Obsession (Year of Fire) (21 page)

“Some other time I’ll let you drive it,” Al-Saud promised, and Juana responded with a yelp. “Would you like to drive it, Matilde?”

“Mat doesn’t know how to drive. She never wanted to learn.”

Shiloah and Alamán arrived, driving the Audi A8. Al-Saud introduced them. Shiloah and Alamán’s courtesy immediately ingratiated them with Matilde, who looked at them and smiled. Al-Saud, furious with jealousy, brusquely started to hurry them along.

“Come on, come on, get in the car. We’re off to Benkay.”

“Wouldn’t you like to inquire whether we’re in the mood for Japanese food?” Alamán complained, smiling.

“I’ve never eaten Japanese food before!” Juana’s enthusiasm made the decision for them.

Fabrice decided to go with his cousin Alamán. Eliah, silent and clearly feeling grumpy, adjusted Matilde’s seat belt before he started the car. He put on a CD of famous arias and Bocelli’s voice filled the silence between them, drowning out the chattering of Matilde’s teeth.

“I’m really cold,” she finally admitted, unable to control her shivering.

Al-Saud looked at her in concern and turned the heating to maximum. She relaxed little by little and the shuddering dissipated.

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes, thank you. You’re not cold? You’re hardly wearing anything.”

“I’m used to it,” he said dryly. How could he explain to her that during the training for L’Agence they had submerged him in pools of freezing water until his limbs started to cramp and the doctor warned that he was at risk of a heart attack? That practice, which allowed him to bear hypothermia for much longer, seemed to have changed his body temperature and even freezing days didn’t make an impression on him.

“You’re the one who doesn’t have the right coat for this weather,” he said, looking at her old wool coat disdainfully.

“Oh, the Eiffel Tower!” Juana was ecstatic. “It’s so impressive. More than I thought.”

Al-Saud looked at Matilde, who turned in her seat to admire the tower they were leaving behind.

“The contrast of the orange lights against the black sky,” she said finally, without turning around, her nose pressed against the window, “makes for a breathtaking scene.” As if the elegance of the tower had embarrassed her, she turned around and asked, “Is the restaurant we’re going to very fancy? I’m not dressed for it.”

“You’re fine as you are.”
With your hair loose and your face
, he would have liked to say,
no one will notice the clothes that do you so little justice.
He remained silent, however; his words seemed to scare her like a little bird.

The restaurant, on the twenty-ninth floor of a hotel on Quai Grenelle, opposite the Seine, was one of Al-Saud’s favorites. The maître d’ knew his tastes and was always ready to satisfy them. He seated the six guests at a low table, with two sofas facing each other, next to a window that looked out over the river. The view at night was transcendent. The Japanese decor could barely be seen in the semidarkness; the candles, dim lights and large windows created a sensuous, exotic ambiance that intimidated Matilde. She felt out of place and underdressed.

Alamán and Shiloah, who had similarly affable and optimistic natures with smiles that never left their lips, achieved what he had found impossible: they put Matilde at ease. She wasn’t afraid or defensive with his brother or his friend, she even laughed and took part in the conversation, which was held in English, as Shiloah didn’t speak Spanish. She was sitting next to Eliah on the sofa, but might as well have been on the
other side of the restaurant. There were moments of intimacy, when he had shown her how to use the chopsticks and Matilde had laughed at her clumsiness, laughter that tugged at his soul, when he helped her to choose dishes from the menu and when, after he ordered from the waiter in Japanese, she asked him how he had learned the language.

“My martial arts teacher taught me. I’d like you to meet him.”

“Does he live in Paris?”

“No. In Rouen.”

“Is that far from here?”

“No. Just over sixty miles.”

“What language do you think in?”

“French.”

Shiloah interrupted the conversation. He wanted to know if it was true that Matilde was twenty-six years old and a surgeon. Alamán didn’t believe it either. Matilde confirmed that it was true, and Juana giggled triumphantly.

“Mat, show them your ID! Hand it over!”

Once they saw Matilde’s ID card, the men admitted defeat.

“Now both of you owe me a hundred francs.”

“Juana, please!” Matilde was embarrassed, but nobody paid her any mind; they were laughing and chatting as they settled their debts.

The waiter asked if he could take the plates away. Matilde’s was still nearly full.

