The Accidental Mistress (4 page)

"No, I don't... I just need
a minute.
S'il vous
plaît
," she said trying to step away, but
she couldn't find her equilibrium. She felt him come up behind her.
He put his arm around her waist as he passed her the purse she left
on the bar. "Do you know your family's room number? I can take you
there."

“
Oui,
I'll go... my sister... room.”

He walked her out of the bar. She more felt
it than knew it. It was like trying to walk upright under water.
The pressure pushed in at all sides of her skull and made her lids
sag. She burped again as her stomach churned and acidic gas surged
in her throat.

How did it happen so fast? She was fine, and
then when she stood it all went to hell. Zuri shook her head and
tried to focus. “I'm so embarrassed,” she groaned.

He gave a throaty chuckle. “Don't be.”

***

When they stepped in the elevator, she went
limp on him.

Had she spoken French? He assumed she was
American, but he thought he detected an island dialect. It made her
even more tempting.

Christophe looked down at her, concerned;
she kind of leaned into him, her head bowed. Taking her chin
between his thumb and index finger, he lifted her face. Her eyes
were closed and her lips moved as if she were speaking but nothing
came out. He studied her.

She had a round face, high cheekbones that
her dark lashes rested against, full lips, an ethnic nose and skin
that looked as if it were brushed with honey. She was definitely an
islander. He remembered the beauty of West Indian women in their
colorful garb and decorative head wraps. As a child, he'd
frequented the Caribbean with his mother. His own parentage was
mixed, a French mother and an American father.

"Where's your sister's room, Zuri?"

"No remember," she mumbled and then hugged
his waist smiling.

"Sweetheart, wake up. Listen to me. Where is
her room?" he said trying to get her to respond.

"Somewhere, up there," she giggled.

"Shit," Christophe mumbled.

How did he manage to get here? She was in
his arms in an elevator, intoxicated. The impropriety alone could
invite trouble, considering who he was. His mother said he and his
cousin (like most men in her mind) were impulsive and led by their
dicks. She was proven right with Gabriella. Now this.

He removed his penthouse cardkey, slipped it
in the slot in the elevator and then hit the top floor. The lift
swept them up to the sixtieth floor in just over a minute.

“
Come on sparrow, you're
going with me,” he sighed, trying to help her walk, but her small
frame and stumbles had him doing all the leading. He barely got her
into his suite. Taking her into his arms, he carried her through
the living area to the private bedroom, placing her gently on the
covers. She smiled and rolled over snuggling the soft comfort the
expensive duvet and fluffed pillows offered.

“
Joyeux
anniversaire!”
she shouted, then mumbled
something less coherent.

“
Yes, Beautiful. Happy
birthday.” Christophe removed her shoes. She had perfectly shaped
feet and unpolished toes. They felt delicate in his hands,
feminine. He let his hand smooth up her ankle, and she giggled, but
her eyes never opened.

With her foot in his hand, her leg and thigh
were exposed by the pushed up shift of her skirt. He bit back the
desire stirring in his groin. Gently he lowered her foot and then
removed the other shoe. Casting them both aside, he reached over
and pulled her skirt down to cover her shapely thighs, then lifted
her a bit to draw the duvet down to pull it over her.

“
I'm not going,
Père
, so stop
asking.
Laisse-moi
tranquille
,” she mumbled, swatting at his
hands.

Christophe frowned.
"
Père
?" He stared
hard at her. Did her father want something she wasn't prepared to
give? They were alike in that regard, living in the shadows of
their parent's. Christophe scratched his brow, and angry
frustration soured his mood. How he hated all things French. It was
why he loved the fact that his parent's separation split him
between France and America. It was easier at the age of ten to
convince his mother to let him remain at his American boarding
school. And though he knew French, he never used it. His mother's
pious smugness made him abhor every custom she cherished. He even
dropped his name Stephan for an American one. Christophe was the
name more to his liking.

