“Enjoying the appetizers?” he asked. The sun had disappeared below the trees, sinking the room into shadow. Only the fire and the candelabras kept us from eating in darkness.
“I’m enjoying everything,” I said. “Far too much for a business trip.”
“It’s inappropriate to say but I’ve had enough wine that I don’t care,” he said. “You’re incredibly lovely. Heartstopping, actually.”
Tiny fires reflected in his irises. I tried to look away but I was helpless under his gaze. “It must be the setting,” I said.
“Then it must be every setting. You were just as lovely asleep in my car.”
I swallowed nervously. “Marc –”
“I know, you’re here in a professional capacity. But some things have to be said.” Lowering his voice, he leaned forward. “I’ve had at least twenty dinners with Robert in the presence of many attractive women, and I’ve never seen him make such a fool of himself. I’m considering murdering him after dessert.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Really? What things am I imagining?”
“To begin with, I’m not even remotely –” The next word caught in my throat. “– lovely.”
“You’ve heard of the eye of the beholder.”
I was gripping my wineglass so tightly my palm was sweating. “It’s a cliché.”
“In every cliché there’s something true.” He turned slightly to the side so the maid could clear his plate. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m glad you like Madeleine’s cooking. It’s the least we can offer after you’ve come all this way.”
“Which reminds me, I should be in the library looking at those first-edition books you mentioned. Business trips are meant to be work.”
“I’ll do everything possible to see that you’re miserable later, but for now, no work. I forbid it.”
I raised my eyebrows at the sudden firmness of his tone. “You forbid it?”
He smiled quickly, making it impossible to tell if he’d been serious. “That way you’re released from any responsibility. You can indulge yourself all night and blame me for making you do it.”
“The perfect solution.”
“Isn’t it? I get what I want and you get what you want, simply by submitting to my will.”
My thighs tingled just as they had in the car. I pressed them together but the feeling only intensified. “Sade would be impressed,” I said.
Marc’s expression darkened. “Yes. None of us in the family can escape his influence, no matter how much we’d like to.”
“Don’t tell me you’re superstitious,” I said.
“Is it superstition if there are generations worth of evidence for it?”
This wasn’t lighthearted banter anymore, but something I couldn’t quite understand. “What are we talking about?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing at all. I’ll leave my family skeleton in his closet where he belongs. Tonight is to be enjoyed.”
Though he raised his glass to me and smiled, the shadow in his eyes remained.
*
The plates were empty when the logs in the fireplace collapsed, creating a brilliant orange glow on the wall. As if inspired by the blaze, Robert pressed his leg hotly against mine and gripped my knee through my dress. I glanced at Marc but he was listening to Madame Pascal complain about the traffic on the coast in the summer. If he wasn’t going to save me, I’d have to do it myself.
I peeled Robert’s fingers away one by one and pushed back my chair, muttering, “Excuse me.” Out in the hallway, the oil-paint eyes of a woman followed me from a framed canvas. I ran upstairs to my room and shut the door. There was something about the glare of the bedside lamp that made the scene downstairs feel like a dream. The neighbor hadn’t just put his hand on my leg. Marc hadn’t called me lovely. He hadn’t hinted at a family secret, or generations of evidence for something he wouldn’t explain.
His argument with Eleanor had been about a charade, and hiding things from someone. Whatever it was, why would he mention it to me when I’d infuriated him with the mere suggestion of taking his photograph?
I stood in front of the bureau mirror, arranging strands of hair and trying to find the courage to go back downstairs. Whatever the dynamic with Marc, I had to remember why I was here. I needed him to show me books and manuscripts, and Katherine was expecting some good photographs. I would not let her down.
I was turning the doorknob to leave when my phone buzzed from the nightstand. I looked at it, a breath freezing in my throat. The text was from Trevor.
Why was he contacting me again? Why now?
Clearly he had no idea I was out of the country, because he wanted to talk in person immediately. Though I’d ignored all of his attempts to reach me, this time I couldn’t resist replying. Maybe it was leftover anger, or the perspective I’d gained after a month of much-needed distance.
Why do you want to see me?
You won’t answer my calls. I made a huge mistake and I know that, but we can’t just ignore this.
There’s nothing to ignore. Our relationship is over.
I still love you. I know I’m not perfect but neither are you. We can make this work if you give it a chance.
Two weeks ago, an “I love you” from Trevor – rare to begin with – would have been enough to earn him a face-to-face meeting. Now it was only an empty phrase.
How am I supposed to give it a chance?
The whole physical side of things. If you could just let me in a little more.
So it’s my fault you slept around? I don’t have time for this, Trevor. I’m in France for work and after that I’m on vacation.
When you get back then.
I don’t know when that’ll be.
Can we talk right now? I’ll call you.
Please don’t. I’m in the middle of dinner. I need to go.
I turned the phone off and went downstairs, my annoyance tinged with guilt and worry. Maybe he was right – I’d been part of the problem. He hadn’t wanted to jump into bed with an intern after a margarita binge with people from work. I’d driven him to it.
