Fated Mate

by Juniper Hart

  Alex did not respond, but Nora thought she saw a glint of worry in the girl’s face. What did Alex know about her and Jerome? Well, whatever it was, it didn’t matter, not really.

  If Alex did her job and kept her mouth shut, she had little to worry about. If she did not, she would be replaced as the ones before her had been.

  At least that was Jerome’s mentality.

  Nora was more apprehensive about what the staff learned about her, as little information as it could be.

  “I don’t know why you care so much,” Jerome had sighed once. “What can they possibly do?”

  He does not have as much to lose as I do, Nora reminded herself. What if my parents come to look for me, even after all these years?

  “And are you finding your accommodations comfortable?” she asked Alex instead. “Have you enough room? Everything you need?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle,” Alex replied, and although her voice wasn’t all that convincing, Nora could not tell whether she was being sincere.

  I have been out of touch with people too long, she thought. Do I really not know how to tell when someone is lying to me?

  She turned to eye the blonde maid over her shoulder.

  “You do not find it too isolated here?” Nora asked.

  Alex’s mouth parted slightly, as if she were searching for the right words to answer her question.

  “It is much farther away from Lucerne than my previous employer,” Alex agreed. “But Collette has a car arranged to take us to the city on our off days.”

  Nora nodded. “As it should be. You will find that Monsieur Charpentier and I can be quite flexible. We only expect that you show us loyalty, and we will do the same.”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle Nora.”

  “You may call me Nora,” Nora explained, stifling a sigh at the girl’s words. She winced slightly as Alex tugged slightly too hard against her head.

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” Alex replied, and Nora tried not to roll her dark eyes skyward.

  It was a losing battle when Jerome ran the show. The staff would never call her by her first name. It ‘bred familiarity,’ according to the all-knowing Jerome.

  “And we all know that familiarity breeds contempt,” he had added.

  “Yet you continue to stay with me,” Nora had reminded him, earning a chuckle from him.

  “We are bound together,” he had told her, “whether or not we like it.”

  Something about his words had filled Nora with sadness. What kind of life was this for either of them? Why should they hide themselves from the rest of the world?

  “Have I said something wrong, Mademoiselle Nora?” Alex questioned as she noticed the sudden look on her face. She had finished brushing Nora’s head, so Nora shook her head in response.

  “No, Alex,” she replied. “I am going to shower. Please tell Collette that I will have toast and grapefruit with coffee afterwards.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle. Right away,” Alex breathed. She seemed immensely relieved to be dismissed, and she hurried toward the doorway as if she was worried Nora would change her mind.

  Nora watched her leave, her heart sinking slightly. She couldn’t even pay the young girl to sit there with her, though she didn’t know why she was surprised. It didn’t matter how much she and Jerome tried to keep their secrets under wraps—someone would always learn the truth.

  As if we are freaks who do not deserve to live in society, Nora thought angrily. That is why Jerome moved us out this way. To remove us from public scrutiny.

  Despite the fact that this was not a new understanding—despite the fact that she already knew this—it still filled her with longing.

  Times were changing. There was no reason for them to hide who they were from everyone else.

  Of course, Nora was not so naïve. She knew that no matter how much the world had progressed, there were certain aspects that would always remain the same.

  Stop your wallowing, she chided herself crossly. Have a shower and have something to eat. Then you can return to the studio and do some work.

  With new resolve, Nora rose from the vanity and wandered back through the dressing room and into the bathroom. Looking around at the steam shower and clawfoot bathtub, she reminded herself that she had everything she could ever want. She sighed, leaning forward to run the water, annoyed at her own dark mood.

  You have an artist’s temperament, she thought wryly. If you are going to feel sorry for yourself, at least put it into your artwork.

  But it was easier said than done.

  Nora dipped herself into the rose-scented water and allowed the warmth to sweep over her body. As much as she had hoped it would be, this was no instants solution to her mood. How could there be when she had never gotten what she wanted out of life?

  She groaned aloud.

  “What is wrong with me today?” she growled to herself, and she wondered if maybe she was getting cabin fever.

  Nora tried to remember the last time she had left the sprawling cottage for any reason. It had been months, she was sure, and the realization made her sit up in the tub, her eyes widening in disbelief.

  I have completely lost touch with reality, she thought, rising from the bath even though she had not bothered to soap or wash her hair.

  “Alex!” she yelled. “Collette!”

  A moment later, both women appeared in the doorframe of the bathroom, their faces etched in worry.

  “Yes, mademoiselle?” they chorused. “Are you all right?”

  Nora nodded.

  “Have Marc warm up the car,” she said. “We’re going to Lucerne.”

  Collette stared at her as if she had sprouted another head.

  “Mademoiselle?” she choked. “You are going to town alone?”

  Nora chuckled. “No, we’re all going to town. Get dressed.”

  Collette and Alex exchanged a long look.

  “Is something wrong?” Collette asked again. “Should I call for Monsieur Charpentier? Shall I have Marc go and get you something you need?”

  Nora snorted as Alex quickly handed her a towel, casting her eyes aside.

  “Not everything needs to go through Jerome,” she sighed. “This is my house, too. If I wish to visit town, I do not see the need for it to be a production.”

