Those Whose Hearts

by Jackie Ivie

  Twenty thousand Euros!

  Good heavens!

  She’d read it three times and still had trouble believing the figure. And then there was the unwritten part that her mind wouldn’t cease adding in – the man behind the job. He was young. Gorgeous. Classy. And, lest she forget, his proximity sent her into a state of arousal so acute she was still in its thrall.

  Thank goodness Jacques didn’t seem to notice.

  Then again, he was in front of her, and the entire chateau was large and gloom-filled. The hallway he entered first was just the harbinger. The floor spread before them like an ocean of marbled tile. The span was really wide, the ceiling at least two stories high, and it was lengthy. She counted eighty steps before the hall ended. It was colder than before, too. The soles of her feet were the first casualty of temperature, but the cardigan wasn’t much help. The entire palace could use some heat. And it really needed better light.

  The hall ended at a juncture. Jacques turned right. Simone followed. Then he turned left and she barely missed colliding with him. Moments later, she knew why he’d stopped. He’d lit a trio of candles in a holder, blown out the match, and then he lifted the light high.

  And then he probably smiled at her gasp.

  They faced a set of stairs wide enough for vehicle traffic. It tapered inward as it rose into the darkness. The left side was devoted to a wall of windows. That was jaw-dropping even without outdoor light. But the other side of the staircase was beyond belief.

  Mounted on the wall in incremental steps were paintings. A lot of paintings. Executed by a lot of masters. She recognized a Bellini. Botticelli. Caravaggio...

  Her heart stopped, so did her steps. If she wasn’t mistaken, she was viewing a Michelangelo...but, it couldn’t be. All his works were catalogued. Was it possible there was an unknown one?

  No.

  The probability was too low.

  Wasn’t it?

  This was too much. All of it. The entire display looked like it had been hijacked from a museum.

  Jacques reached the top of the stairs. Cleared his throat. Simone looked up, stumbled, and grabbed for the handrail to stop a fall. Jacques was standing below and in front of what looked like another Veronese. From this distance and with just candles for illumination it was impossible to tell...but oh! If that was a Veronese, it was even larger than the earlier one!

  Holy crap.

  “Are you all right, Miss?”

  “Um. Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

  Simone worked her hem up enough she could jog the stairs. The moment she arrived at the landing, she pulled the skirt back into place. Jacques hadn’t waited. He was headed down another span of hall.

  This was such a waste of space!

  The amount of square footage she’d already traversed was borderline obscene. But wasting space and spending money were hallmarks of old French aristocracy. That was especially obvious from Versailles Palace. That place alone was over 700,000 square feet.

  Simone didn’t have any experience with chateaus, but they had to be smaller. As a Paris resident, she knew of the Loire Valley. She’d planned to take a tour if she ever had time and resources. But her knowledge was limited. If she wasn’t mistaken, chateau building was a sixteenth century thing. Some may have been additions or renovations to even earlier fortifications. She couldn’t remember for certain. She believed most chateaus had been destroyed in the Revolution, ruined by time, rebuilt or restored. Most, if not all, had been modernized.

  This chateau was unbelievable.

  It appeared to be absolutely original. It was perfectly maintained, too, somehow bypassing the ravages of centuries. She might as well have been teleported back in time. The chateau hadn’t a sign of electricity, no visible method of heating other than unlit fireplaces they passed. Why, this place might not even have indoor plumbing.

  Jacques turned right and proceeded down a span of hallway that was even more incredible. Candlelight touched on museum-quality pieces as he passed them. Sculptures loomed out of the gloom. Suits of armor glinted. Antique furniture pieces lined the wall. Tapestries soared from the floor upward.

  Wow.

  She might have to actually pinch herself yet.

  Somehow, she’d landed in art historian heaven. It would take months just to study and evaluate the pieces she’d already seen. Added to that was the possibility of her dream job. She’d always loved playing the cello. Gaining employment at that was the equivalent of a lottery win. And, for the piece de resistance, her prospective employer wasn’t just the most handsome thing she’d ever seen.

  He was sexier than hell.

