Exhausted, she slipped off her shoes and carried their bags to the master suite. The king-sized bed in the middle of the room was picturesque. Its elaborate detailing on the headboard and footboard reminded her of the King’s chambers in Versailles. The white canopy curtains above the bed reminded her of an earlier thought.
Anxious to get the night started, she looked at her phone for a message from Preston.
[Preston]
I’m sorry, Angel. It looks like I won’t make it to dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.
Abigail had never understood the phrase, “so close, yet so far away” as much as she did at that moment.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The first rays of the morning sun peeked through the sheer curtains of the hotel room. As Abigail turned in her pillow, she released a croaky moan and extended a lazy arm. She hoped to caress the stiff chest of Preston, instead, she felt cold sheets and an empty pillow.
As her thoughts reminisced on what had unfolded the night before, a blanket of great dismay cloaked her shoulders. She’d gone to bed without Preston and had woken up without him, too. Exhausted by her endeavors throughout the city, she hadn’t heard him come in. She hadn’t even felt the mattress dip with his presence.
Had it not been for the discarded clothes in the hamper, she would’ve easily guessed Preston hadn’t shown up at all.
What a dismal life he lived, traveling from country to country and meeting to meeting, all while he ran on four hours of sleep. No wonder he got migraines. His body begged him to unwind from work and he all but ignored it.
On the bedside table was a note addressed to Abigail.
Her stomach fluttered with butterflies as she reached for it. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d written her a letter.
Good morning, Angel. Jean-Pierre has welcomed us to his home for dinner. I’ll pick you up at 6:00.
-Preston
Her face hit the pillow with a very loud groan.
Words couldn’t describe how much she despised pointless chitchats and small talk. It made her feel robotic every time she pretended to be interested in the lives of blurred faces.
She’d done it too many times as a teenager when she supported her mother’s charities and galas. Her supportive role continued at the age of twenty-four as she posed as a hostess for office parties.
Abigail thought of the possibility of being able to get out of this event. He’d signed the note as Preston, so maybe she did have a chance. But what good would that be?
She’d not only show him she wouldn’t be there to support him, but it’d be a slap to his face, especially when she’d seen how hard he’d worked during their flight. If she supported the misandrist that was Melissa Sinclair, she surely would support her master. Not to mention, her presence at dinner would ensure his time was spent with her.
Her mind still weighing the pros and cons of a business dinner, Abigail sauntered to the hamper and slipped on Preston’s shirt. She raised the collar to her nose, needing to smell his distinct scent. She closed her eyes as she breathed in the smell of roses.
Roses?
What the ever-loving fuck?
She removed his shirt as if the fabric was burning her skin with blistering welts.
“Roses?” she thought aloud.
She didn’t wear any rose-scented perfume. She didn’t wear perfume at all. Ever since Master Trice described her scent as “pure rodent infected garbage” and “wanting to taste her, not cheap perfume” she’d thrown all her perfume bottles away.
Unless Jean-Pierre wore flower-scented perfume, Abigail didn’t understand how his shirt could smell so feminine. Was he building a brothel for the entrepreneur? Perhaps he’d been in the presence of his overly perfumed assistant?
A foreign sensation built in the pit of her stomach. The feeling was so strong, she feared it’d burn her chest. The idea of another woman consuming any minute, any second of time with Preston nauseated her. Nevertheless, she didn’t allow the thought of a strange woman having sex with Preston infuriate her.
She understood his need for another woman. If he hurt a sub too badly, it was impossible for her body to recoup in a couple of days. Having another woman ensured his sadistic needs were fulfilled. The other sub would deliver the intimacy he thought he wasn’t capable of giving. She’d begin the mental and physical healing of his submissive.
He could fuck as many women as he’d like, but as it was proven by Lauren, there was only one woman who satisfied Master Trice.
* * *
Preston arrived at the hotel promptly at six in the evening.
