by Josie Litton
Her hand fluttered to her throat. She snatched it away. “Did he…?” A shadow moved behind her eyes. Faintly, she said, “There were cameras.”
I waited, fighting the echo of hot red rage that thundered deep inside me--at myself as much as at Sebastian. If she needed to speak about what she had suffered, I would listen and do my best to comfort her even as every word fell like acid on my soul. But I also understood that there were times when to speak of something is to suffer the pain of it all over again.
When it became evident that she wasn’t ready to talk about what the cameras had seen, I fought to quell my own dark emotions. They were mine to deal with; I wouldn’t impose them on her.
Quietly, I said, “Sebastian couldn’t resist the urge to taunt me. But the video he sent was a mistake. Several frames of it contained details that revealed his location. His fiancée recognized where he was. She told us how to get there.”
Grace’s eyes darkened. Softly, without condemnation, she asked, “She just volunteered that information?”
I could hardly blame her for wondering, given what she knew of my propensity for coercion. Still, I was glad that, in this case at least, very little had been required.
“Eloise is a practical woman. Once she decided that marriage to Sebastian was no longer desirable, she didn’t hesitate to cut her losses.”
Grace didn’t hesitate either; she accepted my explanation and moved on. Somberly, she said, “He lost everything, didn’t he? His wife-to-be, his father, his honor, his life, all gone because of mad ambition and greed.”
I could hardly disagree with that assessment but one particular part of it struck me. “His father?”
She sat up a little on the lounge and leaned closer. Her gaze was shadowed by concern. It occurred to me that she was worried about how I would react to what she was about to say.
“From what Rolf has been able to determine, Sebastian’s father did manage to escape but only as far as the street. In his haste, he must not have been looking where he was going. He was hit by a truck and died at the scene.”
Christophe Falzon was dead? Without my ever having laid a hand on him? Questions flooded my mind: Had he realized that the battle was lost and the long-delayed payment for his own sins was about to come due? Perhaps rather than face me, had he chosen a far faster and more merciful end?
Whether by accident or design, the man who might ultimately have been responsible for my parents’ deaths had slipped beyond my reach. I should have been angered but instead all I felt was a profound sense of relief.
The burden of the past had shifted into where it belonged--in the past. I was free to focus all my attention exactly where it needed to be.
Without hesitation, I said. “Then there’s no reason to speak of him again.”
Her smile of relief was reward in itself but it also prompted me to change the subject decisively.
Glancing around at the place at once so achingly familiar and so foreign, I said, “I used to come here as a boy.”
Grace had already shown a susceptibility to any mention of my childhood. That hadn’t changed. Watching her eyes soften, I told myself that every moment with her was precious. I couldn’t be blamed for wanting to make each of them mean as much as possible.
The light breeze coaxed a wisp from her hair. I thought of how it felt in my grasp as she said, “Rolf says that you love this place. I can see why; it’s beyond beautiful. But he also told me that the castle in Switzerland was your favorite of all the family residences when you were growing up. That’s a little confusing.”
Slowly, I said, “The castle is where it was easiest to embrace the reality of who I was supposed to be. This place…” I glanced around again. “Here I was just myself.”
“You were an innocent child.” That statement was offered matter-of-factly. She understood that I couldn’t tolerate pity.
As glad as I was of that, I took refuge in a weak attempt at humor. “The ducks would disagree. I thought it was fun to chase them.”
“But they always got away, didn’t they?”
I nodded, remembering that I had never run after them quite as fast as I might have. I liked it too much when they reached the sanctuary of their pond and turned around to squawk at me.
Back then, I had never wanted to hurt anything.
“Yes, they did,” I said and looked away. This business of opening myself up to her was even more difficult than I’d imagined. We would have to take it slowly.
A servant emerged just then from the side of the house. He came to inquire if there was anything we would like.
“Dinner?” Grace asked, more to me than him. “Here, perhaps?”
I nodded, relieved to focus on something as ordinary as a meal. But nothing really felt that way where Grace was concerned. With her, everything became extraordinary, all my senses heightened and the world itself brighter, sweeter.
The evening was balmy for early fall. Between that and the warm air rising from the heated pool nearby, I was comfortable dressed--or not dressed--as I was. Even so, I told the man to bring down a shawl for Grace. She smiled but accepted it all the same.
In unspoken accord, we held off on any more discussion of what had happened in Paris. Instead, we kept the conversation light, speaking of Provence where towns founded by the Romans still flourished and the shapes of their ancient villas and vineyards were etched into the checkerboard pattern of the land.
We were lingering over a lush, full-bodied Rhone wine that I had told her was made from grapes grown in the fields attached to the house when Grace asked, “How many homes do you have?”
I had to think for a moment. The answer that I could no longer deny was “one”, that being wherever she was. But I wasn’t about to say that. She wasn’t responsible for my happiness. On the contrary, keeping her safe meant setting every other consideration aside.
“A dozen, I think. They’ve tended to accumulate over the years.”
“Have you Falzons ever parted with anything?” she asked lightly.
