Love Me in the Dark, Page 7

  WILLIAM: HOW’S PARIS? I MISS YOU.

  Seconds pass without another message. My fingers hover on the screen, ready to reply as though I were a Pavlovian dog at the sound of the bell. However, I can’t bring myself to do it. Call it pride or spitefulness, but something inside me forbids it. Then, I remind myself that I’m an adult, so I type back.

  Valentina: Entertaining. I went to the Louvre. Got to see the Mona Lisa at last. The thought that I should tell William about Mr. Lemaire crosses my mind, but I choose not to.

  William: Good. What are your plans for tonight? Have you gone back to our place at rue Vielle du Temple—the one with the red front?

  He’s referring to this unassuming steak house in the Marais where we had one of the best crème brûlées in Paris. We must have eaten there at least five times during our stay.

  Valentina: No, I’d rather not. Too many memories.

  William: Val …

  I worry my lower lip, staring at the screen. I want to shatter it.

  Valentina: Anyway, I’ve got to let you go. A neighbor invited me over for dinner, and I haven’t showered yet.

  William: A neighbor? Is this neighbor a man?

  I lower my defenses and allow myself to think of Sébastien for the first time since I left him standing outside my apartment last night. Is this how it was for William when he first met her? Did he take one glance at her and his day didn’t suck so much after all?

  Valentina: No. The couple from downstairs are having a dinner party. I met her on the elevator earlier today, and she asked me to join them. What about you?

  William: Going out for a drink with Larry. When are you coming home?

  Valentina: I don’t know …

  It’s like he’s standing on one side and I’m on the other and there’s this space between us that keeps growing and growing, leaving a huge, gaping hole in what used to be our marriage. A minute passes by without an answer. Feeling deflated, I put the phone away. What did I expect? That he would beg me to come home because he needs me?

  After the shower, I put on a simple, elegant black dress and classic pointy black pumps. My long hair is up in a ballerina bun. I step away from the full-length mirror to inspect myself. Shrugging, I reach for the clutch lying on the peach accent chair next to me. This is as good as it’s going to get.

  I briefly consider calling Joanna to excuse myself from dinner, but then I remember my texts with William. It takes every ounce of will I own to finish getting ready when all I want to do is stay in bed, binge eat ice cream, and feel sorry for myself. However, the last thing I need tonight is to be alone while playing the heroine of a melodrama. Conversation and wine, lots of it actually, will help to take my mind off of the whole thing, anesthetizing the pain, even if it’s only for a couple of hours.

  The dinner party turns out to be more than the small gathering I expected. There are at least eight other couples when I get there. I hand a bottle of wine to the waiter who opens the door and then go in search of the hosts Joanna and Jacob. The soundtrack of jazz music, the clink of crystal glasses, conversation in different languages, and laughter play in the background. I’m calm and relaxed, almost detached, as I glance around the stylish apartment.

  Memories of hosting and attending these kinds of parties almost every weekend with William by my side intrude. All eyes were on my husband who could work a room with his charm, charisma, and ease like no other. Women and men of all ages, seasoned players, new and old money, politicians, Hollywood stars. You name it. No one stood a chance against William when he made you the object of his attention. Once, a senator from Florida had told William that The White House could be his future if he chose. And I, his faithful wife, would stand next to him proudly sharing him with others. Watching them lose their minds over him as I understood, maybe too well, what it felt like.

  But I lock those memories away before they have a chance to cause any real harm. Not tonight, I repeat inside my head. Tonight the past remains where it belongs—in the past.

  “Excusez moi.” I smile tentatively at a couple who moves to the side to let me through.

  I’m about to reach for a glass of wine from a passing waiter when I hear Joanna’s posh British accent calling my name. I turn to face her, smiling. Lovely and graceful Joanna who looks as though she belongs in the pages of a book with dukes and countesses. She doesn’t walk. She glides in her designer shoes.

  “Valentina! There you are. I was beginning to despair.” She kisses the air on both of my cheeks. “You look ravishing.”

