Violent Delights

by Helena Maeve

  I did, but acknowledging would mean admitting that what I felt for him was more complicated than lust. It would mean recognizing that I cared about his feelings in turn—which I did, but as I’d learned growing up, denial always worked if I didn’t talk about it. I kissed Ashley, partly to shut him up and partly because I loved the shape of his kiss-swollen lips too much to deprive myself.

  “What time is our flight?”

  Ashley hummed, distracted. “Nine, I think?”

  “Oh. Fantastic. That means we have…plenty of time,” I murmured between kisses.

  “For what?”

  “Round two.” I kissed him again before he could protest.

  As long as we were in this room, just the two of us locked safely behind a soundproofed door, I didn’t have to think about break-ups or Kane or death. I could be Laure Reynaud—shop girl, disappointing granddaughter and girlfriend, devout follower of Ashley’s every sexual whim. It was a pleasant fiction. I closed my eyes and made a point to enjoy it while it lasted.

  * * * *

  After my three days in Kansas, New York seemed loud and busy even from behind the triple-glazed windows of our suite. I didn’t know how much Ashley had spent on the room, but I had a feeling that it was more than I could’ve afforded without taking out another loan from the bank of Reynaud & Reynaud. I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time and decided that fiddling with my makeup at this point was just busywork.

  I’d done my best to make myself look presentable. Black eyeliner, discreet pink lipstick with just a touch of shimmer, a low-cut blouse with a pair of dark trousers—this was the best I could do. I hadn’t packed for cocktails with Ashley’s colleagues, but I was keen to make a good impression. The conference was tomorrow and most of the big names on the list would be at the cocktail party tonight.

  “Okay,” I sighed, smoothing down my dangly Chanel necklace. “I’m ready.

  Ashley looked up from his phone and did a double take. His jaw didn’t quite hit the carpet, but it was a close call.

  “What?” I frowned. “If you want me to change…”

  “No! No,” he added more quietly. “No, you look—incredible.”

  “Oh… Well, work on believing it because we’re late.” We were both operating on too much coffee and too little rest, but my temper wasn’t sparkling like fine champagne just because I hadn’t gotten my eight hours of REM sleep last night.

  I was nervous, the way kids get before a first day of school. The way I would’ve been if I’d ever been asked to meet anyone’s parents.

  Ashley took my hand and pulled me gently into his arms. I let him kiss my cheek, but not my lips.

  “This is the product of half an hour’s arduous labor,” I muttered. “You’re not smudging it.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ashley agreed and slotted one of the key cards into his back pocket. “What about later?”

  We were lucky that this little get-together was being held in the hotel lobby. Neither of us was really up for another cab drive through busy New York streets. The ride from the airport to the hotel had left us with sibling migraines. Ashley had napped on the flight over, but I hadn’t been able to. I was running on fumes and the thought of rubbing elbows with intellectuals for the evening filled me with anxiety.

  Still, I persisted in my resolve and as the elevator doors glided open on the club level, I plastered on my best professional smile.

  Ashley gave my fingers one last squeeze before we stepped over the threshold. I didn’t need to scan the crowd to discover I didn’t know anyone, so instead I let my gaze slide over the unfamiliar faces to the wood paneling around the room, the low lamps that cast handsome shadows on the walls and sent strategic beams onto the wide array of bottles behind the bar.

  Edith Piaf warbled from the speakers. I felt a pang of regret for the Laura Nyro cassette I’d left in the Land Cruiser back in Topeka.

  “Ashley!” a female voice cried. It belonged to a blonde woman draped in an ivory wrap dress that looked poured on, her hair pinned in a chignon at the back of her neck. “I didn’t think you’d make it.” She came toward us with a wide smile and buffed Ashley’s cheeks with kisses. Like me, she wore a very light shade of lipstick.

  Unlike me, she looked like she belonged in smoky bars where people puffed on cigars and discussed Ginsberg and Klein.

  “Carmen,” Ashley said, her name a purr on his lips. “Yeah, we made it after all…” I felt a flash of something unfamiliar, a catch in the pit of my stomach, too much like envy to be anything else.

