by Colet Abedi
“Fierce winds that come down the Rhone Valley. If we have Mistral winds the temperatures really drop.”
“I think wind is romantic,” Erik says as Orie turns to give him a smile.
“For some.” From the tone of Sergei’s voice I doubt he agrees with Erik’s view of the terrible winds.
“We have arrived,” Sergei tells us as we drive through two enormous gates and down a long winding dirt driveway lined with olive trees.
I’m looking out to see where we’ll be staying for the next two-plus weeks, and when the chateau comes into view my mouth drops open. As the car slowly makes its way up the wide path and I see what can only be described as a castle. Like a fairytale. Real people in the real world don’t live in places like this.
“Welcome to Chateau de Comte Clare.”
“This is unbelievable,” Orie says, his voice expressing his complete awe.
“It is very incredible,” Sergei agrees. “The family owns over one hundred acres of land. There are five different homes on the estate but this is the main residence.”
“How many bedrooms does it have?” Erik asks.
“Twenty-five.”
Erik whistles.
As Sergei pulls into the enormous circular driveway, I take in the magical beauty of Chateau de Comte Clare. A central stone staircase leads up to the entrance. There are vaulted archways around the white stone residence and pale blue shutters flank the windows. It looks exactly like the kind of homes I saw online when I Googled Provence. For the ultra-rich, that is.
And I mean really, really rich.
As Sergei pulls to a stop in front of the staircase, he says, “Please don’t worry about any of your luggage. We will have someone take them up to your rooms. Ms. Abigail is eagerly waiting to meet you.”
Erik and I turn to each other and mouth Abigail? I think we were both expecting an Ekaterina or Anastasia.
I grab my fluffy crème oversized beanie out of my bag and pull it over my head. Erik opens the door and the cool air rushes in.
“It’s so cold!” he mutters before he slams the door shut. I open mine and step outside, grateful that I’m wearing warm UGGS and jeans. Erik and Orie are happily looking around while I pull my black wool jacket on so I don’t freeze.
“This way, please,” Sergei says as he motions toward the stairs. We follow him.
I’m suddenly kind of nervous about meeting Ms. Abigail. Since she obviously comes from a very upper-class world, I wonder if she’ll have the same demeanor as Jane or if she’ll be more like Elizabeth. I pray the latter.
The thought of Jane and Elizabeth leads to thoughts of Clayton, and I’m hit with a wave of sadness. It’s stunning. I wonder when I’ll stop feeling like I’m suffocating whenever he comes to mind. I know I need to be grateful for the experience—for him being a considerate lover, for the romance, for his extraordinary generosity. I just have to start thinking about the positive part of my time with him, not this awful side of being without him. And somehow I have to figure out how to forgive him. Because when that happens I know I’ll be able to let go of my pain.
Erik yanks my arm and brings me back to reality. We are at the top of the stairs.
“Are you looking at this?” he says as we walk through a the pebbled atrium that leads to two enormous, ancient pale blue wooden doors that are being held open by four people.
“In my next life I want to come back as a Russian oligarch’s wife,” Erik whispers.
“Why wife?”
“All the perks and none of the responsibility,” he explains.
I burst out laughing.
“Your thank-you gift to me is looking better by the minute,” he continues.
I link my arm through his and lean in to his side, so grateful for having him in my life.
“I promise it will be good.”
“Have Orie pick it out.”
“You don’t trust my taste?” I ask in mock anger.
“I don’t think you want me to answer that, Sophie.”
I turn my gaze to the incredible surroundings. Erik is right. I’m going to need to get him a very good gift. We walk down a hall of gothic-style limestone arches. Black wrought-iron chandeliers line the ceilings, creating a dramatic entrance to the home. I don’t know where to look first. Everywhere I gaze I see a statue or a painting I’d like to stop and stare at. I know that every item I see is probably worth more money than the average person makes in a year.
The wealth is mind-blowing. To think that this is someone’s home is unreal. We’re shown into what I assume is the drawing room and I marvel at the high ceilings. The room is painted in a powder blue that fits the Provencal setting perfectly. Two identical long creme, gold-rimmed couches are set opposite from one another across a marble coffee table that is fit for a king. An enormous fireplace crackles with life and practically begs you to sit down and enjoy the ambiance. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger Persian rug; it practically takes up the large room. Dramatic French windows overlook the impeccably landscaped grounds.
I have to stop taking inventory, since Ms. Abigail is seated on one of the couches. She gets up with a warm smile as we enter the room. She’s the exact opposite of what I pictured in my head, and I like her instantly. She’s an extraordinarily pretty, petite brunette with a friendly face and reminds me a lot of Elizabeth. She’s dressed conservatively in a long, gray wool skirt and blue turtleneck. Her hair is swept away from her face and I’m surprised by how young she is. She can’t be older than me. She walks straight over to me and extends her hand.
“You must be Sophie,” she says in a posh English accent. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you,” I say, I guess I’m still surprised that she is not Russian. And hearing her upper-class English accent has thrown me.
