Claudine (26 page)

She could still see the faint pink line where she scratched his face. He had been cheated out of a good part of the evening through no fault of his own and the additional money was welcome. “Of course. It will be my pleasure.”

Ferrer beamed and patted her knee. “I’m delighted. Now, you must be exhausted after my shenanigans tonight, my dear, let’s get you up to bed.”

The covers in her room had been turned down. She let the wrap slide off her. Underneath she wore a translucent nylon negligee. Like a veil over a bride’s face, it gave a tantalizing hint of her rosy nipples, the creamy length of her torso and hips, her belly button and the crease between her legs. Ferrer lifted the gown up to her shoulders. “As lovely as I remembered. And tonight I don’t have to share you.”

He began at the dip in her throat and slowly licked his way down her breasts and belly. The feel of his tongue and breath on her skin excited her and she was wet by the time he reached her mound. He opened her, and explored her with his tongue. She moved her hips to meet his rhythm when suddenly, he pushed two fingers into her vagina, felt along the delicate rim of the condom she wore. “A very clever contraption,” he murmured. “I almost missed noticing it the night of our Victorian dinner.”

Ferrer stood and brushed Claudine’s hair to the side, licked the delicate skin of her neck and swirled his fingers inside her. Each time he pulled his fingers out he lightly rubbed her bud, giving her spurts of pleasure.

He asked her to squat with her back against the headboard.
He moved the skin of his penis rapidly up and down to achieve a full erection and pushed inside her. She gripped his shoulders and moved in concert with him. He came in a rush between her tanned legs, growling with the strength of his orgasm. “I apologize,” he said turning his eyes away from her. “I have that problem. I climax too fast. That has always been an issue with me.”

She stroked his chest. “You’re able to get hard again quickly—no? That compensates.” She smiled and caressed his cheek.

“You’re good at calming insecurities, my girl.” he said, a penetrating look in his dark eyes. “We’ll make up for it tomorrow.”

CHAPTER
29

The benign end to their evening hadn’t settled Maria’s nerves. After Ferrer left, her disappointment over Reed resurfaced, making her insomnia worse than usual. Although she popped enough sleeping pills to stun a horse, they only resulted in an unsatisfying, restless doze. Sometime later a noise roused her, a loud rustling outside her window. Three hoots, followed by a sharp cry from some creature’s throat. It unnerved her and she sat up. Her eiderdown and sheets were mangled from her tossing and turning. She threw them off and moved over to the window that she’d left open, thinking the fresh air might help her sleep.

A giant sycamore branch spread outside the window. In the bright moonlight she could see the flush of the sycamore’s pointed leaves, the strange scales of light and dark on the bark that looked like lizard skin. An owl sat in a crotch of the branch; it had trapped a little songbird in its curved beak. The owl’s
head turned from right to left and then the ferocious yellow circles of its eyes stared directly at her.

Maria slammed the window shut and it flew off with a flap of its great wings. She picked up the eiderdown at the foot of her bed but found no comfort in its warmth. She finally drifted off, waking an hour later to the nightmare of the Romanian orphanage. Hock’s face had vanished; this time her molester wore an owl mask. Yet the eyes staring at her were not yellow but black and glittering. The human hands reaching for her were covered with scales and in place of fingernails were sharp yellow talons.

Why could she never remember her tormentor’s face? He’d only come to her at night but it was never so dark that she couldn’t make out the walls and rails of her crib. Her counselor believed she’d deliberately pushed the image far into the unreachable depths of her memory. “One day, you’ll remember,” the counselor had said. “It won’t come by trying to force it.”

She stayed in bed until midmorning when Alicia brought in a breakfast tray. “Mr. Ferrer is working in the main library today. He’d prefer not to be disturbed. The small one is at your disposal, of course. He’ll see you at teatime.” Alicia paused. “Are you unwell?” she asked.

“No, I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well. An owl outside my window last night disturbed me.”

Alicia frowned. “Odd. We rarely see owls around here. They’re more common in the woods, inland.”

