8. Desperation
Chapter 8
Desperation
Winnie
My head is spinning. Spinning.
This whole day, the entire week has been ridiculous. But that conversation—encounter?—with Christophe is next-level fucked up.
I need to get away. Put some space between us so I can think, because there is no way I’m going to let him auction off my virginity to make amends for my parents’ stupidity.
They were addicts.
They were dealers.
They were idiots.
I knew growing up that they weren’t normal, that they were terrible parents, but I had no idea they were… this .
That they’d gotten involved at this level.
That their consumption had taken over completely. But it had. And now it’s bled over, staining my life with the detritus of their bad decisions. As if they hadn’t screwed me over badly enough…
I pace back and forth across the suite of rooms I was shown to after Christophe blew my world apart with his mention of an auction— the auction. Because, evidently, this is a major event at the club my parents ran that I had no idea existed. Why would I? I’ve focused my entire life on avoiding the things that hide in the shadows. The dark, scary parts of the world that house true evil.
The plush carpeting silences my repetitive steps, allowing me to hear even the tiniest of noises out in the hall as I pace the length of the sitting room. I stop dead in my tracks as footsteps approach the door. My locked door, because let’s not mistake this for anything other than what it is—I’m a prisoner here.
After a soft knock, the lock drags and clicks until the door pushes open revealing a kind faced gentleman in a perfectly fitted charcoal suit. The tray clutched in his arms is laden with covered dishes, a coffee carafe, and another glass of whiskey, but not in crystal. This one is in a plastic cup.
“Mr. Robicheaux said I’m not to trust you with the good glassware. Though it does pain me to serve you a premium blend in what amounts to a child’s sippy cup,” the man says, his clear voice heavily accented, though it’s very posh British as opposed to the lilt of French.
“Can you help me?” I plead. “I need to get out of here, find my friend. I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I don’t belong here.”
His wrinkled face pulls into a sympathetic smile. “Miss L’Ourson, I assure you that I cannot. Now, have a bit of a nosh, take a bath. Salts and essential oils are next to the tub, towels in the cupboard. And then relax. Crawl into bed and sleep. I’m sure you’re exhausted.” He sets his tray on the coffee table and fusses over the arrangement of its contents.
I can’t do that. I don’t know that my stomach could handle anything. Maybe the whiskey, but even that seems like a dicey prospect, not to mention I have nothing to change into. No clean clothes, and the last thing I’m going to do is hang out here, in Christophe’s mansion, with nothing on. I need to be ready to escape if the opportunity presents itself. I don’t know how I’ll find Tru, but I will—I won’t leave without her. I’ll get us out of here and we’ll run. For however long it takes, however far we have to go.
As if he’s reading my mind, the gentleman states, “There’s a robe, perhaps a few other things in the wardrobe, miss. Whatever plans you think you have, I suggest you forget them. It’s a fruitless folly; you’re here for the duration and I suggest you make the most of the amenities available while you’re able.”
I don’t like what he’s hinting at, but sage advice is sage advice.
“I’m at a complete disadvantage,” I tell him as I edge toward the door. Maybe he left it unlocked, and I can slip out and run.
“How is that, Miss L’Ourson?”
As if there aren’t a thousand different ways that I’m on the struggle bus here. “You know who I am, but I have no idea who you are.”
One step toward the door.
Two.
Shifting my weight from one foot to the other grants me maybe another half step closer to freedom.
Tsk tsk. “No need to try and distract me, miss. You’ll find that the reward is not worth the risk. Mr. Robicheaux has your room under guard, not to mention the cameras throughout the estate. Should you run, you’ll be found immediately and returned to your suites.” He pulls the cover from one of the dishes on his tray. “A proper meal for you or perhaps something lighter? A charcuterie?”
“I—” My protest is cut short.
“Garrick.”
I shake my head, not at all sure I’m following. “What?”
He gives me a proper bow, one hand on his stomach, one on his back. “My name, miss. Bartholomew Garrick Hedgeworth. I am pleased to be in your service.”
My head spins.
My knees wobble.
And I have to fight the urge to slump down to the floor and cry. I don’t have time to cry. Where was this sting behind my eyes and burn in my nose when I needed it for the cops and the damn funeral?
I was close, so damn close to getting out of this town. To getting away from my parents and their pull on me. So close to finally being free.
The support of a warm hand on my elbow brings me back to the shitty reality that is now mine to deal with. If we were anywhere else, I would think Bartholomew Garrick Hedgeworth was a sweet older gentleman, maybe even Santa himself.
But we’re here.
And I can’t leave.
I allow him to guide me to a chair in front of the fireplace.
I accept the plate of food he hands me.
