The Lover (24 page)

He squeezed her
, feeling her life throb between his fingers.
It could so easily be extinguished
.

"Michel—" Anne flinched.

"Shhh. Relax. Hold me, like I'm holding you… You wanted to know what I feel when I'm inside you. This is what I feel. You gripping me. Harder.
Harder
. Like this…
Yes
. Now relax. Squeeze me, release me, like a heartbeat. Yes,
God, yes
. That's it.
C'est bon
," he crooned, sinking into the rhythm, pumping, thrusting, fingers relaxing, contracting,
up
, down,
in
, out, just the two of them locked together, one body, one sex. "Feel how good you make me feel, Anne…"

Seeking the warmth of her neck, he rubbed his right cheek back and forth, back and forth, inhaling her scent, absorbing her softness, her passion.

The essence that was Anne Aimes.

But for how long?

Ragged breathing harmonized with the cadence of their bodies. Hers. His. He could feel her wetness. Hear his hardness hammering into her.

A crystal droplet of water dripped onto her left breast.

Rain? Sweat?

Tears?

He had cried when the man took him. Once.

The man had laughed.

Michael had never cried since.

Wrapping his arm around her, trapping her hand against her breast, he pulled Anne back against him until her resistance and his shirt melted and all that existed was the thrust of his penis into her vagina and the throb of her clitoris melding with his fingers, no past, no future—

Time exploded.

He felt it in his manhood; he felt it with his fingers. He felt it against his lips and his tongue, her voice crying out. "Michel! Oh, God! Michel! God, Michel, Michel, Michel!"

He sank his teeth into Anne's neck to stop her words, his words:
my name is Michael
.

Diane waited in Michael's dreams, flesh blackening from heat, blond hair a tangle of flames. Just as he had last seen her.

"I love you, Michel."

"Don't do this, Diane. Please. Let me help you. I can help you, goddamn it. Give me a chancel"

"
You can't help me
, mon amour,
but you can join me. You can join us all
."

Michael recoiled from the clasp of her fingers but he could not withdraw from her touch, could not separate her hands from his. Her flesh destroyed his just as his past had destroyed her.

Thick smoke filled his nostrils—Diane's breath. "
We wait for you, Michel
."

Little appeared behind Diane, lips charred, glazed eyes staring. Accusing.

Arms surrounded Michael, his knees, his waist, his shoulders, his neck. Child, adult, female, male, everyone he loved embraced him. And they were all dead.

Fire licked his cheek—Diane's tongue. "
Do you know what he did to us, Michel
?"

Michael wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to deny the truth.

In the end he could do neither.

"Yes. I know what he did to you."

He knew what the man had done to all of them.

But most especially he knew what the man had done to Diane.

Michael had been only a child when the man took him.

Diane had been a woman, with a woman's body and a woman's needs.

The man had taken it all away from her. Just as he had taken Michael's childhood.

Suddenly it was Gabriel who held him rather than Diane. It was Gabriel's skin that blackened; Gabriel's blond hair that turned into blue and orange flames.

He leaned his smoldering face against Michael's. "
Do you know what
I
have done, Michael
?"

Hatred had ruled him all of his life, beating inside his chest like the heart of a trapped animal. It was the only thing that had kept him alive these last twenty-nine years.

It was the only reason that he now served in hell.

Expertly he steered the wooden wheelchair out of the metal lift. The man inside it did not make a sound, back straight as his legs were not.

The top of the stairway was only ten feet behind them. It would be so simple to turn the wheelchair around.

Perspiration beaded his forehead.

The mental image of turning the wheelchair around was so vivid in his mind that he could hear the rattle of the chair and the man's surprised exclamation:
What do you think you're doing
?

I'm going to kill you, sir.

His imagination stopped there.

The words would not incite the fear that he so intensely imagined: they would incite laughter.

The man knew he did not have the courage to face up to the consequences of his actions—either past or present.

"It is a bit chilly for this time of year, don't you think, old chap?"

He gritted his teeth at the familiar, mocking voice.
The man knew what he was thinking
.

Staring at the polished mahogany floor instead of the back of the man's head, which was covered in thick gray hair, he politely answered, "Yes, sir."