“Not that I know of. After all, our family motto is ‘Uti Possidetis’.”
“As you possess?”
“You studied Latin?” I didn’t think Americans did that any more.
“Not for long. Do you really believe that the Falzons are defined by their possessions?”
“No, but the fact remains that we’ve never been good at giving up anything. I suppose you could say that is our greatest strength. And our worst failing.”
I was trying to tell her how torn I was between instincts bred into me over generations and the nobler impulses that I was struggling to cultivate. She was far too intelligent not to realize that but she didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she merely looked at me thoughtfully as the first stars appeared overhead.
Over the last of the wine, her eyelids grew heavy. I stood and drew her upright. “Go to bed,” I said softly. “You need to rest.”
She nodded and gave me a weary smile. I forced myself to let go of her and step back but even as I did so, she leaned closer and brushed a light kiss across my cheek.
“You, too,” she said. “Don’t stay up too late.”
I watched her leave, aware of the painful restriction of my chest and a burning in my eyes. When she was safely out of sight, I stayed awhile, finishing the wine as I looked out over the fields of grape vines stripped of their fruit and wreathed in darkness. The scent of dry leaves drifted on the air. I thought of seasons changing. Already, the coldness of winter was seeping into me.
By the time I stood and made my way back inside the house, I wasn’t entirely sober. Not that I’d had so much to drink; I hadn’t. But even a small amount of wine combined with the damage I was recovering from left me less clear-headed than I should have been.
Perhaps that explains why, when I opened the bedroom door, I thought I was already dreaming.
Grace lay curled on her side in the bed I had left short hours before, the light blanket shaping itself to the curve of her h
ip and the dip of her waist. Her hair was spread out over the pillow, her lips slightly parted. She was deeply asleep.
What was she thinking of to be there? The house had half-a-dozen guestrooms; why wasn’t she in one of them? For that matter, why wasn’t I?
I turned to go when I noticed that the door to the large dressing room was slightly open. Through it, I could see my clothes and hers hanging side-by-side. Stepping carefully so as not to wake her, I went into the bathroom and saw what I had failed to notice earlier. Next to my razor was a small bag with her toiletries. Two toothbrushes stood in a single cup.
In my befuddled state, I couldn’t make sense of any of it. All I could think was that we’d straighten it out in the morning. In the meantime, I’d find a guestroom and--
A soft whimper punctured the silence. Grace was still lying on her side but her hand was clenched tightly, gripping the blanket.
“Adam!” she murmured. “Be careful! Oh, God, no…”
Without thinking, I went quickly to the bed and bent down, smoothing her hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s just a dream. You’re safe…we both are.”
She quieted a little but not entirely. I could feel the tension radiating from her.
“Adam…” Her eyelids fluttered open. She gazed at me with relief so profound that it stole my breath. “Oh, thank God…”
Her concern for me was my undoing. I tried to pull back but my heart wasn’t in it. It was there, with her.
Holding my gaze, she moved over and urged me down onto the bed. I couldn’t even manage token resistance. With a low groan, I stretched out beside her and took her in my arms. She sighed softly and almost at once slipped into restful sleep.
I followed more quickly than I would have thought possible. Waking only once in the middle of the night, I swam up from the deep sea of to find her curled against me, her hand resting directly over my heart.
When I drifted off to sleep again, I dreamed of chasing ducks.
Chapter Nine
“A little slower,” the physical therapist said. “There’s no rush.”
I hid a smile. After five days, the poor guy was still trying to restrain Adam. I could have warned him of the futility of that but I was content to watch from the door of the outbuilding next to the house that had been temporarily converted into a state-of-the-art physical therapy facility.
Adam was running on a treadmill. The pace he had set was punishing and the angle steeply uphill. His bare chest glistened with a light sheen of sweat while his running shorts did nothing to conceal the power of his muscular legs, nowhere more evident than in thigh muscles honed by a lifetime of riding and skiing.
A memory of his thigh thrusting between my legs shimmered through me. I took a quick breath and bit my lip, fighting the desire that had been building inexorably with each passing day.
And night.
The small bandage still remaining on his left shoulder was the only visible reminder of what he had endured. As for what couldn’t be seen… I was left to speculate about that. After our first evening together, Adam hadn’t been very forthcoming. I chaffed at the distance he seemed determined to keep between us even as it gave me an excuse not to tell him about Patrick and the fact that I would have to return to New York soon.
The treadmill finally slowed and came to a stop. I caught the therapist’s sigh of relief.
“You’re very fortunate that there was no tendon or nerve damage, sir,” the young man said. He was ultra-discreet, never questioning how someone of Adam’s stature had acquired a bullet wound in the first place. But he was still set on doing his job.
“Exerting too much force too soon could hinder healing,” he added.
“I’m fine,” Adam said. Seeing me, his eyes lit with a smile. “Especially now.”
Heat flushed my skin; I felt myself blushing. Little moments like this were woven through each day, times when our gazes met, we shared a laugh or one of us completed the other’s sentence. They were happening more and more frequently, and I was rapidly becoming addicted to them.
