“Tristan!”
I gape as Chantal appears in the doorway, rushing to him and ducking under his arms to face him. I sway, about to charge down the stairs, but Chris holds up a hand to still me, never taking his eyes off of Tristan and Chantal.
Abruptly, Tristan turns, putting his back to the wall, away from Chantal. His gaze lands hard on Chris and he takes a calculated step toward him again. Chantal insinuates herself between them, flattening her hands on Tristan’s chest, and shouting, “Non!” followed by a rant in French.
There is movement by the door again, and my gaze jerks in that direction, where Rey now stands, looking big, broad, and intimidating. His hard stare is fixed on Chantal’s hand on Tristan’s chest. His anger is downright palpable. “Come with me, Chantal,” he orders, his tone as tight as a rubber band stretched to the limit. She doesn’t move, and he tilts his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with a challenge. “I said, come with me.”
She half turns toward Tristan, who cuts off any intent she might have with a command of his own. “Go, Chantal. You don’t belong in the middle of this.”
Her eyes flicker in my direction and then dart away as she takes a step toward Rey, who steps aside and follows her out the door. Watching them disappear, I feel the sting of Chantal’s rejection. Chris was right. If I warn her off of Tristan, I will lose her completely.
“I’ll take The Script,” Tristan announces to Chris, his voice raspy as if he is choking on emotion, “because I’m the only one who held it together when she couldn’t get out of bed from being whipped so hard. You did that to her, Chris Merit. You made her the addict that she was.”
Chris doesn’t let himself be baited, simply asking, “Do you have the papers with you?”
Several beats pass and I think Tristan will throw another verbal punch, but he does not. Instead, he reaches into his jacket pocket, removing an envelope and handing it to Chris. “This is the signature page.” The implication is obvious. He signed the contract before he came here. He knew he had to accede to Chris’s terms. He just didn’t like it.
Chris accepts the envelope, opening the flap and unfolding the paper inside to do a quick inspection. “This should do,” he says, stuffing it in his back pocket. “If my attorney needs more, I trust you’ll respond to his calls.” It’s not a question.
“I’ll do what has to be done,” Tristan assures him.
Chris studies him a few seconds and, seemingly satisfied that he means it, he reaches into his front pocket and holds out a key. “This will work on your new locks.”
Tristan reaches for it, closing his hand over Chris’s and holding it tight, but with no aggressiveness in the action. “I want to hate you. I want to blame you for her death. But the truth is that she settled for me, and I settled for her settling. Maybe if I had let her go, she’d have found her Sara, and would be alive today.” He releases Chris’s hand, and walks out the door.
Stunned, I stare after him, and Chris does the same.
Rey reappears in the doorway, glancing curiously at the two of us. “Anything I need to handle?”
“Is he gone?” Chris asks.
“Yes. He’s gone,” Rey confirms.
“And Chantal?” I ask, walking down the stairs to stand beside Chris. “Did she leave with Tristan?”
He gives me a short nod, disapproval etched in those dark, hard eyes. Chris speaks to Rey in French and Rey replies quickly and departs, pulling the door shut in his wake.
Chris finally turns to face me, his hands settling on my shoulders. “Go pack. I need to talk to Rey for a few minutes, but we’re leaving town.”
“What? I thought we weren’t leaving until closer to Thanksgiving.”
“Now we are.”
My brow furrows. The expedited trip and the exchange with Rey in French has me worried I’ve missed something. “Did Tristan threaten us before he left?”
“No. Tristan didn’t threaten us.”
“Then why are we leaving so fast?”
“Because you never taunt a wounded animal.”
I study him, my belly knotting with worry—and not for Tristan or Chantal this time. “You want distance between you and Isabel’s whip.”
“Baby, if I see Isabel, she’s the only one getting whipped.” He cups my head. “I’m fine. I’ll tell you if I’m not. But as much as I love this city, it’s emotional poison to me right now, the way I am to Tristan. Everyone can use some space.”
My hand goes to his wrist. “What happened to ‘what you don’t deal with now, you have to deal with later’?”
“We handled what we needed to handle. This is no different than any newly mended wound. You don’t go pouring salt in it and expect it to finish healing.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “Let’s give Tristan time and space. And let’s give us a break from everything but us.”
He turns me toward the stairs, leaning in near my ear. “And don’t worry about packing a lot of clothes. You won’t need them much.”
I twist around to face him again. “Are you sure?”
He steps closer, his hand settling at my waist. “I meant what I said to Tristan, Sara. You pulled me out of hell. I’m not trying to climb back in.”
I rise to my toes and press my lips to his, letting them linger there. Chris flattens his hand on the back of my head, holding me there, his breath mingling with mine, and I feel his shifting desire, the dark part of him he’s suppressing. He kisses me, a deep slide of his tongue, followed by another, before he turns me back to the stairs.
“Go pack.”
And this time I do as ordered.
Part Five
The Gift
After Chris returns from his talk with Rey, we finish packing. Within fifteen minutes, we’re on the road, nestled in the warm 911 for the hour-and-a-half drive. We clear the city and hit straight highway miles. Chris isn’t quick to make conversation, but we don’t need conversation. We are as safe inside the silence as we are outside it, which says the world to me about our relationship, considering I find empty space with anyone else uncomfortable.
