A Life Imagined (Montreal #3)

Chapter One

A ldéric Pierre’s estate was located deep in the southern French countryside, about a half hour’s drive from the city of Avignon.

The chateau itself was set back from the road, down a long driveway lined with pencil pines.

It stood an imposing three stories tall, and each of the fourteen windows on the building’s facade was flanked by mint-green shutters.

The man’s father, Aldéric Pierre Sr., was a well-regarded collector of historic European artifacts.

He’d also recently keeled over at the ripe old age of ninety-six.

His family’s loss was an artful dealer’s gain.

Elise gave a low whistle from the passenger seat as Mathias pulled the car up outside the entrance to the chateau. A man in a black suit and white gloves pushed open one of the large wooden doors and made his way over to greet them as they emerged from the car.

“Welcome to the Pierre estate,” he said with a short bow. “Monsieur Pierre will meet you in the east wing.” He gestured for them to follow him inside.

“Eighteenth century,” Elise marveled as they walked up the stone steps, through an archway carved with cherubs, and into the cavernous entrance hall. The butler led them along a corridor paneled in rich-brown oak and dotted with decorative sconces. “You can tell by the gold leaf gilding.”

It had been about eighteen months since Mathias had poached Elise Dumont from the Louvre’s curatorial staff to work as his appraiser.

Short and slight, with a shock of bright-blond hair cut close to her head, she had an enthusiasm for the job that knew no bounds.

She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses farther up her nose and moved closer to inspect the details of a bronze-framed painting at the end of the corridor.

Mathias was less impressed. He found elaborate displays of wealth tacky, a crude attempt at exhibiting status that belonged to another era. And he was tired. This was their final stop on a weeklong tour of high-profile auctions across the country, and he was itching to get back to Calais.

They passed into another vestibule that split off to several closed rooms. They were met by a harried-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing an expensive cashmere cardigan. Mathias assumed this was Monsieur Pierre.

“Thank you for coming.” Pierre’s voice was soft and breathy, and his fingers fiddled with a stack of papers he held against his chest. “The classical paintings can be found in the ballroom across the hall, but we’ve assembled the more eclectic pieces from my father’s collection in here.

” He gestured toward one of the closed doors and turned to Mathias.

“As I mentioned over the phone, he had a… unique taste in antiques.” Pierre’s eyes darted to Mathias’s face.

He handed Mathias an itemized list of numbers corresponding to a series of different pieces.

“You’re welcome to mark down the ones you’d like to bid on.

The auction will take place this afternoon at three. ”

The butler pulled open the door to the room Pierre had indicated, and Mathias and Elise stepped inside.

The sizable sitting room had been converted into a makeshift exhibition area, but that wasn’t the first thing Mathias noticed.

Instead, he found his attention drawn to the large swastika banner draped across the back wall.

Several display tables were laid out with an array of Third Reich paraphernalia—silverware, cigar boxes, and even comic books featuring a sprightly blond boy with a red armband.

Beside him, Elise gave a snort. “Any clients on the books with a penchant for Nazi memorabilia?”

Mathias picked up a framed photo of the führer himself, frowned, and placed it back down. Can’t swing a cat in Europe without hitting some old man’s Nazi collection.

“Maybe we’ll find a Luger in all this junk.” Elise began hunting through the pieces strewn across the tables.

Mathias’s gaze fell on the spine of a red hardback book partly buried beneath a stack of propaganda pamphlets.

He picked it up, recognizing the title. The paperback version appeared periodically on Rayan’s nightstand, its page corners folded down in different places as he dipped in and out of the story.

Rayan often read several books at once, and their presence around the house was a strange comfort, confirmation that all was well in the man’s world.

Mathias opened the cover to see the book bore its original 1942 publication date.

“Well, that’s ironic,” Elise commented, appearing at his side and peering at the title. “Published during the occupation. I’m pretty sure Camus was a bit of a hero in anti-Nazi circles. Must’ve made it in here by mistake.”

Mathias closed the book with a snap. “We’re done here,” he instructed Elise and turned toward the door, his appraiser at his heels.

Monsieur Pierre seemed surprised to see them back in the vestibule so soon. “I was told you had somewhat of a particular clientele,” he protested.

“Not that particular,” Mathias countered.

He wasn’t in the habit of profiting off the regime of a racist dictator, no matter how lucrative the market might be.

That was the beauty of this business—he could pick and choose what he wanted to buy and whom he wanted to sell it to.

Even then, he often withdrew an offer or withheld a much-anticipated piece from a bothersome client just because he could.

These aristocratic elites, with more money than they could shake a stick at, weren’t accustomed to being told no.

So Mathias made it a point to give them an education.

“But I will take this,” he said, holding out the book.

“You’ll have to register your interest at the auction this afternoon.”

“Or I can take it now for eight hundred euros.”

Pierre’s mouth turned down in a look of dissatisfaction. “That’s not really how this works.”

“Isn’t it?” Mathias asked, arching an eyebrow. “In addition to his impressive shrine to Hitler, I heard your old man also collected his fair share of debts. You’re going to have to shift a lot of fascist cutlery to make a dent in that.”

Pierre flushed red. “Now, hold on—”

“Good luck.” Mathias shoved the book into Pierre’s hands and continued back along the corridor the way they’d come.