Face expressionless lest he give away the seething hatred and do what he still imagined doing, he pushed the wheelchair down the shadowed hallway, away from unbearable temptation. Opposing rows of closed mahogany doors witnessed the man's safe passage.

Brass and crystal wall sconces lined the richly paneled corridor. Harsh electric light illuminated priceless paintings in gilded frames, a Chippendale table here, a rose damask-covered rococo chair there.

The man was fond of claiming it had belonged to Napoleon I, another master of men. It guarded the second to the last door.

Smoothly parking the wheelchair, he quickly, efficiently pulled the brake before turning away to swing open the door to the man's bedchamber.

Heavy maroon drapes flanked either side of a hand-crafted mahogany wood fireplace; they were pulled against the encroaching night. Yellow flames blazed inside the grate. The bedcovers were turned down, fine white linen cutting across thick maroon velvet. A book lay on the mahogany nightstand beside a Tiffany lamp, gold-edged pages gleaming in a circle of light. Tall footposts painted columns of shadow onto the wall.

Everything was as it should be.

The man sat as he had left him, gray-haired head turning neither left nor right. Silently, grimly, he released the brake on the wheelchair and pushed it across the threshold.

"I will sit by the fire. You may bathe me there."

"Very good, sir."

He did not know which ordeal was the most repulsive: washing the man in a bathtub or giving him a sponge bath.

"But first I require the urinal."

He stiffened. Revulsion crawled along his skin.

It was an unnecessary task, one that the man was quite capable of doing on his own.

The man was punishing him for his wayward thoughts.

He clenched his hands.

God Almighty
. At times like these he didn't care if he did hang.

But it wasn't dying that bothered him. It was what came after death that scared him shitless.

Retrieving the metal urinal from the adjoining bathroom, he knelt in front of the fire at the foot of the wheelchair.

He could feel the man's eyes on him, could feel his limp flesh underneath the tailored wool clothing. Behind him the fire crackled and snapped; heat seared his back. Holding his breath, he lifted the man's penis out of the dual vents of his underwear and trousers, angled the urinal to catch the flow.

The marble clock on the mantel loudly ticked away the seconds. And then… a dribble of yellow fluid trickled down the side of the cold metal.

"Clean me; there's a good boy." The man's voice was smug.

A wave of light-headedness assailed him.

The bastard.

He played with him the way a cat played with an injured rabbit. Cruelly. Deliberately. Sure that the animal cannot escape.

Hands shaking, he reached into his pocket for a tissue, cursorily dabbed the head of the man's penis before dropping it inside the metal container.

"I do not need a bath, after all. I wish to retire."

Breathing lightly through his mouth, he readjusted the man's clothing, stood up with the urinal clenched in his hand.

The man tilted his head back, eyes shining in creased, leathery skin. "Do you not wish to thank me for relieving you of a heinous duty?"

For a timeless second he thought about telling the man exactly what he wished.

He wished the man's death.

He wished the man's interment.

He wished the man's rotting flesh filled with worms.

"Thank you, sir," he said woodenly.

Inside the all-white, antiseptic-looking bathroom, he dumped the contents of the urinal inside the commode. Briefly he rested his forehead against the mirror over the sink while he rinsed out the metal container.

At times he wondered if pain and paralysis had driven the man insane. But then he would look into his faded violet eyes and see the truth.

The last twenty-nine years had taught him there was no God. But he still believed in Satan.

The man was evil through and through.

A shudder passed through his body.

He would not let the man destroy him
. All he had to endure was a few more minutes. When the man was abed, he would be free to seek consolation.

He prepared the man in silence—undressing him, sliding over his head a flannel nightshirt, lifting him onto the goose down-filled mattress, adjusting the pillows underneath his gray-haired head, tucking the covers about his withered legs. The man was content, his thoughts occupied by his latest quarry. Forcefully he focused on the nightly rituals he had performed for twenty-nine years instead of on the overwhelming desire to snatch up the pillow or the covers and press them over that dry, wrinkled face until it was no more and he was free.