She’d brought a delicious breakfast: an omelet filled with Brie and basil, and thin slices of buttered whole wheat toast. Maria hadn’t the stomach to eat and left most of it on her plate. She laced her coffee with real cream and drank two cups before
getting out of bed. She filled the tub with hot water and added foam bath, turned on the Jacuzzi jets and had a good, invigorating soak. No matter how understanding Ferrer had been, she wanted desperately to go home and lick the wounds that her misreading of Reed caused.

There’d been no further messages from him. He’d truly given up on her. Perhaps that was all to the good. It wasn’t likely Reed would ever be able to let go of his prejudices about her past, even if she gave it up to be with him.

At the bottom of her heart she’d always suspected love would pass her by. The happy dream of a loving husband had been spoiled by too many clients wanting escorts younger than their own daughters, serial wife cheaters and fiancés booking a final fling before the wedding. Once, a client had phoned his intended to discuss their upcoming nuptials. The man cooed to his fiancée while sitting on the hotel bed, his penis stiff, stroking her naked sex.

C
laudine dried her hair and tried to make it look presentable, but it was a far cry from Lillian’s efforts. Alicia had hung her dresses up in the closet. She riffled through them, unhappy with the choices. Exasperated, she chose a navy outfit. She picked up the earrings Andrei had given her long ago when they first began to work together, hesitated about whether to put them on, but concluded she should and felt comforted. She poured a third cup of coffee, grabbed her tablet and went to the small library to read.

Her mind wandered. She kept thinking about the last poem she’d received from Hock. Something about it bothered her.
Not the allusion to the man in the iron mask, although his foreknowledge of her itinerary was troubling enough. Nor was it the death threat. It was something she hadn’t paid enough heed to at the time. Suddenly, she had it. Lani, the boy she’d shared a cot with when she first came to the orphanage. Her adoptive mother hadn’t known Lani’s name because the boy died before Jewel visited the orphanage. Therefore she couldn’t have passed that information on to her neighbor, Charles Hock. Hock hadn’t written the second poem. Someone else had.

A tap at the door distracted her. It opened before she could answer and Ferrer entered. “This seems to be your home away from home,” he joked. “Alicia tells me you’ve closeted yourself here most of the afternoon.”

Claudine shut off her tablet and stood up, smoothing her dress with her hands.

Ferrer frowned. “Navy doesn’t suit you, my dear. It’s too severe.

“Shall I change, then?” she asked good-humoredly.

“Of course not. Soon enough the dress will be off you anyway.” He winked and took her hand. “Let’s go for a walk. I’ve asked for an early dinner so we can make the most of our evening.”

“That sounds lovely. I was thinking. Once you feel we’ve . . . finished for the evening, I’d like to return to the city. It’s been a marvelous treat staying here, but I have an important appointment early tomorrow morning.”

“By all means. You’ve been good enough to grant me the extra day.”

“I’ll just call my driver to make arrangements.”

Ferrer took her arm. “No need for that, my dear. Victor will escort you back.”

She left her cell phone and tablet on the table and accompanied him to the salon, out onto the terrace and along the path they’d taken last night. Instead of following the route to the pool, he veered onto another trail running through the grove of trees. They soon came upon a round stone building roofed with a dome. Graceful Corinthian pillars circled the building.

“The original owner built this summerhouse,” Ferrer explained. “Legend has it he hosted incredible debaucheries and used this place as a kind of Dionysian retreat. It was a temple, open to the air. Later he added the stonework you can see between the pillars, leaving only that wooden door. A woman died during one his revelries and he never used it again. He blocked it up and abandoned it.”

She shivered. The tall trees surrounding it ensured the building lay in perpetual shadow; she’d already sensed malevolence about the place. The path ended at the shoreline where the surf jetted plumes of spray. They talked amiably about not much in particular, then turned around and retraced their steps.

“I saw a garden from the library,” she said. “I imagine it would be especially beautiful this late in the afternoon—may we walk through it?”

“Certainly. I’m glad to show it off.”

The garden was protected by a high stone wall. As they neared it, she heard the twittering of birds again. “The birds are attracted to the scent of the fruit, I imagine?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Ferrer replied as he opened an iron gate fixed into the garden wall. They entered a small orchard. He
let her through and the gate clanged shut after him. The fruit trees were gnarled and overgrown and gave off a strong, cloying odor.

