The Devil You Know is a work of fiction. Characters, names, place, incidents, organizations are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
The Devil You Know Sara Curran Ross
Copyright Sara Curran Ross 2011
Published by Hellfire Publishing, INC. at Smashwords
All rights reserved. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-937179-84-7
Cover art by: Dara England
FOR JEREMY AND EMILY JANE
The Devil You Know
By Sara Curran-Ross
Chapter One
Christian takes hold of the girl’s arm and pushes it up her back tight. He knows it is painful and uncomfortable enough for her to feel the tingle of blood draining from her arm, he knows the feeling well. She’s a fighter. He knows he’s too strong for her, but she’s still trying to get free. He feels a sharp stab of pain when her nails scrape and dig along his wrist, drawing blood. Instinctively he swears, violently pushing his hand hard into the small of her back, watching her fall onto the sparsely carpeted floor. She cries out and a small part of him twists with remorse. Hell, he can’t take any chances, working in security to the famous and the stinking rich has gained him too many enemies that want to see him dead or disgraced and run out of Paris, even if she is a pretty bundle of skirt. He straddles her, holding both arms up her back, hurling french at her like there is no tomorrow. She answers back in fluent French, straining to raise her head from the dirty yellow carpet he has her face squashed into. “So you are English, you might want to work on your accent,” he tells her in english. “Now maybe you would like to tell me what you are doing creeping into my room from the balcony in the middle of the damn night?”
“Let me go, please. I had no choice. I jumped balconies. A man forced his way into my room.”
She has a soft voice, gentle and feminine, yet he hears something hissing with controlled bitterness behind her words. She sounds afraid of him, as she should be, but he’s not so sure. He sighs impatiently, determined to make her feel afraid so she will tell him the truth. He pulls harder on her arms until he hears her squeal. He’s met her type before, all cotton candy, sugar sweet girl, but more deadly than any man could ever be.
“Try again and tell me the truth.”
“It’s not as though I had a choice.”
This time he definitely hears the hiss behind her speech as she spits her words out. He feels his brow crease with surprise. He’s right, she isn’t afraid as much as she should be, it’s almost as though she is attempting to control her temper with him. He laughs inside, he’s intrigued.
“Tell me the truth. If you’d stop struggling, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Who are you? Maybe the police know who you are. Maybe I should call them.”
He feels a sudden tightness in her body. It’s like her blood has frozen or her heart has stopped. She’s gone cold, really cold, he can feel her fear. She’s silent and then she stutters.
“A…A…All right, let me up and I will tell you who I am and what I was doing.”
She sounds calm, calculated and bitter, but he decides to take a chance that she isn’t bluffing, he doesn’t like the tight feeling in her body. He pulls her up sharply in one swift motion and drags her nearer the bed. He turns on the lamp sitting on the side table, casting a low dim light over the faded yellow bedspread that looks as if it hasn’t been changed in the last thirty years. He lets go of her arms and watches her rub her wrists. She seems afraid to look up at him, make eye contact. But then she chances it.
Now the light is on and he isn’t straining to look at her in the moonlight coming in through the shrouded french windows, he gets a better look at her. Her eyes are green, the colour almost an exact match for emeralds, twinkling like jewels at him, more than tempting. She’s small and curved, a slim hourglass he decides. He notices his tallness and uses it to his advantage to intimidate her, leaning over her like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. He gives her the once over, studying her with scrutiny for signs that would give her game and identity away. She blushes and lowers her eyes to his chest. He follows them and suddenly realises his black shirt isn’t buttoned up after he pulled it on in a hurry when she came through the French windows. He gives her a lazy, mocking smile, and he sees a flicker of embarrassed irritation flash across her eyes. He grins wider. He doesn’t know the woman and neither does she know him, there is no history between them, so why does he get the feeling that she hates him already?
He stands in front of her. “So you’ve been in trouble with the police before?”
He takes out his mobile and starts punching in the numbers of the Surete. Time to call the pretty lady’s bluff.
“No, no please not the police.”
Now she sounds frightened, now he might get somewhere. He allows another smile to light his face, this time it’s sadistic. Now he has her trapped. Again he sees irritation, bitterness clouding her eyes with frustration. As he watches her hands curl into fists at her sides, he decides to push it further. He knows she wants to hit him and make a dash for it, but then he knows she wouldn’t get far.
He looks at her questioningly with his eyes. He puts his hands on his hips and looks down at her.
“No I haven’t been in trouble with them before,” she sounds as though she is trying to keep her temper again. He watches her mentally try to rein herself in, softening her voice. “I wasn’t trying to steal anything. What I have told you is true. If you don’t believe me, come back to my room, and I will show you. He will still be there,” her eyes are swimming with tears, but she appears to be fighting to hold them in check. Her voice sounds upper crust English, sexy.
He shakes his head, holds his phone up and presses re-dial. He watches her bottom lip tremble as they both listen to it ring. She whimpers when she hears the tiny disembodied voice on the other end of the phone answer the call. Time seems to hang paralysed in the air.
“You will have to do better than that.”
“Please, look I will do anything you ask, anything if you will just let me go.”
She’s using that fragile voice again. He sees her search his face for some kind of sympathy, some gallant gesture. But he knows the steel armour he wears over his features is impenetrable. Her head bows and long, honey coloured curls cascade around her shoulders. He doesn’t have to see to know that she is trying to hide tears. She gives a small sniff then slowly lifts her head. Her cheeks are wet, but there is a look of determined will on her face. He can throw what he likes at her, but she will still fight him. He can’t work her out. Jutting her pretty chin out at him, she holds her head high, daring him to do it, she can take it. He watches her jump when he snaps the phone shut.
“Who hit you?” he asks, studying the bruising along her cheek, clearly visible since she’s raised her head up at him, and her hair isn’t hiding the side of her face anymore.
The strength in her eyes flickers and dies. She looks at him confused, he’s unsettled her. She drops her chin immediately. He moves towards her, and she takes a step back. Gently this time he takes her arm and pulls her back to heel, still feeling resistance running strong within her. He wants a closer look, wants to know more about her. He carefully cups her chin to tilt her head to one side, it is an effort. She tenses even further when he smoothes his fingertips over the dramatic mixture of violet and dark blue. He makes his touch careful, protective, as he turns her back to face him.
“Who hit you?” he repeats his question, softly.
“He didn’t hit me this time, it was when he banged my head off the wall,” her words are a whisper as he sees her mentally replay back the memory through her eyes as they scrunch and sting with pain.
It’s his turn to tense. He blinks and feels the familiar anger that’s coiled so tight inside him raise its ugly head. Just like Marie, just like Marie, beaten and raped and there was nothing he could do, nothing he could do. The woman is looking at him with confusion again, trying to read his thoughts again, second guessing what is coming next. He stares at her, sees the pain behind her eyes, sees her strength shining through at him like a defiant beacon. He can’t help but admire it. His features lose their hardness, damn it he is a fool, but she’s touched something deep inside his heart, struck a chord with something that has turned hard, black, and is withering since Marie’s death. She’s feeding it a little water and giving it some hope that it can live again. He stops staring at her and curses loudly. She jumps in response again.
“You are safe for now, beautiful, but if you don’t tell me what you are in my room for…” He stops, feels frustrated. Damn it, she’s unsettled him. “I will have no choice but to turn you over to the police.” He’s not going to let her win and catch him off guard. Since Marie he’s learnt the hard way about falling for women and feeling sorry for them. Maybe he should try another tactic with this woman. He toughens inside again, intent on not allowing her fragility and pretty face to seep through his skin and knock him off guard. He’s seen this all before.
He replaces his fingers back on her cheek. Her eyes look down at his fingers with suspicion.
“Hush, I won’t hurt you like him.”
“Look, I didn’t come here to steal anything. Please let me go.”
He ignores the plea in her voice.
“You came into my room unannounced, uninvited in the middle of the night.”
He strokes her cheek gently.
“Look I’ve already told you…”
He holds her chin up until he can feel her straining on his grip. He’s showing his power over her.
“I don’t believe you. How about you stop playing games and tell me why you are here? Did someone send you? Are you here to seduce me for them?”
He can’t resist giving her the once over again, admiring the perfect plump swell of her breasts in the little black dress she is wearing. He wouldn’t mind being seduced by her, but he did have a reputation to uphold. To be caught with a prostitute in a run-down hotel in the middle of Pigalle with a bruise to the girl’s face, could conjure up some interesting stories and false accusations that could ruin him. Just like his father wants. It is probably him who sent her. It is what his father does best, knowing people’s weakness, exploiting it and using it against them until they gave him what he wanted. And they always did. Then he killed them for it. Well this time Gabriel Dumont and his precious Mafia family would have to do without his illegitimate and only son. The prodigal son would not be returning to take over the family business and perpetuate the family line. He escaped years ago, and he is never going back, not even if hell freezes over. This time the evil bastard will just have to do without.
She looks directly at him.
“Don’t be stupid. I came over the balcony from the room next door. If I wanted to take your virtue, I would hardly risk my life like that would I?”
His eyebrows rise, and he can’t help smiling. The woman has balls, he likes that.
“I don’t know. I’ve heard worse stories.”
The amusement lining his words seems too much for her, and he watches her eyes narrow to sharp points.
“What is your name?” He lowers his voice to a whisper once more.
“Isabelle,” she answers automatically and visibly regrets her slip of the tongue. She begins moving her feet, feeling the heat of the painful strain on her neck and chin.
“That’s a beautiful name Isabelle.”
