“You monster.” This time, her voice has no emotion. “The apple never falls too far from the tree, does it?”
And then she tells me who my father is and what he has done, and who I really am.
That night, I jump off a high bridge into the river, intending to kill myself. I don’t die. Instead, my head hits a rock and I spend the next three months in a hospital in a medically induced coma. When I am finally ready to return home, I don’t stay long. I have a new plan now.
***
“Stuff,” I said vaguely. “Life. Drink your wine. Here’s some cheese.”
I pulled out the neat packages of food and set it in front of her. “Alexander,” she protested. “I’m not that hungry.”
She never ate enough. I remembered the open relish with which she’d eaten the pain au chocolat two years ago. This week, away from Paris, I was hoping to get that woman back, the one who had laughed and played a game of truth and dare with me. Already, I could feel her relax around me. The initial tension in Bangkok had faded and she looked more comfortable.
Which was so good. Whatever her mission was, I hadn’t been lying to her. Consent was critical to me. If she had been at all reluctant, nothing could have come of the two of us.
“You never tell me anything about yourself.”
Fair enough. Not that she was much better at that. I leaned back in my seat with a smile. “Ask me a question and I’ll answer,” I promised. “But there’s a catch. You’ll have to answer the same question.”
She gave me a slow, considering look. “Fair enough,” she replied. Then she flashed me a smile. “Have you ever measured your dick?”
I laughed out aloud. Smart ass. I reached forward for a piece of cheese. “Of course,” I deadpanned. “I was sixteen. It seemed like a very necessary thing to do.”
She laughed as well. “Why? It’s, ahem, rather sizeable.” She blushed as she spoke.
My dick was stirring in my pants, aroused by her humour and her flat-out sexiness. “Sixteen year old teenagers aren’t particularly rational, Jenny. Was that the only thing you wanted to know? ”
“I was just being funny,” she admitted. “Okay, I’ll play. Tell you what.” She held up the magazine she was reading. It had a lurid pink cover. One headline blared ‘Learn to please your man in 5 easy steps.’ “There’s a quiz here.” She read the passage, then looked up. “Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world?”
That was simple. “We are headed there. The farmhouse in Provence.”
“Why?”
I thought about the warmth the house always radiated. The lime-washed walls, the large copper stove, the pots and pans that hung from the ceiling. The smell of baking that lingered in the kitchen.
Sunlight felt different in Provence; the air itself smelled sweeter. The tiled courtyard was flanked by lavender bushes. The fading walls were covered with climbing roses. The sloping terracotta roof flashed red in the light and the gardens were everywhere.
This was the farmhouse I grew up in when I wasn’t in boarding school. I had memories of walking through the vegetable gardens in the back, plucking sun-warmed cherry tomatoes off the vine. I used to lie in the middle of the fragrant fields of lavender and dream the hours away. In the winter, when the cold wind blew, the flames roared in the fireplace and the big kitchen table would groan with food.
“When I was in boarding school, during summer break, I would go to the farmhouse and during winter break, I’d visit my father. My father’s home was always filled with presents and toys and servants. The farmhouse, on the other hand, just had my aunt, who was always dour and taciturn. But the farmhouse was still home.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“I can’t explain,” I replied. “I just feel connected there. Rooted. Everywhere I go, every single place I live in, I try to recreate Provence. My rooftop garden, for example.” And in the first house I ever bought, in a suburb in Paris. The house that I took her to the first night I met her. “You’ll see. We are heading there tonight.”
Her eyes softened. “Thank you for taking me there,” she said.
From the first day, I’d wanted to show her my home. “Your turn,” I told her. “Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world?”
“On an island,” she said promptly. “In the middle of the sea.”
“Why? Do you like the water?”
“I do,” she said. “But that’s not why.”
“Why then?”
She hesitated. She took a sip of her wine. I could tell she was wondering how to answer my question. “On an island,” she finally confided, “I’d feel safe. I can see everything. There’ll be a hill and my house will be right on top. From all sides, I’d be able to see the water. I’d be able to know if someone approaches.”
I thought of the image she was painting, one of a sad girl sitting in a glass house on top of a hill, always watching for her tormentors. This was more than simple domestic abuse, more than a master beating his submissive without her consent. This was trauma, etched deep into her soul. I wished I knew why. I wished I could help.
“Next question,” I said instead.
She looked at the magazine article. “Who writes these questions, honestly?” she asked no one in particular. “Okay, would you rather travel by sailboat or by a cruise ship?”
That was a dumb question. “This time, you answer first,” I told her, topping up her glass. When she looked doubtful at the pour, I grinned. “I thought you wanted to drink on the train, Jenny.”
She rolled her eyes. “Drink, yes. Throw up, no.”
“I’ll hold your hair back, cherie,” I assured her. “Come on. Sailboat or cruise ship?”
“That one’s easy,” she told me. “When I worked in the mall in Cleveland, I used to have a supervisor.” She shuddered. “Horrible, obnoxious woman. She was always watching me with her beady little eyes, letting me go on break five minutes too late, and wanting me back right away. She used to take one vacation a year on a cruise ship, but she'd never go on the shore excursions.” She grimaced. “The cities were always dirty or smelly or crowded to her. I think I’ll always associate a cruise with her.”