  “We? Oh!” Carmen must have noticed me, but she acted like I’d materialized at Ashley’s side without her knowledge. “You must be—was it Laura?”

  “Laure,” I corrected softly.

  “Of course, sorry.” Carmen shook my hand. “Marissa mentioned you…”

  “Marissa?” The first penny dropped slowly, then all at once I was drenched in a copper waterfall. “Oh. Oh. I see. Um…” Carmen was Ashley’s ex-wife. Funny how he forgot to mention you’d be present. “Is Marissa here?”

  Carmen shook her head, pursing her lips. “No, she can’t abide my soirées. But we must arrange to have dinner together. All four of us?” She looked to Ashley for confirmation. “Let’s say tomorrow night. After the conference—you are staying until the evening, yes?”

  “We’re in town until Saturday,” Ashley replied, much to my dismay.

  Carmen smiled and I couldn’t help notice how all her teeth were even and straight—proof of a dentist’s fine work. “Excellent! I’ll let Marissa pick the restaurant. You know what she’s like.” Ashley did, but I did not. That didn’t seem to make much of a dent in the conversation. Carmen flashed me a smile. “You work in fashion, yes? Let me introduce you to a few people…”

  She pried me away from Ashley with no complaint. I shot him a look over my shoulder as Carmen drew me from his side. If only my eyes could shoot daggers, I thought bitterly.

  “How was Kansas, by the way?” Carmen prompted, lighthearted like a viper’s kiss.

  “Great.”

  Carmen pressed a glass of something fizzy into my hand as we moved through the scrum of strangers dressed to the nines. I supposed it was champagne, but I didn’t dip my lips to taste. “I’m glad. Ashley sounded very worried on the phone.”

  “He called you?” Why was I surprised? We were clearly keeping secrets from each other. I love you didn’t mean I trust you.

  “Yes, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to come for the conference. He mentioned something came up.”

  Something meaning my being jailed for trespassing and getting mouthy with the cops. I gritted my teeth against correcting smug-faced Carmen. Confrontation wasn’t my strongest suit.

  “Well, I’m glad it was nothing serious,” Carmen said, dragging me toward a well-dressed pair standing slightly to the left of the bar. “This is Aurelia Poole, she writes for Bazaar,” she added, sotto voce, for my benefit, before she turned back to the man. “And Bradley, her—what are we calling you these days, darling? Pet? Boy toy?”

  Bradley pressed a hand to his chest, wincing with mock hurt. “You wound me, Carmen.” He was at least six feet tall and built like a quarterback. I doubted Carmen could so much as leave a scratch on him.

  She ignored his comment. “Aurelia, this is Laure. She came all the way from Paris to see us. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Oh!” Aurelia’s heavily rouged lips curved like an ellipse. She and Carmen might have been sisters, they looked so much alike. “Bonsoir, Laure.”

  We shook hands. No one asked what I did or why I was there. Aurelia wanted to speak French and grill me about restaurants and fashion in the city of love—her words, not mine—while Bradley occasionally murmured approvingly or lent his two cents.

  I couldn’t shake the sense that Carmen was observing me, but whenever I glanced her way, her keen eyes were trained on the crowd.

  It took me a few minutes to discover that she was actually scrutinizing Ashley. Jealo
usy slid into me like an ice pick between the ribs. I washed it down with champagne and tried to focus on Aurelia’s love of all things France. She was easy to talk to because she carried most of the conversation by herself. It didn’t hurt that Bradley was easy on the eyes.

  I couldn’t pretend to be surprised when Carmen pressed my arm with a hand. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, breaking away from our little group with a determined step.

  Aurelia carried on in the same vein for a moment or two before smirking at Bradley. “I told you, didn’t I?” she muttered under her breath, in English. “They’re getting back together.”

  “What are we calling it now, the seven year itch in reverse?” Bradley retorted, laughing in his smooth baritone.

  I told myself not to look. I dug my heels into the floor and told myself to resist the temptation, that only pain and disappointment lay in that direction.