His hands slip to her neck, his fingertips trailing her skin, just where he knows she will be most sensitive to touch. She freezes, looks at him with undisguised horror. But he feels her cold skin warm against his fingers.
“Isabelle who?”
She closes her mouth tight shut. He grins and decides not to pursue her name any further.
“Isabelle is fine. Now Isabelle there is something you could do for me, something that would excuse what you have done here tonight and what you have come here to do.”
“But I haven’t done anything, and I’m not here to do anything,” she’s most insistent trying to disguise the audible panic in her shaky voice.
He puts a finger to her lips to beckon silence and cups her bare shoulders with his hands. They sizzle like a brand against her flushed skin. His hands slide over her skin like silk, she can hardly breathe. He makes his touch light, arousing, and watches her eyes glaze despite herself and the rigorous, defiant posture she holds in front of him and the scowl on her face. He feels a surge of triumph. For all of her pretence, he can see desire blazing hot in her eyes. She looks away.
Coyness is attractive in a woman, he muses.
She will give in any moment and confess everything, then they can really get down to business. But then it’s better if she doesn’t so he can seduce the truth from her. It is an interesting game they are both playing. He walks around her and finds the zip of her dress. It’s a beautiful dress, soft, silky, just like her skin. It clings enticingly over her slim rounded curves. She’s so small and dainty. Her skin is soft and creamy, and there’s sadness in the recesses of her eyes, threatening to shatter her into a million tiny pieces.
His father is getting good at their game. He knows that his son is always a sucker for a damsel in distress. But daddy should have heard the news as of six months ago. He isn’t fooled so easily now, he’s left all of that behind. No woman will ever be allowed to get that close again. His days of playing the knight in shining armour, rescuing fair damsels in distress are over. He is more likely to be causing them distress. He ignores the stab of guilt and carries on.
Feeling sorry for people got you nowhere, they always turned on you at some stage.
He finds the zip. She smells so clean and fresh, pure and delicate. There’s a smell of jasmine and wild flowers on her skin. She is a breath of fresh air in this horrible dingy and dirty room. He hears her breath dry and shrivel in her throat. He fingers the zip, pausing; waiting. She remains silent so he takes it as consent. He carefully pulls the zip down ever so slowly, wanting her to feel the cool air hanging in the room as he exposes each delicious part of her body. It’s like taking a peek under the wrapping of a present before Christmas.
He knows she feels vulnerable and can’t help but relish his power. Although she is desperately trying to ignore it, he knows she is feeling aroused. He carefully opens the dress and stands back surveying her lightly tanned skin. He feels her shrink as he fingers the bridge of a strapless, black lace bra encasing her breasts. He continues the action, once again giving her time to object, to give in. Not a word. For a brief moment he suddenly realises that he might not hold all the power after all, instead she has it.
He frowns, he can’t resist her and she knows. She is the one making him do the entire running, making him please her and tease her into giving him the truth. But it won’t stop him. He doesn’t care anymore, can only see what he wants and needs and will take it. He replaces his palms on her shoulders. He lowers them down her back with firm pressure and feels her shiver against them. His hands dip to grasp her naked waist and pull her sharply back against him before plunging eagerly down onto the flimsy lace and satin underwear that so prettily matches her bra. He can see the pert cheeks of her buttocks and feels an ache swell inside him. His response is to pull her back further until his hardness nestles between them, and she can feel it hard and pulsing, urging her taking.
Again, there is no sound escaping her lips. He’s perplexed, but it doesn’t stop him. He strokes those fingers that have become so expert at pleasuring a woman to get what he needs through her honey hair. It’s so soft. It smells of peaches and cream. He presses his nose against it. A woman hasn’t smelt so sweet and pure to him in a long time. He wants to bury his face in her sweetness and disappear.
He gives a small inward laugh, listen to you, you sound just like a bloody woman.
He returns his fingers to the thin straps of her dress resting on her shoulders. She shivers as he slides them down and a little whimper escapes her lips. He pauses again but nothing.
He wants her body revealed, to expose every secret part of her, to conquer her will. He can see her following the descent of her dress with him as it caresses and swishes down across her more than ample attributes. He moves in with the expertise of a skilled hunter trapping his prey. She jumps when she feels the catch of her bra being lifted before the dress has even reached the ground. She gasps with horror and quickly cups her breasts covering them for protection. He hears himself give a small laugh and brushes his eager fingers down her side to soothe her fear.
“Don’t be coy with me Isabelle, give me your breasts,” he whispers seductively against her ear, knowing her skin is tingling with excitement, begging for his touch. He sweeps his hands around her body until they cover her own over her breasts. He caresses her hands and leans in close. They are beautifully manicured, but she’s been trying to nibble at them, like a secret nail biter. Everything about her says money and vulnerability, but sneaking into his room in the middle of the night and her willingness to face him down says different. He should check out her story, but he doesn’t really care now if it is true or not. He just wants her. He starts to prise her hands away, and with some struggle he succeeds. He groans, cupping the soft feminine flesh so greedily.
He feels her involuntarily arch her back and press her breasts tight into his palms. So she wants this just as much as he does. He won’t disappoint her. Her wish is his command. Her nipples are so hard and erect, more evidence of her arousal. He pulls them sharply and hears her cry out with pleasure, arching her back against him. Her breathing is laboured with desire, and her eyes are closed as if she is ashamed. He turns her around and looks down at her small voluptuous form that is being offered as a sacrifice.
It’s a struggle for him to keep control. She slowly looks up at him. Her eyes display her soul that’s a mixture of dangerous want and fatal fragility. Her pale brown lips are full and swollen with a fine sheen of moisture glistening. She’s so beautiful standing there, and she’s all his for that moment. The notion hits him hard in the stomach as though he’s just been punched. His hands grip her hips possessively and tug her towards him. He strokes a digit over her clit. It’s so wet, the material barring his touch is soaked through. He’s made her like this, it makes him feel strong, giving him the illusion of being in control again.
At that moment, he knows he is the only one who can satisfy the desire pounding inside her. He won’t wait anymore. His hand grips the top of her panties and rips them hard, shredding the material to the floor. Her pelvis bucks against him and the motion of the contact is nearly enough to send him over the edge. Those pouting lips open to gasp, and he captures them, desperate to taste her essence. He wrestles her tongue and reigns dominant. He can’t wait, he can’t wait. She’s like some kind of drug he needs. Only she can satisfy his painful ache. He unzips his trousers and looks down at the black lacy hold ups still adorning her legs and thinks how damn sexy she looks.
He turns back and snatches her mouth, feeling her arms slip around his neck. He smiles against her mouth in triumph. He lifts her up and cruelly pulls her buttocks apart before pushing her back callously onto the wooden bedpost, and then he spears his cock inside her so fast and deep and makes his kill. He drives inside her, feeling her begin to tighten around him. She cries out, he’s driving so fast, and she’s helplessly bucking against him, sliding up and down the post. He comes so hot and deep. Its pleasure is so painful and consuming. She comes a second after, and he can see the pained ecstasy on her face riding her like a reluctantly saddled horse until it breaks her in. He captures her lips again, unable to stop himself. He sucks tenderly on her bottom lip. Her lips rise to meet his, they are as hungry as his own.
“You are a very beautiful woman Isabelle,” he means it.
She opens her eyes and stares at him with confusion and disbelief as though no man has ever complimented her before like that. He finds it hard to believe. He’s never met a woman like her. She holds something potent he needs. He’s never felt so intoxicated with sex before. Christian looks at her face, it’s wearing some kind of euphoria, like she’s never experienced sex before. But that’s not possible, she must be in her early to mid-thirties, hell she can’t be a virgin. Who is she? That’s the way it is for him now, sex first, name later, if desired, that way it’s safer.
He’s won their little game, now to make her tell him who she is and what she is doing in his room. He stares down at her again, curling his hand around her face, he doesn’t know why, it just feels natural. He feels an overwhelming urge to kiss her but resists, suddenly afraid of the power she has over him. He’s not used to being out of control, and it’s happening more and more these days. Her legs are still wrapped around him, he’s still deep inside her, hardening again. He wants her once more but he can’t, it isn’t right even though it’s a hypocritical thought to have. He feels a pang of guilt and dismisses it quickly. As if to prevent himself from coaxing her to fuck again, he lowers her legs to the floor and slips out of her body.
She doesn’t know where to look, she’s embarrassed. He zips up his trousers and gallantly picks up her dress and holds it out to her. He looks at the shredded underwear and scoops it up in his hand and throws it in the small waste paper bin, there’s nothing to salvage. She watches it land in the bin, and he hears himself apologise. He watches her, mesmerised, as she hurriedly scoops up her bra and puts it on. She pulls the dress up over those sexy hips, swaying them from side to side as she slides the material up her body.
She shouldn’t be let out with that body, it’s lethal, he decides.
She folds her arms across her chest and looks around the room. She appears unable to meet his eyes. What next? What kind of game is she playing? She should be flattered with his attention. She’s supposed to use it to her advantage, offer him her delights, the treasures of her body, work her way out with her looks, she’s already reeled him in. His eyes lower to her chest but something catches his eyes just above it.
He moves closer gently catching her arm as she tries to back away, whispering that he won’t hurt her. More bruising, he feels pissed off at himself, pissed off at her for having bruising and making him think about it and what he should have done with her. He finds fading purple and yellow bruising around her neck in a perfect circlet. A man has tried to strangle her.
