Violent Delights

by Helena Maeve

  “No way. You’re American?” Ashley arched his eyebrows. “But—”

  “Laure Reynaud doesn’t sound terribly American? It’s my mother’s name.” Both first and last names were hereditary in my family. My grandfather’s name was Laurent. Even my brother went by Lawrence, though his first given name was Harry.

  I dosed my answers carefully—not too much sentimentality, no more than a flicker of thought spared for the woman who had brought me into this world and whose face I barely remembered.

  “It used to be Regnault,” I added, glossing over the echo of Javier’s contempt when he’d reminded me of my parentage last night. As if I could ever forget. “Are you going to hog the coffee?”

  Ashley smirked. “Oh, you want me to share?”

  “It’s only fair. My cup.”

  “My hard work pressing the button.”

  I pouted, half hoping that it might make Ashley relent and half enjoying this harmless, juvenile needling.

  He made a show of pondering my offer as he took another leisurely sip. I tried not to focus on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, but it was hard to do. I felt adolescent and silly, my fascination with him the kind of thing I would’ve derided in other women.

  “Say please,” Ashley challenged.

  I snorted and brazenly peeled the covers back from my chest. “Isn’t this incentive enough?” A shiver of desperate want raced through me. I liked the hungry way Ashley looked at me—like I was a powerful, sexual being, a goddess in human form. I wanted him to crawl up the length of the mattress and worship me like I damn well deserved.

  We seemed to be thinking along the same lines. When Ashley leaned in, my breath caught, anticipation surging in a flood between my legs. Then he let out a long, pained breath, and retreated. “Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more… But I need to leave in exactly five minutes.”

  “That’s not enough time?” I quipped.

  “For me, probably. For you…” He curled a hand around my bare ankle under the sheet and slid it the length of my calf all the way to my knee. I think he would’ve gone further still if I hadn’t brought my thighs together. Two could play the denial game. “I had a great time last night.”

  “Me too.”

  It surprised me to discover that I wasn’t saying it out of some misguided sense of obligation. It was as genuine as the longing I felt for him now. That didn’t happen often.

  “Would you like to do it again? Say…tonight?”

  The yearning in his blue eyes—they were blue, I was almost sure—shot straight to my pussy, sparking like electricity behind my clit. “Sounds good.”

  Ashley grinned, his cheeks dimpling. “Good.” He leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, even tilted up my head in preparation. But he didn’t. The coffee mug hit the bedside table with a soft click. His warm breath caressed my cheek for a brief instant before he stood to pull his pants on. “I’ll pick you up at eight?”

  “Sure.” I sighed. “Think you’ll get tired of playing hard to get by then?”

  “We’ll see.” Ashley flashed me a broad, beaming smile and zipped up. He picked up his oxfords and leather jacket on the way out.

  I watched him stop in the doorway and abruptly turn on his heel.

  “What?”

  His gaze raked over my body. “Nothing. Just wanted one last look.”

  It was my turn to smirk. At least the coffee was still warm. He took it like I did—no sugar, no cream, nothing but steam and bitter tang to start off the day.

  I waited for the click of the door to crawl out of bed.

  The sun still hadn’t cleared the rooftops but my east-facing windows had begun to brighten to a gloomy aubergine shade as I made my way to the bathroom. I flicked the lights on and promptly discovered how ridiculous I looked. My hair was a mess, my makeup smudged and probably smeared all over the pillowcase. I made a mental note to change the sheets in case we came back to mine again.

  I might as well have been the poster child for an anti-binge-drinking campaign. Just say no, kids, or wind up like this fine specimen of human decadence.

  It took fifteen minutes before I was reasonably content that I’d scoured the worst of yesterday’s makeup from my face. By the time I got out of the shower, my skin was rosy and soft, yet a pleasant ache still lingered in my pussy. I wrapped myself in a terrycloth robe and went in search of breakfast.

  I was out of bread, which nuked the idea of making toast, but I had milk and cereal left, plus a couple of apples.

