I roll my eyes. “Of course you are.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, miss. You’re the one who got handsy with me last week, let the record show.”
I feel a flush burn on my cheeks. He’s right. I’m still not sure what the hell came over me the other night in that gazebo. I guess I just wanted to see, feel what effect I had on him. And I wanted it to be on my terms, not his.
He slaps his hand down on the desk. “So let’s go before anyone finds out, or I change my mind. Go get out of that uniform and pack a bunch of bikinis or something.”
Another roll of my eyes. As if I even have a single bathing suit. “What am I going to tell my mother?”
“You’re going with me on a business trip. That’s all she needs to know. You’re twenty-five. You can do what you want, can’t you?”
“And you’re thirty-one and you almost punched your father at work,” I point out. I add under my breath, “Though I’m sure he was asking for it.”
“He was. It doesn’t matter, though. We have a plane to catch.”
When Pascal said we had a plane to catch, I was expecting your typical commercial airline, probably business class. But when we get to the small airport just outside Paris, I realize we’re talking about a private jet.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask as he takes me through the gates and over to the small waiting lounge, stocked with champagne and finger foods, the sleek jet parked outside. “This is how you travel?”
He shrugs and shoves a piece of bruschetta in his mouth before taking a swig of champagne. “Why not? I have the means, I might as well use them. What else would I spend my money on?”
“Hookers and blow,” I joke.
But from the curve of his lips, it’s probably not a joke.
“Whatever,” I tell him quickly. “As long as I don’t hear about it.”
“We tell each other everything, though,” he says knowingly. “Remember the contract.”
“How could I forget?”
“You still owe me some stories.” He picks up a glass of champagne and hands it to me. “How about I’ll spare you from mine if you tell me yours.”
“Deal,” I say, clinking the glass against his.
The private jet is everything I’ve seen in the movies and from a select few lucky influencers on Instagram. It’s narrow, lined with shining wood, with plush cream seats and a smiling hostess who caters to your every whim. This particular hostess looks like she could be a model, and she seems to be awfully chummy with Pascal. I have zero doubt that he’s slept with her, and for once, I feel a pang of jealousy in my belly.
I don’t like it.
Jealousy is a foreign and most unwanted feeling.
And that feeling definitely wasn’t part of the plan, not even a little.
Makes me wonder how I’m going to get through this. I’m here for a reason, or at least two, and neither has to do with Pascal.
I need to get my mother out of the house. This is a long shot, but I know I have to try. I know she seems happy there, I know she thinks she’s happy there, but I have no doubt that Gautier treats her like a toy, that she’s got an extreme case of Stockholm syndrome and she’ll never truly be safe or free until she leaves.
That’s my first priority, and in some ways, that’s the trickiest one. All this time I’ve been gone, I’ve been fixated on how to get my revenge on Gautier. I’ve fantasized about his death. I’ve planned so many different ways. Poison. A gun. Stabbing him while he sleeps. Compared to convincing my mother to leave, it all seems easy.
But as much as I’ve thought about it, my mother will have to come first. If I can convince her to go, if I convince her of what a monster Gautier is, then I won’t have to kill him at all. Sure, there will be no justice for what he did; he’ll get to keep on living, free, since there’s no way anyone would convict a man of his wealth and power over the word of an unstable and lowly maid.
However, if my mother won’t come with me, then I have no choice.
I can’t live my life knowing she’s there in his clutches.
If she won’t go, I’ll have to make sure he goes.
And with a man like Gautier, there’s only one way to do that.
Thoughts like that have me wondering if perhaps I’m a little unhinged.
I glance over at Pascal, who is sitting across the aisle, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring out at the clouds.
Maybe I’m not much better than he is.
What a terrifying thought.
My first impression of Mallorca is that it’s an absolutely magical island. If Pascal keeps calling me a sprite, then perhaps this is where I come from, born of the clear aquamarine water that seems to beckon me from each winding turn the car makes as we drive toward his villa.
We’re in a rental Mercedes convertible, and the top is down, and the sun is just starting to set behind us, turning the blues into golds.
I close my eyes and take my hair out of the bun and let the wind whip it around into a blonde tornado. I laugh, I smile. I soak it all in. This feeling of freedom I’ve never had before.
When I open my eyes, Pascal is staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask, but I’m unable to stop grinning.
“Nothing,” he says after a bit. “I’m just admiring the view.”
I look to the right to see stark cliffs dipping into the sea with sailboats plying the waters. The view is beautiful, but I have a feeling he may have been talking about me.
My heart does a skip and a jump, and I try to knock that feeling away the best I can, but the freedom of this island and the open air are infectious.
So I let myself enjoy the compliment. I ignore the fact that Pascal is a smooth talker, that this is part of his shtick. I know he wants me, and I know exactly in what way. It’s a way that could fuck things up for me royally.
Eyes on the prize, I remind myself, but those thoughts drift away with the sea breeze.
It’s not too long before we pull down a narrow gravel road, the car bouncing between olive groves until a sprawling ochre villa appears, the sea behind it.