  I laugh. “So do you. Thank you for having me, Joanna. Your home is lovely.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She links her arm with mine. “Come, let me introduce you to my husband and to the rest of the guests.” She smiles slyly. “There’s someone who’s been asking about you, actually.”

  “Really?” I frown. “Who?” I don’t know anyone in Paris. Well, except … my heart begins to race.

  “Yes, really.” She laughs airily, patting my hand. “Can you not take a guess? Maybe I should keep it a surprise?”

  We join a group of people standing near a grand piano, dropping the subject. She introduces me to her husband Jacob and to a very famous photographer named Ronan who I recognize from an art magazine and his drop-dead gorgeous fiancée Blaire. They are from New York, too.

  After chatting about Paris and New York and the merits of each city, I politely excuse myself and go in search of a drink. As I’m approaching the home bar, a prickle of awareness makes me spin around. I expect to find someone watching me, but everyone seems to be lost in conversation. I rub the back of my neck, dismissing the feeling.

  I’m reaching for a glass of wine from the counter when someone comes up behind me. “Hello, ma petite chouette.” His breath fans my back as he leans in to grab a drink, making my skin prickle in excitement.

  Sébastien. I should be surprised, but I’m not. Deep down, I knew it was him as soon as Joanna mentioned someone asking about me. Or, if I’m honest with myself, I hoped it would be him.

  The corners of my mouth tilt up on their own volition, feeling like a thirteen-year-old tasting for the first time the delicious, heady flavor of infatuation. “Hi.”

  This close to him, I can see how thick and curly his eyelashes are. The scruff covering his jaw. And those lips that invite you to fantasize about them in the dirtiest, most forbidden ways. Which I have. “What are you doing here?”

  He raises an eyebrow, a faint smile spreading across his handsome face. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Charmed by the man standing in front of me, his words fill me with unwanted pleasure. I recline my back on the counter and take a sip of the spicy blend, pretending I didn’t hear what he said. Funny how just his presence alone can breathe life into what was a dull party. Suddenly the wine is sweeter. The colors more vibrant. The room warmer.

  I focus on Joanna and her husband. They laugh freely and work the room like the born entertainers they are. “It’s because of you then.”

  He leans back, setting his elbows on the counter. His movements easy and graceful remind me of a predator about to strike his unsuspecting prey. “What’s that?”

  “Why I was invited tonight.”

  He gives me a sly and sideways grin. “Would it make a difference?”

  “I don’t know.” My lips quirk behind the glass before I take a sip. “Maybe.”

  “Good maybe or bad maybe?”

  “Would it make a difference?” I shoot him a side-glance, throwing back his own words.

  He laughs, amusement shining in his eyes. “Bien, ma petite chouette. Très bien.”

  “Merci.” A runaway smile escapes my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that he’s wearing a tailored white dress shirt with three buttons carelessly undone at the neck, its sleeves rolled up showcasing his gorgeous arms, and navy blue trousers. His raven locks fall loosely down over his forehead, lending him an air of recklessness and caged energy. He should look untidy in a room where every ma
n is dressed to the nines, but somehow he manages to outshine them all. What chance does a fine suit jacket have against arms like his? None.

  Seconds pass in charged silence. This would be the perfect time to go, but I remain in my spot. I don’t understand why I linger in his company. I have more common sense than to be attracted to a man who happens to smile and make one feel like her insides are Jell-O.

  He says something. I look up as he’s smiling down at me, and I realize that, yes, maybe I have no common sense left at all. I clear my throat. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m glad you came, Valentina.”

  I hear a man’s loud laughter coming from somewhere in the room as I get lost in the captivating blue of Sébastien’s eyes. If it’s a warning, I ignore it. A wiser person would take their leave now, maybe making an excuse about mingling with others. Recognizing the danger in front of her. But sometimes all the reasoning in the world is useless against a lethal man who looks at you as though you’re the only woman in the room—who makes you come alive. “Me too.”

