Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (19 page)

“The actions
and emotional responses of others are not your responsibility. You cannot rescue
people from themselves. This is for them to do.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

I find André
sitting on the couch in his office, reading something on his tablet.

“André, quick,” I
say, pleased to have gotten my stuttering and my breathing under control. “You
gotta go find Grant! I’d go, but I have to put clothes on first. You’re
dressed. If you’re fast, you should be able to catch him.”

“Oh? Why would I
do this?”

“Because he’s
getting away!”

“
Monsieur
Wilkinson is free to act as he wishes. He has broken no laws. In any case, I am
not a policeman. I have no desire to stop him.”

“But there’s
something wrong and we have to talk to him!”

One dark eyebrow
arches with interest. “And yet he has chosen to leave. From this, I perceive he
does not wish to stay and he does not wish to talk.”

“I must’ve done
something wrong!” I wail, throwing my hands in the air, unable to hide my
anguish. “What do you think I did? I’ve never had a client run off like this. I
thought everything was going well!”

“Ma petite
souris,”
he says studying me for a moment. “All of this passion is most
becoming. Your eyes, they are very bright, and your face is flushed a most
charming pink.” Smiling, he pats the couch beside him. “
Se il vous plait.
Sit here beside me.”

“But we have to
get Grant!”

He sighs and
waves a long-fingered hand. “You are, of course, free to do as you wish.”

He gives me a one
shouldered shrug, crosses an elegant leg and resumes reading his tablet. I
glance down. He’s reading
“Le Monde”
the French newspaper.

Frustrated, I run
back to my bedroom. My hair is a disaster because I didn’t dry it after getting
out of the shower. It’s mostly dry now, but tangled. I quickly brush it out and
twist it into a bun on top of my head.

I glance at a
white porcelain 18
^th
century clock sitting on the bedside table. A
little boy is walking with a wolfhound, I think. The dog’s almost taller than
he is. I’ve always loved that clock.

It’s been exactly
twenty-nine minutes since I first got out of the shower. How could so much have
happened in so short a time?

I slide into my summery,
off the shoulder, dark blue ruffle dress. The tiered elastane fabric is light
and breezy and always looks great. Slipping on my heels, I stride back toward
my mentor.

As I walk, I’m recalling
everything Grant and I did together, trying to figure out where I went wrong. I
can’t understand why André isn’t worried. Why is he so complacent when an
important client has disappeared without even a good bye?

When I return to
André’s study, he’s still calmly reading. I’ve had time to think about it
though, so I sit down beside him.

“You’re right,
André,” I say. “I could never catch up to Grant by now. But you have his phone
number, right? Don’t you think we should call him? Just to make sure he’s OK?”

“No.”

“Please André,
can’t I phone him?”

“It is doubtful
he will answer. It is clear to me he does not wish to speak to us.”

“Pretty please?”

I’m nagging now
but I can’t help it. I need to figure out what happened to Grant. I’ll
apologize if I did something that upset him.

With an
unexpected trace of exasperation, André takes out his phone and scrolls down to
Grant’s number. Muttering under his breath, “A woman must do as a woman must do,”
he hands me his cell phone.

I grab it anxiously
and listen to it ring. Grant doesn’t pick up. After a few rings, it switches to
voicemail.

I clear my
throat. “Grant, it’s Renata.” A long moment passes. I want to tell him to come
back. I want to say how much I enjoyed holding him, how he affected me, and how
my heart’s breaking because he ran away.

Instead, a sudden
spike of ice-cold rationality hits my brain.

I hear André’s
voice in my mind. So many times André
’
s admonished me,
whenever my boundaries waver and I lose track of my role.
“You are a
counselor! Remember who you are. Remember why you are here.”

What the hell am
I doing? Grant is a client. I’m a professional. What would be the right thing
for me to say to him?

“I enjoyed
meeting you very much, and would appreciate you returning my call,” I finally
say.

Andre sets his
tablet down on the end table. While his face is composed I register a
combination of pride and amusement in his eyes.

“
Ma petite,
I feared what you might have said to him.
Oui, oui,
I admit I doubted
you, but you did not dishearten me. Now, cease all of these most wonderfully
passionate reactions, if you please. Nothing needs to be done at this moment,
except for you to compose yourself further. All is well. If you wish, tell me
what happened after I left you both alone in the bedroom.”

I sit beside him,
rest back on the couch and relate recent events. I particularly mention the
strange sense of connection I had with Grant, and how he seemed so sad and
vulnerable. I tell André I honestly thought at one point he looked as if he
would cry.

“Bon! Bon!
Très bon
,” he says, sitting up and leaning toward me. “Now you speak of
things that interest me greatly. Continue, if you please.”

I go into detail,
telling him everything Grant and I said and did. When it comes down to it, very
few words were spoken—yet even without them, an inexplicable ocean of
connection and communication occurred between us.

“I really ‘got’
him, André. I felt as if we formed a bond.”

Unable to sit
still, I stand up once more and begin to pace anxiously. “As far as I could
tell, everything was perfect. I know something happened. I don’t know what,
but… something did. It was wonderful. Magical. And I’m not talking about sex.
You’re right. He really does need me. He needs someone, that’s for sure. He
looks so sad. I’ve never met a more lost and lonely man.”