And yet, I was also increasingly aware of how frustrated and needy I felt. All the little touches in the world couldn’t make up for the fact that we slept together every night in the same bed chastely.
Invariably, I was the one who turned to him in my sleep, needing the closeness and physical contact. He’d put an arm around me then but nothing more. Occasionally, over dinner, our hands would brush. Once, the day before, I’d thought that he was about to kiss me. Only to have him pull away at the last moment.
It was all so unlike the man whose nature I knew to be intensely carnal and who had never hesitated to take what he wanted while at the same time giving almost more pleasure than I could bear. At first, I told myself that I couldn’t seriously expect sexual athletics from someone who had been shot and who had nearly bled out not once but twice because of it. But that same man had no difficulty running his physical therapist ragged. While also making me constantly, vividly aware of my desire for him. And equally powerfully, of my inability to hide it.
The thought that he might no longer want me tormented me from time to time but I didn’t make the mistake of going very far down that road. Instead, I’d begun to notice how often I caught him scowling at the bruises on my throat. Despite having lightened, they were still all too evident. The weather was growing cooler; I’d thought of covering them with a scarf or a turtleneck sweater. But what good would that do? We’d both still know they were there just as we knew but had yet to speak again of what had happened in Paris.
Perhaps we never would speak of it. I certainly didn’t need to rehash the details and Adam…he was holding something back that I had to believe he would tell me in his own time. Or not.
I had dreams about the wheel. Weirdly, they were just that--dreams, not nightmares. If I had been sleeping alone, that would have been different. The steady rhythm of Adam’s breathing and the beat of his heart followed me into sleep and held the terrors at bay.
Worse by far were the flashbacks I had during waking hours, moments when the memory of Adam falling wounded at the schuss or struggling with Sebastian washed through me, an acrid wave burning me from the inside out. They came and went in a second or two but they left me clammy, short of breath, and trembling. I hid them from him as best I could and was relieved that they seemed to be easing as he healed.
We had been at the farmhouse almost a week, counting the day we arrived and the following day when Adam awoke. I’d avoided looking at any form of news but I had checked my phone, thoughtfully restored to me by Rolf. Will hadn’t called but my mother had, twice. She’d wanted to know where I’d gone and if by any chance, I was with Adam Falzon. That prospect clearly excited her.
I’d sent her a quick text just to say that I was fine and would be in touch later. Eventually, I’d call her back but not yet. The days secluded away from the world were too precious. Selfishly, I didn’t want anything to intrude on them.
I went back out to the garden to wait while Adam and the physical therapist finished their session. Afterward, I knew that he’d shower and shave before coming to join me. I would have liked to be on hand for that but there was only so much temptation that I could take.
Given how quickly he was getting back to normal, I had to wonder how much longer he would be content to stay at the house. The demands on his time and attention had to be intense, all the more so after what had happened with Sebastian.
The few snatches of conversation between Adam and Rolf that I’d overheard made it clear that no flicker of rebellion remained anywhere within the Falzon family. On the contrary, fervent declarations of loyalty were pouring in. So were expressions of support from outside the family, sent by the men and women commonly seen at Davos conferences, G20 summits, and the like. The latter gave me a peek into the expanse of Adam’s power, far outstripping even my family’s.
I was still sitting, holding a book that I wasn’t reading and thinking about Adam when a late-blooming ro
se dropped into my lap from above.
When I looked up in surprise, my breath caught. He was smiling down at me. In jeans and a simple cotton pullover, he appeared even more approachable than the man I had known so briefly in New York.
“I was going to offer a penny for your thoughts,” he said. “But I thought you’d like this better.”
The warmth in his eyes left me painfully aware of how much I ached for him. Suddenly self-conscious, I lifted the flower to my nose and inhaled deeply. It was smaller than its more cultivated cousins but it smelled like heaven--the sweet, powdery scent of damask hiding beneath a lush hint of plum and spice.
Over the blossom, I said, “I was wondering how much longer you’ll want to stay here.”
He frowned and sat down on the chaise next to me. I moved my legs over to make room for him. His gaze was so intense that I felt it along every inch of my skin. Whatever he saw looking at me didn’t seem to improve his mood. On the contrary, tension radiated from him.
I was wondering at the cause when he asked, “Why? Are you eager to leave?”
I had to tell him. After everything we had been through, I couldn’t keep the truth about Patrick to myself much longer. But once he knew, he would insist on being involved. I was terrified of that, especially now after all that had happened.
Returning the flower to my lap, I said, “Not as much as I should be. I’m having trouble focusing on anything beyond the moment.”
I wasn’t proud of that; on the contrary, seeing how quickly Adam was recovering made me feel weak by comparison. We had both suffered but his was by far the more serious injury and he was putting it behind him with lightning speed.
“You went through a terrible ordeal,” he said quietly. When I didn’t respond, being too caught up in savoring his nearness, he added, “Did you see Doctor Frick today?”
I nodded. A physician, two assistants, and the physical therapist had arrived at the house shortly after we did. Rolf had summoned them from a clinic in Switzerland. They were all staying in a guesthouse on the property.
