He set it down just at the end of the table and said, “You’ll have to excuse me, but I am far from being an accomplished cuisinier. Normally, I have people for such things, but I have decided that for now it would be better if the chateau was just for the two of us.”
The wine warmed her belly and while Sara wanted to be angry with him for being so mysterious and treating her like a stranger, she could not help but feel another kind of warmth when he had said the words, just for the two of us.
It felt to her that it was like sharing a secret. One in which they would pretend, for just a little while, that they were a loving couple about to have a romantic, fireside dinner.
“Is this your family’s chateau?” she asked.
Braze chuckled quietly then replied, “No. I acquired the property only two years ago. This is the Château des Morangias, at one time the home of a marquis’ son whose family fell into disgrace before losing all their lands and titles. It was here that the last of them came to live as a recluse, if not as something of a madman.”
Sara’s brows furrowed as she considered what he had just said.
“But, I get the feeling that your family is from here, right?” she asked.
“From France, yes, although that goes back several generations and before that, the family lines are less clear,” he said, then continued, “But, not from Basque country, no. Originally my family was from a region once known as the Gévaudan. Have you heard of it?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Sara replied, “As it is, I barely remember ever hearing of Basque anything.”
Braze smiled and Sara was struck once again at the transformation it engendered in the man before her. It was almost as if she could see the boy that he was come forward for a fleeting moment, before the man of the present hid him away again.
His eyes took a serious turn as he said, “I appreciate that you do not try to hide what you do not know from me. That you do this...it feels like trust to me.”
He came back around to her side of the table and when she felt his hand upon her shoulder and his lips at her ear, Sara did not push him away.
“Is that what it is, Sara? Do you trust me?”
His words tickled her and she replied, “I think so...yes.”
“Then close your eyes, Sara. Close them and trust me.”
Without hesitating, without pausing to consider the implications, Sara closed her eyes.
She heard the soft sounds of metal against metal. Not an ugly, vicious sound, but more melodic and fine.
Then, in a rush, the scent of rich butter and parsley filled her nose and she heard Braze speak.
“Open your mouth for me.”
She did and felt something warm pass between her lips. The rich flavors slipped down upon her tongue and she tasted a gentle hint of garlic, too. And as Braze withdrew the fork from between her lips, Sara found a tender morsel of meat in her mouth. She kept her eyes closed as she chewed it slowly, but its flavor was too delicate, too different for her to distinguish just what it was.
“You can open your eyes now,” she heard him whisper.
She did and discovered that before her was a small platter of what she first took for small stones. Except that they smelled positively divine.
“Des escargots de bourgogne au beurre persillé, he announced, then went on to say, “French snails from Bourgogne with butter, shallots and parsley.
“They are probably not the best accompaniment for the wine, but I do love them so.”
Snails. In any other circumstance, the idea of it would have been revolting to Sara. But there, in an old castle next to a fireplace, with the man of whom she had dreamed for months on end, the taste of it was heavenly.
And behind it all, she could hear his words echoing in her mind, every bit as delicious as the escargot.
Open your mouth for me.
Sara hoped he would not ask her what she was thinking of right then. Her honesty would have spoken of nothing to do with French snails and everything to do with what she wanted this gorgeous man to do next to her.
“Besides, as aromatic as it is, this is a dish best eaten by both halves of a couple. Otherwise, one of us might find the other...unpalatable.”
She looked up at him to see him studying her, his head tipped slightly to one side. Strangely, his demeanor was somehow canine and quizzical at once.
“Did you just make a joke?” she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Mmmm...more of an effort at etiquette, Sara,” he replied, while smiling in return.
“I was taught that no matter how famished one might be, it is only proper to await the lady’s pleasure and not drink until she does, nor eat until she does.
“But, I must admit that my hunger is near to overwhelming my better judgement,” he said as he bent down to her.
She felt the soft rasp of a light beard against her cheek as he nuzzled in to her neck. Then, he murmured, “I am starving...”
Moist, warm lips brushed against her own. Ever so lightly, she felt his touch, then it was gone again.
“...for you.”
He came at her hard then, all subtlety cast aside, and Sara did not flinch away. Rather, she answered with a heat that had been building like the very fire that burned so near.
Their tongues danced upon each other as she felt his hand in her hair. His fingers were powerful, yet he only cradled her head as the kiss lingered.
He pulled back from her, his eyes as focused as ever on her own. She read in them a driving desire but also the will to do things in their proper time. His need for her bordered on violence while his self mastery was absolute.
They dined then. It was a simple repast of salad and thinly sliced duck breast. There was some of the most extraordinary bread that Sara had ever tasted, to be followed by a platter of assorted cheeses.
Braze drew her attention to one in particular, saying that it was a local cheese, naming it un brébis d’Aramits, or sheep’s cheese from the village of Aramits. It was typical of the region where the animals were pastured in wild meadows upon the slopes of the Pyrénées mountains as has been done, essentially unchanged to this day, for thousands of years.