“
Bravo!
And now you speak like the observant and intelligent woman you are.”

I stop and face
him. “What do you think I did wrong?”

His eyes widen in
quizzical surprise. “
Did
you do something wrong?”

“I must have! He
ran away! Why did Grant leave like that?”

Supremely
disinterested by my question, André shrugs. “How should I know unless he tells
us? Me? I am very clever, and yet I find with all my observational skills, I am
not psychic.”

I exhale in a
deep sigh and can’t help but feel bummed out.

I would’ve felt
much worse if I had any idea of how pissed off André was at me.

“The most
eloquent poet could never express with language the trust, respect, selflessness
and adoration as one silent act of love.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

André glances up
at me and his eyes flash in what appears to be frustration… or muted fury.
“Tell me what you are feeling
right now
,” he demands.

I’m used to this
“attitude and emotion” game; André’s taught me how to play. For a moment, my
thoughts turn inward and I easily reply, “Guilty. Stupid. As if everything is
all my fault, and I’m a failure.”

André’s instant
grin is bright and wide. The shadows in his eyes disappear as if a noonday
sun’s come out from a cloud. I told him the
exact truth
and I also told
it
succinctly.
This always pleases him. He pats the couch beside him
once more, so I sit down.

“Ma petite
,
is it customary for an adult to behave as Grant has done? To share such an
intimate act and then to flee without even a simple
au revoir?”

I shake my head.

“For him,
oui,
oui,
there was a reason, but
we
do not know it. Nevertheless, people
do not typically act in this manner. It could be said to be most unusual. Even
irrational, no?”

“Yes,” I have to
agree.

He nods his head.
“
Bon.
Grant has acted as a crazy man, running away from a generous and
beautiful woman.” His dark eyes blaze. “But
you!
You blame yourself for
his illogical behavior. Now, I ask you, which of the two of you is acting more
irrationally?”

Wow.
There’s an unwelcome, yet spot on idea.

I keep falling
back into my old pattern of blaming myself for everything.

André nods when
he sees I understand what he’s getting at. His expression becomes grave. “It is
a risk, a very great risk to allow you to be Grant Wilkinson’s surrogate,” he
says quietly.

His words
surprise me.
What risk? What’s he talking about?

André’s lips thin
and he shakes his head. “And still, I have done what I have done. But pay
attention, if you please,” he says in a deceptively soft tone that holds an
undoubted trace of menace. “It can be undone at any time, yes?”

Shit.
My
eyes widen and my breath hitches.

He’s talking
about taking me off of Grant’s case.

No! I couldn’t
bear it!

Everything I have
wells up inside of me in a rush of protest, but I manage to keep my mouth shut.

There’s an edge
to André’s voice. He has that displeased and all-powerful Dom look in his dark
eyes, as if he’d like to discipline me for forgetting that I’d been working in
a professional capacity. He’s furious and disappointed. After all this time,
and his extensive training, I should be able to control myself better.

“I believe we
understand each other?” he asks in a low growl that’s hard as iron. It’s a
no-nonsense voice, a tone he rarely uses with me. I find it unnerving as hell.

“Yes, Sir. I’m
sorry, Sir.”

The title slips
out automatically and I struggle to meet his eyes. I desperately want to avert
my gaze in shame. André’s my best friend and he’s literally, my savior. He
means more to me than anyone else in the world. But right now he’s my boss, and
I’ve let him down.

He dips his head
subtly, the tiniest nod, accepting my apology.

I can’t help but
consider the manner of it is somewhat regal. I know he’s granting me
amnesty—but just this once. He’s the king of his world and I’m merely a pawn.
And still, he often treats me with the deference of royalty.

“Renata,” he
says, and I withhold a cringe—he rarely calls me by my name. “Listen to me very
carefully. I have chosen to place two damaged people together in the hope they
may heal each other.”

His eyes glower
in sudden, passionate fury. “Regrettably, healing cannot occur unless at least
one
of you can remain rational!”

He stands up to
make his point. “You cannot
both
be the client!
Non!
Such can be
of no help to either. It is for
you
to be the capable, professional
woman I know you are. Your attention
must
be on him!” he raises his
arms. “Your focus on him! Listen, look, and learn
from him.”

André’s pissed
and I can’t blame him. He’s right. I lost track of why I was there.

When he speaks
again, his voice lowers. “Grant is attempting to communicate with everything he
does. He wants your help, yes! Even now, when he has run away, it is a cry for
help. Every word, every action—all is a valid form of communication.”

Hands locked
together behind his back, André strides back and forth in front of me. “You did
well this morning. You caused a major reaction. This is very good! Something
has changed. Did Grant plan to run? No! I do not doubt he has surprised and
embarrassed himself.”

He swings to face
me and there is fury in his eyes. “Tell me, if you please. If you take every
illogical step he makes personally, who will be there with Grant to help him
address his issues? Not the counselor—
non!
For she will be responding to
her own triggers! She will be stuck in her own mind, reliving and repeating
her
past in a misguided effort to change it!
This must not be!
Push your own
case away while you are with him. Act as the counselor must act.
Be
the
counselor! I expect nothing less from the intelligent woman I’ve trained!”