I laughed. “I’ll take you sailing,” I offered. “I learned how to sail in boarding school. We were right next to a lake.”
“Of course you did,” she said dryly, rolling her eyes at me.
Ah, we were back to teasing me about my wealth. “Come here,” I told her, gesturing to the seat next to me.
Chapter 7
Ellie / Jenny:
I moved and sat next to him. A familiar heat settled over my body. For most of my life, sexual desire had been terrifying to me, but with Alexander, I didn’t feel afraid, just wanted. No hidden agendas, no secret plots.
Bullshit, I scolded myself. Of course we both have secrets. I just don’t know what his are.
I had to keep reminding myself I was here only for Dylan. Alexander was starting to become a major distraction. The professional in me rebelled at this deviation from the plan. All I should have cared about was getting to Hanoi.
But underneath the professional was a woman who, against all odds, could still feel arousal and need. That woman wanted this. She wanted to lean against his body and pretend that nothing else existed. I hadn’t known I was weak this way. The night with Alexander in Paris two years ago should have given me a clue, but there had been no one since and some part of me had dismissed that warm summer evening as an aberration. Yet being with him now proved it hadn’t been an aberration at all. No matter who he was, no matter how reprehensible his chosen companions were, I still wanted Alexander.
“A hundred thoughts are churning through your brain,” he said quietly. “Relax, cherie. Read me another question from your book.” His fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. He held a piece of cheese to my lips. “Eat.”
I opened my lips and swallowed the morsel, whimpering in appreciation as the flavours swirled around my tongue.
“Ah, Jenny, you are going to drive me insane.” He took a sip of his wine, his eyes locked onto mine.
I gulped. Desire rose, swift and certain, as I took in the heat in his eyes. But we were on the train and Alexander’s bodyguards were only a compartment away. We were bound to be overheard. Besides, while I wanted him, I also wanted to take advantage of his current mood. He was talking to me and answering my questions and there was so much I wanted to know about him.
The mission is the most important thing, I reminded myself. He could reveal something that could be useful to Lucien.
“Another question?”
He smiled a slow, panty-melting smile. “Doesn’t your magazine have any more?” He gestured to the issue of Cosmopolitan I held between my suddenly nerveless fingers.
I brought my attention to it with difficulty. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”
“A therapist,” he replied. His fingers reached for another of the boxes Elodie had packed and opened the lid. A dozen chocolate-dipped strawberries nestled within. My lips parted instinctively and he smiled. “Want one, cherie?”
I nodded and he fed me a piece of fruit. A bit of chocolate must have lingered on my lips, because his thumb came up and wiped it away.
A sharp flare of attraction swept over me. I opened my mouth and sucked in his finger and he inhaled. “Why did you want to be a therapist?” I asked him, in a frantic effort to stop myself from jumping him.
“Do we have to talk about this right now?” His eyebrow rose. “I want you.” His hand closed around my wrist, and he pulled my fingers over his erect dick. I traced the hard outline through his pants, my eyes locked on his.
“There are people around,” I whispered, trying for common sense.
“No one will interrupt us if you keep quiet,” he promised. His thumb brushed again at my lower lip, then made its way lower. My skin sparkled at his touch.
I groaned and reached for him, putting my arms around his neck and dragging him closer. My lips collided with his with urgent need. He made a surprised sound and his eyes held a trace of curiosity in them. He wasn’t used to me making the first move. Neither was I, but at that moment, I couldn’t take his teasing caresses. I needed carnal fucking. I needed Alexander to take me so hard that I forgot everything else. Even though I’d never really been able to forget.
“I don’t want to wait,” I whispered harshly. “I don’t want to be teased. Fuck me.”
His eyes had an answering fire in them. “Jenny,” he said. “How very unsubmissive of you.”
My hands reached under my dress for my panties and I slid them off, putting them boldly in Alexander’s pocket. His fingers responded by unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers, pulling his pants and briefs down his hips in a fluid move. “Condom,” he ground out.
“Where?” I couldn’t form longer sentences. Not when I was gripped by a need so intense that I thought I would combust in sheer arousal.
He reached for his wallet that he’d tossed on the small tray-table and pulled a foil packet out. I took it from him. “Let me,” I murmured, tearing it open. I wrapped my fingers around the base of his cock and rolled the condom on with my other hand.
“Fuck,” he groaned. His head fell back and his eyes clenched shut.
“Not yet,” I quipped. I swung a leg over his thighs and positioned my pussy above his dick, lowering myself on his length. “Now. Fuck.”
So full. I felt so full. I could feel every hard inch of his cock. Every move I made sent a tight coil of pleasure through my body. I ground myself on him, ignoring everything else except this frantic, unwise need.
His hands gripped my hips, the fabric of my dress bunching in his hands. His eyes met mine. “Let me guess,” he said. “You are really attracted to therapists.”
I laughed. “I think it was the chocolate dipped strawberries,” I responded. “I’m a sucker for chocolate.”
His mouth captured a still-clothed nipple and sucked through the fabric. My hips raised and lowered in an age-old dance and when he moved his fingers to find my clitoris, it was too much.