The flavor of it was wonderful, then he told her that she had already heard of it.
“Oh? And how is that?” she asked.
“The character of Aramis, from Dumas’ book, the Three Musketeers, was inspired by a real man. His name was Henri d’Aramits and was born in the village of the same name. The others, Isaac de Porthau, who became Porthos, and Armand d’Athos, or Athos, were his cousins and all three were real musketeers in the seventeenth century.”
Sara took another bite of the white cheese, thinking that it reminded her of a very good pecorino, said, “So, in a way, it’s like tasting part of France’s history.”
Braze nodded and replied, “Yes. It is exactly like that.”
Black, local grapes with an astonishing flavor followed for dessert accompanied by flutes of champagne.
Then, together, they moved their chairs to face the fire and it was not by chance that they were close enough to touch.
Braze leaned forward, studying the flames, and placed his elbows on his thighs. Sara marveled at how broad his back was and could just barely make out the dark tattooing through his white shirt. She remembered the promise that she had made to herself while high up in Abraxis Industries headquarters. She had told herself that she would learn every contour of this man’s body and taste for herself the darkness emblazoned upon his skin.
“I asked you what you saw in me, Sara...” he said suddenly and she felt a chill because it was as if he read her thoughts, “...and that was before you knew my name.
“Now that you know I am an Abraxis, tell me what else you know.”
Sara sighed. Thoughts of a strange interview and money from the 1920’s flickered by, but instead, she said, “Not very much, really. I’ve seen you mentioned once in a while on the evening news, but that’s about it.”
The
re was only silence to answer her. Sara knew she had so much more to learn about the man at her side, but she had come to understand that he was waiting for her to continue.
“I saw part of a documentary, once. It was something to do with your father when he passed away. Then they talked about you in a follow-up piece once you took the business over and how the company’s revenues had risen under your direction.”
“Go on,” he murmured.
“Ummm, they said that you are a sort of golden boy, but one who makes a habit of staying out of sight. Something about a Midas touch and that you read the markets as if you have a crystal ball. That everyone is watching what you buy next.
“That you haven’t made a mistake, yet.”
He took a drink from his champagne, then appeared to consider the remaining bubbles within the flute.
“Anything else?” His voice was calm...cold even.
Sara did not want to say anymore. She could feel a distance widening between them with each word that passed her lips. But, his demand was clear and she had no choice.
“They call you the ‘stealth billionaire’. Like one of those black military planes. And, they said there are rumors that Abraxis Industries is just the tip of the iceberg. The reporter in the documentary said that the business goes as far as the White House and the Defense Department....”
She trailed off. Suddenly it felt like she had gone too far.
Sara watched as he stood up and walked away from her to stand just at the fireplace’s edge. It should have been too hot to bear, yet he did not move with his back turned to her, and Sara expected that at any moment his clothing would begin to smoke.
“They speak of the business and of my father. And they are right. That is what I am.”
His words felt heavy in the air as she heard them. They had a tone of...finality.
“All that I am...alone in the shadow of a great man. I simply carry on in his name.”
Braze turned back to her, but Sara could not see the look on his face. The flames behind him blotted everything out and the image she saw was terrifying. A silhouette with flames all around him, as if she saw a man in his own, personal hell.
“I don’t believe that,” Sara said. “You have good people all around you. People like Flair....”
One step toward her, then he said, “The people around me are obliged to be there. They are there because of duty, not because of confidence or trust.
“At least, not real trust, but only trusting in that I will do what my father would have wished. That the business will flourish while I continue to make no mistakes.”
Another step toward her.
“Why do you suppose that is, Sara? How can I make the right decision...each...and every...time?”
His words were measured, strained even. He was frightening her and she had no idea why as she watched him lift a hand to his shirt and undo a single button.
The white fabric felt open only slightly and for a brief second Sara could have sworn that she saw a serpentine curl of his dark tattoo move.
No, it’s just a trick of the light, that’s all. Shadows cast by the fireplace.
“You see...I walk in his shadow,” Braze said, then undid another button, revealing ever more of himself to her.
“I would like to find someone I can trust...completely, without reservation. And not because they are obliged to, but because it comes from the heart.”
He was whispering as he said it, almost as if was not meant for her ears.
Then, in that strange way of his, he changed the subject, except that Sara felt that somehow he kept talking of exactly the same thing.
“As I mentioned earlier, my family hails from the Gévaudan, although it is no longer called that. I think the people of that region wish to put the name behind them because it conjures up memories of a story too foul, too dark to be believed.
“Except that it is a matter of public record. In the years just before America proclaimed its independence, there were over 200 people mauled by a crazed beast in the Gévaudan. More than half of its victims were killed outright, and most of the dead had been at least partially eaten.”
