by Skye Warren
And my father, sitting at a table, nursing a drink.
Mom stands from the sofa. “Holly,” she says with a warm smile. She looks soft and loving, the way she always does, even though I’ve clearly just broken the rules. “I knew you’d be back home safely. And at such a reasonable hour. Well before curfew.”
I’m frozen in the foyer, unable to take farther steps inside. “The Catacombs?”
Mom makes a face. “You were right. The bones were gross.”
Dad takes a sip of his amber drink and says nothing.
She gives me a kiss on my forehead. “Your sister’s already asleep. And I’m tired. Just wanted to say good night to you. Don’t go too hard on your father. He only wants you safe.”
Then I’m left alone with the man who raised me, the man I trust the most, love the most—and the man who’s most intimidating. Only London has ever brought men home, and they’ve always been terrified. He’s never hurt me, never raised a hand to me. Never even yelled, but then again I’ve never broken a rule. That’s always been my sister’s job.
I sit at the glass table across from him. “Would it help my case to point out that I did actually get home before midnight?”
He doesn’t look impressed. “Curfew only applies to home. Your mom only said that so I wouldn’t be furious with you.”
My heart drops. “Are you? Furious?”
“Ah, Holly bear. You were my little girl. My baby. And then I come back to the hotel to find that you went out, no note, no message, nothing.”
I manage not to glance at my phone. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Evie convinced me not to,” he says, glancing at the bedroom door where my mother’s probably getting ready for bed. Don’t be too hard on your father, she said. As if I have the power. “She said you’d be home by curfew, and that we could trust you.”
Guilt sears my insides because they can’t trust me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Where did you go?”
Frantically I try to think of something, but I really am a terrible liar. My mind conjures up things like: I climbed the outside of the Eiffel Tower. Or: I went to an underground poker ring. Not believable. Not better than the truth, either. “I went out with a boy I met at the museum.”
He pauses for a moment. Nods. The action reminds me of Elijah, actually. They don’t look alike, but they share a kind of decisiveness. A quiet strength. “His name?”
“Elijah.” I flush as I realize I don’t know his last name. I let him kiss me and considered doing more with him, without knowing his last name. He told the restaurant Smith but somehow I doubt that’s his real name.
“Did you think what would have happened if you disappeared? If he took you to some private place, drugged you, hurt you? We wouldn’t even have known where to look.”
My stomach turns over. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be scared of the world. Evie was raised that way, and it made her more vulnerable to the dangers, not less. But you also have to understand that there are dangers.”
“My mother trusted you, and that wasn’t a mistake.” They met when she was on a road trip, and he worked as a trucker. It was love at first sight, and they drove together to Niagara Falls. They’ve told the story to me and London.
He looks grim. “Yes, it really was.”
Elijah’s words come back to me, and I shiver. You should know better than to talk to someone like me. You should be afraid of me. And most of all, you shouldn’t trust me.
He sighs. “Your mother was lucky she lived, being off on her own. But she didn’t have a family who loved her. Her mother put the fear of God in her, tried to keep her locked up tight. I don’t want to do that to you, but I also have a need to protect you.”
Shame makes my throat tight. “I really am sorry.”
“I know you’re getting to the age where boys will chase you—”
“This was definitely a one-time thing. Boys are always into London anyway.”
“Your sister’s outgoing, and boys like that. She flatters them. The unfortunate thing is that attracts a bunch of weak assholes who want her to make them feel good.”
“So I make them feel bad?”
“You’re yourself. And boys your age aren’t usually able to appreciate that.”
My cheeks flush. I remember the brightness of Elijah’s eyes as he told me I was a goddamn delight. He appreciated me. And then later, in the alley, he appreciated every part of me.
“Do I even want to know how old this guy is?”
“Not that old,” I say defensively. “Not like thirty or something.”
Dad shakes his head. “I’m grateful you’re safe, even if I did lose a few years of my life waiting up for you. Please ask me next time you want to go out. I can’t promise I’ll say yes, but I can promise that I’ll consult with your mother before I say no.”
I go over to kiss his cheek, and he pulls me in for a hug. His voice is low in my ear. “Don’t you ever let a boy hurt you, Holly bear. You wait for the one who understands you. He’s out there.”
As I pull back, he puts out his hand.
“However,” he says, “there are consequences.”
London has had to turn in her phone lots of times. This is the first time I have to dig into my pocket and pull out my iPhone. It occurs to me as I place it in his palm that the worst part isn’t not being able to text friends. The worst part is knowing that he doesn’t trust me anymore.
When I go upstairs I shower and drag myself into bed.
I could dig into my backpack and read the mermaid book, but I’m too confused right now. It was my first date with a boy, but somehow I feel more alone than ever.
CHAPTER SIX
The next day I wake up to my mother’s voice calling up the stairs.
Our private tour departs at seven a.m. We’re going to see the Reims cathedral and taste genuine champagne, but I’m still dreaming about eclairs and green eyes as I drag myself to the shower. I’m back in my ordinary, boring clothes with my backpack slung over my shoulder.