  Of course I looked. I followed Bradley’s gaze across the room, my stomach sinking into the scuffed soles of my all-purpose Manolos. Sure enough, Carmen and Ashley were standing apart from the illustrious horde, their heads bent together as they spoke in low voices. It was as intimate a pose as any I could have dreamt up.

  I glanced away quickly when Carmen flicked her gaze up, my ears burning. I’d expected Ashley to wait until we were back in Paris to ditch me. I was wrong.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ashley laid a warm hand on my knee, the vibration of the chassis creeping through his fingers into my bones. “You’re very quiet tonight. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.” I couldn’t lie to his face, so I lied to the rain-spattered window instead. Pedestrians marched down the sidewalk with shoulders hunched and umbrellas juddering back and forth above their heads. They looked like I felt—miserable, exhausted and keen to get home.

  Ashley’s gaze was a pressing burden on my mind. I made myself look at him. “If you don’t feel up for this—” he started.

  “You’ll call Carmen and say I got in the way of your plans again?”

  He frowned, billboard lights painting his face in hues of amber and teal. “When did I ever do that?”

  I didn’t want to have this argument with him. Not here and definitely not now. I waved a hand. “Forget it.”

  The taxi lurched forward another ten feet, then stopped. It had escaped me that traffic could be as bad in New York as it was in Paris. I checked my watch. We would’ve been at the restaurant already if we’d walked from the hotel. Were it not raining and dreary outside, I might have suggested we brave the next three blocks on foot.

  “I don’t want to forget it,” Ashley muttered. “What’s the problem?”

  My first instinct was to scoff, tell him I wasn’t going to quarrel in a cab that smelled like roasted peanuts and overpowering chrysanthemum air freshener. But then I saw Ashley’s furrowed brow, the pinched line of his lips, and my sense of propriety fell by the wayside.

  He had some nerve to be putting me on the spot.

  “I saw you at the party,” I shot back. I’d hoarded the vivid memory of him and Carmen like a rare pearl, poring over it when I should’ve been sleeping, dredging it up when I started to get even slightly distracted. It was my One Ring and I was addicted to buffing it to a polish.

  Ashley stared, bemused. “You saw me…what? Drinking? Schmoozing? Did I say something—”

  “You and Carmen looked awfully cozy together.” I hated the way my voice cracked, like I was the one who should be embarrassed about making nice with my ex at a party to which I’d brought my current partner. “Let me know when the wedding is. I’ll send flowers,” I gritted out, scowling at the Calvin Klein ad on the bus that idled beside us.

  Silence filled the inside of the cab. Even our driver seemed to be holding his breath.

  Then Ashley let out a guffaw.

  I whipped my head around, ready to smack him.

  “Are you serious?” he snickered. “Oh, Christ… And you’ve been sitting on this since last night, have you?”

  Should I have pretended everything was fine? I thought I’d done a half-decent job of keeping the peace. Ashley was busy preparing for his conference, which meant I’d had most of the day to myself. I’d made a valiant effort to check out the shops on Fifth Avenue, but after half an hour I’d capitulated and sought refuge at Café Sabarsky, where I’d had an overpriced espresso and soup. The liquid lunch had done nothing to soothe my nerves.

  Ashley must have noticed that his grin wasn’t winning him any points, because he made an effort to smooth it away. “It’s not like that. Carmen and I… We’re friends. We’ll always be friends. I won’t cut her out of my life because you’re jealous—”

  “I’m not jealous,” I protested.

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Fine, maybe I’m a little jealous. Can you blame me? She’s the queen bee around here and you obviously have feelings for her…” The way they looked at each other ate at me like a cancer.

  Ashley made to lay a hand over mine but seemed to reconsider the impulse. “I care about her very much. She’s Marissa’s mother and one of my best friends, but I’m not having an affair with her and I have no desire to see her as anything other than my friend.”

  “What were you talking about last night?” I prompted. I couldn’t be the bigger person. I couldn’t just let this go.

  “You,” Ashley replied, confirming my worst fears.

  “Oh. What about me?”

  “If we’re going to make this work, you’ll have to grant me a little privacy, Laure.”