  I made a valiant effort to wash the dishes once I’d finished eating, and got through about half of the pile. Well, the damage was already done. Ashley had seen that I was a slob and he hadn’t fled.

  He wanted to see me again. Tonight. Anticipation simmered like champagne bubbles beneath my skin.

  I wolfed down a spoonful of cereal and almost choked on the crunchy muesli.

  Tonight. My grandmother’s excruciatingly boring diners. Fuck.

  How could I forget? My appetite curdled like milk.

  I was on my feet and hunting for my cell phone before I could think better of it. Common sense didn’t stop me sliding the screen awake with a swipe of the thumb. Grandmother wasn’t likely to take kindly to my canceling with less than twenty-four hours to go. I knew how the conversation would go without speed-dialing her number.

  Why hadn’t I told her yesterday?

  Because yesterday I didn’t have a rendezvous with a hot American I’d just met.

  Did I think it was polite, behaving this way?

  No, but did she know Ashley gave head like a porn star? A girl couldn’t just pass that up and hope for the best!

  I could never say that to Grandmother. A promise made was a promise kept, as far as she was concerned, or that said something about the character of the person breaking it—in this case, my own. I had already squandered multiple opportunities to mend our fraught relationship.

  I sat back at my kitchen table and thumped my head against the laminated surface. Stupid, stupid. There was nothing for it. I had to tell Ashley I couldn’t make it tonight.

  The thought came to me that I didn’t have his number. If I hurried, I could probably still catch him before he left for work, though. I slid my feet into yesterday’s killer pumps and, suppressing a wince, tore off down the hall to apartment four-D.

  The door was identical to my own. Only the doormat—a dog with a bone dwarfed by a ginormous speech bubble in which floated the words Bone Jour—suggested a touch of quirkiness.

  I knocked as I tried to decide if Ashley was a dog person. No sound came from behind the door, not even a peep of movement. Somewhere below us, I heard the jangle of keys.

  I pulled my bathrobe tighter around me. I didn’t know the vast majority of my neighbors, but that didn’t mean I wanted any of them to see me half naked outside someone else’s door. I knocked again, rapping my fist a little more forcefully this time.

  And again for a third time, when no one answered my summons.

  I’d nearly given up when I heard the tinny click of keys turning in the latch. Thank God. “So you’re going to hate me for this,” I started as the door swung open.

  On the other side of the door stood a young woman, maybe six or seven years younger than me, with striking almond-shaped blue eyes and long raven hair that hung well past her shoulders in loose curls. Her baggy AC/DC shirt did nothing to conceal a pair of pert breasts and slim thighs. My lungs deflated like a bellows.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked, mangling the French with impunity. Typical American.

  When I found my breath again, my reply came haltingly, “N-no… Um, this is four-D, right?” I asked, though I knew it was.

  The young woman nodded once. She swept an appraising glance down my body and smirked, a condemnatory cast to her features. “Someone had too much to drink last night,” she muttered under her breath, in English. As if I couldn’t understand.

  My pride chafed, but nowhere near as badly
as my heart. I’d been duped twice in one night, by two different men. That had to be a record.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, swallowing around the knot in my throat. “Sorry to have, um, bothered. You. I must have the wrong apartment.”

  I didn’t. This was exactly where Ashley had been headed with the croissants when I’d nearly pushed him down the stairs yesterday.

  Suddenly I wished I’d been just marginally clumsier.

  I shied from the notion as soon as it kindled. There was murderer’s blood in my veins. That was nothing to joke about.

  I turned my back on Ashley’s—girlfriend? Wife? I didn’t want to know what she was to him, or how he touched her at night. I could see that she was prettier than me. I would’ve killed for skin like hers. Never mind beauty from a can—here stood the real thing. She was obviously younger, as well, way too young for a man of Ashley’s years. Did he have no shame?

  Didn’t I? I’d gone to bed with him hours after I’d met him. I hadn’t even asked if he was in a relationship, much less how serious. Maybe Ashley and the glaring brunette had an arrangement, but I wasn’t privy to that knowledge so I could just as easily have participated in adultery. I had few rules in my dating life, but that was one I followed scrupulously. I had no interest in being someone’s ‘other woman’.