If it was my fault, would I even know? My pitiful experience was limited to five or six lovers, mostly drunk college boys who’d lasted three minutes and stumbled back to their dorms when it was over. Then there was the skinny medical student who’d made strange whimpering noises when we kissed. And for the last two years, Trevor, who’d always kept his eyes firmly shut in bed until my last contrived sigh faded away.
Was I not responsive enough? What worked for other women – a few rubs here, a few licks there – had never been enough for me. Trevor had always implied that I was cold, non-orgasmic, so hard to please I was practically asexual. And sometimes, lying stiffly under his straining body and moaning on cue, I’d been tempted to agree.
But if that was true, why did Marc have such an effect on me? Was the problem my body, or the man who touched it?
Walking back across the darkened house, I saw a figure silhouetted by the moonlight. It was Robert. Even in the dim light, I could see his eyes brighten when he saw me. “I come looking for you,” he said. “You’re okay?”
“Fine, thanks.” I glanced over his shoulder but saw no one.
“I’m sorry if I get too close before. Only, I think there is something between us. You feel it, I know.”
I should have been thrilled. He was good-looking and he wanted me, at least for tonight. My ex-boyfriend had pushed my buttons, which made a quick hook-up even more appealing. But when I looked at Robert I felt nothing. If I couldn’t flirt with him to provoke a reaction from Marc, I had no interest in him at all.
“I’m sorry, but I need to get back,” I said, side-stepping his hand as he reached for me.
“Wait,” he said. “Please.”
I kept walking and didn’t stop until I was safely sitting across from Marc.
“I was beginning to think you were lost,” he said, looking irked but relieved. “Did you run into Robert?�
�
“Nope,” I said, pulling in my chair. “I didn’t see a soul.”
CHAPTER SIX
It was midnight when Marc’s father wrapped up a speech on the fickle nature of the French female and fell asleep at the table with his sleeve in a plate of sliced pears. Madame Pascal stifled a yawn and got up, beckoning her children. Though it looked like the last thing Robert wanted was to go home, he didn’t argue.
They left through the library, crossing the terrace with a sing-song chorus of merci’s and au revoir’s. Casting a backward glance, Robert followed his mother and sister into the night. As soon as they were out of sight, Marc lit two pillar candles and pulled a bottle of port from a cabinet by the bookshelves.
“Forgive me,” he said, pouring us each a tiny glass. “I’m afraid you had a terrible time tonight.”
“It was very nice, actually,” I said.
He sat in a leather chair, his long legs spread wide. “There’s no need to spare my feelings. My father was in rare form – if bad behavior from my father can be considered rare – but an audience always brings out the worst in him. And Robert’s always been a prat but this is the first time he’s groped one of my guests. I can’t apologize enough.”
My throat knotted with embarrassment. “How do you know he groped me?”
“Your face, Sophie. I’m not sure if you realize it, but you have very expressive eyes. They hide nothing.”
“I didn’t want him to do it,” I said.
“I know that, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have run out the room.”
One of the candles crackled and flared, sending a thin plume of smoke coiling toward a framed picture on the wall. I stepped closer to it, peering through the glass. It was a black and white photograph of a young woman wearing a turtleneck and no makeup. She stared into the camera, lips parted, straight dark hair framing large eyes and prominent cheekbones. “Who is she?” I asked.
“My father’s sister, Annabel,” Marc said, coming over to stand beside me. “She died in London a few months after I was born.”
“What happened?”
“A drug overdose. From what I’ve heard she was the rebel of the family but very smart. Sensitive, too, loved music and art.”
“That’s terrible. Poor girl.”
“Yeah. She wasn’t an addict, she just made a mistake. I’ve always wished I could have known her.”
She looked so alive in the photograph, it was hard to believe she’d been dead thirty years. Much longer than either of my parents. “That must have been awful for your father,” I said.
“It was, though he was a lot older. She was only twenty-five when she died. My father had already been married for ten years and was living in France. He still feels guilty that he wasn’t there for her. Maybe he could have done something, you know?”
Hard as I tried to suppress it, a familiar sadness swelled in my throat. I’d stopped hoping it would ever completely go away. “I had thoughts like that after my mother died. If I’d just been with her, everything would have been different.”
“Magical thinking,” he said.
“Yes. But not magical enough to change what happened.”
We lapsed into silence. After a minute I turned toward the nearest collection of books, most very old, with blistered spines and yellowed pages.
“You seem to have an instinct for the risqué,” Marc said.
I looked at him over my shoulder. “Do I?”
“Those are Sade’s books, the English translations I told you about. I was probably fourteen when I first read them. There was nothing else for me to do here in the summer, and being a teenager I gravitated toward the forbidden.”
“And Sade was forbidden?”
“Absolutely,” he said, searching the shelf above my head, “but it didn’t stop me from smuggling his books into my room.”
He took down three first editions and laid them on a rosewood table. Justine or Good Conduct Well Chastised. 120 Days of Sodom. The Misfortunes of Virtue. He found the French versions near the spiral staircase and set them out for me. The French editions were much older, barely held together by frayed cloth stitching.
