Remember (18 page)

Ashley felt dazed the rest of that evening, her body physically assaulted by his nearness, by the spell he’d cast on her. What was she doing? She asked herself the question again and again as the hours wore on. But when he walked her up the stairs that night, she had no doubt what would happen.

Or that she wanted it to.

She opened the door and let him in. And there, on her foldout futon, in the arms of a married artist twice her age, Ashley put to death a lifetime of conviction.

Even as a rebellious teenager, she had somehow managed to hold on to what her parents had taught her about waiting until marriage. But this was Paris, and she was smitten. She didn’t
want
to wait.

That night, Jean-Claude touched her in a way that completely silenced her conscience and left her hungry for more.

When they said good-bye, the sun was coming up.

* * *

Ashley paused. She hadn’t voiced all the details to Landon. They would only hurt him, hurt them both. She rested her forehead on her knees. “This is harder than I thought.”

“You were young, Ashley. All alone in a foreign country.” Landon eased his grip on her shoulders and ran a finger down the side of her face.

“Wait.” Ashley shook her head. “There’s more.”

She’d gone this far with the story, she might as well finish. Then it would all be laid out in the open. Whatever happened after this, at least they would have no more secrets between them.

Ashley lifted her head and let it fall against Landon’s shoulder. No matter what he thought of her when she was finished, she needed his support. Needed to know he wouldn’t jump up and run off, leaving her in the mucky mire of her own memories. She closed her eyes briefly and continued.

After her first night with Jean-Claude Pierre, Ashley had known there would be others. It wasn’t something they talked about. It was something that simply was. She had found a connection so physically addicting that there was no turning back. For nearly a month they were together every night.

Then one evening he showed up at her flat with a friend.

“Angelo is an artist also,” Jean-Claude explained. “He wants you to sit for him.”

Even now, Ashley remembered the butterflies that swarmed in her belly as the men stood there, staring at her.

“Now?” Ashley stepped back, puzzled.

Jean-Claude and his friend laughed. “No,
chérie,
not now. Tomorrow.”

“Why . . . why’s he here now?”

“He wants to see you.”

“See me?” Something in Jean-Claude’s smile turned Ashley’s stomach.

“Yes,
chérie.
All of you.”

Ashley took another step back. “No!” She searched Jean-Claude’s face, desperate for any sign of humor. There was none. And she felt every inch the provincial, unsophisticated American she was desperate not to be.

Disappointed, Jean-Claude and the man left. After that, the visits from Jean-Claude came less often.

Then one night he showed up at her gallery around closing time. He barely spoke to her, merely assumed she would go with him. And she did. They walked the streets of Paris for an hour or so. And afterward he took her someplace he’d never taken her before—to his private art studio.

It was a beautiful place, with high ceilings and skylights from one end to the other. Jean-Claude’s paintings hung on the walls and leaned in the corners. Ashley could hardly believe he’d brought her there.

“I thought he might ask me to paint with him, maybe share some technique with me.” Ashley shrugged, and her eyes met Landon’s. “I should’ve known better.”

Instead, Jean-Claude pointed to an area near the window where an easel stood a few feet from a leather sofa. “Take off your clothes.”

Ashley blinked. Was he joking? “What?”

“Take off your clothes, and lie on my sofa.” Jean-Claude touched her chin, but his eyes were far from gentle. “I want to paint you.”

Ashley didn’t move. “I’m an artist.” She managed a smile. “Not a model, Jean-Claude.”

Tears pooled in Ashley’s eyes at the memory of what happened next. She shifted her gaze, unable to look at Landon for this next part. “And then he . . . he laughed at me. He . . . he told me he’d seen my work and it was . . . worthless. Worthless . . . American . . . trash.”

Beside her, Landon moaned. “Oh, Ashley, he’s wrong. You didn’t believe him, did you?”

She lifted her eyes to his once more, her voice tinged with a rejection that had never quite died. “What was I supposed to think? He was the expert.” She sniffed, and her voice fell quiet again. “He told me the only thing artistic about me was . . . my body.” Her voice dropped a notch. “He told me that’s why I needed to . . . to sit for him. Because my flesh was the most beautiful form of art.”

