not the man you were supposed to seduce and deceive.

  A woman with a flowered dress looking out of place approached them. She took a brochure from her tote bag and placed it on their table. At first, Bono’s smile was accommodating, but when his gaze fixed on the paper, his expression turned tight. Sky leaned forward to examine the reason for his sudden change in mood. The text was printed in a revolution style font with a crossed-out number seven watermark in the background.