We stare at each
other for a long moment.

“I understand,
André,” I say meekly. “I screwed up. I see exactly how it happened. I’ll be on
guard in the future. I promise.”

I blink, shake my
head, and look across the room toward one of André’s French impressionist
paintings. I see the picture, but don’t really
see
it. My thoughts are
with Grant. I don’t think I’ve ever been as engaged with a client.

My gaze returns
to meet André’s dark eyes.

“I wasn’t
prepared,” I say. “Grant…surprised me. There’s something about him. I know he
was overwhelmed, but he turned my whole world upside-down too.”

André nods. “
Oui,
oui,
je comprends très bien
, but as the counselor, you do not have
the luxury of reacting. You do not have a heart of stone, and I do not ask you
to. Do you imagine that I never fight this battle? That I find it easy, at all
times, to remain calm and quiet when a client speaks of atrocities?
Je
t'assure,
oh, many, many times I struggle. Why? Because for me also, there
is a past.”

“Oh,” I say
weakly.

I’ve never once
considered this—the idea that André might’ve had a less than perfect childhood.
For all I know he’s an orphan as he’s never talked of parents or siblings. The
man is always so sensible, wise and well-adjusted. How could I guess he might
have triggers of his own?

“If you feel you
are responding to your own memories, if you feel you are losing control, excuse
yourself as best you can. Come to me and we will address your issues,” he says
quietly. “Just remember, your client deserves the best you can be.”

“I will, André.”

“You did not fail
when you were with
Monsieur
Wilkinson and for this I am most grateful,”
he says in a mollifying tone. “You acted with empathy and love—yes, love!”

My eyes widen in
surprise. How does he know about the love thing, when I’ve hardly begun to
figure it out myself?

He shrugs a
shoulder. “You are naturally caring and compassionate. It makes you a most
excellent surrogate,” he explains, answering my question before I ask it.

“Oh.”

“Grant,” he says,
“has never known feelings of love from another without treacherous or
self-serving strings attached. You gave to him willingly with no other motive
than to help.”

I nod because
it’s true. Is that what happened? Poor Grant. Maybe that explains my
overpowering rush of inexplicable love for the man.

Leaning forward,
his dark eyes brighten with sudden curiosity. “You tell me you touched him?” he
asks with strong interest. “You caressed the scars?”

“Yes. It seemed
the right thing to do.”

Face gleaming
with pleasure, he kisses his fingers and flings them outward in a gesture of
perfection.
“Magnifique! Ah! Mon Dieu,
I wish I had been there to see
it! Our little mouse faced the monster and he was not oh-so monstrous after
all. He was very angry, yet under such tenderness, even fury must fade, no?”

I frown. “I never
once considered he was mad at me. Isn’t that strange? When I’m usually so
frightened by angry people, especially big angry men?”

“But of course! Grant
was never angry with
you.
Intuitively, you knew this.” There’s warm
approval in his eyes. “This is one of the many things I adore very much about
women. They are born with insight and intuition. It is a sensitivity most men
lack.”

I don’t know what
to say about that, so I say nothing.

André’s brows
furrow. “The man dislikes himself. It is a tragedy that with time we shall
remedy.” His face lifts suddenly, and he smiles an angelic, self-satisfied
grin. “Hate vanishes and walls cannot stand against the strength of love. You
disarmed
Monsieur
Wilkinson with kindness,
n’est-ce-pas?
That was
very well done.”

“Merci. Merci
beaucoup,
André.”

“Il n'est rien
de réel que le rêve et l'amour,”
he adds, and cocks a whimsical eyebrow.

I smile when I
recognize the quote from the famous French poet, Anna de Noailles:
Nothing
is real but dreams and love.
It’s a nice idea, and who knows? Maybe it’s
even true.

“One more thing,
ma
petite souris.”

“Yes?”

“Together, you
have forged a connection,” he says. “Grant is an intelligent man, who has
endured much.” His gaze fixes on me. “Have you noticed how those who have
suffered, recognize suffering in others? As a man with his own scars, Grant
will not be blind to yours.”

Huh.
I
hadn’t thought of this.

André nods when
he can tell I appreciate what he’s saying. He continues, “Your own issues, at
some point
will
affect him—yes! But they must not
negatively
affect
him.”

“I understand,” I
say.

If we continue to
spend time together, Grant will become aware of my circumstances and my past.
André expects this. Yet, I can’t allow my problems to mess up his therapeutic
journey. I must remain mindful of this.

My thoughts go
back to something else André said.
I have chosen to place two damaged people
together in the hope they may heal each other
.

What did he mean
by that? Was he… could he be…
matchmaking?

We’re both
surprised when André’s phone rings.

He takes it from
his pocket and checks caller ID. I watch his sensual lips curve up in a slow
smile.

“Voilà!
Our
lost sheep is calling,” he says, slanting me a playful look. “Me? I am not at
all surprised. Do you think
Monsieur
Wilkinson wishes to return to the
fold?”