She turns her attention to Erik and Orie.
“I’m so thrilled to have here,” she says. “You must be exhausted.”
“We slept a good portion of our flight so we’re feeling okay,” Erik tells her. “And the service on the plane was just great.”
“That pleases me to hear.”
“Your fiancé and his team have been incredibly generous,” Erik tells her. “Please thank them for us.”
“I won’t hear another word. There are no thanks necessary,” she says, as if spending ten thousand dollars on first class tickets for three people is no big deal.
From the look of things it’s probably not, Sophie, my inner voice chimes in.
“Would you like to freshen up in your rooms or shall I give you a quick tour before? Whichever you prefer,” she says.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind a tour before we settle in,” Erik answers for us then looks at Orie and I. “Are you guys okay with that?”
We both nod in agreement even though I would have loved to splash some water on my face. And shower. I’m dying to just get clean.
“Fantastic. I’ll show you the dressing room I’d like you to use, and of course I want to show Sophie where I’ll sit for the portrait,” Abigail begins. “I’m having the three of you stay in the main house with me. Your rooms are upstairs and I’ll show them to you as I give you a tour. Some of our other guests are staying here, too but mostly they are in the other homes on the estate. You’ll see many of our friends coming and going between the activities we have planned. So please don’t be surprised or alarmed. Almost everyone comes up here for breakfast in the morning. We keep it refreshed from seven until eleven, but you can always ask for something if you’re hungry. An itinerary for each day will be delivered to your room. Whenever you are free, you are more than welcome to join us.”
Itinerary? It’s like a hotel.
“It’s such a beautiful setting for a wedding,” I tell her warmly as I motion toward our surroundings.
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” she agrees with a smile. “It’s very romantic. I do love this home. It’s always been one of my favorites.”
Crap.
Did I just go there again? Yes, you did.
I force a big smile.
“I would love to see the room I’ll be working in, and I’m sure Erik is just as anxious to start steaming the clothes he brought for you,” I say to distract myself as my thoughts start to go down a path I can’t afford to take right now. I need to focus. Just on my job.
“Follow me,” Abigail says as she leads the way out of the room.
Ten minutes later I’m standing in a room that looks like it belongs in Versailles. Even though the room is bare except for a few pieces of furniture, it is regal, in Louis XIV style with lots of gold and royal blue colors. Abby, as she insists we call her, told me that she had the room cleared of most of the furniture so that I could have plenty of space to work. They moved a long blue and gold fainting sofa against an enormous window that overlooks the vineyard. I’m happy with her choice. It’s a great setting for her portrait. She’ll look beautiful and ethereal with the sun shining in.
But the thing that really wowed me was the extensive supplies set up for me. They really weren’t joking when they said they’d have everything covered. My painting station is enormous, and contains an easel, raw canvas, hundreds of different colored oil paints and more brushes than I’ve ever seen in my life. They thought of literally everything I might need and made sure it was at hand. It’s like an art student’s wet dream. Looking at all my supplies makes me anxious to get started. I can’t wait.
We decide that she will sit for me the day after tomorrow, so she can choose from the few costume dresses that Erik brought and pick her hairstyle and make-up. I’m happy about the wait because it means I have enough time to get ready for my debut performance and get over any possible jet lag I might have. For now, since I’m not at all tired, I’ve asked Abby and the guys to let me stay in the room and do a little bit of prep work while they head to Abby’s dressing room. I figure I’ll work for a little bit before I head over to my room and shower.
I walk around and familiarize myself with the space. The colors, the depth, it’s just so perfect for Abby. I can picture her lying on the lounge dressed like Marie Antoinette.
That’s the weird part, I’m not going to lie. But whatever, it’s her choice. Or her fiancé’s.
I find an iPod dock, pull my phone out of my back pocket, connect and play some music. I switch on one of the lights, which is pretty dim but will do for now, and pull off my beanie. I throw my jacket on one of the chairs and push up the sleeves to my black thermal top. It’s strange, but I’m not at all nervous about painting Abby. I probably should be, given the circumstances and the pomp and pageantry of this place, but instead I’m so eager. I walk over to the oil canvas and begin to size and support it.
The song changes and Chris Martin’s sexy voice floats through the room. Coldplay’s song “Magic” is one of my favorites. Within minutes I’m immersed in performing the necessary steps to prep for doing what I love most in the world. It’s definitely therapeutic, because my focus has changed, I’m lost in my work, and I can’t think about anything else.
And then something happens.
I feel the energy in the room change.
I feel a crackle in the air. Like all the oxygen is slowly being sucked out. I get goose bumps all over my body and I know, I just know that I’m not alone anymore.
I know he’s in the room with me.
It’s his energy that has invaded my space.
I feel his eyes on my body. Moving over my head, down to my feet. The back of my neck tingles at the thought.
He’s here.
I slowly turn around, and I see I’m right.
Clayton. Astor. Sinclair.
Sitting on a chair in the corner of the room by the door. Wearing jeans and a black sweater, leaning back casually, holding a glass of what I’m sure is his favorite whiskey, Dalmore. Staring at me.