It’s not as big as the Dumont house near Paris, but it’s still beautiful all the same, down to the terracotta tiles on the roof and the bright goldenrod-painted door.
“Wow,” I say breathlessly. “I can see why you wanted to come here. I already feel at peace.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s all I ask.”
We get the bags, and he gives me a quick tour, pointing out the reading nooks, the living room, the dining room, the breakfast area, and the kitchen, plus the terrace and the rocky cliffs that lead down to a cream-colored beach, the shining gold sea beyond it. Then we head up the gleaming wood staircase adorned with colorful tiles to the second level.
“Which one is my bedroom?” I ask.
“You mean you don’t want to sleep with me? Oh, Gabrielle, you’re breaking my heart.” He presses his hand to his chest in mock despair.
“If only you had a heart to break,” I comment, looking down the hall. “Which room is mine?”
When I don’t hear an answer, I glance back at him, and a line has set between his eyes. Not exactly angry but . . . not happy either.
“It’s your choice,” he says in a clipped voice. “I’ll be down here.” He heads off down the hall, bag slung over his shoulder.
I watch him go and then wonder what that shift in mood was about. I’m exhausted from the travel anyway, so I don’t venture far. I poke my head in the nearest room and see that it has a sea view, and I’m sold. I drag my suitcase in and then flop down on the luxurious bed with glossy wooden bedposts and a vibrant yellow-and-white crocheted duvet.
I must fall asleep, because when I open my eyes again, the room is dark, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. In that moment, fear rushes at me like a lion pouncing from behind. I fear the dark, I fear the men who lurk in it.
But when I sit up in the bed, I see the faint glow of the lights outside making the room
less and less dim as my eyes adjust, and I remember I’m in Mallorca.
I’m safe.
I have to be.
And yet I don’t feel safe. Not alone like this.
I get up, use the attached washroom, and then open my door, though I don’t remember closing it after me. I look up and down the hallway and hear nothing but silence.
“Pascal?” I call out softly.
I think I hear stirring from downstairs, so I slowly head down the stairs and make my way to the kitchen.
There’s no one there.
But the wide back doors of the breakfast nook are open to the terrace outside and banging lightly in the soft breeze, so I step outside and see lights coming from the beach. I’m in bare feet, so I carefully make my way through the terrace to where a stone staircase is carved into the rock, leading in a slight curve down to the sand.
On the sand is a table with two candles lit, two places set.
Not a soul around.
My paranoia takes hold of me again and makes me stop and study the area before I venture any farther. I inspect the corners of the rocks and the shadows, wondering if it’s a trap or Pascal’s doing. Seems a little too thoughtful for his liking. Still, I’m convinced I’m alone.
The sand is soft on my feet, and I walk over to the table and see a note hanging off a bottle of white wine. Dumont label, of course.
The note says, Have a seat and pour yourself a glass.
I look around and then pull out a chair and sit down. The wine is already uncorked and perfectly chilled as I pour myself some. Even though I’m still woozy from the nap, the wine is going down easy. Maybe too easy.
But Pascal is nowhere to be found. Did he mean for me to eat by myself or . . . ?
Or is this him trying to be nice?
Trying to impress me?
I can never tell with him.
The faint sound of a car door slamming can be heard above the soft crash of the waves, and it’s not long before I see Pascal leaving the house and walking down the steps toward me, holding a big paper bag in his hands.
“You’re up,” he says to me. “I thought you might be down for the count all night.”
I blink at him for a moment, illuminated by the candle glow and the soft landscape lighting around the terrace and steps. He’s dressed in tan pants, and his shirt is white and silk and slightly undone, hinting at his bronzed chest beneath. His hair is equally mussed, and he looks the epitome of rich French guy on vacation, and yet it’s such a change from the Pascal I normally see. It’s not just that he’s not in a dark suit and tie, it’s that he looks fresh and free.
Or maybe I’m just projecting myself on him.
“What is this?” I ask, gesturing to the table.
“Dinner?” he says. “I thought if you did wake up, you were going to be ravenous. At least I was.” He plunks the bag on the table and then removes the contents, two foil takeout containers. “And of course there is no food in the house, so I drove to my favorite seafood restaurant next town over and got them to make us some paella to go.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had paella,” I admit, surprised at how thoughtful he’s being.
“Not even when you were traveling Europe?”
The thing is, I wasn’t so much traveling as I was running from Gautier. I had only saved up so much, so when I fled, I just hopped from city to city, looking for work and wishing I spoke better English.
I shake my head. “No.” But I leave it at that.
He watches me for a moment, thinking something I’m not sure I want to know, and then starts to dish out the food onto the plates. Though I haven’t had paella, I know what it looks like, and this looks and smells divine. Saffron-colored rice, red chorizo, fresh prawns.
“This is all amazing,” I tell him as he sits down across from me.
“Good. I’m glad you’re impressed.”
“Fresh authentic paella, wine, a candlelit table on the beach. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were wooing me.”
“I am,” he says, covering his smile with his glass of wine.