We climb into the black SUV with a personal driver and tour guide sitting up front.
The guide with a strong French accent tells us about the cathedral where all but two of the French kings were crowned. “But first we will visit Veuve Clicquot for a personal tour of the unique chalkstone cellars.” When my dad’s not looking, he gives my sister a wink. “We’ll learn about the young woman Madame Barbe Clicquot Ponsardin, who built a champagne empire.”
Her eyes go wide. “A champagne empire.”
He nods, looking very knowledgeable. And interested. He’s actually young enough. Eighteen? Nineteen? Maybe the same age as Elijah, but there’s something more boyish about him. I suspect he and my sister will become accidentally separated from the group at some point.
There’s still another hour to go on our drive so we settle into a companionable silence, each of them on their phones. Dad and Mom cuddle on one of the seats while my sister and I lounge with our legs tangled up on the other side. We may be opposites in every way, but we’re still best friends. I’m the only one phone-less, so I stare out the window.
My mother sits up a little straighter across from me. “Honey, did you see this?”
Dad glances over, still stroking her hair. “What’s that?”
“The Louvre. Someone stole something.”
My sister shoots up. “While we were there?”
Mom scans her phone. “It says they aren’t sure of the time, only that it happened yesterday while the museum was open. So yes, it might have been while we were there.”
“Cool,” London says.
“It’s all very Indiana Jones,” Mom says. “Apparently the real thing was switched out with a fake, and they didn’t discover it until doing rounds the next morning.”
Wow. I wonder if the security guards got in trouble. Surely Elijah wouldn’t get fired because he was on duty? It’s not like he can watch every square inch of the museum.
Now I feel guilty for taking a break with him.
Something flutters in my stomach. Unease. Suspicion. No, it’s got to be my overactive imagination. Elijah’s job is to protect the art in the museum, not steal it.
My family is still discussing the theft, but I steal my sister’s phone and look up an article.
The only item missing is the Regent Diamond, a 140-carat diamond owned by the French state. Its worth is estimated at €48,000,000, though it’s hard to say what it could be worth on the black market. Authorities suspect the theft was funded by a collector, which will make it harder to trace, as there will be no sale.
London makes a grab for her phone, but I twist to keep it away from her.
There’s evidence that this was an inside job, with multiple people working for the museum involved. The security company has yet to reveal their names.
“Holland,” my dad says, using my full name in that stern voice that always makes me comply. “Give your sister’s phone back to her.”
Reluctantly I hand it back, then slump in my seat. I pretend to nap, but really my mind is a whir. Did Elijah play a role in some crazy diamond heist? This whole line of thought is crazy. There have got to be hundreds of people who work at the Louvre. It’s a massive place.
Almost fifteen acres of priceless art.
Except I still remember the way we parted. It seemed cruel, the way he insisted I shouldn’t trust him, that I should be afraid of him. Except what if he meant it another way?
I’m not happy. I should be, but I’m not.
What if he had stolen a massive diamond only hours earlier?
What if he’s right now on the run?
The into a stop in front of a vineyard, and my father pulls out my phone. He hands it over with a severe expression. “For emergency calls only. Leave the ringer on.”
I nod, trying my best to look innocent.
It’s only when I find the restroom that I can finally pull out my phone. It unlocks when I swipe my fingerpad across the little sensor. No messages. My stomach sinks a little. Maybe I’d been hoping for a morning-after text from D. He might have changed his mind about seeing me again.
Or at least said a nicer goodbye.
I heard about the diamond, I type. My thumb hovers over the Send button.
There’s no answer. Maybe he thinks I’m clingy. And maybe I am clingy. I’ve never gone on a real date and been kissed in Paris. These kinds of things probably end in sophisticated silence. Still, the theft is interesting enough that people would talk about it, wouldn’t they?
Except hours later, there’s still no answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Real champagne tastes surprisingly bitter. I always expected it to be sweet.
London is two years older than me. She’s sneaked glasses of wine from the bar at home. And we’ve both had lukewarm beer at friends’ houses.
This is my first time drinking champagne, and it doesn’t taste good, exactly. It’s more of an experience, like jumping into the pool without properly holding your nose. The bubbles make me sneeze.
Champagne is also surprisingly strong.
I have one glass with the lunch they’ve put in front of me, and then I drink my sister’s because she’s disappeared with our tour guide. The chicken coq au vin is too mushroomy, so I don’t eat.
On an empty stomach two glasses make me feel slightly outsize, as if I’m bigger than I am. My voice is a little louder than usual, my laugh a little harder. I’m having a good time, and when my mother and father exchange glances—one amused, one worried—I find it hilarious.
We get to the Reims cathedral around four p.m. After a tour of the inside by our guide we split up to look over the various artifacts, the tombs, and the grounds. This is the place where all but two of the French kings were coronated. I’m in the gift shop looking at a paper doll set with kings and crowns and robes. My sister’s browsing the travel books with unusual concentration. She doesn’t notice as I slip out the back exit and walk along the flowers. There’s also a square where nobles were beheaded during the Terror. They have a blood history, the French.