  I could feel the young woman’s eyes boring into my back like a pair of lasers as I made my way down the hall. She was still watching me as I closed my apartment door.

  I managed to hold in my tears until I was safely inside. Then I let them flow.

  Chapter Three

  The Komorovs were good people, but even they were at a loss as to how to temper my grandmother’s stinging barbs. We’d barely finished the first course—paper-thin slices of smoked salmon served with rocket and a vinegar and cream reduction—and already I was looking forward to dessert.

  “Something wrong with the fish?” Grandmother asked as I set down my fork. Her expression was frosty, pale face lined with the kind of wrinkles most women of her disposable income would have medicated away with needle and scalpel. Not so for Anne-France Reynaud.

  She wore the pleats in her skin like battle scars, the crease of her neck sagging above a string of Tahitian pearls. Diamond earrings peeked discreetly beneath the fold of her chignon while a Cartier watch drooped from her thin wrist.

  I shook my head. “The fish is good. I’m just not very hungry.” I’d stepped out for falafel at lunch and had grabbed a protein bar on my way to the house.

  I made a show of cleaning my plate, though, to prevent further scrutiny. I should be so lucky.

  After the starter came a creamy squash and beet soup. A palate cleanser followed. I sat back in my chair as I listened to my grandfather and Mr. Komorov make small talk. They couldn’t have been more different. At seventy-five, my grandfather was portly and loud, an overbearing presence I’d both sought out and disliked as a child. Fortunately, he’d never cared much for me, either—and once I had left school, what little regard he’d had had evaporated completely.

  By contrast, Mr. Komorov seemed as thin as a pencil, his manner more embarrassed than circumspect.

  I was unclear on how they’d met. I knew that the Komorovs had suffered during the war. He wrote about it and was widely regarded as an intellectual. She, on the other hand, was a music teacher and a former icon at the Conservatoire. For years I’d wanted to warm to her—everyone else seemed to—but her gregarious personality made me uneasy.

  Then there was the son. Piotr Komorov.

  I’d known he existed for some time. He was mentioned often when my grandparents and the Komorovs got together. But Piotr lived in St. Petersburg and until tonight we hadn’t had the pleasure of crossing paths.

  I eyed him across the table. He was very pale, almost sickly, with floppy chestnut hair and a long, patrician nose. He wore tweed and a silk tie—something I would’ve found pretentious if we weren’t seated at a mahogany table in a room festooned with original Sorollas and Vuillards, or cutting our salmon with silver cutlery. I’d discovered earlier in the evening that his French left much to be desired. He had grown up in Berlin then relocated to his parents’ native land when he was old enough to make his own decisions. He spoke French as a third or fourth language. He looked like a fish out of the water—much like I felt.

  I wondered if he understood much of what went on, when suddenly he looked up and our eyes met for a long, tenuous beat.

  Despite his parents being of my grandparents’ generation, Piotr wasn’t much older than me. He had been born late in life—Mrs. Komorov must have been forty-something. I glanced away.

  Too late. I’d been spotted.

  Mrs. Komorov laid a rubicund, fleshy hand over mine, her palm as soft as a baby’s bottom. “And what about you, Laure? I’ve never seen you so quiet!”

  I mustered a smile. “Long day at work.” Was that going to be my excuse for everything these days? I smarted at the thought. I didn’t want to be a killjoy. “We’re entering the new collection. It’s a lot of planning and extra hours,” I added, as though that would give validity to my work.

  A hush fell over the table as Grandfather and Mr. Komorov interrupted their chat to listen to me prattle on. I felt my grandmother’s glare like someone had turned up the thermostat.

  “You are…curator?” Piotr asked. I think it was the first time I’d heard him speak since introductions were made.