Oh my god is he staring at me. I wonder how long he’s been watching me.
I forget to breathe.
I don’t even think I remember how. He’s here. Clayton is here. The relief I feel from just seeing him is staggering. Like there’s a reason to live again. I think I might fall to the ground from the force of my feelings.
We stay like this for a long while. Staring at each other. I watch him slowly look me up and down, then that sapphire blue gaze of his meets mine.
Oh. My. God.
So many thoughts race through my mind. So many different thoughts, some ugly, some beautiful, some just nonsensical.
He sets his drink down, gets up and makes his way toward me.
My mouth goes dry.
I feel like I’m cemented to the ground. I can’t move.
He stops when he’s just a foot away and I have to tilt my head to look up at him. I forgot how tall he is. How he towers over me. How hot he is. But different now. Darker. Brooding. This close, I can see the tell-tale signs of someone who hasn’t slept. He looks tired, a dark stubble lines his jaw, but nothing can detract from his devastating good looks. His broad shoulders fill out his black sweater perfectly and he was definitely made to wear jeans. I feel like I’ve been lost in a desert for months and he’s my first taste of water. He’s so incredibly gorgeous that I want to jump in his arms and forgive him.
But that’s not going to happen.
It can’t happen.
I search his face, looking for answers that I instinctively know. There’s no hiding from it.
I state the obvious. “You planned this.”
He doesn’t have to answer because I know I’m right. Everything rushes into my mind at once.
“Chateau de Comte Clare?”
“Chateau de Comte St. Clare. This is my home,” he says and I can’t help it, his voice, that lyrical sexy voice, is like music to my ears.
This is his home? Holy shit.
But I can’t be weak. So I continue in what I hope is an assertive voice.
“Are you related to Abigail?”
“She’s my cousin.”
He’s diabolical.
“I planned only one part of it. Erik. But not you,” Clayton says softly. “You have your friend to thank for that, as do I. You being here is entirely his doing.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say immediately.
I watch his eyes turn to ice. “Shocking.”
Right. Suddenly I think of Amelia Von Peters and his betrayal and I just have to get away from him. I turn to find my jacket and grab my iPhone. I need to go tell Erik the truth and then find the first plane out of Marseille and head home. Like pronto. With any luck I can get on a flight tonight.
I knew it was too good to be true.
Before I can get into a giant internal argument with myself, a strong hand on my arm stops me in my tracks. The jolt of electricity I get from his touch is the best thing I’ve felt in weeks.
God help me. I need to be strong.
“Let go of me,” I tell him forcefully. I can’t look at his handsome face even though it’s all I want to do.
“Unfortunately that’s not a possibility.”
My heart drops and my eyes flick up to his.
“Please don’t hurt me anymore than you already have,” I plead. “If you have a heart, just stop.”
He loosens his grip but he doesn’t let go.
“The situation we find ourselves in is entirely your doing, Sophie,” Clayton says quietly.
I want to close my eyes like a child and pretend none of this is happening. Unfortunately real life doesn’t work that way.
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” I tell him. “I’m jet lagged and exhausted—”
“Fine,” he interrupts in that autocratic tone of his. “Go take a nap and enjoy the rest of your day and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
I watch his eyes narrow at my words. I can tell he doesn’t like what I say. But tough. Screw him. He’s the cheater. Not me.
He meets my gaze and I hope I don’t look as nervous as I feel inside. But I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit unnerved by the intensity of his stormy eyes. He has the look of a predator. A wolf.
Crap.
And then the last or the first thing I want to happen does. His eyes go from looking annoyed to something else. To being filled with something else.
Desire.
And now I know I really have to run. Because if this man leans in and kisses me, I’m done. So done. I think he can sense how he’s affecting me because he gives me a smug smile.
“Scared?”
“Hardly.” I swallow audibly.
“You should be.”
Warnings again.
“Of what? Of you? You’ve already done the worst thing you could do to me.”
Unless he tells me he’s married. Now that would definitely be the worst thing.
I think I see a flash of hurt in his eyes. But it’s quickly masked. And let’s be real, I’d be delusional to think he’d even be capable of that emotion.
“Fuck it,” he whispers, then he leans down and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of rice and marches out of the room.
For a moment I’m too shocked to even scream out at the indignity of it, then I get over it.
“Put me down, ” I whisper furiously as I hit him on the back. He answers by smacking me hard on my ass.
“Oww!” I’m pretty sure my shriek is heard through out the chateau.
“Lower your voice unless you want my entire staff to see you in your current position. I don’t think that’s how you want to meet them for the first time.”
I close my mouth and watch the ground change from black-and-white checkered marble floors to crème carpet. A door shuts. And I know I’m in a bedroom. A second later my hunch is proven correct because I’m thrown rather unceremoniously on a large bed and Clayton quickly traps me between his arms and leans in close. I have no idea where I am. Not that I’d know anyway, the place is so damn big and I opted out of the full tour to get ready for my art debut. What a mistake that was.