The hair on his neck prickled. Glancing up, he froze underneath the man's icy gaze.

"Have you made arrangements for the servants to leave on holiday tomorrow morning?"

"Yes."

"The coffins, are they set up?"

He slowly straightened, careful to mask his fear and repugnance. "They are ready."

"And are you glad to be back in Dover after your London sojourn?"

"Yes. Sir." He forced himself to be obsequious when all he wanted to do was kill the man and be done with it.

He had killed so many. Why did he hesitate?

But he knew why he hesitated. Fear kept him obedient like the trained dogs that guarded the estate.

"Shall you need anything else, sir?"

The man's bloodless lips curled in a taunting smile. "Has Mrs. Ghetty given you a conscience?"

His vertebrae felt fused. Like the man's.

It had been only a matter of time before his trysts with the widowed cook were discovered. No doubt one of the many servants who, inspired by generous wages, had felt duty-bound to relate the news that the valet of the poor, crippled master raided rather more than the kitchen larders.

Mrs. Ghetty had given him affection, perhaps even love, but she had not given him a conscience.

If she had, he would not carry out the man's plans.

But he would carry them out. And pray that the man died soon of natural causes.

The wheels had been set in motion. Nothing would stop them now.

"Everything has been done according to your instructions," he said tonelessly.

The man's satisfaction permeated the bedchamber. "Excellent. You may go fuck my cook now."

He turned, paused, hand grasping the doorknob. The question was torn out of him. "Why?"

There was no sane reason for the sequence of events, either past or present.

Reaching out, the man grasped the leather book. Dismissing him. His question. His worth as a fellow human being.

He had not expected an answer.

He did not receive one.

All he could do was follow the man's instructions and hope that he did not give in to the rage.

A shadow imprinted his eyelids. It was accompanied by a breath of sound.

Death awaiting.

Michael awakened spontaneously. He stared up into Raoul's face.

Sleep vanished in a rush of belated alertness.

The earthy scents of sex, sweat, and roses filled his nostrils. Pale pink dawn filtered through the thin, yellow silk drapes.

Like the rain, his night was over.

The butler's face was haggard, his features blurred by the dim glow of the oil lamp. A nightcap perched on his head, white knitted wool a stark contrast against his dark skin. His body was wrapped in a plaid robe.

He did not look like a man on a mission of murder. A cursory appraisal revealed that Raoul did not openly carry a gun or a knife.

"What is it?" Michael asked flatly, pitching his voice low.

Anne's head was pillowed on his left arm; her soft buttocks pressed against his hip. Her breathing was deep; she slept the sleep of exhaustion, her body sated, filled with his seed.

He did not want to wake her if it was not necessary.

If it
was
necessary… Michael would never reach the nightstand quickly enough to save her.

Slowly, gently, he eased his arm out from underneath her head. It was numb from lack of circulation. "What is it?" he asked again, barely more than a whisper.

"It is Monsieur Gabriel, monsieur."

Raoul, too, pitched his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping woman.

Michael tensed. "What about him?"

"A boy delivered a message from a Monsieur Gaston."

Michael's ears pricked with recognition; Gaston was manager at the night house. "And?"

"The boy said that there is a fire at Monsieur Gabriel's. And that Monsieur Gabriel—he is in the fire, monsieur."

The bed reeled underneath Michael.

Gabriel.
In a fire
.

Gabriel.
Burned
.

Gabriel.
The eighth victim
.

Anne dreamed of voices. Then she dreamed Michel tucked the covers around her—as if she were the child she had never been—and chastely kissed her on the cheek, a sigh of silky lips and warm breath. Afterward he blew out the hurricane lamp and left her.

It wasn't a dream.

The sheets were cold. Wet. The flesh between her thighs was hot.
Wet
.

Michel had indeed replaced the gynecologist's touch with his own. Every inch of her skin burned from the scrape of his hair-studded flesh, while her body felt hollowed out. It felt as if he had tunneled his way into the farthest depths of her being.

She laid very still, trying to feel the diaphragm.

She couldn't.

Watery sunshine penetrated the thin, yellow silk drapes.

Thrice now she had awakened in a man's bed.