He feels a familiar rage slash down his middle and settle with fury in his fists. How could a man inflict damage like that on such delicate fragile skin? He doesn’t even know him but he wants to kill him anyway. Ignoring her small protests, he cups her throat and trails his fingertips along it, reflecting on the scenario in which she received the injury. He makes sure his touch is light, just like a feather’s, knowing how much pain she could be in.
A painful memory creases his brow, tenses his hand a small amount as he touches her, afraid of the connection to his recent past. He sees Marie lying in her home, the one she’d gone back to, trying to make things work with that bastard husband of hers, the one she left him for. There’s blood everywhere, her skull’s caved in, she’s naked, raped several times. Her drunken husband is slobbering all over her, saying he’s sorry, he’s sorry over and over again.
The words ring in his ears even now. He’d tried to help her, but she wouldn’t let him, kept making excuses for the bastard. That time he’d washed his hands of her, told her that if she went back, he couldn’t help her again. She didn’t want his help. He’d washed his hands over her, let her go back. He should have tied her to a chair. That bastard, it’s all he can call him, that bastard and his mates thought it would be fun to take turns with her and when she objected, he’d caved her head in. He blinks trying to clear the image from his mind and realises he can’t breathe. It had taken nearly ten gendarmes to keep him off the fucking bastard.
He suddenly backs away from Isabelle afraid of the force of his anger, knowing she is the trigger of his guilt. She looks at him bemused, fear creeping back into her eyes. He puts his hands on his hips feeling awkward and a little remorseful.
“Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” he stops, she’s heading for the door.
He catches her arm easily and swings her back round.
“Hey not so fast, you still haven’t told me what you were doing in my room.”
She looks at him as if he is poison. He can feel her trembling, he wonders whether it is with fear or being close to him. She can look at him like that all she wants, but he knows that she wanted what just happened between them as much as he did. He could feel it, see it written all over her face. Something has happened between them in this rundown cheap hotel in the middle of Pigalle. It’s more than just a casual fuck, she possesses something he suddenly realises he needs, and he feels it’s the same for her. Maybe it’s what those stupid yanks call a connection, maybe they got something right after all. He swears under his breath, he sounds like a fucking Romeo. That’s something the old Christian would say, the new one is cynical and bitter, it’s better that way.
Her cheeks are paling and for a moment he wonders if she is going to pass out. He shouldn’t have pushed it with her, hell knows what else that bastard has done to her. He begins to guide her to the bed, mindful that she should sit down, or even lie down. But she struggles like mad, neatly twists her wrist and slips it from his hand and runs. He follows her out into the corridor calling after her. He takes hold of both her arms just before she walks through the open door of her room, right next door, the room he didn’t believe she was staying in. They both stop dead in their tracks when they see what is lying in wait.
Chapter Two
The grimy yellow room, identical to Christian’s, is in complete disarray. Isabelle’s clothes, suits and dresses are lying bandied across the floor. The drawers and cupboard are wide open and bare. The contents of her bag are strewn on top of the chest of drawers next to them. It’s as though everything has been dropped in the middle of the room and a hand has swept through it all looking for something. There’s an odour Christian has smelt before and knows well, the smell of sex, he can’t help looking at her and wondering. The woman doesn’t take too kindly to his look and starts struggling like mad. She swings a punch at him whilst he looks at the room again. Her fist makes contact with his stomach. What’s the matter, too much of a lady to hit him in the face? That’s twice, she’s caught him off guard and wounded his male pride, she’s going to pay. He straightens up rubbing his stomach, for small hands she has a hard punch.
He watches her stare at the bed covers on top of which whoever ransacked her room has left something. He takes the opportunity to find out who she is and picks up her passport that is lying on the floor near him. He flicks through it and an ashen colour sweeps across his face. He’s just made the second biggest mistake of his life, and his best friend will kill him for sure. And this time he might have just cause. He didn’t even have a photograph of her, everything was so last minute. How the hell was he supposed to know it was his best friend’s sister he’d been hired to protect? He hadn’t expected her to come sneaking into his room, he was just supposed to find her at the hotel tomorrow morning. Philip didn’t ring to say she’d come earlier. Shit, shit.
He joins her beside the bed nervously wondering how he is going to tell her about his mistake and what the best way of apologising would be. Maybe if he does it right, things might just be ok. His thoughts stop abruptly, she’s mumbling to herself, pushing her hair back behind her ears over and over again in an agitated manner.
She keeps saying to herself, “But he’s never gone this far before.”
Who is she talking about? Her eyes flicker wildly up and down the bed. She’s looking at a red see-through basque placed ceremoniously at the pillow to dress an invisible whore lying on the bed, a red thong opened invitingly at the crotch. She glances at the table next to the bed, at the bundle of Euros that lie there, payment for imaginary services rendered. She puts her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry of horror from her lips and puts the other on her hips in an effort to appear in control of her emotions. But she can’t stop the welling of tears in her eyes or stop them running down her cheeks. She shakes her head as though she has been defeated by something. There is a pair of handcuffs next to the display. Hesitantly she removes her hand from her mouth, only appearing to be vaguely aware of Christian’s presence. Her head is turning, catching something written on the mirror in thick red lipstick.
“Still burning with a vagina hardened by lust she retired, exhausted by men but not yet satisfied.” A low growl rumbles in her throat as she reads it. She reaches for the lamp on the dressing table and is poised to throw it at the mirror. He grabs her raised wrist.
“Don’t, I want to have finger prints taken. What is it?”
“It’s from Juvenal Satires,” she tells him with cold contempt through her tears.
He needs to talk to her badly, explain who he is and what he was sent to do by her brother. Also, he needs to get his friend down here fast to get some prints taken.
“Come on Isabelle, let’s get you out of here.”
She brushes his restraining hand on her arm away, stands and looks around the room before running to the other side of the bed. She runs past a small writing desk, the owner’s attempt to smarten the room up. It’s old and ready to fall apart. There’s a piece of paper wedged under one of its legs. She’s now on her knees next to the desk looking for some papers. He finds his eyes curiously drawn to it. The chair is pulled out as if someone has been sitting there, and there is a used cup and saucer. He looks down at the cup, there are no remnants of that pretty shade of pink lipstick Isabelle is wearing, although somewhat depleted after sex. He’s never known a woman not leave her mark on a cup before. He grabs one of her many silk scarves off the floor, no doubt to hide the bruises that are inflicted upon her, and picks up the cup. He can feel warmth permeating from the cup through the silk scarf. He hurriedly puts it back down on the saucer.
They have missed him by minutes, he could even be close by, watching through the open door somehow to see how Isabelle takes the present he has left her. If she was alone, maybe ready to pounce and catch his prey. He feels a cold chill and runs out into the hallway to see if he can see anything. He doesn’t like this type of enemy. It’s like fighting the IRA in Ireland, he never knew where they were coming from. He needs to know what he is up against so he can do his job and do what he was sent to do effectively, protect Isabelle from the violent boyfriend who pursues her and her inheritance with an obsession. This he hadn’t expected. Christian looks around the room, the smell of sex is still hanging in the air, it’s potently male and offensive. Then he sees it. It is on a chair near the window at the far end of the room. There’s a creamy liquid mixture running rivulets through a pool of white silk, dripping gently on to the floor, semen. The man has obviously got off and used one of Isabelle’s dresses as a substitute for her presence. He feels anger coil tight around his body squeezing his chest. Images of Marie entering his mind again, he clenches his fists at his sides. He wants Isabelle out of the room fast before she sees it. He walks straight towards her and yanks her up with force, refusing to hear any protests. He marches her to the door in quick time, aware that her feet are hardly touching the ground, it’s quicker and safer that way. He makes sure his body is placed solidly behind her and he retains his firm grip on both of her arms as he steers her to the door. But she’s determined not to be pushed around and digs her heels into the ground pushing back into him, shouting something about her bag and let her go. He ignores her, issuing the command for her to leave the room or he will carry her. She catches hold of the door, and when he’s trying to prise her persistent fingers away, whilst managing her struggling body, she sees her bag and then the semen. She stops.
“What’s that? What’s that on my nightdress?” her voice is barely an audible whisper.
Her fingers are loose, unguarded. His arm winds around her waist and easily lifts her into the air and through the door. He sets her down, still keeping a firm hold of her waist and closes the door behind him. She struggles.
“Let me go. What was that? Is it what I think it is? Is it semen?” she asks the question timidly after she’s screamed at him to let her go.
He lifts her again and carries her back to his room, locking the door behind him.
“Stop pushing me around. It is semen isn’t it? I’m not stupid that was my nightdress.”
He feels her shiver violently in his grip.
“Yeah it was. I don’t want you going in there again. We have to talk,” he softens his voice. “And you need a drink.”
He needs one himself. It’s unnerving, calculated and cold, designed to strike fear and terror and let the victim know he’s watching her every move. He lets go and watches her walk to one of the chairs and sit down. She puts her head in her hands. He wants to hold her and protect her. But his subconscious makes him take a step back from impending disaster.
“Look Isabelle, there’s been a mistake,” he sounds so formal when he begins to work. “Philip sent me. I am here to protect you.”
Her head shoots up, and she stares at him with suspicion then gives a small nervous laugh of disbelief. Her face is so tear-stained and fragile. He tightens his features hard, he’s damned if he is going to let her get to him. There is a pause, he can see she isn’t sure whether she should believe him or not. He can tell by the contempt that creeps into her eyes from the corners that she decides not to.