Heat flares in my core, my belly doing flips. There I go again, feeling things for him I shouldn’t be feeling. I have some more wine to try to drown the feeling, but all it does is make me want to revel in it.
“Are you being wooed?” he goes on with a hopeful tone.
I give him a shy smile. “Maybe . . .” I pause. “Do you do this for all your employees?”
“I don’t even do this for my dates,” he admits with a shrug. “A trip to Mallorca, food on the beach. I would have cooked all this if I knew shit about cooking.”
“I’m actually surprised you don’t have a cook anymore.” If I recall correctly, they did back in the day. Francis or something like that.
“Your mom cooks most of the time now. I suppose I should be putting you to the test. I wouldn’t mind you serving me breakfast in bed.”
The mention of my mother is a cold knife into my chest, making my breath hitch. For a moment there, I had kind of forgotten what we both left behind when we came here.
“Okay, how about this,” he says, and I meet his eyes. “We don’t mention anything about back home. Not your mother, not my father, no mother or brother or cousins or blackmail or murder or anything. Not for the whole trip. Sound good?”
I raise my wineglass. “I will definitely drink to that.”
“So with that shit out of the way, let’s talk about you like you promised.”
Oh jeez.
“Let’s start with your childhood,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass.
“Hmm, not an overwhelmingly broad topic at all.”
“What was your life like before you moved in?”
“Well, let’s see,” I say, taking a bite of the paella and letting the orgasmic taste distract me for a second. I swallow reluctantly. “I lived with my mom and dad outside Paris in a shitty neighborhood you would have never heard of. People shooting up on the street, prostitutes, smugglers, the whole lot. Our apartment was one bedroom, and my mom often slept on the couch with me because my father would kick her out of the bedroom. He beat her—a lot. She . . .” I trail off, refusing to bring up images. “It was pretty bad.”
Pascal winces, his eyes downcast. “Okay, this was the worst subject to bring up. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but it’s done. It all made me stronger. It should have made my mother stronger, too, but . . .”
“She met my father.”
“She met your father. And he offered us protection from him. My mother thought he was her savior . . .”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about them.”
“No, it’s fine.” I manage a quick smile. “My father’s out of my life. We never heard from him again, so if he exists still, I don’t really know, and I don’t really care.” There are more people to fear than him.
“Did your father ever beat you?”
“No, actually,” I say, remembering the smell of booze on his breath, how red his face was when he was enraged. How scared I was, but it was more for my mother than for me. I could handle the insults. “He was cruel, but he didn’t touch me.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I’m guessing yours did?”
Pascal nods. “I’ve never admitted this before to anyone, not Blaise when I know he went through the same thing, not my mother, because I felt she wouldn’t care, that she would blame me somehow, that she would make an excuse. But yes. He hit me. Hurt me. A lot. And I just took it. Like a fucking wimp.”
“Because you had no choice.”
“What did I say about choices again?” he asks, his voice low.
“You didn’t have a choice in that,” I repeat, hoping he can at least understand that. “No kid does.” God, I hope he doesn’t blame himself, but if he grew up thinking he deserved it, then it explains a lot.
My blood starts to run cold at the thought of Gautier ruining Pascal’s
psyche in that same way. Pascal is a smart man, funny, cunning, charming. And he can be kind when he wants to be. Sweet, even. Raised by someone else—say Ludovic, for example—Pascal probably wouldn’t have turned out the way he did. Nature versus nurture at its finest.
“You’re feeling pity for me,” he says. His eyes seem a shade darker now, or maybe it’s the candlelight throwing light and shadows.
“I don’t feel pity for you, Pascal,” I say to him. “I just . . . feel.”
He stares at me for a moment, our gazes locked across the table with the flames dancing in between. We’re alone on this beach, and it feels like we’re alone in this world. Alone but still together.
I’m getting in over my head.
He breaks our gaze and has a sip of his wine. Clears his throat. “I like that you feel. It’s probably my favorite thing about you. Those eyes of yours hold so much, but they don’t hide so much. I see you taking everything in, every scene, every word, every look. You take it in, and you feel it right away, good or bad. Even when you try to control it, it’s there all the same. Do you . . .” He rubs his lips together, seeming to think about something.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says after a moment, shaking his head. “It was nothing.” Then he smiles at me. It’s not quite genuine, it’s more shaky than anything else. “So this is pretty fucking awful dinner conversation. If this were a date, you’d be asking for the check by now.”
“If this were a date, I would have worn something nicer,” I tell him, looking down at my linen tunic and leggings.
“You look beautiful to me,” he says warmly. Then he narrows his eyes. “And before you roll your eyes at me, because that’s what you do every time I try to compliment you—”
“Making sexual comments isn’t the same as complimenting,” I interject.
“Every time I try to compliment you,” he repeats, voice louder, as if he’s trying to be heard above something, “you just brush it off. So don’t do that. Please. I mean what I say. You know I do.”
But I don’t. I don’t know when Pascal is being honest or when he’s just being a womanizing flirt. I trust him to some extent, and he’s been extremely open with me before, but when it comes to that sort of thing between us, I just don’t know where he really stands.
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