“You didn’t eat anything,” Eliah reproached her. “Do you want me to ask them to heat up your food?”

“No, thank you. I’ve had enough.”

“Enough? You barely ate three bites.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eliah caught Juana’s wink. She lowered her eyes and shook her head gently.
Don’t insist
, she was clearly telling him.

“What time is it?” Matilde wanted to know; the battery in her watch was dead.

“Twenty to eleven,” Eliah answered.

“I’ll be back,” she announced; she had to take her medication and she didn’t want to do it in front of him.

Eliah watched her walk toward the bathroom. He left his seat and followed her. He waited for her in the hall. She didn’t see him as she came out of the bathroom.

“Matilde!”

His commanding voice made her legs tremble. She turned around and he appeared out of the darkness at the end of the hall. Shadows crossed his face as he came toward her. He had taken off his jacket, and the plaid shirt, which clung tightly to his torso and arms, made clear that he was a very strong man, much stronger than Roy. She felt panic welling up inside of her. Eliah’s eyes had darkened like a stormy sky.

“What’s up?” She tried to sound calm.

His silence as he stalked toward her immediately gave the lie to her feigned confidence. She backed away and bumped into the wall. Al-Saud pounced on her like a bird of prey and smothered her with his body, his arms and chest, his cologne and powerful aura. She turned her lips away from him, but he took her jaw in his hand and closed his mouth over hers. He could feel Matilde’s terror as palpably as her physical body.
She’s so small!
bellowed his runaway soul.
Anyone could hurt her! My God! What am I doing?
He couldn’t stop himself. She ceased her struggling but remained tense. He had never imposed himself on a woman. Why was he doing so with Matilde? What was it about her that drove him so wild? When had he lost sight of the objective? He kept his lips on hers, unable to overcome the frenzy that dominated him.

“For God’s sake, Matilde…what am I doing?” He didn’t dare to look at her, so he buried his face in her neck with its scent. “Why are you rejecting me? I can’t stand it,” he finally admitted. “You’re driving me crazy.” He didn’t mention that he had slept badly and hardly at all the night before because of her, and that he had gotten out of bed at dawn, desperate for nine o’ clock to come around so that he could call her.

Matilde’s toes were just brushing the ground; Eliah’s body held her up against the wall. She felt his lips graze her neck as he spoke, and the strength of his hands on her waist. She wanted to let herself go, to let him whisk her away. “Your fear is actually pride,” her psychologist had diagnosed. “You’re such a perfectionist that you can’t stand your inexperience in this sphere, and you won’t allow yourself to experiment. Practice, Matilde. Everything takes practice.” Now she wanted to practice.

“I’m not rejecting you,” she finally whispered, touched by his despair.

Eliah raised his head on hearing her say something.

“What?”

“I’m not rejecting you, Eliah.”

He smiled to hear her say his name for the first time that day. He lapped up such tiny crumbs! He, a guy who regularly slept with one of most famous models in Europe. He stroked her cheek and brushed her reddened lips with his own, his arm still pressed against her.

“I already told you, this is how I am, cold.”

“That’s not true. You’re lying, and it infuriates me that I don’t know why.”

“I don’t know how to kiss.”

The confession took him by surprise. It took him a second to recover. His right hand climbed up Matilde’s back and held the nape of her neck, while his left arm tightened around her tiny waist. He drew her toward his body and kissed her. He didn’t use any technique on her, he just closed his eyes and devoured her lips, desperately aware of the woman he had trapped against the wall—a mystery, a surgeon with the face of a teenager, an angel, Sofía had said. Yes, yes, there was something supernatural about her, and how she had seduced him! He giddily surged toward her without weighing the consequences. What kind of mess was he getting himself into? This could only end up badly. He was getting involved, something forbidden in his profession. He felt her tremble, and he hoped it was from desire. He had forgotten his initial tenderness. His doubts had driven him into a kiss that smacked of desperation. He moved his head from one side to another seeking…what was he seeking? To please her. To make her like him. He yearned for her approval. What would she say if she knew his past? What would she think of his profession as a mercenary? His fear of that answer only heightened his passion, and an involuntary moan escaped from his lips.