“I do not believe you,” she says sternly, her head is raised high and she looks regal and beautiful with it. He hates her for making him feel this way about her, why did she have to walk into his life and disturb his comforting downward spiral? She checks the room for means of escape. He can mentally see her working out how she can make a run for the door. He positions himself between the door and her chair, removing the threat. Although she’s the type to try it anyway, and from what he’s seen, she isn’t bad at looking after herself.
“Philip didn’t send you, nobody is supposed to know anything, let alone that I am here.”
She looks at him as though he is scum of the earth. He doesn’t blame her after what she’s been through to sit in this room with him. Anyway, lately she’d be right to call him scum. The important thing is to make her believe him, it’s vital, and Philip warned him it would be difficult to gain her trust. Why should she trust him after the way he’s just fucked her? He feels that pang of guilt again, it’s stronger this time.
“Declan sent you, didn’t he? This is one of his tricks. You gain my confidence and then it’s easier to bring me back. Where’s the needle? The drugs to silence me? Are they next after you’ve convinced me someone is stalking me and frightened me into coming back?”
She’s standing, her legs are shaking, anger is blazing so hot in her eyes he is sure she will explode. Her voice is high and ever so bitter. He wants to hold her again. Instead he snaps at her.
“Keep your voice down and sit down before I make you.”
She stops. There’s indignation and horror all at once on her face but her eyes are narrowing, and he knows she is fighting to control her temper. He’s intrigued to find out what’s underneath the fragile exterior. She looks around the room as if somebody is going to jump out of the cupboard. Fat chance, it’s a miracle it is standing. He walks towards her, something makes him lay his hand on her arm in an effort to provide warmth and reassurance. She shakes it off as if it’s poison. Her rejection stings him. He puts both hands by his side, he feels awkward. He backs off.
“If you aren’t with Declan, you will let me go. I am walking out of this room now,” she challenges.
“No. I am not letting you go anywhere Isabelle,” he says it so softly he can see tears brim in her eyes again. She turns her features hard, puts up a barrier. It’s then that he sees the pain, years of beatings, being kept prisoner, years without love and care.
His face must show his concern because she says, “I don’t want your pity Mr.….”
“Dalban. It’s Christian Dalban. I am here to help you Isabelle, I am here to keep you out of that damn prison Declan Mayer keeps trying to lock you up in. If you won’t trust me, then we will have to do this the hard way, and I will have to give you no choice.”
Fucking hell, she’s impossible, headstrong. She’s heading for the door. Now he can see why she has survived for so long. He swings an arm easily around her waist and brings her back. She kicks him hard in the shin and swings another punch at him. He catches it this time and pushes her backwards and down into the chair. She goes to stand up again, he points a finger at her warning her not to push him. Her eyes narrow to a sharp point and she stares directly at him.
“Or what? You’ll hit me? Do you think I am afraid of you Mr. Dalban?”
He can hear her bitterness and anger loud and clear now. She is giving it to him full throttle.
“You’re nothing like him. Declan has his own special brand of terror to inflict. He’s held my head under water until I bordered on death, and it took two paramedics to revive me,” she shakes with anger. “He’s beaten me so many times, the doctors aren’t sure I will ever be able to carry a child. They know me by first name at the hospital. Drugged to the point I don’t even know who I am anymore just to keep me quiet and obedient, and he’s murdered all those who were close to me or tried to help me escape him. You can keep hitting me Mr. Dalban, and I’ll keep standing up. I’ve been hit so many times I’m numb. You can’t hurt me.”
He knows he looks taken aback by her cruel satisfied smile that her verbal punch has hit home.
“Give me a damn chance woman,” he backs away shaken by her words, he couldn’t hit a woman unless she was a threat to his work or his life.
No, just push her into fucking you when she’s frightened for her life, his inner voice scolds.
Her statements about her life ring true about Declan. He was the type of boy who pulled the legs off spiders and wings off bees and fought viciously with the other kids as a child. He remembers the summers they were forced to spend time together as the future heirs of two of the strongest mafia families in Europe, all to cement the special relationship. The hate between them was mutual. What she is describing is true Declan style, only a couple of notches up, he doesn’t usually get his own hands dirty when killing or maiming someone. But he has always been handy with his fists, especially around his many girlfriends at college, always getting away with whatever he did because he was the grandson of one of the most feared crime heads in England. It seemed to be some kind of turn on for some women. But what the bastard has done to Isabelle makes him burn. Declan is a fucking bastard. She must have got under his skin, he must actually love her. That’s what he did to the people he loved when he wanted them body and soul all to himself. Refocus your thoughts, she doesn’t need your sympathy, she needs action, reassurance, trust, give her some.
He walks to his leather jacket lying on the chair and pulls out a letter. He keeps her in his sight all of the time. She is sitting upright on the edge of the chair, both hands gripping the sides, poised ready to pounce to freedom. She watches his every move with frowning hooded eyes displaying contempt and suspicion that knows no bounds. He holds the letter out to her, commanding her to read with stark authority. She looks at it, then back at him with contempt, then the door, all the time weighing up her options. He knows she realises she will not get passed him. She snatches the letter out of his hand, her face pales when she catches sight of her name written. She must realise it is Philip’s writing. Something’s struck home, she’s opening the letter.
“It explains everything,” he tells her.
He puts his hands in his pockets. It’s then that he realises he hasn’t buttoned his shirt up and hurriedly does it, grateful for something to do in the awkward silence as she reads.
“What is he doing?” she mutters to herself whilst reading.
Christian frowns.
“He wants to protect you. He wants me to help you get away from Mayer.”
“Why you?” she demands a quick answer.
“Because protecting is my business, and I’m damn good at it.”
She gives him the once over as if she is interviewing him for the position of champion. She’s not convinced.
“He’s says you are special, and only you can protect me, and I am not to leave your side at any cost. Why are you so special, compared to the others he’s got to help me? They all failed, some of them even lost their lives.”
Christian feels uncomfortable.
“I’ve told you, I’m the best,” he says it with conviction because he believes it.
He needs her to find strength in his conviction. It’s one reason, the other he can’t afford to tell her or she will never trust him. This would be the only time he would rely on his father’s reputation and power to strike mortal fear in the enemy. He doesn’t like it any more than she would if she knew the truth about who he is, but it is the only way to grant her freedom. Philip knew that and so did he, and she deserves every chance at life like any other person. He is beginning to think she is more than worth it. She folds the letter in two. Her hands are shaking a little but she seems calmer, more relaxed. It’s done the trick. He breathes easier.
“I don’t want anybody’s help. Declan will buy you just like he has done with all of the others, and if he can’t, he’ll kill you,” she says quietly, resigned, her face is softening again.
He wants to laugh at the very idea. Declan Mayer wouldn’t dare, but he can’t tell her that.
“Look Isabelle, Philip and I have been best friends since we both started in the army together, ten years ago. I am not going to let him down. We take turns in saving each other’s lives and getting the other out of trouble. Last time I counted, it was my turn. You can trust me with your life Isabelle, and if you don’t, I will have to make you. I am not letting Philip down.”
He stands towering over her, hands on hips. She can’t look at him now her anger has subsided, she’s shy and introverted again. He’s confused. She’s given up looking at the door. Time to ring Jean-François and get him to come and look at the fucked up mess in her room and pick his police brain for ideas as to what is going on, and then for a drink. He tells her what he is doing and sets her on edge again.
“No, no you can’t tell the police anything. He will find us through them. He owns everybody,” she’s up on her feet.
“Relax,” he tells her. “I can trust this guy.”
“No. You are far too trusting. You will have to learn not to trust anyone.”
She’s folding her arms and is pacing the floor, she’s still shivering, probably from shock. Without thinking he goes to the bed and pulls off the top layer and swirls it around her, tucking it protectively around her chin. She looks at him surprised and confused.
“For shock, keep warm,” he tells her and then backs off feeling like a fool.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He takes out his mobile phone from his jacket trying to appear unaffected and indifferent to what’s happened between them in this squalid little room.
“No please don’t ring them.”
He looks impatient.
“I’ve told you I can trust him. If I am to be able to protect you effectively, you are going to have to learn to do what you’re told. There are no partners in this relationship. Now sit down and keep warm.”
She’s about to protest, but Jean-François answers the phone. He can see her hold her breath. He walks away from her towards the window, reception is dodgy. She scowls. Jean-François sounds half asleep and irritated by the interruption and for a brief moment Christian wants to laugh.
“I need you to come Jean-François, and I need you with people you can trust, it’s vital,” he finishes.
He hears Jean-François utter some French expletives, but he knows Jean-François will not let him down. He snaps the phone shut and stares at her pacing the floor.
“He’s on his way,” he tells her firmly.
“I don’t know how you think this is going to help.”
She’s pacing the floor so fast he thinks she’s going to wear out the thin carpet.
“Relax, we can trust him.”
She looks at him, he knows she doesn’t believe him but thinks better of saying anything else. She bites at the manicured nail on her thumb and then frantically lowers it with a groan as if it is habit she is trying to break.
“Right, a drink. I haven’t got any alcohol and that’s what you really need. But then tea is better for shock. How do you like it weak or strong? Milk and sugar?”
She looks up, shocked he wants to make her a cup of tea.
“Weak please, milk, not too much and one and a half teaspoons.”
He looks taken aback and smiles with amusement. She can hardly meet his eyes with her own and looks away embarrassed.
“Sorry, it’s just unusual to see a woman who actually takes sugar and doesn’t pretend she is on a diet.”