“What kind are they?” Yesterday she’d thought she’d seen orange and red fruit hanging from the branches and assumed they were varieties of sweet and sour cherries.

“Mostly peaches and pears, some apples.”

“It’s too early for those to be ripe—no?”

“Most of them—yes.” Ferrer said.

His answer puzzled her. What were the colors she saw, then? A ladder leaned against one of the trees farther off and she could make out Victor balanced upon it, a basket propped on one of the ladder steps, picking what must have been the early pears. White dots of bird excrement littered the sparse grassy ground. The lower leafy canopies seemed alive with fluttering birds. She craned her neck, trying to catch sight of them.

“How beautiful,” she was on the point of saying when it dawned on her what she was looking at. Dozens of songbirds—robins, chickadees, goldfinches—hung upside down from the branches by their spindly legs, twisting, trembling and flapping their wings in a frenzy to get free.

She understood now what Victor was dropping into his basket. Dead birds. After he gathered them, Victor would pluck and gut them, throwing the leavings—organs and entrails—onto the ground.

She swung around to face Ferrer. “What in God’s name are you doing here? This is terrible!”

“They feel nothing,” he said flatly. “Victor slits their throats quickly and efficiently.”

Her breath stopped. Ferrer went on as if his words had no effect on her. “It’s an old Cypriot custom. From my homeland. We paint the tree branches with a lime-scented syrup. The bird’s legs stick to it. They can’t get away. It’s a perfect time to harvest them while they’re trying to fatten up over summer. They’re a delicacy in most Mediterranean countries. We make a tasty dish with them called Ambelopoulia.” He acknowledged the look of horror on her face. “You seemed to like it well enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alicia served it to you for supper last night.”

Her throat convulsed. “She said it was quail.”

“Ah,” he chuckled. “Perhaps she thought you’d be sensitive about it. You see, my dear, if it
had
been quail—how is that any better? They’re dear little birds too. Frankly, I don’t see much difference.”

“I’m going in. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”

He took her arm again. This time, the pressure of his hand was a little too hard. “We can enter the house through here,” he said. “Dinner should be laid out by now.”

Eating was the last thing she wanted to do. “I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.” She changed the subject. “You know, I thought you were American. You don’t have any trace of an accent.”

“The very first thing I did when I came here was to work like hell to erase it. I hired a voice coach. I wanted to fit in.”

When they reached the small library, a fire had been set in the grate, the terrace table brought inside and placed in front of the fire. Dinner and drinks were already laid out. Red wine, rare roast beef with fries and fresh garden vegetables. It would have
been appetizing if her stomach wasn’t still lurching from the sight in the orchard. Her gaze fell upon the desk. “Where’s my tablet and cell phone?”

“Quite safe and sound. Alicia removed them to your room before she left.”

“She’s not here?” She felt a flicker of panic in her gut.

“It’s her night off.”

“Let’s sit down, then. My appetite is back.” The lie slipped easily from her lips; she wanted to get the evening over with as soon as possible. She tried to make small talk. “Tell me about Cyprus.”

A hint of irritation showed in his features, which he quickly covered up. “Even though I spent my childhood there, my memories of it are not happy ones. I grew up under the thumb of a tyrant, my father. If you don’t mind, I prefer not to spoil our evening by recalling those days.” He uncorked the wine and poured each of them a glass. “To my beauty,” he said, holding up his glass. She took a couple of hearty swallows to steady her nerves.

“You look under the weather today, my girl. Alicia said you spent a restless night.”

“Yes, I did,” she admitted. “Because of a nightmare. A recurring nightmare I’ve had since my childhood.”

“Did that occur because of some dreadful experience when you were young? Some form of abuse? Sadly it’s common enough.”

Her fingers worried the scar on her wrist. How strange that he would pinpoint the reason so accurately. Her vision seemed to grow foggy momentarily; she blinked to clear it.

Ferrer spoke before she had a chance to reply. “Your
reluctance to talk about it confirms my thoughts. I suspect abuse
was
involved. Most people would think such acts absolutely vile. That would be the predictable view. And yet perhaps you reached the wrong conclusion. It might help to come to terms with it if you saw it from a different perspective.”