Abigail’s heart somersaulted at the sight of him. He tousled his hair back, revealing his widow’s peak. He wore a gray suit with a black button-up shirt that accentuated his muscles. His slacks were the right amount of tightness, outlining the firmness underneath.
He walked straight to her as if she was a prize waiting to be claimed by him. His eyes roamed her body from head to toe, resting longer than usual on her breasts. She squared her shoulders, pushing her breasts higher through her sheer top and bralette.
She closed her eyes as he leaned in, feeling his warm breath on her cool skin. Her heels allowed Preston to whisper in her ear without having to bend his neck.
“You think this is appropriate attire to wear to a business dinner?” His voice was low and seductive.
She shrugged innocently, finding nothing inappropriate about her top or plum skirt. “Do you not find my long sleeves conservative?”
He shook his head with a smile. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
She returned his playful smile and walked toward the car. Proving female chivalry wasn’t dead, not even to a feminist, Abigail opened the door for Preston.
“Allow me, Mr. Trice.”
“What a gentlewoman,” he said.
“I’m just trying to be chivalrous.”
“Try as you may I’m not easily swayed.”
“Oh, I know it’s impossible to seduce Master Trice. Preston, on the other hand, is weak when it comes to Abigail.” She winked at him and closed the door, rounding the car as she settled inside.
As Julien eased into traffic, Abigail took one last peek at Paris. It was her last evening in the city and she wanted to bask in all its beauty. With the sun retiring for the night, the Eiffel Tower became adorned with golden lights. Its powerful beacon pivoted in full circle as it watched over Parisians. It was the heart of France and a must-see landmark visited by millions around the world.
Abigail turned to Preston. “What do you think of the Eiffel Tower?”
“What about it?”
“The architecture. Do you find it as fascinating as millions of tourists?”
“I find it as worthless as a leafless tree in the bitter winter.”
Her mouth was left agape by his response. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “Compared to Notre-Dame, Versailles, Palais Garnier… the Eiffel Tower is an eyesore.”
“You’re the reason the French hate us,” she mumbled.
“Do you not agree?”
“I didn’t get a chance to visit.”
“Congratulations, you saved yourself twenty-six euros. Where did you go?”
Abigail spoke of her recent visit to Versailles and how the antique décor of the palace had made her rethink her taste in design. Preston seemed very pleased by the sudden change, offering to redesign her townhome and office. Abigail politely declined his help. She’d rather keep her home and workspace Master Trice free.
When she asked Preston about his time in Paris, his reply was one simple word.
“Work.”
After a thirty-minute drive, they arrived at an elegant mansion near the Jardins de Ranelagh. The three-story home was decorated with polychrome marble sculptures and brass bars at the end of every window. A majestic staircase led Abigail and Preston to the entrance of the home. Just as they were about to make their presence known, the arched front door opened.
Behind it s
tood a woman ready to embrace them with joyous jubilation. She wore an emerald dress that emphasized her ghostly complexion and toned legs. Her long hair laid on her shoulder in shavings of coal.
“Preston, bienvenue,” she welcomed, kissing both of Preston’s cheeks. Her lips lingered on the corner of his jaw for a moment too long. Abigail was sure she’d stained his cheek crimson.
Abigail cleared her throat and extended her arm. “Bonjour, I’m Abigail. You must be Mrs. Bessette.”
“Ahh, la petite amie.” The woman acknowledged, kissing her cheeks as she’d done Preston. This close to her, Abigail could smell Mrs. Bessette’s heady scent of roses. It dawned on her this must have been the woman Preston spent his time in Paris with.
Mrs. Bessette’s eyes ping-ponged from Preston to Abigail as she guided them through the halls of her grandiose estate. The home continued its baroque elegance on the inside. The French ornate crown moldings brought Abigail’s eyes to the high ceilings. They walked into a living space where the elaborate pieces of furniture were a work of art themselves.
“Please, sit,” Mrs. Bessette told the couple. “Would you like a drink?”