He smoothed back his hair with his hand. Now
what? She curled into a fetal ball under the covers. He thought he
heard her humming in a young childlike murmur that unnerved him.
Was she really twenty-one? What if she was a sixteen year-old with
a fake ID? She looked every bit of a woman, but he had plenty of
sauce in him. He could be wrong. These girls could fool anyone
nowadays.

Fuck, what was he
thinking!
Christophe located her purse. He
opened it and pulled out the box of condoms. He frowned at the
magnums, setting them down. He found her wallet. Her ID had her
name listed as Zuri Baptiste. She was twenty-one today. To be sure,
he pulled out her other cards, and found her birthday on her
Student ID. The pressure in his chest eased.

"Sleep it off, sweetheart," he said, and
then left her to her dreams. He sought the suite’s private bar and
poured himself another drink.

In the dark, he stepped out of his shoes. He
sat down on the sofa and set his whiskey on the coaster. Reaching
inside his suit jacket, he removed the envelope of pictures.
Gabriella had broken his heart. But she had taught him the most
valuable lesson.

"Don't you understand? Your mother is doing
this. Making you act like this. If you would just trust me."

"Trust you? My mother has nothing to do with
me trusting you. Are you denying the fact that you are Heathcliff
Girard's daughter? That you you're his spy!"

"No. I am his daughter. And if your mother
had done her homework she would know he abandoned my mum and me
before I was born. He has never acknowledged me. I'm not a spy. For
you to say these things mean you don't know me at all. What is my
crime? Tell me? Loving you when you are so unused to being loved?
You have to stop this because I can't take anymore! I can't take
you questioning me at every turn. Either you trust me or you
don't!"

Christophe slumped back, sifting through the
photos of Gabriella dining with a man, leaving a restaurant with
him, embracing him at the door to her flat, and inviting him inside
by the pull of his tie.

One could argue that he pushed her to it.
His refusal to commit and his mother's constant interference made
him cold and distrustful. Had he forced her to seek comfort with
another man? He reached for his drink and let his eyes close.

His mother was right. Montague men didn't
need love to survive, and if they forgot that fact, love would be
their curse. Look at what became of his father.

Chapter Three

Zuri awoke, finding herself under a heavy
duvet; beads of sweat dotted her brow and dripped from her lashes
into her blurred vision. She kicked off the covers. Her feet
peddled over the carpet as she raced in blind urgency to the
bathroom. Her sleep (alcohol induced delirium) made it easy to
misjudge her surroundings. She ran directly into the wall instead
of waking instantly.

Dazed, she gagged and stumbled in the
darkness to find the door to the bathroom. She rushed through the
door and vomited over the toilet seat and her self, missing the
bowl entirely. Through the retching and her stomach convulsions,
her eyes teared and she sank to the floor, depleted. The coolness
of the bathroom tile against her feverish cheek made it so much
better. She lay there waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Several minutes passed and she blinked her
eyes open. Stinking from spew and the alcohol seeping from her
pores, she lifted in time to vomit once more. The stench made her
eyes cross. She wiped her hand over her lips and flushed.

Summoning her strength, she cleaned the
commode and floor to the best of her ability. Once done, she fell
back against the tub and faced the tiled wall under the sink. "I'm
so stupid. So stupid," she chanted.

Zuri was grateful she had made it to her
sister's room but confused as to how and when she did so. Rising
from the floor, she unhooked, unbuttoned and unzipped her dress.
The drying slime on the front was hard to miss. It was her favorite
dress and ruined. She stepped out of it. Then she eased off her
panties and her bra. "I'm so dumb!" she groaned.

Zuri turned on the shower and stepped under
the cool jets. The ice-cold water tingled her skin. She shivered
but welcomed the frosty cleansing. Her head cleared, though her
skull felt as if it had been used for batting practices by the
Chicago Mets.

Zuri inhaled the lavender hotel soap as she
lathered her skin. She tried to recall the events of the night in
sequential order. Of course, due to her foggy memory, the evening
in the bar began and ended with the sexy guy named Christophe. She
blushed at the way he flirted, then how she made an ass out of
herself with mixing wine with scotch. But it was the most daring
thing she had ever done. She would wake and tell Joi and they would
have a laugh. No more alcohol for her.