  Oh crud. Why did she have to go and add in that?

  She needed a reality check.

  And fast.

  Simone Ryan wasn’t searching for a relationship – not really. Even if she was, she wasn’t desperate. But – above all - she wasn’t stupid. Gorgeous, rich, titled guys were not available to the hired help...for marriage anyway. He probably already had a wife. Children. And she already knew he had a major flaw she needed to factor in. He’d damaged a Veronese. Nobody would do that unless they had a horrid temper.

  Or worse...

  Mental issues.

  Darn. That would be a true shame.

  Her progress stalled for several steps, as she chided herself. What did it matter if he was insane? Wait. The word used for rich people was eccentric. It fit the count. He was definitely eccentric. He also appeared to be reclusive. Otherwise, she’d have heard of him or – at the very least - seen his picture. Any rich titled guy who looked like the count would earn a lot of space in a lot of articles, and a lot of clicks on a ton of sites. She couldn’t have missed him.

  Then again...what did she care if he was eccentric, reclusive, or insane? He was willing to pay twenty thousand Euros for a cellist. And she desperately needed the money. Simone hiked her skirt and jogged again to catch up with Jacques.

  “Is it much farther?” she asked.

  “Your room is on this floor of the countess wing,” Jacques informed her from over his shoulder.

  Simone grabbed her opportunity. “Will I meet...Countess Mor-sennie, then?”

  He smiled. “There is no Countess Moroseni.”

  Her heartbeat quickened at the news, but dropped at her butchery of the name. She’d done it earlier, as well. With him. And he’d actually allowed it.

  Crap.

  She hoped she hadn’t ruined her chance of employment already.

  “That sounds...Italian?” She made a question of it.

  “Try not to let the count hear you say that. He is Venetian.”

  “Okay. But...um. Isn’t Venice in Italy?”

  “Venice was a city-state. As was Florence, Milan, others. And the count is very old fashioned.”

  “I see.”

  That was a fib, but she didn’t get a chance to query it. He stopped at an ornate set of double doors. Simone scanned about twelve feet of light-colored, carved wood. She wasn’t a carpenter, but it sure didn’t look like laminate. The servant turned down the handle. Pushed one side open. She instantly narrowed her eyes as light rushed out, spearing the hall behind her.

  The servant walked in. She followed, but stopped just inside the entrance portal, mouth agape. Breath caught. She was in shock, or something very close to it.

  She felt like she should be paying admission here.

  It was difficult to believe the amount of square footage before her. She’d never seen anything like it. Not in a movie, a picture book. Magazine. Online. Not even in her imagination.

  The place was a sea of off-white colored flooring interspersed with the same color rugs, and it was aglow with candlelight. Massive candelabra held tapers that wavered from almost every available surface. Each flicker sent sparkles as they touched on what could be actual gold. The metal was everywhere. It glimmered from stripes in the off-white material covering the walls, off bric-a-brac, and off the furniture. Each piece was fashioned from the same wood as the chamber door, and
decorated with a lot of gold filigree. The color scheme would have overwhelmed except for black and maroon accents. Every cushion was one shade or a combination. As for the bed...?

  Wow.

  The bed was a four-poster, fashioned of more carved white wood and decorated with more gold. It sat atop a dais at the back of the room, as if majestically overseeing things. The coverlet, pillows, and other items atop the mattress were black and maroon. The same colors filled the velvet drapery hanging down the length of the wall behind the headboard, framing it.

  It was the most romantic setting she’d ever seen.

  Jacques didn’t notice her reaction. She watched him walk to a dressing table, situated beside a wardrobe. He opened the armoire doors wide. Simone recognized a few items already hanging within. Her suitcase was at the bottom. She’d been so proud of that investment years ago. Right now, her well-traveled luggage looked pathetic. Then he walked to an inner door, opened it, and walked inside. He came out empty-handed, leaving the candles within. A golden glow silhouetted him.

  “I believe you will find everything you require,” he stated. “If not, please ring.” He motioned to a length of gold-flecked tapestry hanging near the dressing table.