Preston answered, “Oui. Abigail?”
Abigail shook her head no.
As she took a seat on the settee loveseat, she felt as if she was sitting in a luxurious palace. From the intricate mirror hanging on the painted and glided wall, she saw Mrs. Bessette pour a gradual amount of bourbon in a cup. She faced them with a smile as she handed Preston the glass of amber. Mrs. Bessette sat on the chair opposite them and brought her glass of bubbly to her lips. As the liquid settled in her throat, she blatantly stared at Preston with lustful eyes.
“Will Mr. Bessette be joining us this evening?” Abigail asked.
“You may call my husband and me by our first names. Mine is Beatrice. Jean-Pierre will be down soon. Preston said you didn’t have any allergies, so I told our chef to make an exquisite Blanquette de Veau.”
“That sounds lovely. Thank you.”
Beatrice and Preston fell into a comfortable conversation about the hotel he was building for the family. From the little she’d learned in her French high school class, Abigail gathered Jean-Pierre and his wife were the sole owners of Hotel Bessette. It belonged to Jean-Pierre’s paternal grandparents and was given to him after his grandfather’s passing. His wife was never fond of the medieval architecture of the building and so they hired Preston to redesign it and incorporate the baroque architecture of the renaissance era.
"Mon amour, why didn’t you inform me our American guests had arrived?” The voice of an elegant Frenchman boomed over Abigail’s body.
The soft light from the standing lamp cast the silhouette of a masculine figure. As the shadow peered closer, a handsome man sauntered into the room. His ocean blue eyes instantly landed on Abigail. They slow danced down the slopes of her body. His stare was intent, not straining from the curves of her full lips or ample breasts. She raised an eyebrow as the man locked eyes with her.
"La petite amie,” Jean-Pierre said. Where his wife’s voice was as addictive as wine, his was as smoky as bourbon.
Abigail swallowed a moan as he leaned in to kiss both her cheeks. He welcomed Preston with a shake of his hand and kissed his wife sweetly on the temple. He sat on the arm of her chair. His ankles were crossed. His gaze was on Abigail as Mrs. Bessette’s was on Preston.
“Abigail, have you seen the model of the new Hotel Bessette?” Mrs. Bessette asked.
“No. I didn’t get a chance to see it.”
“Oh, you must see it. It’s magnifique.” Beatrice turned to her husband. “Take Abigail to the bureau.”
He strutted toward her, extending an arm. “Ma chore.”
Abigail looked at Preston who encouraged her with a subtle nod.
She accepted Mr. Bessette’s arm, feeling it pulse under her delicate touch. Jean-Pierre guided her through the matchbook marble floors and into the warm and luscious bureau. In the center of the room stood a large desk with intricate carvings of gold around the wooden frame. The exquisite design continued on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase adorned with an array of historic books.
With Jean-Pierre in the room, Abigail felt like a masterpiece set in the center of the Louvre. She felt his eyes on her bottom as she grazed her fingertips on the bronze spine of Le Petit Prince. They followed her across the room as she walked toward the large pedestal where the 3D baroque model of Hotel Bessette rested.
Her eyes grew in amazement the closer she got to it. “Wow. He made this?”
"Oui. You have never seen his work?”
She shook her head in awe. Abigail extended her hand, wanting to touch the structure, but retreated it, afraid she’d damage the eight-story building. She bent forward to get a closer look at the arched windows and balconies.
The sculpture was something Preston had made with his bare hands. It was the first project she’d seen of his and she felt both proud and excited to see more of his work.
“See the edges?” She tried to ignore Jean-Pierre’s hoarse breathing near her ear. “This is what Preston is known for. He takes the corners of buildings and creates a design of their own. Like fingerprints, not one is the same.”
He pushed a brown hair behind her ear as his other hand touched the pads of her finger. “Have you ever made love to a French man?”
She laughed at the proposition. “You wouldn’t be able to handle me.”