Anger flashed in Landon’s eyes. “He never saw your heart . . . or the way you involve it in your work.” Landon reached behind him and grabbed a corner of the blanket. He used it to wipe the tears from Ashley’s cheeks.

“Thanks.” Shame all but suffocated her. She sniffed again, wrapped her arms around her knees, and somehow found the strength to go on. “I wanted to run, leave him there with his easel. But I was like a helpless schoolgirl.”

She met Landon’s eyes. “I even asked him if he loved me.” A sad chuckle mingled with her sobs. “Isn’t that crazy?”

Landon said nothing, just made circles along the small of her back. His silent support gave her the strength to go on.

“He laughed at me and told me no, of course he didn’t love me. He said I was a diversion, a way for him to ‘explore his passions.’ So there I was. Humiliated as an artist, as a woman. And I stayed. I could’ve walked away and never looked back, but I didn’t.”

Again Landon was quiet, encouraging her with his presence.

She drew a shaky breath. “He had me . . . take off my clothes and pose on that sofa. He took some photos—said they were prep work. He got out a new canvas and sketched for a while. Then he came over to me and . . .”

Ashley couldn’t finish. Years of pent-up anguish broke free and shook her until her teeth rattled. “I felt . . . so dirty, Landon. He didn’t care about me at all. But I still couldn’t walk away.”

The sobs were slowing now. She sniffed and shook her head.

“He didn’t even take me home that night. I had to take the Metro. And all I could think of, all the way back, was my family . . . and you . . . and God.” She struggled to catch her breath. “How . . . I’d let you all down. And how”—her voice took on a bitter tinge—“I’d still go back to his studio if he asked me.”

“Ashley.” Landon circled his arms around her and held her close, stroking her back.

Minutes passed while she tried to get hold of her emotions. She didn’t deserve Landon’s understanding, but he was giving it anyway. Why wasn’t he running? How could he sit here with her now that he knew the truth?

When her sobs eased some, she finished the story. “And I did go back. Whenever Jean-Claude asked, I was there—no matter what he wanted. And then . . .” Her voice settled into a monotone. “. . . I found out I was pregnant.”

The next time Jean-Claude came into the art gallery, Ashley told him they needed to talk. Jean-Claude seemed irritated. He had plans for the night, he said. But he led her to a private studio in the back of the gallery.

“What is it you wish to say?” Gone was the sweet-talking romantic.

Ashley fidgeted with her fingers. Where was the attraction she’d felt for him before? Now she felt cheap, dirty, used. “I’m . . .” She couldn’t meet his impatient gaze.

“Don’t act as a child.” Jean-Claude glanced at his watch. “I am here now. Say it.”

Panic choked out her ability to think. Without waiting another moment, she drew a quick breath and closed her eyes. “I took a test. I’m . . . pregnant.”

The minute Ashley opened her eyes, she knew it was over. The look on Jean-Claude’s face told her that would be the last conversation she’d ever have with him.

She still remembered his reaction. The news worked its way across his features in a matter of seconds. Then Jean-Claude backed up a step and shook his finger at her. “This is your trouble,
chérie.
Not mine.” A bitter chuckle eased from his throat. “When you play, you must use caution.”

He turned to leave, and Ashley shouted, “Wait!” She lurched toward him, grabbing his sleeve. “I’ll sit for you again. I’ll do anything, Jean-Claude. Just stay with me. Help me. . . .”

With a jerk of his arm he pulled away. “Get back. Your child is not mine.” He lifted his chin and cast her a haughty look, a look that made her feel like last week’s leftovers. “I am a married man.” Before he left, he tossed her one last barb. “There is a clinic down the street. Maybe they will know the answer.”

Two nights later, Ashley was leaving the art gallery when she spotted Jean-Claude arm in arm with a slender young man. Stunned, Ashley watched them cross the street and head into a café—the same place he’d taken her back when their relationship first began.

That’s when it hit Ashley.

She hadn’t had a relationship with Jean-Claude. She hadn’t even had an affair. He was a married man with enough charm to get whatever woman—or man—he wanted. Girls like Ashley were merely entertainment for Jean-Claude, a form of entertainment even his wife found acceptable.