Matilde couldn’t even move her hands, which were trapped under his torso. Nothing she had dared to imagine could compare to being kissed by Eliah Al-Saud. His mouth had started cautiously and ended up pressed against hers. She didn’t dare to do anything; his exuberance allowed her to be passive. She just wanted to feel. And she was feeling as she never had before. She tried to concentrate so she wouldn’t forget. She would carry this kiss with her and go over it in her mind a thousand times. It was the best thing that had happened in her life. She was relaxed and tense at the same time; she wanted to perform well, but she was ready to learn. The
moment she had feared arrived, and his tongue pressed to gain entry into her mouth. She breathed deeply, knowing that the A*Men that impregnated his shirt would help her to relax. The voluptuous fragrance made her spirit soar, urging her to open up to this man whose tongue rushed inside like a runaway train, probing her mouth as though seeking something essential that had been lost. She didn’t know what to do. Her own tongue was withdrawn, frightened by this invasion. How long would the kiss last?
It’ll end any second
, she said to herself, and the thought disappointed her. With Roy, she had always hoped it would end soon. She boldly touched her tongue to Eliah’s, and he reacted with a hoarse moan. His pelvis pushed against her, and Matilde felt his erection through the wool of her cardigan. She pulled her mouth away and begged him, “Enough, please.”

He obeyed. They stood in silence. Her eyes stayed shut and her mouth remained half-open, allowing her quiet panting to escape. It was the sweetest mouth he had ever kissed, and he had kissed many. Matilde pressed her forehead against his chest.

“Don’t say anything, please. Anything you say to me will sound like a lie.”

He wasn’t about to say anything; he was speechless. All he wanted to do was to keep kissing her. A group of other customers ruined his intentions. When Matilde heard them, she jerked back nervously and he moved away. Before they got back to the table, he whispered into her ear, “Liar. You’re not cold.” And kissed her on the lips.

He was thankful for the dim lighting, otherwise his excitement would have been evident. He went to the cash register and paid the check, while those sitting at the table looked at him suggestively.

“
On y va?
” he said, putting on his jacket. “It’s getting late.”

“And Mat?”

“She’ll be out in a moment.”

Matilde returned, fidgety and blushing, and without looking up, allowed Eliah to help her into her coat. They went down the twenty-nine floors to the hotel lobby without exchanging a single word or look. Fortunately, the jokes and laughter of the others filled the elevator cabin. At the hotel exit, Eliah noticed a flash behind him. He turned around quickly. It took him a second to identify Lars Meijer, the Dutch journalist who was pointing the camera at him. He walked toward him, ignoring his friends’
exclamations and questions. The man stood his ground—an act of great courage given the martial arts demonstration he had received at the door of the George V. Eliah stopped in front of Meijer and stared at him fiercely before taking the camera from him, opening the back and exposing the film. The journalist tried in vain to take it back and ended up with the camera shoved roughly into his chest. He shouted in pain. Eliah took fifty francs from his wallet and threw them in his face. In silence, he lifted his index finger as a warning. Then he spun around and moved off.

He casually explained himself to Shiloah and Alamán in French, so that Matilde and Juana wouldn’t understand. Later, at the door of the building on Rue Toullier, Juana left them alone. Matilde’s feet were frozen, her body was exhausted, and a light dizziness told her that she had overexerted herself. She turned to him to say good-bye. Eliah hugged her, and she didn’t say anything, enjoying the heat of his body. “Matilde,” he said, and leaned toward her to put his forehead on hers. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“Neither do I.” She turned away from him and fled.

She was so cold. All she wanted was to take a shower. Feeling more like herself after half an hour under the hot water, she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, and, as she slowly rubbed her hair dry, she stared into the distance without blinking. She had been in Paris for three days and her life was beginning to look like it might get out of control. How had it gotten to this point? If she reasoned it out calmly, the uncertainty had started right at the beginning of her trip, when by chance she had been assigned the seat next to Eliah. Now she knew his last name. Al-Saud. “Eliah Al-Saud,” she murmured quietly so that Juana wouldn’t hear, and trailed her fingers over her mouth. The surname sounded exotic.
Eliah Al-Saud
, she thought, and buried her nose in the elastic of the glove that still smelled of A*Men. That name went with his uncommon appearance. She doubted that Al-Saud could slip into a room unnoticed; it would be difficult to stop yourself from turning to admire him.