About thirty minutes into our travels, Chris connects his iPhone to the Porsche’s radio, and I wait anxiously to hear what song he’ll play, certain it’s a look into his mind, and the beginning of what will become inspiration to paint a blank canvas. A Seether album is his choice, and the slow, dark rock tune named “The Gift” his selection. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it that I don’t remember the words. Lowering my seat back, I pull my jacket over me, listening intently to the words, envisioning the controlled motions of Chris’s brush and wondering what he will paint.
I’m so afraid of the gift you give me. I don’t belong here and I’m not well. I’m so ashamed of the lie I’m living.
The line about living a lie hits me hard. I sit up and lower the volume before rolling back to my side to face him. “You weren’t living a lie.”
He glances over at me. “Driving away from the pain instead of facing it is living a lie.”
“Escaping momentarily isn’t living a lie.”
“It wasn’t ever about a moment to me. It was about escaping completely.” He looks at me again before focusing on the road. “But that’s done, baby. I meant what I said to Tristan; you pulled me out of hell. And I also told you once that I was the one person who could drag you to hell, and the one person who could keep you out.” His lips hint at a smile as he looks at me. “So I’ll keep you out of hell if you’ll keep me out of hell.”
Overwhelmed with relief that he’s so well balanced after all that happened with Tristan, and so very happy with how far we’ve come, I smile. “I’ll say ‘I do’ to that.”
His cell phone rings and Katie’s ID flashes on the console. “She must have wedding radar,” he says.
“And I’m totally in the mood to talk about our wedding.” I kiss his cheek and grab his phone, putting it o
n speakerphone. “Hello, Katie.”
“Sara! It’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve been worried sick about you two over this Ava mess. Chris texted me when you arrived in Paris, but I can’t help but worry she can find you even there.”
I relax at her warm tone, amazed at how much this woman manages to make me feel like family. “Good to hear your voice, too, and I really doubt Ava has the resources to find us here. Besides, we really aren’t her targets.”
“The woman thought she could kill Rebecca to be with your boss. You never know what a person like that will do. And Chris was concerned enough to leave the country.”
“He was scheduled for the charity event at the Louvre, so coming here made sense. But we’re actually on our way to the country chateau now.”
“Oh. The chateau.” There’s a pause. “How is he, Sara? How’s he taking this Amber situation?”
My brow furrows at her reaction, and I can only surmise that she knows that he locks himself up out there on the anniversary of both his mother’s death and the mugging that left Amber’s parents dead. “These things aren’t easy, but we’re through the worst of it.”
“I won’t ask details, but at least it sounds positive. And thank God he isn’t going through this alone. I know I’ve said this, but I’ll say it again: You have changed him.”
“It’s mutual, I assure you.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to be. When one of you can’t breathe, the other does it for you.”
“Yes,” I say, loving that analogy, and understanding it in a way I never did before Chris. “That is how it’s supposed to be. Now, about the wedding. Valentine’s Day is a popular wedding day, so I need to lock down everything from the guests to the cake now.”
“I’m really not sure if confirming Valentine’s Day is safe until we know what’s happening with Ava,” she says.
“We can’t live in fear,” Chris interjects. “If Ava isn’t caught by the time the holidays are over, she may never be caught. And if Ricco helped her escape and then found out she killed Rebecca, she might not even be alive. I’m not willing to wait to call Sara my wife any longer than I already have to.”
I smile at his declaration.
“Valentine’s Day is the day we chose, and no one takes that away from us,” he finishes.
“Valentine’s Day it is,” Katie says. “And although you’re my godson, that is the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
“Yes,” I agree, smiling. “It is.”
“On to my next point. A beautiful bride needs a dress. If you’re staying there for Christmas, you need to find one there.” I open my mouth to tell her about Chantal’s suggestions, but she’s already moved on. “And we need to get a guest list going to even begin to plan everything else. Is there anyone on your side of the family I should be coordinating with?”
“No,” I say, and it hits me then that my part of the guest list is going to be tiny. “No, there isn’t.”
She is quiet a moment and then softly says, “You do know that we’re your godparents now too, don’t you?”
My chest tightens. “Thank you. That’s a very nice thing to inherit.”
“Let’s hope you feel that way when I’m done planning the wedding,” she teases, and proceeds to talk about cakes, while my mind is still on the guest list that has triggered thoughts of Ella and my father. I understand Ella being on my mind; I’m constantly worried for her. But my father? He doesn’t deserve to have the energy expended. He didn’t even check on me when he heard Ava had tried to kill me.
“ . . . so the bakery is divine, Sara,” Katie says, drawing me back into our conversation. “Everything is melt-in-your-mouth goodness.” She says something to someone else, and then she sighs. “Mike is rushing me to get off the phone. He’s got some football star coming in for a tour of the winery, so I’ll call you tomorrow.”