I trail my finger along a wrought-iron fence overgrown with honeysuckle.
The fragrant yellow flowers remind me of home.
He comes from behind me in a flash of black leather. Fear spikes through my stomach as I’m pulled back into a corner of mossy stone. Green eyes appear above me, and relief rolls over me. It relaxes me even as I know what he must have done.
He slams his mouth onto mine, the kiss almost violent in its ferocity, a challenge that dares me to pull away, to flinch. I soften underneath the onslaught, letting him invade my mouth, letting him control the pace. Letting, letting, letting. Only then does he gentle.
His mouth speaks into mine, a language only my body understands. His teeth grasp my lower lip, and I whimper in a wordless plea. He bites down hard enough to make me suck in a breath. Then he soothes away the sting with his tongue.
He pulls back, breathing hard. “Hi.”
A breathless laugh. “Hi back.”
“Thought you might not want to see me again.”
“The diamond?” I ask, glancing down at his hands as if he might produce the massive stone.
“I don’t have it.” He gives me a dark laugh. “How did you—”
“I didn’t know. Not until you showed up here. Why did you come, anyway?”
“To say goodbye.”
I stare at him, this thief, this criminal. I should be horrified by what he’s done, but instead I’m faintly impressed. It’s not everyone who can steal a diamond from a museum. “I got in trouble, you know. My parents were there when I got back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was worth it. Shouldn’t you leave France?”
That makes him smile. “Ah, but you assume I was ever really here.”
I squeeze his shoulders, and he pushes his lower body against mine. There’s a conversation our bodies are having, a different one than our words. My backpack cushions me against the wall. His body is pure hardness. “You feel real enough.”
Perhaps it’s the two glasses of champagne that give me courage.
Or perhaps that’s just the excuse I use.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down. He holds his head low enough for me to reach, but without actively kissing me. Instead he lets me press a clumsy kiss to his lips. He lets me slip my tongue out to taste his bottom lip. He lets me open my mouth against his, ardent and innocent. Letting, letting, letting. He’s the one letting me consume him this time.
Then he pulls back and grasps my wrist. He pushes it against the wall. Uneven stones press against the back of my hand. Then he carefully, slowly, takes my other wrist. He pushes it against the cool stones, too. Now I’m trapped by his hands, my arms pinned beside my head. My backpack nudges against my back, pressing my breasts forward.
When he kisses me, it’s completely different. Even though I hadn’t been using my hands much, it feels strange to have them trapped. They’re pulled back, my body exposed. He presses his hard length against me as his mouth claims mine.
He teases the entrance to my lips, the seam of them, and it feels like every sensation at once—hot and cold, pain and pleasure. As if every nerve ending has centered on that line. Then he slips his tongue into my mouth, a firm invasion, and my mouth opens. This is what it would be like. Sex. It would feel like him coming inside me, becoming part of me.
He finds a rhythm that makes me ache, makes my whole body clench.
Slowly he pulls back. He keeps his hands around my wrists, forming a kind of prison. I clench my fists and yank them, but he doesn’t let me go. Somehow that makes it more delicious.
“How does it end?” he asks, nuzzling my cheek.
“How does what end?”
“The book. I need something to distract me from your mouth and all the ways I want to use it.” He drops an almost-chaste kiss onto my lips. “Or I’ll never be able to leave.”
All the ways he wants to use it?
I don’t even know the possibilities.
I’ve heard whispers, jokes on TV that never quite made sense, but it’s too far away to imagine. “I don’t know. I got grounded. But it was probably a boring ending. The mermaid queen probably found some way to defeat the dragon. Instead of doing that, she would show mercy and thus prove that she was better than them all along. And there would be peace.”
A soundless laugh. “That’s the ending? It doesn’t sound lame.”
“Oh yeah. If I wrote it, it would be totally different.”
“I want to know your ending.”
“In my head the mermaids and the dragons, they’re the same. I mean they’re actually the same species. One female. One male. They live for so long they’ve forgotten the lore, how their children are made.”
He pulls back with a question in his eyes.
“They destroy each other, you know. The dragons start, but the mermaids fight back just as fierce. They’re made of the same things, after all.”
“There’s no happy ending in your head, is there?”
I shake my head without breaking eye contact. Those green eyes burn with hunger. “Only when the last few dragons are left, when the mermaids are scattered and hiding in the depths of the ocean, do they discover what they lost. But by then it’s too late.”
“Christ,” he murmurs, pressing his face into my neck. It’s not a sexual move. Not to kiss me or consume me. Instead he rests his head there as if seeking comfort. I hold very still so as not to disturb him. I’ve thought many things about my body—that it’s too short or too soft. That it’s too weak, but I’ve never realized how it can provide solace until now.
He drops my wrists, and I fold my arms around his neck, pulling him all the way in. He smells the way I remember from last night. Except now it imprints somewhere deep inside me.
This is what a man should smell like. And impossibly, this is what safety smells like.