  “Bien sûr,” Collette replied quickly, her face blushing crimson. “I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Nora interjected. She couldn’t blame Collette; after all, her job included reporting back to Jerome and keeping him updated. “And Jerome doesn’t have a say in a girls’ afternoon.”

  Once again, Collette and Alex looked at each other. “Girl’s afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Nora told them. “Get your things. We’re going for lunch and shopping.”

  Their mouths fell open in unison, but to Nora’s relief, they did not argue any further. Instead, they turned to leave the bathroom, almost tripping over one another.

  Nora wrapped the thick towel around her svelte frame and gazed at herself in the steamy mirror.

  Lunch, shopping, and gossiping should cure my mood, she thought, wiping the haze from the glass. I will find something sexy to wear for Jerome when he finally comes home. That will surely cure my melancholy.

  2

  The roar of the crowd was all but lost on Ansel as he locked gazes with his opponent. It was their third fight, and the odds were in Ansel’s favor, though that didn’t stop his partner from giving a good effort.

  After all, Ansel had never lost a fight in his career. How could he?

  It’s almost becoming tedious, Ansel thought as the announcer introduced the fighters. Unless they wrangle one of my brothers into the ring, I will continue to win these fights.

  “And now, for the part of the show you have come to observe!” the master of ceremonies chortled into his hanging microphone. The man was barely five feet tall, but his booming voice more than made up for his lack of size. “Our feature fight of the night, here at the glorious MGM Grand, Las Vegas!” />
  Screaming ensued, and the small man’s smile widened as he waited for effect. When he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he continued his spiel.

  “In the blue trunks, at five-feet-eleven, weighing one hundred ninety-four pounds from Dayton, Ohio, Harley “The Torch” Calverson!”

  The crowd booed and cheered, but the emcee’s voice droned on as his trainer, Louis, quickly rubbed Ansel’s shoulders.

  “You’ve got this,” Louis whispered in his ear. “He’s going down!”

  “And in the red trunks, from London, England, our returning champion: six-feet-two and weighing in at two hundred four pounds, Ansel “The Dragon” Williams!”

  If the mob was excited before, the mere sound of Ansel’s name sent them into a frenzy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the emcee, “let’s hear it for the fight of the year!”

  The din was unbearable, but Ansel had long since learned to block out the noise.

  Once upon a time, the women and businessmen sitting mere feet away would have made him dizzy with confusion. Those days had now long since passed.

  Tedious, Ansel thought again, but he refocussed his attention on Calverson.

  “You know what to do,” Louis called after him, and Ansel had to hold himself back from rolling his gray eyes as he bounced toward the other boxer. Of course, he knew what to do.

  They touched gloves and waited for the bell.

  When the round commenced, Harley did his traditional opening jab, but Ansel was used to it, stepping back to counter with a bolo punch, followed by an uppercut. The lumbering giant slipped to the side, trying to regain his stance. Ansel didn’t give him the chance—he was relentless, plowing Calverson with a spray of blows to his kidneys and head.

  The Torch fell against the ropes, his gloves trying to protect his face and body in unison, but he was no match for the rain of punches. In seconds, Harley was on the ground, and Ansel was being pulled back to avoid doing any further damage.

  The referee declared a knock out, and the spectators exploded. The fight had lasted less than a minute.

  “Holy shit!” Louis screamed. “That was a record! That was a record!”

  Ansel barely heard any of it. His eyes had fallen to the front row, where a line of stoic faces stared back up at him: particularly Tony Valducci’s, who slowly shook his head. He was the only one who wasn’t cheering for Ansel, and he felt a stab of apprehension in his gut.

  Not my problem, Ansel thought, turning back toward the emcee and the referee. He picked the wrong bird.

  His gloved hand was raised into the air, and even standing beside the announcer, Ansel could barely hear what was being said. It was the usual blather, he was sure. His accomplishments and titles were being listed, and as his entourage surrounded him, Ansel allowed the circus to continue.

  Once that was done, he nodded at Harley, and the two boxers hugged in a show of good sportsmanship. Ansel’s mind, however, was still on the row of displeased men sitting ringside.

  I guess I’m going to hear about this when I get back to the staging area, he thought, grunting to himself. It wasn’t his first tango with the mob, but it was his first encounter with the mob from Las Vegas.

  “I’m heading back,” he told Louis, and his trainer nodded, still beaming.

  He acts as if every win is the first one, Ansel thought, shaking his head. He enjoys this freak show more than anyone.

  He wondered what the former heavyweight was going to do when Ansel retired—probably find another lost cause like him no doubt.

  Ansel fought his way up the aisle, touching the hands of adoring fans as he moved toward the quietness of his dressing room.

  Suddenly, the shine of a dark eye caught his attention and he froze in his tracks, pausing to look up at the sultry brunette in the black sequined dress leaning back against the wall.

  Their gazes met, and Ansel blinked for a minute, his breath in his throat. The woman’s beautiful face broke into an alluring smile, and she licked her lips.

  “Hi,” she mouthed.