“Is that a challenge?” He took a step toward her as he licked his lips. Her nipples hardened under her sheer top. As his face slowly leaned closer to hers, she reminded herself Beatrice was in the other room. Before their lips had the chance to meet, a throat cleared. A question lingered in Beatrice’s eyes as she and Preston announced dinner was served.
“That’s a fact,” Abigail answered Jean-Pierre, grabbing Preston’s arm.
The boiserie brass paneling in the dining room emphasized the Bessette’s riches and high status in Paris. A fanciful chandelier hung from the ceiling. Its gilding arms stretched across the ceiling in icicle crystals casting below it the evening light.
As Abigail was about to sit next to Preston, Mrs. Bessette suggested a change of seats, leaving Abigail to face Preston and Beatrice to face Jean-Pierre.
A young servant brought the savory ragout in a large porcelain bowl. Steam flowed above the stew as she served it to every seated guest. Abigail inhaled the smell of white wine and steamed bottom mushrooms. The savory veal was tender enough to cut with a spoon. The luscious layers of rice and creamy white sauce dissolved on her tongue.
Throughout their meal, the conversation was in English with a handful of French words from Beatrice and Preston. Abigail found it amusing and quite entertaining how Mrs. Bessette made advances at Preston. Though he ignored them, the woman, as her husband, was relentless. Her manicured fingers pushed his shoulders playfully with every joshing comment. Everything Preston uttered seemed to be the funniest joke.
By the time the lemon tart was served the voice of a sleepy girl followed hurried footsteps.
“Papa! Mamam!”
Jean-Pierre’s eyes lit up at the sound of his daughter. His lips stretched across his face in jubilation as the little girl ran to him. She jumped onto his thigh and accepted his opened arms. She whined snot and tears on his neck as she wrapped her arms around him, afraid to let him go.
Abigail scooted back in her chair with disdain as the little girl stared at her with watery eyes.
Preston all but forgotten, Mrs. Bessette rushed to her daughter’s side. She kissed her knotty hair and drew comforting circles on her back.
A string of French flew out of Preston’s lips as he directed his words to the girl. He pointed to her Frozen pajamas and mentioned something about an Eloise that made the little girl’s woe turn into a joyful smile. He reached for the inside pocket of his blazer and retrieved his phone. He moved closer to her and showed a picture of three girls. One was dressed as Elsa, the other as Anna, and a baby was dressed as
Olaf.
As Abigail watched their sweet interaction, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Preston wanted—a marriage, a family, a child. But she’d never ask him, knowing ignorance was indeed bliss.
The little girl asked her mother something about a costume, to which Mrs. Bessette replied with a firm no that resurfaced her earlier tears.
“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Preston said, sensing a need for privacy.
They exchanged a pleasant goodbye, their flirtatious vibes from earlier gone now their daughter was around.
Preston told them of his plans to be back in a couple of months once the project was in its last stages and to call him with any questions or concerns. The Bessettes stole one last look at the couple before closing the front door. With their picturesque home in the rearview mirror, Abigail turned to Preston.
“Are they in an open relationship or something?”
He smiled mischievously. “What gave it away?”
She gasped. “You knew?”
“I make it a point to know my customers.”
“I’m sure Beatrice likes that. She’s very fond of you.”
“I know,” he said unbothered.
“Did it not make you uncomfortable to be objectified, and pretty much sexually harassed by a woman you don’t find attractive?”
“Who says I don’t find Beatrice attractive?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, so you like her.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, but she isn’t my type.”
“What’s your type?”
He turned to her. “You.”
Her cheeks blushed as a small smile grew on her lips.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“We spend roughly four days a week without seeing each other. What’s another day or two?”
“If another day or two lands on our arrangement days, then it’s one too many. Don’t you think?”
“Don’t you think things have changed since then?”
“Does that mean I’ll see you less?” She bit her lip, awaiting his response.
“It means I expect to see you more.”
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 29