He feels awkward and annoyed with himself that he has upset her and made her shrink away from him again. He mutters shit, shit, shit under his breath and busies himself making the tea with the poor amenities the hotel has given them. She sits down again, arms folded, on the edge of the chair, eyes flicking around the room, not knowing where to look. The wrap around her body is slipping and he resists the urge to go and tuck it back around her.
“Now that we’ve got everything sorted out. Tell me about the man in your room.”
There’s silence. He feels ashamed he didn’t believe her, he feels like a criminal and now he finds it hard to meet her eyes. He puts his head down and carries on making the tea.
“I was ready to go out. I had a meeting with…”
She falters not sure if she should tell him.
“It’s ok, I know everything. I presume you were meeting with Christine Morceau?”
“Yes, she’s taken all of the evidence we collected against my cousin Declan’s money laundering through my grandfather’s exclusive car manufacturing business, Mayer Sport. His legitimate business he left to me in the hope that I would do good with it and achieve what he couldn’t, escape from that damn family I got thrown into when my parents died. But I suppose Philip will have told you everything. Without it I won’t be able to go to the authorities and the media and bring Declan down. Declan is determined to get my inheritance which he sees as rightfully his and the only way he can do it is by controlling me. I don’t intend to give him that option anymore.”
He turns around quickly, surprised at the determination in her voice, surprised that after all she’s been through, she appears determined never to give up. She must drive Declan nuts, she must be the first woman, first person that has refused to roll over and play ball through fear. As soon as he looks at her, she puts her head down, still shaking a little. Damn it, he goes and bends down to pull the blanket tight around her again. He lifts her chin, ever so gently.
“You are not alone anymore. I can help you, but you must trust me, and by that I mean trust me with your life and Philip’s.”
She pauses and then nods. But he’s not sure she is totally convinced. He goes back to making the tea.
“Well, what about the man?”
“Christine rang and told me she couldn’t go through with meeting me, she was convinced they were watching her. She was terrified for her five year old daughter’s safety. She hung up on me when I tried to convince her otherwise, and I decided to go out and see her. He was there when I opened the door to go out. He was drunk, and he said that someone in the lobby said I would be able to show him a good time for the right price. I tried to convince him otherwise in polite terms.”
He can imagine her sexy crisp tone.
She pauses putting her hand to her head as if trying to remember the events accurately.
“He put his foot through the door when I tried to close it and forced his way in. He grabbed hold of me, groped me and put his hand up my dress.”
She shivers, and Christian feels every muscle in his body tighten.
“He started kissing me,” her face twists. “He got angry because I kept hitting him. He said he’d been told I could give him what he wanted. He said he’d paid my pimp for the pleasure, and he wanted his return. He started to try and rape me,” she says it matter of fact, too calm, too detached.
He spins round on his heel confused by the lack of emotion. She’s embarrassed, fearful she has given something away. She quickly continues.
“So I brought my knee up and caught him right between the legs.”
He laughs.
“You mean you kicked him in the balls.”
She raises one eyebrow at him with slight distaste. It makes her look sophisticated and sexy. There are so many hidden layers to this woman, he wonders if he will uncover even half of them.
“Balls, the male brain, whatever you want to call them Mr. Dalban,” her eyes have narrowed and the green in them deepens. A sarcastic smile of vengeance is curling her lips.
“It’s Christian,” he says ignoring it.
She looks frustrated, expecting a reaction he won’t give her.
“Go on.”
“He was off guard then. He let go of me, and I hit him with a right hook, right in the jaw,” she tells him triumphantly. “I bet he didn’t expect that coming from a woman.”
“It’s amazing, you tackle this man, whoever he is, yet you allow a man to beat you.”
He hands her a cup of tea.
There is an awkward silence, he’s hit a nerve. She puts the tea down on the table next to her and ignores it. He wants to hit himself for being so stupid.
“Declan is different. There’s more to it than that. He doesn’t exactly give me a choice, and there is no escape.”
He knows, shit. He sits down on the bed across from her and takes a gulp of tea, again trying to appear casually indifferent.
“Are you going to drink that tea? You should for the shock.”
She nods and picks it up again and takes a small sip and then holds it in her lap as though it is giving her some warm comfort. She stares down at it.
“Are you going to finish telling me what happened?”
“The balcony was the nearest means of escape. He’d locked the door and wouldn’t let me get passed him. So when he was lying on the floor writhing in agony, I escaped out of the French windows and clambered over the balconies. Your light wasn’t on but the door was open, and I stupidly thought I may be able to sneak past and get out through the door.”
“I was in the bathroom and heard you landing on to the balcony and caught you when you came through,” he finishes.
Chapter Three
“Mademoiselle Mayer I need to ask you a few questions.”
Christian watches Isabelle pull the blanket tighter around herself and pale when Jean-François starts interrogating her. He can’t help but notice she is trembling again. She’s trying to keep still, trying to disguise it. It isn’t working.
“Christian, please no questions I told you…”
“Relax Isabelle. Jean-François can be trusted. Isabelle, this is not Mayer’s handiwork, it isn’t his style he…”
Her eyes are far away, he stops, she already knows Declan’s style. He would have knocked the door of her room down and dragged her out by her hair after punching her around for leaving in the first place. She’s looking at him, waiting for him to go on. Her eyes are glassy. Damn.
“Mademoiselle Mayer, you must help me, this is very familiar to a series of stalking’s and murders that have been happening in Paris for five years,” he hears Jean-François demand. JF is always impatient, demanding as befitting his high rank of Commissaire Principal with The French National Police. “This man who has left this…this message to you is dangerous, I need you to tell me everything that happened here tonight.”
Always trying his damnedest to get to the bottom of everything. He watches her shift her position in her chair and frown. Then she looks up at him, straight at him, she’s wondering isn’t she, wondering if she should mention the sex, what went on between them. Shit. JF will find out, there’s no hiding.
He hears her say, “Everything?”
“Everything.”
She’s looking again, turning red like a teenager, hell he hopes he isn’t. The bastard knows, he knows, there’s that stupid grin he always has when he traps someone, when he has them poised ready to confess and divulge their most private secrets.
Jean-François, you are a bastard.
Christian doesn’t want to brag about this one, not like the rest, wants to keep this one secret. It’s not another casual fuck, not like all the others. He looks at Jean-François and feels his mouth twist into a scowl, the bastard grins back.
Funny, but for that grin and that damn greasy long hair, JF could be a passable Gerard Depardieu. What the hell do women see in that guy? It must be the French thing.
Isabelle starts, Jean-François takes a drag on his second cigarette since coming in the door and blows smoke in Isabelle’s direction making her face twist.
Twenty minutes later Jean-François is making them go through the whole story for the fourth fucking time. His watch says it’s nearly three o’clock in the morning, the bloody summer sun will be on its way up in a minute. He sees Isabelle’s eyes begin to close.
“Jean-François, she needs some rest and so do we all.”
Bloody hell, the git never backs off when he’s on the scent.
“Christian tells me that you were looking for something in your room?”
Her eyes snap open, she’s wide awake now, he guesses JF’s hit a nerve.
“Nothing, just some papers detailing my grandfather’s will I took from Declan’s study.”
“Last question Mademoiselle Mayer, and then I will let you sleep. Christian tells me that you said, ‘he’s never gone this far before’ when you saw your room. Who is he? Mademoiselle?”
Small beads of sweat break out on her brow. Hell she’s afraid, terrified, he can see it shining like a beacon in her eyes. He can almost hear her heart beat faster, feel her pulse racing, her fear is all around him in this room. She is as white as a sheet. Jean-François’s eyebrow raises once.
He hears her voice rasp in her throat. Then she uses that haughty, cold, calculated tone she did with him earlier. It must be her defence. Hell her bloody knuckles are turning white, he notices Jean-François has already spotted them and is staring at them. Her bottom lips trembles as she looks down at them.
“I was talking about Declan. Who else? How many times am I going to have to tell you? You don’t know what he’s capable of…”
Oh yes I do, sweetheart, but with any luck you won’t ever have to find out that I do.
“He will have people do all sorts of things to frighten me, to make me think that I am only safe with him.”
You’re lying sweetheart, lying you’re pretty little arse off. Jean-François knows it too, but he isn’t saying anything, just taking it all in, like he always does until he can corner you.
“Ok mademoiselle we will leave it for tonight.”
It’s fucking morning Jean-François, the bloody sun is coming up.
“Christian, a word with you alone.”
He follows Jean-François to the door.
“We will do some forensic tests on what we found in her room.”
JF takes another drag on his cigarette. Christian wants to yank it out of his mouth and crush it between his fingers.
“The man who forced his way into her room sounds like that pimp you ran up against protecting that film star from her dubious past. Remember Christian?”
“Yeah, Pierre Lacan. Fucking slippery little eel, into everything from prostitution, rape to the white slave trade.”
“You never did tell me how you got him to back off.”
“And I am never going to. Let’s just say I taught him a few simple rules and manners the old fashioned way.”
Jean-François laughs.
“Tell me what results you get from the DNA. But I’m not sure Lacan is capable of having the intelligence to plan something elaborate like that. It doesn’t sound like him. He’s too fucking stoned most of the time.”
“Oui. Tread carefully Christian. I think your Isabelle is in more danger than she is telling you. She’s afraid of something more than Declan Mayer, if that is possible. I must go, I will be in touch.”
“Yeah thanks, give my love to Adeline.”
The forensic team left half an hour ago. When Jean-François leaves, the atmosphere in the room feels awkward under the staling smell of his friend’s smoke trail. It’s quiet, but the air is humming with tension. He walks over to her, looks down at her, resting his hands on his hips. He decides to come straight out with it.