  “No. I, uh, I work at Le Bon Marché. I don’t know if you know it…”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think it’s marvelous. Any exciting new trends? What can you tell us about the spring fashion?” Mrs. Komorov probed. Here was a woman whose idea of dressing up for a hoity-toity dinner party involved a shapeless ankle-length skirt with a hip-brushing blazer emblazoned with a sequined rose. The padded shoulders of the jacket made her look larger than she was and her choice of jewelry—a garish Swarovski necklace—couldn’t have been in poorer taste.

  Then again, we rarely carried anything larger than a six and I’d spent enough frustrating shopping sprees trying to squeeze into too-tight jeans. I couldn’t blame Mrs. Komorov for giving a grandiose middle finger to fashion.

  “It’s the summer collection,” I explained apologetically. “And technically I can’t divulge any details ahead of time… But I’ve seen a lot of florals. Colorful prints.” Pink was making a comeback. The answering silence told me that no one quite gave a damn.

  My grandfather cleared his throat. “Yes. As I was saying, the Prime Minister should really reconsider his choice…”

  Mr. Komorov politely gave his undivided attention. Mrs. Komorov flashed me a commiserating smile. On my other side, Grandmother’s contempt eddied like smoke. I didn’t bother trying to see what Piotr made of my input.

  I was relieved when dinner finally drew to a close and we were permitted to leave the table. I’d kept my peace through the main course and dessert. I doubted that anyone had noticed.

  The living room was a sumptuous, Empire-style room with moldings in the ceiling and heavy velvet drapes at the windows. Fresh flowers perfumed the air while an assortment of hard liquors decorated the sideboard.

  I contemplated making a beeline for the gin and finding a quiet corner to imbibe, but the last thing I wanted was to wake up, hungover, on my grandmother’s turf. Her lectures were never more sophisticated than I told you so, but they stung all the same.

  Instead, my hands empty, I pretended to venture into the adjacent library in search of reading material.

  Most of my grandfather’s first edition Maupassant and Voltaire were secreted behind glass, with lock and key to protect them. I’d never been allowed to touch those hallowed tomes, but he was slightly more lax with his encyclopedias. I plucked out a volume at random and carried it with me to one of the plush leather armchairs.

  I didn’t see or hear Piotr enter. One moment I was alone and the next, his figure materialized in the corner of my eye, shoulder propped against a bookcase as he watch
ed me.

  “Have you been sent to retrieve me?” I asked, curbing a flash of discomfort. I hadn’t minded being alone with Ashley, had I?

  And look how well that turned out…

  Piotr shook his head. A slice of chestnut hair fell into his eyes. He reminded me of the prosaic boy bands I’d obsessed over as a teenager.

  “You read?” he asked, his accent thick but not unpleasantly so.

  “I know how, yes,” I shot back, in English. “Is that surprising?”

  Piotr arched an eyebrow. “I meant no offense.” His English was as good as mine—better, because he had mastered the CNN dialect like a pro. “May I?” He gestured to a high-backed chair across from mine.

  I nodded. I couldn’t very well refuse. This might not have been my home, but I was acutely aware that I represented my family. It was why they took issue with my career choice, why they picked at my shortcomings like vultures over carrion.

  My grandparents couldn’t afford to be hands off. I was all they had left.

  There’s always Lawrence.

  I dismissed the thought. My little brother, whose face I barely recalled, didn’t count. His father had gained full custody when our mother died and he wanted nothing to do with my grandparents.

  I’d always suspected that had something to do with their willingness to take me in.

  “Not many people I know would choose encyclopedias over coffee and cake,” Piotr mused, leaning his weight on his elbows and flicking his joined palms in my direction.

  “It’s something I used to do when I was a girl,” I replied. His cocked eyebrow prompted me to elaborate. “I used to make lists in my head. Five species of spider, ten mountain ranges from around the world… Eleven operas by Puccini.”

  “Ten.”

  It was my turn to arch my eyebrows.

  “Puccini only wrote ten operas,” Piotr explained, a rueful grin tilting up the corners of his lips. “So it’s trivia for trivia’s sake?”

  “Something like that.” I tried not to sound petulant, but I was peeved. I’d left the party to escape the overbearing pressure to be better.