We say a quick good-bye, and the instant I push the End button, Chris pulls the 911 to the shoulder of the road, puts it in Park, and turns to me. “Talk to me. What just happened?”
I close my eyes a moment, savoring just how good this man is to me. “Thank you for stopping, but really, there’s nothing worthy of concern. Let’s go to the chateau.”
“After you tell me what happened,” he orders, but the tenderness of his tone wins me over.
“When Katie wanted to know if there was anyone on my side of the family to coordinate with, it hit a nerve. I started worrying about Ella, and thinking about my father, who I don’t want to come to our wedding. I truly don’t, yet somehow, the very fact that I don’t gives him the power to twist me in knots.”
Chris nods. “As my father did to me, no matter how much of a bastard he became. Sometimes I think the worse he treated me, the more I wanted to win back his affection.”
I’d seen glimpses of these feelings before now, but this is the first time he’s spoken them aloud. “Maybe it’s some inborn need to feel close to a parent?”
“That’s the only conclusion I could come to when I couldn’t let him go. I still can’t. He’s always with me, making sure I stay just a little more fucked up.”
“If you’re fucked up, it’s all kinds of right, Chris Merit. That charity work Tristan talked about? You don’t just throw money at it. You give part of your soul to those kids and their families. You make a difference—and I’ll be honored to help you do it.”
He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses my fingers. “Let’s elope. Anyplace you want to go. Say the word, and as far as I’m concerned, we’ll go tomorrow.”
“What? No. We decided on Katie and Mike’s place together. And my ring isn’t even done.”
“This isn’t about a ring. Or Katie and Mike, or anyone else. It’s about us, and I don’t want you worried about your father or the guest list. You know I’m not big on attention, anyway.”
I lace my fingers with his. “You’re trying to protect me, and I appreciate that, but I want to get married under those hanging roses your mother inspired Katie to plant.”
“Don’t do this for me, baby. I just want to spend the rest of my life with you. That’s all I need.”
“It’s for us. You know my father is just a hot button for me. I’ll get by it. And truth be told, I’m a little raw over Amber, too. That night here in Paris when I went to the club, I had this sense I needed to save her. I shouldn’t have listened to that feeling.”
“Don’t do that to yourself. You barely knew her.”
“Yet on some level, I felt her screaming for help. But I second-guessed myself, and thought it was Rebecca and Ella influencing my feelings.”
“You were a lot of the reason I pushed to get Amber help, Sara. It was just too little, too late. That’s on me, not you.”
“No—”
“Yes,” he says, stroking the hair out of my eyes, his hand staying at the back of my head. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to leave all this right here, and I’m going to drive us the remaining fifteen minutes to the chateau, where we’re going to fuck like rabbits. Then we’re going to eat, and fuck some more. After we sleep, we’ll set some ground rules with Katie about the wedding so you won’t worry about it, and then we’ll fuck some more. And since I had the caretaker stock enough food to last us a week, we can stay in bed for days. Any objections so far?”
I smile, not just at his words, but at his rapid shift from dark Chris to playful, sexy Chris. “And if I do?”
He, leans closer to me, his breath on my ear. “I’ll just tie you to the bed.”
Yes. Please. My list of objections begins to form.
• • •
We pull into the driveway of the vacation home he inherited from his parents, and though I’ve visited once before, I am still in awe of the beauty of the magnificent medieval-style chateau.
As we exit the 911 I tug on my hip-length black Burberry
trench coat, meeting him at the hood of the Porsche, surrounded by masses of trees and sprawling hillsides that I’ve seen gorgeously green in season.
“This place makes me feel like I’m in the middle of a Cinderella story,” I murmur, looking at the three steepled towers on the chateau.
“Sara,” Chris whispers roughly, pulling me hard against him. “I’m no Prince Charming. I’m—”
“Perfect.” My fingers touch his jaw. “Perfect for me, Chris. I’ve found my soul mate.”
He catches my hand. “Sara, you—”
The door to the chateau opens and we turn to find a woman, who I guess to be around forty, and a child about ten years old exiting the house. “The caretaker and her daughter,” Chris tells me as the woman smiles to greet us and the little girl waves excitedly at him.
“I think she likes you,” I say with a laugh as they start toward us, the little girl running ahead of her mother.
“I painted her for her mom, and ever since, she’s been my pal.”
“You painted me, and ever since, you’ve been my pal, too.”
He wraps his arm around me. “We are far more than pals, baby.”
I flatten my hand on his chest. “But we are friends,” I say, tilting my chin to look at him.
He brushes his lips over mine. “Yes. Yes, we are.”
The little girl arrives and flings herself at Chris, who hugs her and speaks to her in French. The mother introduces herself as Adele, but that’s as far as we get without Chris’s translation help.
They depart after some friendly banter and we watch them leave, the little girl holding her mother’s hand, the sight of the two of them creating a pinch in my chest.
“I can’t,” Chris says softly, as if reading my mind. “I need to be sure you’re okay with that. I barely survived losing Dylan. I still hear his laughter, and I saw the pain in his parents’ eyes as they watched him die of cancer and could do nothing to stop it. If he’d been ours—”