“Why did you lie to Jean-François and to me?” He snaps, expecting her to jump to attention just like one of the soldiers that used to be under his command.
“What do you mean?”
Haughty again, huh, it’s not going to work this time sweetheart.
“You know what I am talking about. You know it wasn’t Declan Mayer, he would just walk in and take you.”
No response, only fear in her eyes, but her features are hard, defensive. He feels frustrated. Why the hell won’t she just tell him?
“Isabelle, Mayer is an enemy I can deal with, I know what he is capable of and how he operates. I’ve dealt with his type many times before, they are predictable. But I need to know as much as possible, as much as you can tell me to help you to help me find out who this stalker is before he catches us off guard and tries to hurt you.”
Still she’s silent. She’s lowering her eyes away from him. Damn it.
“This is not a partnership Isabelle. I am in charge, and when I ask you for information, I expect you to jump to it,” he commands making her jump.
Her head jerks back up, her beautiful features are contorted with anger.
“What do you think I am? A private in your stupid army you can bully. I took it from Declan because I had no other choice, and even then I used to make it as difficult as I possibly could for him. You are different,” he hears her shout back at him, raising her voice a level above his own. “I’m leaving.”
She’s up on her feet, the wrap is sliding down off her shoulders hitting the seat of the chair. He catches her arm.
“You aren’t going anywhere and if you keep pushing me, I will tie you to that chair.”
His grip on her arm tightens and he plonks her back down in the chair.
“I didn’t ask you to protect me.”
“No, but your brother did. You take one step out that door without me, and you are in serious trouble. Leave my side once and you are a dead woman.”
Shit, shouldn’t have said that. She is the most infuriating bloody woman he has ever come across. She’s on her feet again. Doesn’t she understand he holds all the cards, that he can tie her to that chair if he wants? He could knock her flat in a second. Why does she keep pushing him?
“And why’s that? What’s so special about you? Why won’t Declan take me from you? How do you know so much about him anyway?”
He can hear the sarcasm in her voice, she’s got him cornered. There’s a smile playing on her lips displaying her triumph. She’s got him, turned it around just like that. He can’t help thinking how sexy she looks with it.
She’s messing with your brain. Bloody women, they always get inside your head.
“That’s information you don’t need to know about.”
It’s all he can think of to say. He walks away, satisfied she’s rooted to the spot, goes to his suitcase on the bed.
“Yes sir, confidential sir, on a need to know basis sir,” she gives him a mock salute.
He ignores it, bows his head and starts looking under the clothes packed neatly in his suitcase and wishes he was back in his apartment with a bottle of beer and the TV.
“What are you hiding, Christian Dalban?”
“It’s time you got some sleep, here you can sleep in this, you can change in the bathroom.”
Good she’s stopped, she looks put out he hasn’t reacted. He hands her a shirt. It is one of his best ones, designer. It’s a deep cobalt blue. A woman once told him it matched the colour of his eyes. He holds it out to her. He frowns when she looks back at him as though he has made a mistake, and she’s not supposed to have this one.
“I can’t sleep in your shirt. I will ruin it,” she says quietly.
“No you won’t. Take it, you can’t sleep in anything from your room, and I want you to be comfortable,” he tells her gently, concerned that he can see those beads of sweat on her forehead again.
Her face starts to twist and her skin is turning pale. He doesn’t like it, he opens his mouth to speak, to ask what is wrong, but she is running to the bathroom, her hand over her mouth. He hears her throw up in the bathroom and follows instinctively. She’s slumped exhausted over the toilet bowl when he walks into the room. He bends down listening to her breathing hard, she’s shaking again. He pauses, wondering. Is she on some kind of drug? Maybe Declan has her hooked on something.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that to a girlfriend. Joanne Layton at college would never listen to him, Declan was everything, kind, considerate, it didn’t matter that he occasionally got angry, belted her around or introduced her to heroin. They fished her body out of the Thames a year later, an overdose they said, but he knew better. Declan was always good at making a murder look like suicide. He lays his hands on her shoulders and begins moving her away. He can hear her teeth chattering. She mutters sorry, appears embarrassed. He shakes his head at her. “No, don’t be embarrassed Isabelle. Don’t push me away, I want to help you. Has he got you hooked on something, sweetheart?”
She looks at him. Looks like she’s weighing him up, wondering whether she should confess. Then another wave of nausea hits her, and she closes her eyes and grimaces. He holds her shoulders and pulls her against his chest, feels her relax against him when it’s over. He looks down over her as he rubs her shoulders, for some reason it feels natural to him, natural to soothe her pain. He’s never cared about any woman since Marie, never cared about their pain, their worries. Only used whores since Marie, he never even asked their names.
She nods.
“What is it?” he asks gently feeling the tension creep into her shoulders again.
She’s silent, clutching her stomach. Her voice is hoarse when she eventually speaks.
“He used to have my food and drink laced with an amphetamine, speed or something like that. He used to find it amusing to see me go off my head and believe I was losing my mind. He used to make me beg him to stop it. I hate him.” Her teeth chatter more, he holds her tighter, unconsciously pulling her closer. “I refused to eat or drink anything. He had me put in a mental institution to frighten me. They injected me with high doses of an anti-depressant and diazepam. I’m trying to come off them slowly, but the withdrawal symptoms are just about too much. That’s what I was looking for, my tablets,” he feels her body shake violently in his arms. He wastes no more time and sweeps her up in his arms. She’s light as a feather. “My brother put me in touch with his doctor, he’s helping me come off them.”
“Ok sweetheart, you stay here, while I go and get them. Are they in your bag?”
He deposits her on the bed, makes her crawl in, props her pillows up and helps her lie back. He wants to kill Declan, rip his throat out. He hurries to the door, picking up her key from the side table. He glances back at her. Her head is turned to the side, the covers placed up under her chin. Even though the room is warm and the air humid, he can see her shaking under the covers. He’s satisfied she is in no condition to move and opens the door and makes his way to her room. Mayer has stepped up a league or two, almost in Gabriel Dumont’s division. It sounds like Mayer has been benefiting from his close relationship with Dumont after he took over as new head of the Mayer family. Daddy has been teaching him new tricks, tricks he used to keep his own wife in line when she tried to leave him. He feels his hands clench into fists at his sides as he searches the room for Isabelle’s bag.
He finds her bag easily, by the chair where the semen was. The forensic team have taken away the nightdress. He bends down holding on to the back of the chair for support, he frowns, it’s stained the carpet and the cover on the chair. The bed is clear, the clothes and elaborate display have disappeared, but the rest of the mess is still in the room. He stands and glances around looking for any clues that might tell him who left the message. It’s futile, he isn’t police, although he’s learning. Something tells him his father is mixed up in this somehow, even though it isn’t his style, he can smell it. How the hell did he ever come from shit like him? He opens her bag, looks in it, finds nothing that will give him any clues to her past and why she might be lying about what’s gone on in her room tonight, only the tablets, some money and a lipstick. Fuck it. He closes the bag and makes his way back to his room.
She looks up with relief when she sees him come through the door. Good, she hasn’t moved. He puts the bag down on the bed and goes to get a glass of water as she tries to sit up. She’s opening the bag up when he comes back into the room. Her hands are shaking like pneumatic drills. He sits down on the bed and takes over. One of each she tells him. He shakes his head, takes them out and hands them to her. She manages to hold them and insert them on her tongue, but the glass is another matter. There is no audible objection when he holds the glass to her lips. He watches her lie back on the covers. He goes to pick up the shirt at the bottom of the bed.
“Come on let’s get you undressed.”
“What?”
She’s suddenly sitting up, horror and indignation clearly visible on her face. He wants to laugh but makes sure he doesn’t. It’s a bit late for coyness.
“I’m going to help you. It will be all over in a couple of seconds,” he can feel his mouth hovering in a smile as she starts pulling up the covers again.
“No, no I’ll manage myself.”
He gives her a stern look of disapproval, he isn’t convinced, he can still see her shaking. He shakes his head at her and hands her the shirt. She struggles to sit up, and he goes to help her.
“I said I could manage thank you,” she says haughtily, abruptly stopping her movement.
He backs off, hands up, and stands, gallantly turning his back. They were having sex as strangers a few hours ago, and she has a problem with him seeing her naked now. He can hear her getting irritated and stressed trying to fiddle with the damn zip. She won’t achieve anything with the state she’s in. He gives an impatient sigh and runs his hand around the designer fair stubble that covers his chin and curves neatly around his mouth and jaw line. He starts moving his feet. He tries to keep still and folds his arms as if to prevent himself from moving. He can’t push it, he’s just beginning to get her comfortable with him. But she’s struggling, damn it. He’s had enough, it’s bloody stupid.
She’s in some contorted Houdini pose trying to get the stupid dress off when he turns around. He walks straight up to her, pulls her arms down to her sides and pulls her forward. She gives a cry as he pulls the zip down and the straps down, revealing her pert milky-white breasts again. He makes sure he doesn’t give them a second glance. He picks up the shirt, whips it around her shoulders and commands her to put her arms in. She does so, hurriedly, and clutches at its front to cover herself. He whips the sheets off her and pulls the dress down, catching a small glimpse between her thighs. He dismisses her cry of protest and pulls the material down her legs, lifting her feet to catch it at the end. He hears her whimper when he carefully smoothes his hands over the top of one of her stay up lacy stockings and slowly eases it down her leg. He tosses it on the chair with the dress and does the same with the other. She looks mortified. He replaces the bedclothes.