  The item was a bell-pull.

  A real one.

  Simone somehow managed to close her lips. Nodded.

  “It looks like you have...” He lifted his arm, regarded his wrist. “Forty-two minutes.”

  He walked past her to the chamber door. Simone pivoted to face him.

  “Forty-two minutes?” she asked.

  “I’ll return for you then. It takes some time to reach the blue salon, and I wouldn’t want you to be late.”

  “Oh. Of course,” she automatically replied.

  The door shut. Candles wavered with the faint current of air that managed to reach them from across the acreage of floor. Oh, good. She had forty-two minutes. Did she have time to shower? Was there even a shower? Is that where he’d placed his candles? She wouldn’t be able to wash her hair. It would never dry. Had she even packed something appropriate? She sure hoped so. She’d need a looser skirt to play a cello. The instrument went between the thighs. Trying to play in a pencil skirt would be way too sexually suggestive, and she already had that problem. And that’s when it hit.

  Oh, no!

  She only had forty-two minutes?

  Good thing she was alone. Nobody was around to hear her panic.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  What could be taking so long?

  Reynaldo stopped at one of the tables in the blue salon. This table was painted white, etched with gold, and possessed a polished marbled top. Four carved legs curved beneath it, forming the distinctive style of a Louis the Fourteenth piece. It stood near the wide plastered doorway leading to the music room. If he looked in that direction he’d see all manner of instruments: harps, wind and stringed instruments, lyres, percussion implements. A large pianoforte held the center spot of the room. Massive candelabra sat atop the pianoforte, lit candles sending golden glow. His mate’s cello case had been placed beside the bench. Reynaldo ran his fingers along it every time he’d passed.

  Both rooms were furnished alike, with ornately carved tables, over-stuffed chairs, and elegant settees. Most pieces were arranged along walls, leaving the rooms open. The furniture carried touches of blue and gold, echoing the color scheme of the walls, draperies, rugs, the frescos that framed each fireplace.

  The ceilings were molded of white plaster and centered with enormous paintings. The blue salon had a Renaissance depiction of chubby cherubs flitting about barely-clad goddesses amidst a vista of dawn-hued clouds. The music room had a like rendition, only it was a darker, twilit scene filled with a lot of flowing drapery, weaponry, and mostly-naked muscled gods.

  Each room contained a fireplace. Both were lit, sending light and warmth into the rooms. The entire effect was regal, especially the blue salon. It was the perfect setting for a collection of curios; snuffboxes, porcelain pieces, and miniatures.

  Reynaldo lifted a gem-encrusted snuffbox and flipped it open as if to study the tiny spots of smelted metal where the lid attached. He snapped the piece shut. Put the box down. Moved his attention to a miniature. The woman pictured was delicately painted. Costumed in ancient regime attire. Her hairstyle was ornate, curled and powdered. A line of flawless pearls embedded in gold-work framed the piece. Reynaldo ran his thumb along the pearl bumps, but didn’t really see it.

  His mate was taking forever!

  He could have reached the countess suite a hundred of times by now, without even resorting to vampiric speed. He didn’t guess it, either. He knew. He’d already paced an equivalent amount of steps back and forth through these two rooms, looking at knick-knacks, viewing tapestries, and fidgeting. He should never have agreed to an hour! Every minute had the duration of a week.

  No.

  It was closer to a month.

  The miniature in his hand shifted. Reynaldo looked down with surprise. He’d gripped without thought, warping the thing into a ball.

  Accidenti.

  If she saw this, she’d be angered again. And up until yesterday, he’d have had the same reaction. Over the years, Reynaldo had gathered all manner of real estate, art, jewels, and the like. Possessions were a mark of status, culture, taste.

  He’d been a fool.

  Now, he knew they were worthless.

  Everything was.

  Except love.

  Reynaldo massaged the wrought metal until it was back to an acceptable oval shape. Set the miniature again on the little easel. Stepped back to view his handiwork. It didn’t look right...but it didn’t matter. Not with his mate so near!