Once outside, he walked over to the car and pulled out his cigarettes.

He lit one and took a much-needed drag. A few minutes later, he heard the approaching click of Elise’s heels as she descended the stone steps to join him.

She held out the book, and he took it with a smirk, offering the pack to her in exchange.

“You owe me eight hundred euros,” she said, taking it from him and tapping out a smoke.

“You couldn’t even bring him down?” Mathias scoffed. “Some use you are.”

“Hey, I’m just here to establish provenance. Negotiation is your forte.” Elise placed the cigarette between her teeth and handed him back the pack. Mathias retrieved the lighter from his pocket and reached over to light it for her. “I wanted to see the paintings,” she complained.

“I’ve seen enough fucking paintings,” Mathias grumbled, tapping his ash and watching as it fluttered down to the cobblestones beneath their feet.

“I don’t know if anyone’s told you this, but you come off as a little intimidating,” Elise said, squinting against the midday sun as she sucked on her cigarette.

“I can’t imagine why.”

She gave a short laugh. “Your call, Chief. Shall we head home, then? I miss my own bed.”

Mathias took another pull and let the smoke curl from the corner of his mouth. His mind reached back to the white brick house and the sun-drenched warmth of the upstairs bedroom. He didn’t miss his own bed so much as who he’d find in it.

Rayan stared at the open book in his hand.

The mesh curtains drawn across the open window in the bedroom stirred in the late-evening breeze.

Beyond the window was the foaming blue gateway to the North Sea.

He went over the passage he’d read moments before, and it made even less sense.

Flipping back to the previous page, he skimmed the text only to find that none of it registered.

He gave a frustrated sigh and leaned back against the headboard.

Beside him, the bed remained undisturbed, as it had for the past week.

Mathias was traveling through Southern France for several days on a procurement trip.

It wasn’t uncommon—he often flew to places like Vienna and Madrid to make acquisitions or consult with clients looking to obtain a specific piece.

Travel came with the territory, but that didn’t make Mathias’s absence any more tolerable.

The house loomed large without him, a silence filling the hallways and empty rooms. Rayan hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Mathias’s daily presence in his life. His touch like an electric charge. Without it, Rayan hummed with unmet desire, making him aimless and easily distracted.

He’d done well, considering. He kept himself busy working at the center and out in the camp.

The situation in Calais had worsened, and the growing needs of the seemingly endless stream of refugees arriving in the city had resulted in local officials withdrawing their support.

It made charitable organizations like the Calais Center for New Migrants even more necessary as they found themselves on the front lines of a crisis the establishment no longer wanted any part of.

Rayan tossed the book aside and reached beneath the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t have to mope—he was quite capable of meeting his own needs. He’d just found that, with Mathias around, he rarely had to.

Rayan closed his eyes and eased into the warm wave of building pleasure—gradual, familiar—and his cock responded accordingly.

He knew whose hand he’d prefer in place of his own.

Mathias liked to palm the head of Rayan’s cock while squeezing the root, pushing him forward and pulling him back.

He’d press his mouth to Rayan’s ear, speaking in a measured voice, as he stripped away Rayan’s composure one languid stroke at a time: “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?

That’s what you’re lying here thinking about. Say it. I can’t hear you.”

Rayan loved when snatches of the man’s sadistic side flickered through. Mathias knew when he flexed his particular brand of control, Rayan was putty in his hands.

He heard the floorboards creak on the landing, and he froze, his eyes flying open. Mathias stood in the doorway to the bedroom, a smirk pulling at his lips as he stared down at Rayan on the bed. He wasn’t due back until the next day.

“Don’t stop on my account.” Mathias dropped his bag to the floor and walked into the room. He lowered himself into the chair across from the bed, arms draped leisurely over the armrests, his eyes glittering. “Go on.”

Rayan’s stomach lurched, and a flush of embarrassment rose to his cheeks, but it was swallowed by an even more powerful surge of arousal. He began to move his hand again, deliberate, slow, lowering his gaze to avoid the imposing sight of Mathias as he watched him.

“Look at me,” Mathias instructed sharply—his voice from before, that other life.

Rayan’s eyes snapped to his, and he groaned as his desire leapt forward, his cock straining in his fist, fighting for release.

“Good boy.”

Mathias’s face betrayed nothing as Rayan began to fall apart beneath his gaze, desperate to look away and at the same time not wanting to miss a second.

Mathias’s eyes fixed him to the spot, exposing him, Rayan’s pleasure bared for all to see.

Rayan felt the crest of his release, a crackle of lightning that curled his toes, and gave a short grunt as he pulled up his T-shirt and shot across his bare stomach.

Breathing hard, he waited for the spots to leave his vision before using the hem of his shirt to swipe away the mess.

He rolled off the bed, somewhat unsteady, moved toward Mathias, and knelt before him.

Those piercing gray eyes lowered to Rayan’s face.

He slid his palms along Mathias’s thighs to his belt, which he unbuckled then moved to unzip his slacks, the fabric stretched against the thick swell of his cock.

Rayan took him into his hand, and a shiver ran down his spine. Mathias was rock-hard.

“Welcome home,” Rayan said.

Mathias’s lips parted, the lust filling his pupils, before Rayan blessedly took the man into his mouth.