Ashley had been devastated by the realization. She went back to her small flat and vomited throughout the night. In the morning she went to the clinic Jean-Claude had mentioned.

A kind woman at the front desk assured her that abortions were confidential and quick. A fifteen-minute wait at the most.

Good,
Ashley had thought.
In an hour I’ll be rid of everything that could ever remind me of Jean-Claude Pierre.

* * *

Ashley hung her head again and began to shake.

“Hey, it’s all right.” Landon tightened his embrace, sheltering her the way he might if she were a little girl. “Everything’s okay.”

She still shook, but the warmth of his body permeated her soul. What was this feeling, this longing for a man she’d worked so hard to avoid? And how could she fall for him now, when the truth was bound to change his feelings for her?

“Obviously, you didn’t go through with it.” Landon’s voice was gentle against her cheek.

“No.” She dabbed at an errant tear. “The whole time I was waiting, I thought about my parents and everything they’d taught me. If I went ahead with the abortion, there’d be no turning back. And . . . and . . .”

Her voice broke, and she shuddered. How close she’d come to losing Cole. “I kept thinking, even though I wouldn’t be a very good mother . . . it wasn’t the baby’s fault.”

Landon stroked her back again. Once more, his touch gave her the strength to go on.

“When they called my name, I turned around and ran. As fast and hard and far away as I could get.” A few quiet sobs shook her shoulders again. “I came home a few months later and . . . and I couldn’t tell anyone what happened. It was too awful.”

Ashley pulled back some, searching Landon’s face. “Want to know the worst part?”

Clearly, Landon knew what she was going to say, but he waited.

“Coming home.” Fresh tears filled her eyes. “I was always a little different before. You know?”

Landon gave her a crooked smile. “I know.”

Ashley held his gaze. “But when I came home, everything was worse. I wasn’t just the girl who gave my parents more trouble than the rest. I was the black sheep. No one knew what to do with me. ‘Poor Ashley.’ Her tone became quietly sarcastic. ‘Runs off to Paris and comes home pregnant. What’ll we do with her?’ ”

Ashley spread her fingers across her chest. “Everything they said only made me feel worse. Like none of them could ever accept me or love me or care about me again. Especially Luke.” She bit her lip. “He was the worst.”

“I’m sorry, Ashley.” Landon cupped her face with his hand.

“In here”—she made a fist and pressed it to her heart—“I was still just a girl, Landon. A girl who’d had her dream of painting ripped apart by one of the most popular new artists in Paris. But when I got home and realized what everyone thought of me—what I thought of myself—I knew my life would never be good again. Because . . .” She covered her face with her hands as a new wave of tears came.

Once more Landon circled her with his arms. “Because what?”

“Because . . .” She looked up at the blurred image of his face. “. . . I wasn’t worth anything. Not as an artist
or
as a person. I wasn’t . . . worth loving anymore.” She used the blanket to wipe her tears again. “There.” She sat up straighter. “Now you know.”

“Ah, Ashley.” Landon reached for her hands and held them in his own. “You don’t even know what you’re worth.”

“And Landon . . .” She had something else to say, and the pain of it tore at her heart. She’d told him the truth. Now it was time to let him go, to dismiss him from any obligation he might think he owed her. “You can let go of your silly dreams about me because I’m none of the things you thought I was.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat. There was no point crying. The two of them would never have worked out anyway. Landon was pure and upright and good, and she was. . . . She sniffed again. “You deserve someone better than me.”

“Ashley, no . . .”

She squeezed his hands and let go, crossing her arms tightly against her body. “Don’t worry about it, Landon. I don’t expect you to call or come see me. Just make your plans and move to New York. Make a life for yourself, the kind of life you deserve.” Ashley blinked so she could see more clearly. “But when you remember me . . . remember the person you thought I was, okay, Landon? Not this.” She motioned to herself. “Not the truth.”

Landon’s eyes grew wide, and he shook his head. “Don’t say that.” His voice was intense, filled with conviction. “I’m
here,
Ashley. I know the truth about you, and I’m not running. I’ll never run.”

She hung her head, and with tender fingers he lifted her chin. “No.” She closed her eyes and turned her head away. “Don’t.”

“Come on, Ashley.” He brushed his thumb against her jaw. “Look at me.”