Thrice Michel had ejaculated inside her, sharing the essence of his pleasure.

A musky odor that was not sweat overlay the sweetness of roses. Tentatively she scooted out of bed, struggling free of silk sheets and tangled hair.

The sheets, too, smelled of the unfamiliar musky odor.

Anne stood up, toes curling on the cold wooden floor. Warm fluid trickled down her thigh.

Michel.

Anne touched the viscous fluid, held up her finger to the muted light.

It was coated with a thick white substance.
Came. Blanc. Sauce
. A man's sperm.

It was the source of the musky odor that permeated the sheets and her body.

She cupped her stomach, remembering the hot spurt of his release, and was suddenly, ravenously hungry.

For fun. For excitement. For love.

All the things that had been denied her.
Until now
.

Acting on pure impulse, she threw back the covers and inspected the sheet. Damp circles marked the evidence of their passion.

Michel had tasted their commingled pleasure. Then he had kissed her, sharing with her the flavor of their mutual ecstasy.

A fastidious spinster would have been repulsed.

But she no longer felt like a spinster. She felt like a woman who had experienced every woman's fantasy.

Delicately she cleaned her finger on the silk, leaving behind her a sign of approval.

Boxes were stacked on top of the yellow silk-upholstered chaise lounge. They were stamped with rose petals, hardly a masculine imprint.

Curious, she lifted the lid off the top box. It contained a bluebell gray silk-and-wool-blend double-breasted jacket with a high, military-style collar and large silver buttons.

Anne investigated the box underneath. She discovered six pairs of silk drawers trimmed with lace and ribbons.

It was Christmas in April.

Madame Rene included silk chemises, silk petticoats, a black satin corset, silk stockings. A ridiculously frivolous, wireless bustle with five rows of box pleating. Reticule. Hat. Shoes.

Clothes that befitted an attractive woman. Not a drab spinster.

The last box, longer than the rest, contained a bluebell silk-and-wool-blend round skirt. It was bordered with a frill of small pleats and was headed by seven rows of mixed steel and silver braid.

Madame Rene was a master at blending elegance and simplicity. Well worth the small fortune she had no doubt charged.

She would wear the
couturière's
creations, Anne decided. Just as soon as she bathed.

Anne stepped up to the mirrorless dresser. A curious pang shot through her chest. Michel had neatly piled her hairpins on top of the dresser.

How many years had it taken the thirteen-year-old boy he had once been to become the sexually adept man he now was?

Slowly she brushed out the tangles from her hair before hurriedly pinning it up. The bathroom wall sconces burned on either side of the marble sink, wicks turned down low.

Another courtesy.

There were so many things she should have asked Michel's silver-eyed, silver-haired friend, she thought, reaching to turn up the light.

The only rooms in the elegant town house that were not occupied by floral arrangements or blooming plants were the bathroom upstairs and the water closet downstairs. Why did a man surround himself with flowers?

Why did a man who was terrified of fire sleep with a burning lamp beside his bed?

Gabriel had been at ease in the pastry shop. Anne could not imagine Michel in similar surroundings, drinking out of a stoneware cup.

How had two such opposite men remained friends for twenty-seven years?

Leaning over the porcelain bathtub, she twisted an ivory tap. She was amazed anew at the steaming hot water that gushed out of the spout.

When she returned to Dover, her first item of business was replacing all of the old plumbing.

The diaphragm was far easier to remove than it had been to position. Rinsing it off, she returned the circle of rubber to the small, rose-colored tin that she had left on the marble counter by the sink.

The bathwater stung pleasantly. Anne stared at the ivory-tinted porcelain-and-turquoise-trimmed commode and wondered if she would ever enter a water closet without remembering the night before.

She had enjoyed him watching her.

Reaching up, she fingered the crook of her neck.

He had bitten her during the height of his climax.

She had even enjoyed that.

Anne quickly washed and dried. Michel was no doubt downstairs. Perhaps after breakfast she would allow him to position the diaphragm. Her lips curved in a smile that was most decidedly unspinsterish. But then again, perhaps not…

Briefly she contemplated ringing for a maid to assist her with her dress. She did not.