Despite the fire, Sara felt a chill slide across her skin.
“The explanation for the deaths at the time ranged the gamut from a madman to that of an entire pack of wolves, and even included the theory of a werewolf sent to punish the region, a message from God Himself.
“And while many attempted to hunt down whatever was responsible for the murders, the resolution of the affair remained murky and most of these so-called hunters were disgraced in their failure to stop the rampage.”
Braze lifted his arms up as if to encompass the château surrounding them and said, “The Marquis de Morangias numbered among the unsuccessful. Which is why I procured all of this...his very bones must be rolling in his tomb at the irony of it.”
Then he came to Sara and crouching down before her he looked into her eyes with undisguised earnestness and asked, “What do you think of that, Sara? Can stories like these have anything real about them? Is there a place for such things in the world?
“Or, is it all too far-fetched, these stories of creatures capable of such horrors..?”
Sara, her thoughts filled with the faceless visage of the Journeyman, the nightmare that still haunted her, said, “Not really, no. I think there is probably something to it. I think there is more to the world than what most people are willing to believe...amazing things...terrible things.”
Her voice trailed off.
“What did you just say?” Braze’s tone was sharp as he stood then and Sara looked quickly up at him. Even in the soft glow coming from the candlelight behind them, his eyes burned fiercely as he studied her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just that maybe people close their eyes to what they don’t understand. They’d rather write it off and file it away among other unexplained mysteries. They’d rather forget all about it.
“Because the alternative scares them.”
His focus upon her was frightening her.
“Go on,” he said, his voice low, his eyes unblinking.
“Well, if things like that werewolf, your beast of Gévaudan, were real, men couldn’t pretend anymore that they alone rule the world. They’d be forced to admit that our control is all just an illusion.”
She fell quiet, unwilling to say more, yet desperate to tell him everything. That she knew with certainty that monsters walk the earth. That they are real.
And that they are capable of forcing people into impossible situations where, with one word, all would fall to ruin as her betrayal destroyed what little trust Braze had placed in her so far.
He nodded slowly, then said, “I don’t know how you keep doing that, Sara, but I must admit that I find it perfectly delightful.”
She looked at him, searching for what he really meant, but the enigma that was Brazier Abraxis remained.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” she replied.
Each time I think I have this man figured out, I discover that I know even less than I thought.
Then his lips turned up in a smile that broke like a dawning sun.
“I mean that you keep surprising me, Sara. And no one ever does...except you.”
He held his hand out to her and she took it, standing as he pulled her up and to him.
“Which is why I have prepared something for you...for us. You will have to trust me, and I, you. But, I believe you have the courage this will require, Sara.
“I am almost sure of it.”
And, without bothering to take the oil lamp with them, or even a candle from the dinner table, Brazier Abraxis led her from the room and into darkness.
~~~
Sara heard and smelled more than saw the path they took through the old château. Floorboards that grated underfoot gave way to cold stone. There were several flights of stairs and while Braze never let go Sara's hand, she felt the air become cooler and dank.
The sound
s of being enclosed by spaces meant for the living turned to hollow echoes and vague sounds of dripping water.
Once, she thought she might have heard the squealing of mice in the distance and not much further along, she set her foot down in a small puddle before being briskly swept along in Braze's wake.
More stairs, ever downward, although for the last ones he had placed himself at her side as they descended, an arm firmly around her. Sara could tell that the steps were much more worn than those within the château and, in places, broken.
After the near ruined stairs, they walked upon a surface that was barely level. Dips and bumps made Sara stumble several times, but Braze was always there to steady her in a darkness that had taken a turn into pitch black.
They came to a stop and Sara smelled rust in the air. Braze left her and she heard the sounds of chains clinking before the squeal of hinges broke the silence. He led her past the sounds of the chains still slightly squeaking and Sara could imagine their links swinging slowly back and forth long after they had gone.
A short corridor followed before they stopped again. She heard another metallic sound, although instead of chains it sounded like metal on metal, then a series of clicks with a whining screech.
That was a key turning inside a very old lock, she thought to herself, wondering if she had made a very bad decision getting into the car with Flair and embarking on a plane, its destination unknown.
Again, there was the sound of hinges protesting in the darkness accompanied by the feeling of something massive swinging close by her.
"Don't move," Braze said, then she felt him disappear.
Sara heard a hissing click, once, twice, then a flame appeared across from her, burning in Braze's hand. He held a cigarette lighter to a long taper that had been lying on a table before him. Then, with the taper he went about lighting an elaborate candelabra, studded with at least twenty candles.
The warm light made Sara's eyes sting but it was welcome as the details of the room lifted into view.
The walls were stone, in some places covered with tapestries, but largely bare.
And except for the table upon which the candelabra stood, the room was empty but for one object that held Sara's attention.
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--The Novel (A Paranormal Alpha Werewolf Romance) Page 8