When he turns back she’s pulling the covers up to her chin, eyeing him with suspicion and a little of that characteristic contempt she appears to display when any men are around.
“How is Philip? Have you heard from him?” she asks.
“He’s ok. I spoke to him yesterday morning. He’s sorry he couldn’t meet you. He was ready to go absent without leave from the army to keep your meeting, when they told him he was being sent on exercise.”
He stands with his hands on his hips again studying her closely as he talks.
“No, he can’t, he promised he wouldn’t. Promise me you won’t let him whatever happens. I don’t want his life and career ruined.”
She looks agitated again. He cuts her short.
“I won’t. Now go to sleep, the sun is on its way up.”
She doesn’t look sure, then she nods and slips down the bed. He watches her turn on her side. There’s no movement in the bed and he assumes she is going to sleep. He doesn’t feel like sleeping, even though he knows he should. He walks to the french windows and opens them. He feels the warm night air caress his face and lift the tails of his shirt as he walks out onto the balcony. He feels the taut muscle in his abdomen and chest contract as it teasingly brushes his skin. He leans over the rail. There’s something about Paris at night, a heady, dizzy atmosphere that makes him drunk, a temptation that makes him want to forget who he is and indulge in all his best and worse desires that the city so extravagantly offers. The city doesn’t sleep and neither can he.
He sees a prostitute walk along the street in a red dress that barely covers her arse. It’s a nice arse, round and pert, sticking out behind her in true glorious Afro-Caribbean style. Her legs are long but her breasts aren’t that big, damn shame, not a patch on Isabelle’s. She walks with attitude to a Mercedes that pulls up next to the kerb across the street, all hips and wiggle in heels that only hookers can walk in. He stares at the car wondering who is in it, whether it is someone important. He watches its red brake lights come on as the girl draws nearer. She leans in the window making sure the guy has an eyeful of her chest and what’s for sale. He hears her laugh and then watches her get in the car. It drives off into what is left of the night.
He can’t afford to mess this job up, he can’t let Philip down. Along with Jean-François he’s one of his best mates, one of the only people he can trust, one of the only people he can be himself with. He had no idea the guy had a half-sister, let alone that she was the daughter of Michael Mayer’s favourite son, who chose to leave the Mayer family and try to lead a normal life. She is the granddaughter of his father’s greatest family ally since the bloody French revolution. Hell, the torrid, sordid criminal history of the two families went back as far as that. This one woman is about to blow it all, he is going to make damn sure he is part of it.
He smells the air, it’s musty and the road below is damp, must have been a downpour at some point in the night, he’s been too busy to notice. He watches the approach of the morning sun, its first yellow rays still blocked by the heavy layer of blackness above it. In an hour the sun will be strong enough to banish the darkness and the night’s revenants. The rich, affluent designer people will fashionably line the parallel streets of the city. They are all designer people, even those without much money and without age on their side, all pampered in the best money could buy.
It is what makes Paris, Paris, he decides.
Even he’s got the bug, all his clothes are meticulously chosen, his hair, his body all kept in shape and fashion, it’s what the clients demand. He looks down the street at the old, dilapidated buildings making up Pigalle. It makes him think about the contrast between the area and the rest of the city with its attractive old stone buildings that look as though they have been scrubbed clean every week. The magnificent parks, in which the beautiful fashionable people like to sit, read, walk their dogs or just simply parade through on their way to the Louvre or the Musée D’Orsay for an afternoon of culture. Then finishing the day by eating dinner on the kerb of a restaurant in the evening sun, watching the world pass by. He watches a taxi go by, sees a group of rowdy men come out of a live sex show club, he’s been there before, come out with a similar group of men. He bows his head and then shakes it. He’s been losing it. The sun has risen a little higher, more people come out of clubs, the revenants are finally going home, this revenant should sleep before the morning sun gets him.
Chapter Four
Isabelle takes a sip of luke-warm tea that’s a funny dishwater colour. It leaves a soapy taste in her mouth, and she feels her lips twisting with dissatisfaction as she replaces the cup on the saucer. She glances at the Cartier watch Declan always insists she wears, a birthday present. As soon as she gets out of this and doesn’t need a watch anymore, she’s going to stamp on it and smash it into a thousand pieces. She’ll burn the clothes he forced her to wear. She takes a breath to control her anger. It’s a practice she’s sick of maintaining, she wants to show Declan just how angry she is at him. She feels that tight ball of angry frustration between her ribs tighten and twist. She looks down at her hand and raises it from the table holding it out flat. There’s a slight tremor in it. She picks up her bag and searches in it for the diazepam, puts one of the tablets on her tongue. It works quickly, flooding her insides with relief. She can’t do anything about the diazepam yet, still trying to come off the hellish high doses of anti-depressants before she’s even allowed to try cutting down on it. She feels like she’ll be on them forever, patience, patience. She feels the knot twist again.
Patience girl, patience, breathe in through your nose, one, two, three, out again, slowly, slowly, do it again and again.
She looks around her. There are white aproned waiters bustling in and around tables, serving breakfast. One of them is taking an order from a group of German businessmen and using english to communicate with them. The place smells of fresh coffee and tasty breads and pastries. She looks down at her plate and the fluffy sugar topped brioche roll neatly presented on the plate. It’s all very nice, but she can’t eat, every time she does she feels sick, her throat tightens, dries and wants to repel food.
She glances around again, listening to the hum of French and German conversation around her. Watches one of the waiters serve, watches a couple of English tourists look at a map of the city and point across the street, stares at a poster advertising a film she saw a while ago in England. They’ve given it a French name. It’s promoted on one of those round things she never knows the name for, but they stand on the corners of French streets advertising films, programmes and magazines, often with a lewd picture of a woman proudly displaying her breasts or underwear. This one has one too, on the top section.
She finds it offensive, looks down her nose at it, narrowing her eyes slightly with contempt, wishes women wouldn’t let her and their sex down so much. She makes sure she doesn’t glance in its direction feeling the heat of anger and frustration rise inside again.
She looks across the street, sees the already hot sun gleam off the expensive metallic tops of the expensive cars rushing down the street. It’s early, just before eight, but the street is growing heavy with people going to work and tourists determined to make an early start. She pushes the brioche roll away from her and signals to one of the waiters. She makes herself take another two gulps of the disgusting tea, worrying she’ll dehydrate or something like that. Hell she can’t remember the last time she’d drank a decent cup of tea, except, except last night.
Mr.. Dalban, sorry Christian, made a bloody good cup of tea.
It’s a shame she had to walk out on him like that, sleeping like a baby, watching over her, slumped in a chair instead of the bed beside her, how gallant. Bastard. Another jailer- she’s doing this on her own.
The worse Declan can do is kill me, no that’s wrong, he can nearly kill me and then keep me alive in the hell he calls love.
She shivers, feels afraid, maybe she’s a fool doing this on her own. This must be her tenth escape attempt and the furthest she’s got. Maybe she should trust Philip, he does know what he’s talking about, he’s army like Christian was before. Tough, too late, just have to go it alone, without sexy Mr. Dalban. Shit. She hates herself for even thinking he’s attractive, let alone sexy. Ashamed she enjoyed the sex, ashamed he bloody knew it as well. Sex, she’d forgotten it was enjoyable and not a forcible rape attempt she had to consent to for fear of her life. A small smile appears on her face as she remembers, then she frowns embarrassed that someone may have seen the slip of emotion playing on her face.
She’s spent so long hiding her emotions, her true self. She puts the cup down with a bang, her true self has never been good enough. The thought spits out in her mind. She closes her eyes once, then opens them again to find the waiter standing there with the bill. She takes it and pays with the money Philip sent her. He goes away to fetch her some change. She sits back on the plush grey booth seat and smoothes her hand over its surface. She likes it in here, it’s dark, she can hide in it. It has elaborate carved black cherubs holding up tulip shaped lights in the middle of the booths and there are old cherub and Grecian figure paintings on the walls. It feels a bit gothic, phantom of the opera. She likes it, she smiles, wants to giggle as she thinks of being in the past, of being in peril like Christine in Phantom with Raoul at her side.
Huh, too much like reality. Shit, is that the time, must go. She thanks the waiter for her change and hurries out of the restaurant to find a taxi.
Lucky, there’s one, two going by as she looks up the street. She waves her hand and the first one comes over, Rue de Rivoli, s’il vous plait. The car joins the stream of traffic as she fiddles with her seat belt hoping she’ll get the damn clip into the slot before the driver crashes into something at the speed he is weaving in and out of the traffic. He stops abruptly and nearly puts her through the windscreen. A group of tourists stumble onto what she and other English people would call a pedestrian crossing, only she’s been here before and knows better. In Paris, it means try risking your life here to cross, the traffic isn’t going to stop. The people stop as he shunts forward, then they start again, he curses, shunts forward again and then gives up and lets them proceed when the driver next to him stops to let them go. He shakes his head at them and then carries on. Eventually she sees the wrought iron railings housing the Tuileries gardens and the large grey building, the Louvre next to it. She loves the Louvre with its erotic sculptures and wealth of paintings. She wants to forget all this, go in the Louvre and lose herself, her pain while viewing all the pieces the museum has to offer. She sighs, pays the taxi driver after he’s drawn to a halt right in the middle of two tour buses off-loading tourists going to the Louvre. She pays him and squeezes through the slow tourists unsure of where to go and finds her way to a crossing. Lucky for her this one actually has lights and a green figure to say ‘go’, otherwise she would never make it across. All the same, as she walks over the wide road to the covered archways of the Rue de Rivoli, she can feel the impatient deluge of traffic snapping at her heels. She hurries past the souvenir shops, her favourite salon, de thé Angelina’s, and round the corner to find Christine’s office. She spies the lift, won’t take it, hates lifts, doesn’t want to remember what happened in one of those things, takes the stairs, three floors up, doesn’t matter, she’ll make it.