  “Tell me, Valentina, do you believe in fate?”

  “Hmm … I don’t know. Maybe, yes. I think we can affect our own fates, but I also believe there’s this powerful thing—energy, some might call it God—that gives us a nudge in the right direction. How about you?”

  “Yeah.” His gaze burns into mine, melting me into a puddle. “I think I’m beginning to.”

  At that moment, another guest walks up to the bar to order a drink. Smiling at him, I step to the side to give him room on the counter. Belatedly realizing that I’m now standing dangerously close to Sébastien. I’m about to move when Sébastien’s fingers move lightly over my bare arm. The contact of his skin against mine sends enticing electric shocks throughout my body, paralyzing me. Unable to meet his eyes, I try to focus on the people in front of us rather than the intoxicating man standing next to me or the sweet sensation of his fingers. But it’s a losing war. He touches me in slow strokes. Up and down. Back and forth. And as much as I fight my attraction to him, I can still feel his heat slowly crawling deep inside, warming me, seducing me.

  The music, the people, the laughter, William and our fight from before, it all fades into nothing. The entire world suddenly becomes the small space between us, beating—pulsing—to the rhythm of his touch.

  For a brief and very foolish instant, I picture myself reaching for his hand, whispering in his ear to take me back to his apartment. We wouldn’t make it past his door before our clothes were discarded on the floor. His mouth on me, on my breasts. His cock inside me. His head thrown back, his beautiful lips whispering Valentina, Valentina, Valentina. And just when I didn’t think I could debase myself anymore, I would beg him on red knees and a mouth that tasted like him to take me. Beg him to fill the gaping hole that William tore with his hands and his body. Sébastien and I would build a paradise with our sins while I set my whole world on fire and watched it burn to ashes with him moving inside me.

  “Valentina! Come here, darling. I’d like to introduce you to someone,” Joanna says, breaking the spell of the moment. She focuses on Sébastien and smiles saucily. “Do share her, you rascal. You’ve kept her long enough, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Sébastien counters smoothly, making her laugh.

  Blushing, I take a deep breath and put some much-needed space between Sébastien and me and the images of us guiltily playing in my head. I try to smile at Joanna and nod, feeling as though I’m drunk or disoriented.

  “I should go.” I look him in the eye, unwilling to admit even to myself that part of me wishes he’d ask me to stay. Because, God help me, I might.

  “One day you’re going to stop running away from me. And when that day finally comes, I’ll be here waiting for you,” he whispers softly, his words a caress. “Now go … before I change my mind and decide it doesn’t please me to share you with others after all.”

  “I’m not yours to share,” I say quietly, wondering if he can hear the fast beating of my heart.

  “Luckily for me, I’m not one to give up so easily.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and slides the side of his finger along my neck ever so gently as he draws his hand back, leaving a trail of desire behind. Time freezes. Every cell in my body sighs in pleasure as it begs for more. “Besides if you keep running into something good, maybe that’s fate telling you that you shouldn’t let go.” He smiles.

  He walks away from me. My gaze follows him until he reaches the same woman from the elevator. Noticing him, she smiles with the practiced ease of a woman who knows she’s attractive and alluring. He places the same hand with which he touched me not five minutes ago on the small of her back and guides her toward the living room.

  I give my head a tiny shake. Get your shit together, Valentina. Falling for a man like Sébastien would not only be stupid and bad for the heart, it would be fatal.

  Stepping away from the bar, I go in search of the hosts, putting Sébastien out of my mind. The last thing I need is another complication in my life.

  MY FEET SLIP ON wet grass. Rain falls hard on my skin, feeling like whiplashes as I run through the forest. I try to catch up to her, ignoring the punishing sounds of thunder, but the distance between us keeps growing. She laughs and tells me to hurry, that we’ll be there soon. Hands grasp air. Her name bounces off my tongue over and over again. But she doesn’t stop. She never does. My eyes burn. Desperation floods my veins. Her steps take her further away from me until she disappears into the night, and I’m left all alone.