  That stung. “I hate it when you go all wise professor on me,” I confessed. “I’m not looking for a father.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ashley said and I could tell he meant it.

  But you’re not going to tell me what you talked about with Carmen.

  If he hadn’t mentioned that I was the subject of their conversation, I wouldn’t have felt so hurt or suspicious. As it stood, he was goading me into doubting him, then condemning me for doing just that.

  “Maybe this dinner wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Maybe not,” he agreed. Neither of us made any move to tell the cabbie to turn the car around.

  By the time we reached the restaurant, it was already too late.

  It was my turn to cover the fare, which I did with only a fleeting thought for my dwindling funds. Then we were scurrying out of the rain, past a heavy mahogany door that creaked like something out of stories, into the relative dry heat of the restaurant. The smell of curry and naan bread hit me like a slap to the face.

  The place was packed. Lacquered black tables teemed with pairs and small groups and the bar was crowded with office-types in bespoke suits wolfing down a quick dinner before they called it a night.

  I didn’t see Marissa and Carmen until we were standing right by their table. Ashley dropped his hand from my waist to greet his daughter. I instantly felt bereft without it. I struggled to conceal my disappointment as Carmen stood to peck me on the cheek.

  “Laure, honey, you look like you haven’t slept a wink. Jet lag?” No wrap dress and chignon for Carmen tonight. She had left her hair loose, a dyed-blonde waterfall spilling across her shoulders.

  I nodded vaguely as I sat down. “Hi, Marissa.” Both Carmen and Marissa had worn sweaters and jeans. I felt woefully overdressed in my Cavalli print dress.

  Ashley’s daughter had curled her raven hair with a hot iron, so it fell around her face in corkscrew helices. She had her mother’s smile. “No pink bathrobe tonight?”

  “Behave,” Carmen chided, but there was no reprimand in her voice. “We took the liberty of getting drinks already. We figured wine would be okay—you drink, right, Laure?”

  “I’m fifty percent French,” I said by way of answer.

  “What brings you to the US? Dad’s been so vague,” Marissa complained, grinning at Ashley. Sitting across from her, between her father and mother, I couldn’t avoid her piercing stare.

  Ashley opened his mouth—
to deflect, I suppose—but I’d had enough of him setting the tone. “Family,” I told Marissa.

  “Oh. Cool. Your folks live in Kansas?”

  “Marissa—”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, silencing Ashley with a headshake. “My father is at USP Leavenworth. So I suppose, yes, he does live there.” Although I knew of at least one man who would gloat at the sight of Kane’s dead body. Maybe two, depending on where Lawrence stood on the whole death penalty thing.

  Marissa gawped at me as the waiter arrived with our drinks.

  “Would you like to order?” he asked.

  “In a minute,” Ashley told him.

  “I’ll have the lamb vindaloo.” I flashed Ashley a frosty smile, which he didn’t return.

  “Sounds good,” he echoed.

  “I’ll have the same,” Carmen added.

  Only Marissa picked the crab. For appetizers, we got a selection of vegetables and kebabs, nothing that could spoil our appetite.

  “So… Did your dad kill someone?” Marissa prompted once we were alone again.

  I nodded as I sipped my wine. It was a very dark cabernet, but sweeter than I would’ve anticipated. I decided to pace myself. “My mother,” I told Marissa. “Among others.”

  “Shit.”

  “I would’ve thought Ashley told you,” I mused, shooting him a sidelong glance.

  He met my gaze, his expression tense. “I was waiting for the right time.”

  Marissa took no notice. “What’s he like?”

  “Manipulative,” I replied, still looking at Ashley. A voice at the back of my mind urged me to cease and desist, but it felt so good to dish out the hurt for once, to watch the dominos fall because I had given them a flick.

  I felt so powerful that I couldn’t stop.

  “Do you…keep in touch?” Marissa wondered, fiddling with her glass.

  “Until this week, I hadn’t seen or heard from him for almost twenty years.” Although to hear Kane’s take, that was only because my grandparents had kept us apart. I didn’t believe he’d sent me any letters. Even if he had, I’m sure I wouldn’t have answered.