  Ansel’s brow furrowed, and he continued his way to his dressing room, scowling slightly to himself. In the hall, some fans caught up to him, their voices all around him.

  “You were incredible!”

  “Amazing fight!”

  “I knew you had this!”

  “Can I get your autograph, Dragon? I love you so much!”

  The praises and platitudes were almost as deafening as the insanity in the arena, but Ansel barely acknowledged anyone anymore. He fell into his dressing room and forcefully slammed the door closed before sinking onto his sofa and spitting out his mouth guard.

  It was customary for him to have spoken to the emcee after the fight. Unfortunately, Ansel was starting to run out of victory phrases he could use without sounding repetitive.

  They can just cut and paste some statement together like a collage. What the hell else can I possibly say? I’m a fighter, for Christ’s sake, not a writer.

  Louis threw open the door and rushed inside, wearing a broad smile on his face.

  “There are a dozen reporters out there waiting on you!” his trainer told him happily. “Get dressed so you can meet them, and then we’ll go celebrate!”

  “Celebrate?” Ansel repeated. The word was almost bitter on his tongue. What was there to celebrate?

  “Yes, celebrate!” Louis chirped in his usual high energy form. “You were—”

  “Amazing, incredible, top drawer,” Ansel interjected, his British accent only accentuating the sarcasm in his tone. “Right. Can we go home now? I’m not in the mood to sign autographs and have my arse kissed, if you don’t mind.”

  Louis’ smile faltered.

  “Why are you always so miserable after a fight?” he demanded. “Do you know how many men would cut off their own balls to be in your position right now?”

  “Then maybe you should go collect someone else’s testicles,” Ansel retorted. “I’m sick of all this fussing.”

  “You’re becoming overconfident,” Louis muttered. “Most people in your shoes would consider themselves lucky.”

  “Do I seem ungrateful?” Ansel asked dryly, throwing his feet onto the sofa. “Forgive me.”

  Louis’ dark eyes narrowed. “You’re becoming embittered,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the sofa. “What’s going on with you these days?”

  Ansel closed his eyes, considering the question. What could he say? Where could he start? He wasn’t even sure of the answer, of how to put it into words.

  There was a knock at the door, saving him from having to answer.

  “Go away!” Louis yelled, but then the door swung inward, and Ansel opened his eyes to see who dared cross his mentor.

  He slowly sat up.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Louis said curtly, not recognizing the two men who now stood in the doorway. “Ansel is not taking visitors right now.”

  “Surely, he can make an exception for us,” Tony Valducci said with his hands behind his back, strolling inside the room, his gorilla bodyguard close at his heels. “Ain’t that right, Ansel?”

  “Have them bring the car around, Louis,” Ansel said flatly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Louis glowered.

  “No!” he snapped. “We are in the middle of a discussion!”

  “One we can continue over dinner,” Ansel sighed. “We’ll do that celebrating thing you mentioned.”

  Louis eyed the well-dressed stranger and then glanced back at his protégé. “Ansel, I don’t think—”

  “Oh, for the love of God, man!” Ansel snapped. “Just leave us alone for five bloody minutes! Can’t you wait to give me a tongue lashing?”

  He had not meant to sound as angry as he did, but it was the only way his trainer would leave him alone. Ansel didn’t want him to be there for whatever happened next. He watched as Louis’ lean face grew stony.

  “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he replied, storming out of th
e room.

  Tony wore a bemused expression on his face as the door slammed in Louis’ wake.

  “He’s emotional for someone who just had his man win the fight,” he commented, turning his attention to the boxer. “I’d say he’s in a worse mood than I am.”

  Ansel shrugged.

  “You know what they say,” he replied lightly. “Trainers are worse than mothers.”

  Tony smiled coldly. “I ain’t never heard that one, but it does make sense. I guess he feels like he gave birth to ya.” He held Ansel’s gaze for a long moment before turning to his body guard. “Luca, leave us.”

  The huge man did as he was told, leaving Ansel alone with the mobster.

  “Something you want to say to me, kid?” Tony asked.

  “About what?” Ansel asked innocently. “Oh! I forgot to ask. Did you enjoy the fight?”

  The amusement fell from Tony’s expression in the blink of an eye, and without warning, he lashed out to slap Ansel across the face.

  “You were not supposed to win that fight!” he yelled. “What part of that did I not make clear?”

  Ansel shrugged indifferently, rubbing his face where the gangster’s handprint stained his cheek.

  “You were perfectly clear,” he retorted. “But I also thought I was clear when I told you I wasn’t throwing a fight for anyone. No disrespect, Mr. Valducci.”

  Tony narrowed his eyes at him.

  His attempt to seem intimidating is failing miserably, Ansel thought, but he kept his comments to himself. No sense in adding fuel to the fire.

  “You cost me four hundred thousand dollars,” Tony growled. “How you gonna pay that back?”

  Ansel snorted before he could stop himself.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Valducci, I would not think that four hundred grand would make or break you,” he replied calmly, rising to his feet and unwrapping the tape from his hands. “I feel like you’re trying to throw your weight around here.”

  And that is a lot of weight, Ansel noted, trying not to gape at the fat man’s belly protruding from his belt. How does he even find pants that size?