“I am here for an appointment with Christine Morceau,” Isabelle snaps authoritatively at the young receptionist, it won’t do to look timid.
Isabelle can’t work out if the woman is experiencing fear or surprise or maybe both all at the same time. She covers it all with a sudden countenance of unaffected pleasantry that borders on cooing. Isabelle raises one eyebrow with suspicion and surprise. She asks Isabelle to take a seat while she finds out if Christine is available. But she doesn’t use the phone and walks off down the corridor, attempting to disguise the urgency in her walk.
Isabelle hears those alarm bells ring in her mind. Stupid idea to come here. Bloody stupid. Typical, loads of intelligence, graduated top for law but no bloody common sense. But she’s desperate. No, she must be imagining it, maybe it’s another delusion or illusion those bloody pills keep giving her, another hallucination. They can’t know anything, Declan would want to keep her disappearance a secret, it wouldn’t do his image any good, he would want to find her himself. He’ll be hunting her now. She looks at the window, at the buildings across the road, he’ll be out there somewhere. Every time she goes out into the sunlight she’s taking a chance on her life, easy prey, she’s safer in the shadows. They can’t even know who she is, nobody at the bank has seen her apart from Christine. Declan has kept her well hidden since Grandfather’s death. She’s not even using her real name. She puts her unease down to paranoia and sits down on the terracotta sofa, loosening the buttons on her suit jacket. She looks up at the high ceiling and notices how eerily quiet the room is, the calm before the storm. No she’s imagining it.
Huh, talking of imagining, what the hell went on in her room last night? For a moment she thought it was herself, she’s done some pretty strange things on those bloody tablets, then she thought it was Declan. Then she wondered if her past had come back to haunt her and the shadowy figure she used to see stand by her bed as a child whilst in Grandfather’s house had done it. Sounds bloody mad, her grandfather had always put it down to bad dreams, but recently, with the tablets, with all that’s happened in the past and her present, she’s been seeing him again, in her dreams, sometimes around her during the day. She knows it must be the tablets, she knows what they can do, but she’s seen the figure before as a child. Maybe she didn’t imagine him after all, maybe he is real, maybe it was him who left that message last night. Maybe she’s mad, bloody certifiable. She needs to get off those tablets before they lock her away. If he is real, what does he want? What does this stupid bloody phantom want from her?
The woman is coming back, she can hear her tall heels clicking along the marble floor. A surge of adrenaline pounds up her legs as though someone has just shot her with a dose. She puts her hand across her stomach and involuntarily her stomach muscles contract and painfully knot. The pain is sharp and severe, a psychic warning? She wonders. Heat accompanies the pain, she has a very bad feeling about being here, shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have come. She glances down at her fingernails, determined not to look up in case anyone comes in and sees the pain etched on her face. She concentrates on them, trying to distract herself from another wave of pain and heat. She looks down at the French manicure Declan insisted she have, no painted nails. Vibrant colour made her look like a whore, nasty and cheap, he always said. It’s still intact. It used to have to be perfect, not bitten or she would be punished with a heavy hand and whip of his belt. It was a pain she had experienced on more than one occasion as a nail biter.
She feels the urge to nibble and automatically squeezes her hands between her legs to stop herself from taking a bite. She worries she looks stupid and takes them out, running her hands over the top of her white trouser legs. Again she wonders if the monster who haunts her is real and whether he ran his grimy hands through her clothes, she picked up from her room to wear. She feels dirty, wants to change, to bathe again and again, she never feels clean enough. She listens, the woman’s feet have come to a halt, another set are joining them as they start up again. They are a man’s, they sound just like Declan’s when he’s coming for her.
Stop imagining, stop imagining.
She looks up expecting to see him, is sure for a second that she does and her heart pounds harder, louder when she realises no one is there. The feet grow louder, there’s another set. Shit, they know, don’t they? They know, they must, she should go while she has the chance. She runs her hands along her knees again and then stands quickly grabbing her bag from the chair. Too late- the receptionist is approaching with two men. She’s paralysed, can’t move with fear, she feels her index finger begin to tap against her leg. It’s a habit that manifests every time she is angry or nervous, or both. She’s frozen to the spot, time is frozen. Does she ride it out or bolt? The men approach, one of them looks down at her like she is a lost child, and her whole world, her dreams of freedom, crumble and tumble into a pile in her head. Suddenly she feels adrenaline come to her aid, and she begins walking fast to the door. But the receptionist follows and intercepts her quickly, blocking her passage.
“Isabelle,” she beams.
Isabelle feels the colour drain from her face and her blood pool in her feet. Her stomach crunches again, and it’s an effort to stand and not to bend double on the floor and rock herself until it passes.
“I beg your pardon?” she answers haughtily. “My name is Miss Carrie Harper, now am I able to see Mademoiselle Morceau?”
Why is she bothering to keep up the pretence, they know you fool, they know. Her legs feel weak, just like wobbly jelly. She really hates that feeling, it won’t ever go away.
“Miss Mayer you do not look well, please come and sit down, Mr. Mayer has been worried about you.”
She feels sick with just the mention of his name, he’s real again, she can’t keep him distant in her head anymore now they’ve mentioned his name.
“Who are you talking about? My name is Harper.”
The other man is standing at her side, he takes her arm and guides her forcefully to a chair. The room isn’t quiet anymore, the storm has erupted. She can hear herself still vainly protesting but inside she is drowning in fear. She looks at the receptionist, she is locking all of the doors, she gives Isabelle a look of sympathy and then looks away quickly dismissing the scene, there is nothing she can do. She watches the woman sit back down at her desk and get on with answering the phone as though nothing is happening.
Isabelle feels suffocated, she can’t breathe. She tries to shake off the man’s hold, but now the receptionist is up again and coming to help him hold her down in the chair. She begins to struggle for all her life is worth.
“Let go of me.”
She tries to stand up and fight, using every last strength her adrenaline is providing, she’s so angry, so damn angry, so afraid, so bloody vulnerable. Help, help.
“What have you done with Christine?” she shouts finally dropping the pretence.
“She’s gone away Isabelle. Mr. Mayer has been so concerned and worried for your safety. He thinks you are experiencing some anxiety about your wedding and he wants to reassure you that everything will be all right.”
“I am not marrying that bastard, now get the hell off me.”
There’s another man now. He’s holding a syringe. No, no not again. She swore she would never have to face this again. She was so close this time, so bloody close. She screams inside her head. She hopes this time what they give her will kill her. If it doesn’t, she might have to, she can’t go back, she can’t, enough is enough. No she doesn’t want to sleep, to be quiet and wake up all docile, drugged and obedient because she doesn’t know where she is or who she is anymore. The men are holding her down, they feel like two heavy weights crushing her, hurting her. Maybe she should mention this to Declan when she wakes up in her dream world. Maybe tell him that she will behave if he has these men killed. She could couldn’t she, she could get her own back, kill them instead of letting them kill her. The man pushes the sleeve of her white suit jacket and the blouse up her arm and holds it flat. The other stabs her with the needle, once, twice and again trying to find a vein as she struggles. She screams with pain and then growls with frustrated anger using all her energy to fight them, he’s dead, he’s dead, when she gets free, they all are. She feels the fluid flow into her arm, she screams with anger.
There’s a commotion at the desk, she can hear banging on the door, then she hears “Police” being shouted. After the third agitated shout, the door is broken down. She tries to see what is going on, people are rushing into the room in a blur, they are shouting in a mixture of French and English. The two men are still holding her whilst the other is still finishing injecting her. It’s a heavy dose, they might just succeed in killing her this time, then they’ll be in trouble. All of sudden the men are being pulled away, the man who is injecting her is hit and he’s landing heavily against the terracotta sofa. One of the others is flying over the mahogany table in front of her, head first. The last turns to fight the assailant as her vision starts to darken.
Then she sees the phantom figure standing in the corner, a dark shadow. Damn morphine, must be the morphine, but her room… someone was there. The shadow doesn’t move, just stands there, it’s the morphine, it must be isn’t it? Someone is pulling her up, she can’t seem to move her body, she’s so sleepy, can’t move. She cries out feeling the needle being pulled out from her arm. She tries to look straight. It’s Mr. Dalban, sexy Mr. Dalban. Bastard. Her eyes close, and she fights to open them again. He’s talking to her, asking if she is all right? His voice sounds so faint, so distant. She rolls her eyes around the room, Jean-François is there. Mr. Dalban is asking her what they gave her.
“Morphine, it’s always morphine to make me sleep,” she whispers. He’s holding her against him, he keeps telling her it’s going to be all right, keeps ruffling her hair, holds her so close. He’s leading her out of the door that’s swinging on its hinges, her feet are sliding across the ground. Why won’t they move? He’s pulling her into the lift-
No not lifts, I hate lifts.
The doors shut. He’s holding her so close, she likes it, so protective, mmm. Her eyes make an effort to look up at him, she feels relieved he is the last person she sees before the morphine gets her, and comforted by his presence, she slumps unconscious in his arms.