  Like always.

  Aching for her.

  I wake up, drenched in sweat as a current of desperation and sorrow hums underneath my skin. Then I hear the same sound of thunder that haunted me in my sleep cutting through the silence of the room. It raises the small hair on my arms.

  Wide awake now, I glance in the direction of the clock.

  2:40 a.m.

  Fuck.

  Sitting up, I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands as the ghosts who I pray to haunt me forever and leave me all at once disperse like fog. I sigh and get out of bed, knowing that I won’t be able to fall back asleep. Nothing new there. Insomnia and I, we’re old friends.

  I’m about to go to my studio to paint when I hear the faint melody of a Spanish guitar coming from outside the French doors. I follow the music that reminds me of a warm summer night in Barcelona. I reach for the handle and open the door that leads to the balcony. Immediately the cool air of the night envelops me like a thick cloak. I go to stand in front of the railing, place my hands on it, and close my eyes. Inhaling deeply, the smell of rain fills my lungs as it wets my fingers.

  The Andalusian melody helps to clear my mind, pulling me out of the black hole of my thoughts. I realize the direction of its source. Leaning over the railing, I look directly below me to find Valentina. She’s sitting in a metal chair under the protection of my balcony, the same gray cardigan from the other night wrapped around her slim shoulders. My cock stirs at the sight of her, the creamy color of her skin, and that damn gorgeous mouth of hers.

  “Hey,” I say, the light rain falling down on the back of my head. Like her, the rest of my body is shielded from the rain by the balcony above.

  She tilts her neck back, our gazes locking, and smiles softly. “Can’t sleep?”

  There it is, I think as I watch her—the reprieve from all the darkness around me. Ever since I first saw her across the room, I knew I was fucked. I didn’t understand, I still don’t, but when my gaze found her, a part of me sighed and said, there she is, what you’ve been looking for—welcome to the living world once more, old chap. I wanted to taste her like a fine wine, touch her like a sin. And I did. I told myself that I was just trying to help her out of a shitty situation, but I could have simply told Margot that Valentina was with me. She would have been good. Instead, I took her in my arms and kissed her like the starved man I was. I expected a docile partner, a shy kisser, an unwilling accomplice. She was n
one of those things. She returned my kiss with just as much wanton need as I felt, shaking me to the damn core. As we continued to run into each other, I became addicted to the way she made me feel whenever she was near me. She was like coming up for air after nearly drowning.

  “You too?”

  She pushes her glasses up by their bridge using a finger. “Yeah, too much going on in my mind. Music keeping you up?” A roguish dimple appears on her left cheek, the dimple that I’ve wanted to kiss pretty much since the day I noticed it there. “Guess it’s my turn, huh? Sorry. I’ll turn it down now.”

  “Music’s fine.”

  “Okay, good.” She lifts a hand into the air with her palm facing skyward, collecting raindrops. “It’s the first time it’s rained since I got here. Paris is lovely when it rains.”

  I tilt my head back to try to find the moon, aware I should go back inside, but just being close to her soothes me. I find myself relaxing in her company even though it’s beginning to rain harder. Bending at the waist, I rest my arms on the railing, focusing on the skyline: The glittering Eiffel Tower in the background, the zigzagged roofs, the empty park across the street, and the few cars driving on the road.

  “I got a job,” she blurts out.

  “You did?” I don’t know why, but the fact that she’s willing to share this piece of her with me makes me feel invincible, like I’ve been allowed inside when she doesn’t let many people in.

  “Yes, it’s nothing really. Just helping a man at this flower shop. It should be interesting since he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak French.” She chuckles. “Thank God for the Internet and dictionaries.”

  “It’s not nothing.” A car drives by then, splashing the curb. “Does it make you happy?”

  A pause. “Yes. Very much so.”

  “That’s what matters.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” She lets out a long sigh. “Joanna and her husband throw a great dinner party. Have you known them long?”