I didn’t remember to ask for permission. I didn’t care. I just allowed myself to find my release.
“Bad girl,” he chided. His hands didn’t let me slack off. Again and again, he lifted me up and slammed me down on his shaft. My nails dug into his shoulder as I was engulfed by overwhelming intensity. My muscles clenched and pulsed around him and he choked off his own groan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he rasped out. He grabbed my hips and thrust into me, three extra-hard strokes and then he exploded.
“Umm.” As my urgent need drained from me, I was suddenly shy. What had come over me? I had never, ever wanted to do something like that. Never let my desire consume me.
His hand held the condom in place as I rose from his lap. He pulled it off and knotted it, before tossing it in the small waste-bucket at the side. I reached for some paper towels that Elodie had helpfully packed and handed him one. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I had no idea what had come over me, and he had been right. I had displayed some very unsubmissive behaviour indeed.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally, looking at the floor intently.
“For what?” He sounded puzzled.
“For jumping you. For being a bad submissive.”
“For coming without permission,” he prompted. There was a smile in his voice.
“That as well,” I blushed.
“I liked it,” he said frankly. “I liked knowing you wanted me enough to break all the rules.” He chuckled. “But my cock needs some recovery time if you are going to react like this every time I feed you a strawberry.”
My lips twitched reluctantly. I reached for my panties, the scrap of lace peeking out of his pocket but he shook his head. “Leave it,” he ordered. He tucked himself back into place. “Tell me what you wanted to be when you grew up.”
Oh. I’d forgotten. “I just wanted to go to college. We weren’t rich, but I was hoping for a scholarship. Without a college degree, all I could see in my future were jobs working retail.” I made a face. “While I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do, I knew it wasn’t that.”
He shot me a look. “You said you quit a retail job to take care of your sister?” he asked.
A tingle of fear ran through me. His memory was formidable. I remembered precisely where I’d said those words to him. We’d been in Bangkok, eating street food. It had been one sentence in a conversation that had ranged on many subjects and he hadn’t forgotten.
I said something in reply and launched into some stories of the customers I’d encountered when I’d worked at Victoria’s Secret. Our conversation then shifted to what I wanted to do in the south of France this week.
Travel plans made for a much safer topic of discussion. I expressed a desire to see as much art and history as possible. This part of the world was chock-full of Roman ruins that I’d always wanted to explore. Constantly moving from one mission to another, I hadn’t had a lot of time for tourism.
My subconscious remained alert, jolted by that casual reference to my sister. He was easy-going. He laughed a lot, but it would still be a mistake to underestimate Alexander Hamilton.
Chapter 8
Ellie / Jenny:
The instant I laid eyes on the farmhouse, I could see why Alexander thought of it as home. Even though the house was empty and dark, it breathed solidity. It had been there for centuries. There was a sense of permanence about the place. Growing up, shunted away to boarding school when he was just a child, spending summers in Provence and winters with his father, Alexander must have craved that sense of belonging that he had never had.
Alexander moved with easy familiarity, turning on the lights through the house. “It’s late,” he said. “I can show you the house tomorrow if you’d prefer to see it in the daylight.”
I looked around with curiosity. We were in the kitchen, a large space with an old-fashioned copper range and a massive wooden table in the middle of t
he room. “This is nice,” I said. “But yeah, I can wait for the tour until the morning.”
“I used to sit here and eat cookies,” he volunteered with a small smile. “I have so many memories of this place. Some good, others, not so much.”
“Is your aunt still alive?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “She died five years ago,” he replied. “She left me the farm in her will.”
“She didn’t leave it to your father?” I probed. Alexander talked about him so rarely. Everything he had said had alluded to the fact that they had a difficult relationship.
His expression closed. “They were estranged.” His voice was clipped. “Come, let’s unpack and go to bed. We have a lot of exploring to do over the next week, if you want to see all the Roman ruins in this part of the world.”
***
Alexander:
Common sense dictated I show her to one of the guest rooms. What was the point of becoming attached to her? I couldn’t allow myself that luxury. She was most likely working for one of my enemies and I couldn’t forget that.
Yet, I threw open the door to the master bedroom, with its antique four-poster bed and its warm, colourful coverlets. She gave me an amused look. “That’s a convenient bed to tie women up in.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I told her honestly. “I’ve never brought a woman here.”
“Oh.” Her voice was small.
I didn’t want to spend time dwelling on why I was breaking every single rule around her. I’d never taken anyone to my house in the Paris suburbs, yet I had taken her there two years ago. I’d never brought anyone to the farmhouse, yet here she was in my bedroom. Right from the start, she’d been different.
She could be trying to kill you, a voice in my head reminded me.
I ignored that voice. “Come on, Jenny. Let me show you where the bathroom is.”
***
The next morning, I gave her the full tour. The farmhouse and the gardens, the neat rows of grapevines and the silver shimmer of the olive leaves. She sighed in pleasure. “I wouldn’t be able to leave,” she said. “It’s so beautiful here. What’s it like when it gets colder?”
Freed (Assassin's Revenge Book 3) Page 6