  Back muscles clenched and twitched. Aggravatingly. Irritatingly. It matched how he felt. Exactly.

  He was being foolhardy. He should use this time wisely. Find his equilibrium, tamp down errant reactions, and somehow gain a measure of control over the uncontrollable. All of which sounded impossible. He’d thought besotted was an over-used word that poets used. Troubadours bandied about. Lovers whispered of. Now he knew it was an illness.

  And he had it.

  His already keen senses were on hyper-alert. He continually jerked without provocation. Every beat of his heart brought awareness, as he checked for any uptick that might mean Simone approached. He put the same attention to his breathing. Erratic earlier, it was now slow and regular, marking the passage of time.

  As if to punctuate his thoughts, somewhere out in the halls a clock chimed the hour of eight.

  And she still wasn’t here!

  Reynaldo moved a few steps to one side and looked again up at a tapestry. Bordered in light blue satin, it depicted another fantasy scene, this one of nymphs cavorting in a pool. A forest backdrop surrounded them, while a centaur watched from the side. It wasn’t the lone tapestry in the suite of rooms. The walls were lined with them...probably as defense against the chill. That stopped his errant thoughts momentarily.

  Was it warm enough?

  He should have added some modernity to the chateau. But temperature had never been an issue. It was now. He couldn’t remember if he’d instructed a fire to be lit in the countess suite, either. He hoped it wasn’t too chilly up there for her.

  His heart reacted, gaining depth and volume and speed. His breathing had the same trouble. And then he heard an unmistakable echo. Reynaldo spun just as the door closed behind her. An anvil smacked into him. And despite all his self-counseling, he raced right to her.

  He arrived in a blur of movement. Thankfully, she didn’t see it. She had her gaze affixed to the floor between them, while a blush stained her cheeks. And that’s when a riot of black powder exploded in his skull.

  Merda!

  No amount of preparation time was enough.

  Fangs reacted instantly. His body convulsed as he yanked muscles taut. And his cazzo went right back to angry insistence against his trousers. Reynaldo shook in place, looking down at her while fighting every instinct to grab. Mau
l. And consume.

  The combination was intense and wondrous. Angered and sublime. Frightening, and yet exhilarating. All of it in equal measure. And he fought each sensation as he stood there, trying not to move.

  Her hair wasn’t covered. She’d pulled it back and plaited it. A black ribbon tied off the end. Her frock was the same shade. Black. Nondescript. Tight to the waist, it flowed loosely from there; floor-length, long sleeved, and high-necked. She deliberately downplayed her features. He knew the reason. He’d attended enough recitals, operas, and exhibitions. Musicians always dressed thus. It kept the audience attention on the musician’s ability, not the musician.

  Right now, it didn’t work.

  That material might be thick, but it would easily shred. Reynaldo’s nails grew without conscious volition. He stabbed them into his palms with the fists he made.

  “Um. Hello again...Count Moroseni.”

  Her words were directed toward the floor between them. A portion of him noted that she pronounced his name correctly. All the rest of him didn’t care.

  “Reynaldo.” His instant retort was harsh. Angered-sounding. But surprisingly, he actually managed to keep the groan that followed it silent.

  “My...lord?”

  She addressed him in a hesitant fashion. Just above a whisper. And there was a tremor attached to her voice.

  Damn it.

  Reynaldo yanked his gaze away, and studied the door for a few moments. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Swallowed. Cleared his throat, and somehow managed to reply with a calm tone. “Call me Reynaldo. Please.”

  “Is that...correct?”

  “I insist.”

  She darted a glance up toward him, gifting him with heaven, but since it was attached to hell-fire, the resultant blast burned his chest. It grabbed his heart on the way to his skull. Once there, it melted his wits. He would have staggered backward if his thighs weren’t locked. He still swayed. She looked to one side of him. Reynaldo managed to catch a ragged bit of air that she matched.

  “All right then. Reynaldo.”

  His name off her tongue sent shivers that just multiplied his ills. His gut took a blow. His eyes burned. His canines elongated. And his cazzo hardened to a painful status. This was insane. And nothing worked at halting it!