She crept out of the shower and dried
herself. Her head was clear but her mouth was nasty. She put on the
hotel’s monogrammed robe hanging on the back of the door and sighed
at the terrycloth’s comforting warmth.

A search of the bathroom drawers turned up a
complimentary toothbrush and a small tube of Crest. She scrubbed
her teeth clean, then her tongue, gargled water and spit. She
checked her watch and noticed it was just three in the morning.

"Birthday over," she mumbled.

Zuri left the bathroom
shutting off the light. Her undies and soiled dress were left
behind on the floor. Her eyes adjusted again to the darkness. She
surveyed the bedroom. Her heart dropped.
The bed was empty
. The room wasn't as
she remembered. She looked to the open door that led out to a suite
she was certain her sister didn't have and nervously tightened the
sash to her robe. Her parent's room extended to an open area
equipped with a bar and outside balcony. Was she so drunk she had
ventured into her parents room? Were they waiting for her on the
sofa for a serious talk?

Careful of where she stepped, she crept out
into the suite. She saw nothing at first. There were too many
shadows in the unlit suite. But when she turned to go back in the
room, she caught a glimpse of him. Slouched down in the sofa with
torn pieces of paper all around him, it was her hero,
Christophe.

"Mon Dieu!"

His eyes stretched open. He frowned and
squinted at her in the darkness.

"What am I doing here?" she asked him.

Christophe slumped forward. He seemed as
confused as she was. He set the empty glass on the coffee table and
looked down at the shredded remains of what she now guessed to be
photographs.

"Did you bring me here!" she demanded.

"Stop yelling," he said, putting his hand to
his forehead.

"Answer me! Did you take advantage of
me?"

He peeked through his spread fingers at her.
"What?"

"You did! You got me drunk and brought me
here!"

Christophe glared at her. His eyes doing a
full long sweep of her. "Why are you in my robe?" he snapped
back.

Suddenly it dawned on her that she was in
his robe, and nude underneath. She gathered the collar in her fist
and clenched the other at her side. "I thought I was with my
sister. I took a shower, I... I didn't know I was in your room. Why
am I here?"

Christophe rose and Zuri stepped back. His
shirt was pulled out of his slacks and his tie cast aside. Half his
face was covered in shadows. But even in the darkness, she saw the
light of anger in his eyes. "You've recovered. Fine, get dressed
and get out," he mumbled, going back to the bar. She watched him
pour another drink from a nearly depleted bottle.

Instead of leaving, curiosity drew her to
the pictures torn to pieces all over the floor. Zuri stooped and
picked up a piece then another, trying to understand.

"I said go."

"What's wrong with you? Why did you do
this?"

"That's none of your business."

Zuri’s gaze turned toward him. He glared
down at her. "I apologize for accusing you of something improper. I
apologize for, I dunno, for this. I appreciate what you did,
bringing me here. My father wouldn't have been happy to have me
dropped at his door drunk. So thank you. That being said, there is
no need to be nasty. I'll go."

“
Wait.” Christophe set the
bottle down. She did. For what she wasn't sure, but there was
something oddly compelling in the way he spoke that single word to
her. She turned, the darkness had cleared like a black fog
retreating to the corners of the room she could see him now. "I'm
sorry too. Tonight, it's been a night."

Zuri watched him approach with a predator's
ease. "You okay?" he asked. "You were pretty wasted."

"Yes. I should go now."

Christophe smiled. She liked when he smiled.
Her lungs filled with air and she relaxed. There was nothing to
fear about him. He touched her hair. The strands were wet from the
shower. Her roots were frizzy from the steam. She knew from her
cursory glance in the bathroom mirror that she must look a
sight.

"Accept my apology for snapping at you,
Zuri."

"Um, ookay."

"You are quite lovely. Do you know
that?"