“We should store these properly,” he said. “The shelves are old enough that the wood isn’t doing much damage, but this room gets very humid in the summer.”
We were standing so close I could smell him. His skin radiated a faint, sweet warmth that gave me an odd feeling of nostalgia, as if we’d stood this way before once, a long time ago.
He picked up one of the English translations, a slim volume bound in tattered blue silk. “This was my introduction to the family history,” he said. “I was shocked and disgusted, but of course I couldn’t put it down.”
He flipped past the first few pages, dark hair falling across his temple in loose, wavy strands. Then, in a hushed voice that sent shivers down my back, he began to read. “‘If we the virtuous meet with nothing but brambles and briars while the wicked walk upon flowers, will it not be thought that it is better to flow with the tide? Will it not be thought that virtue, however desirable, becomes a handicap when it is found too feeble to contend with vice?’”
I must never forget this moment, I thought, captivated by the movement of his lips. I’d probably never again be read to by a beautiful man in the library of an old chateau.
“‘Is there no evil from which some good comes forth? Does it matter if –’” He looked up mid-sentence and met my eyes. I swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m boring you senseless.”
“No, you’re not. I could listen all night.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Cross my heart.”
He smiled. “Well, I shouldn’t be keeping you from taking notes and photographs. It’s getting very late.”
I brought a hand to my flaming cheek. At least one of us could think about the reason I was here. “You’re right. I’ll get my camera and come right back.”
By the time I returned with my equipment and a cardigan, Marc had lit several hurricane lamps and opened the doors to the terrace. A cool breeze swept in and out, ruffling papers on the desk and making the flames in the lamps jitter. Quiet piano music came from speakers I couldn’t see.
“Atmosphere,” he said. “I thought the candlelight might help. Keep in mind I don’t know much about photography.”
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“Good. Now, I’ll just get out of your way and let you work.”
“You’re going to bed?” I felt a sharp prick of disappointment. For hours I’d looked forward to being alone with him, but obviously I’d read way too much into his flattery and attention.
“I should make sure my father’s gone to his room,” he said. “You’ll concentrate better without distraction, anyway. Who knows, you might be the one to find Sade’s missing letter. Stranger things have happened in this house.”
There was no doubt that he was a distraction, and besides, I couldn’t ask him to stay without betraying my feelings. “Thank you for dinner. I hope you sleep well.”
“I always do in this house,” he said. “Please stay up as long as you like. We can leave for Paris any time.” He raised a hand in farewell, and left.
I spent half an hour taking pictures of the library along with close-ups of book covers and manuscript pages. At some point the music stopped, though I didn’t notice until a few minutes had gone by. Suddenly I felt very alone, and the billowing drapes reminded me that the doors were open to the night. The moon had set hours ago, leaving the sky black and starless. I went onto the terrace to unhook the doors from their fasteners and then blew out the lamps, plunging the room into smoky darkness. Using a flashlight Marc had given me, I made my way across the house, trying not to shiver from the chill air.
At the top of the stairs, I stopped. A sliver of lamplight spilled into the hallway through a slightly open door. Marc’s bedroom.
I slipped past, trying not to look. But at the last second, my head turned almost inv
oluntarily and I saw him. He was naked from the waist up, standing in profile under the sepia glow of the chandelier. I shrank toward the wall, unable to tear my eyes away. He was folding a shirt on top of the bed, his arms and chest carved with lean muscle. But it was his face that captivated me most of all. There was anguish in the clench of his jaw and the furrow of his brow, a depth of emotion I’d seen only briefly at dinner and during his argument with Eleanor.
As if he could hear the beating of my heart, he looked up. I stopped breathing. He squinted into the darkness and moved toward the door. “Dad?” he said quietly. “Are you up?”
“It’s me,” I said, stepping out of the shadows. “Sophie.”
He opened the door wide. “Oh. I thought you were still in the library.”
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” I said. “I was on my way to bed. I just saw – your light was on.”
Several seconds passed before he spoke. “My light was on? That’s why you stopped?” His voice was nearly a whisper. He sounded skeptical, amused, bothered – I couldn’t tell which.
“Yes.”
He stood looking at me, his expression unreadable. “Come in here, please,” he said.
His tone was so firm and authoritative that I did as he asked without thinking. As soon as he shut the door, he grabbed my upper arms and pulled me roughly against him. “Why are you doing this?” he asked hoarsely.
My camera bag thumped to the floor. “What?” I said, trying to pull free. “What are you talking about?” My heart thudded with such force I felt dizzy. One dress strap slipped off my shoulder, making the front slide perilously low over my chest.
“You know exactly what I mean. It’s like you came here to ruin me.”
“Ruin you?” I said, agonizingly aware of his naked skin pressing against my breasts.
“Why do you think I left the library?” he demanded.
“Tonight? I have no idea.”
“Of course you do,” he said, shaking me slightly. “I had to escape whatever it is you’re doing to me.”
Descended (The Red Blindfold Book 1) Page 6