The only article that required assistance was the black satin corset. Attractive though it was, it was rather pleasant having her breasts and lungs unrestrained by whalebone.

Freedom, she decided, was almost as intoxicating as sexual gratification.

Perhaps, she thought on a wave of giddiness, it was the wearing of corsets that kept women in subjugation.

She opened the bathroom door—only to remember the small tin on the sink.

The diaphragm was featherlight.

What if the maid, when cleaning, decided the tin was empty and discarded it?
What if she opened it and recognized the small circle of rubber for what it was
?

Backtracking, Anne retrieved the rose-colored tin. She opened the nightstand drawer beside the four-poster brass bed to place it beside Michel's tin of French letters.

Sharp metal gleamed beside the stamped image of Graystone's dour face.

Anne remembered the wicked glint of light dancing on the tip of her hat pin. This was far more deadly.

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather raced down her spine.

Her father had kept a gun in his nightstand. For protection, he claimed.

For masculine pride, Anne had surmised.

Why would a man keep a knife by his bed?

Why were her knees suddenly shaking?

She slid her hand inside the drawer. Her fingers encountered something hard. Heavy.

A pistol.

It was more compact than the old-fashioned one her father had possessed.

More blunt.

More lethal.

The metal was smooth and sleek, as if it had been recently polished.

Michel was as adept with weapons as he was with a woman's body.

The thought came out of nowhere. It would not go away.

Every warning Anne's governess had fed her raced through her thoughts.

Children would hurt her because of their envy.

Men would abduct her to ransom her wealth.

Dropping the rose-colored tin into the drawer, she shoved the wood shut so hard that the hurricane lamp rattled and a rain of rose petals fell to the table.

Many men were proficient with weapons. Thieves were more plentiful in London than on the isolated outskirts of Dover.

Michel would not hurt her.

He had said so.

After dropping her hat pin onto the floor.

Anne hurriedly opened the door to the bedchamber that had witnessed her wanton abandon. She came face-to-face with a golden-haired man.

A very handsome golden-haired man. He had cerulean blue eyes.

She bit back a scream.

He was in black livery. A footman. Not an assailant.

The golden-haired footman stepped back and bowed. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. I thought I heard a disturbance. Shall you have breakfast now?"

"Yes. Thank you." She forced a polite smile, nerves screeching the outcry a lady was not allowed to make. "Could you direct me to Monsieur des Anges please?"

"He is not here."

How dim the hallway suddenly seemed. How very silly her earlier fears.

How thin the walls.

If the footman had heard her slam the drawer to the nightstand, there was no question at all that he had heard her scream the night before. As no doubt the other servants had.

She tilted her chin, daring him to think what he would. "Then you may direct me to the breakfast room."

The footman stepped aside, cerulean eyes unreadable. "Of course, ma'am. If you will follow me."

The butler waited for her at the bottom of the steps. Silver gleamed: in his hair, in his white-gloved hand. "Mademoiselle Aimes!"

Tension knotted in her stomach.

He held the silver post tray in front of him. The golden-haired footman waited beside the wrought-iron newel post, a silent witness.

Raoul had similarly offered Michel a post, while she waited, a silent witness.

The missive had not borne good news.

She clutched the black metal balustrade. "Yes?"

"This
lettre
arrived by special delivery, mademoiselle." His dark eyes were politely blank. "It is addressed to you."

Anne breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Little must have returned from Lincolnshire.

Bowing, Raoul extended the silver tray.

She scooped up the letter. "Thank you."

Stepping down the last step, she turned the white envelope over and read her name.

It was not Mr. Little's busy scrawl. Furthermore, the letter was addressed to her town house.

Anne frowned.

The envelope was stamped, but it had not been mailed in London. There was no return address.

"Ma'am."

She glanced up at the blond footman.

"The breakfast room is this way."

"Thank you."

Anne did not need him for guidance. The delectable odor of ham and bacon drifted down the hallway.

The footman threw open the door to a small, square breakfast room at the end of the corridor. Sunlight sparkled on polished wood and silver. French doors showcased a rectangular garden. Budding rosebushes lined a brick wall.