I wrap my fingers around the cup of whiskey, the plastic bending and popping under the pressure of my grip.
How is it that I’ve jumped out of one fiery hell and straight into another? All my hard work, all the money I’ve saved, the plans I’ve made—for what? It’s all been for nothing because I don’t think there is any way out of this mess.
“Shall I draw you a hot bath, miss? A soak might do you well before you retire. Wash away the day and set all your wrongs to right.” With a gentle prod, he nudges the cup to my mouth, tsk ing again and murmuring about blasphemy. “A sip and a bite of something, miss.”
I’m not thirsty, certainly not hungry, but I can either fall apart in front of a complete stranger or I can cowgirl up and figure out what comes next. Since it’s a fact that I do my best thinking while marinating in steamy water, I do what he asks. I pick at the plate, tasting nothing as I chew and swallow.
“A bath sounds good.”
“Very good, miss.”
With a perfectly executed bow, Garrick ducks into the ensuite. Several minutes later, he returns, announcing, “Your bath is ready. I’ve taken the liberty of adding salts to the water—lavender and honey, for the lady.” I swear he holds his breath until I nod my agreement. Then he continues, “Towels are in the warmer, and I’ve hung a robe by your dressing table. If there’s nothing else?”
The lady. Your dressing table.
At a loss for words, I shake my head and set the still-full plate on the coffee table.
He says, “Very well, then,” as if everything is indeed very well.
Spoiler Alert: it’s not.
Nothing is well. It’s not good, not even okay. But the minute the door closes, and the lock clicks into place, I rise to my feet, grabbing the plastic cup of whiskey from the serving tray, and shuffle toward the bathroom.
Steam swirls above the copper soaking tub, the heavy scent of lavender filling the air.
I quickly disrobe, leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor. I would happily burn that black dress just to ensure that I never have to see it again, but it’s the only thing I actually own here.
The water is perfect with the temperature straddling the line between too hot and just right. It takes a minute of easing each body part in, retreating, and trying again until I sink down and let the hot water suck the tension from my muscles. My skin turns pink where it’s submerged, my cheeks, I’m sure, going rosy as they glisten with a sheen of sweat.
It feels glorious.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply allowing my head to rest on the raised lip of the basin. What am I going to do? How the hell am I going to get out of this?
I know my crush on Christophe was just that—puppy love. After he left and years later after I’d made peace with what I thought was a wildly broken heart, I figured I’d never see him again. That he was gone from my life and that was okay, right? I was a child and Christophe wasn’t much younger than I am now.
But he’s back.
And all grown up.
Sweet and caring no more, now Christophe is a freaking enigma.
Whether that’s a good thing or not, I have no idea, but he sure is pretty to look at.
Pfft. A man like that isn’t pretty.
Powerful.
Masculine.
Virile.
Fuck-hot is the most accurate term I can think of.
I envy his obviously custom-tailored shirt for how much contact it has with him. The solid mass of muscle when he pressed up against me, the way he moved me, commanding my body, was like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Of course I’ve never experienced that. Because of where I grew up, and how, I shut myself away. I kept my circle small. But that doesn’t mean I’m not affected.
With the hard planes of his muscle-packed body front and center in my mind, I let my hand drift down beneath the steaming water to my center.
My fingers are a poor substitute for his blunt, thick digits. I dip and swirl, circling my clit, but all it manages to do is frustrate me.
Desperate for release, I mold and squeeze my breast, pinching my nipple hard between my thumb and forefinger. Finally, my muscles tighten, my orgasm building as I pluck and pinch at my nipple, fingers flying against my clit. Bliss is so close—so damn close it’s right there.
Right fucking there.
I moan, reaching…grasping at the release I need more than my next breath.
“ Fuck. ”
The whispered curse is low enough, I can’t be sure I actually heard it. But my eyes fly open, and I sit up so fast, water sloshes over the side of the tub, splashing on the black tile floor.
A hint of movement by the bathroom door has me crossing my arms over my chest.
Reflected in the shower glass is the unmistakable image of Christophe.
My captor.
The man who’s been starring in my dirty mental porn reel.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Christophe drawls like there’s not a thing out of the ordinary with him watching me in the bath.
It should bother me. I should be mortified at being caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
I should want to lash out at him for barging in here.
I should, but I don’t.
Spoiler alert… I’m tired of being ruled by what I should do. It’s not like it’s done me any good up until now.
“Sweet and shy,” he says to my silence—my perceived paralysis could totally be taken as embarrassment. His eyes are dark, scanning my exposed skin, lingering on where I’m doing a shit job of covering myself.
My nipples are pebbled, my skin tight. A flush spreading everywhere. I sink deeper into the water but there’s nowhere for me to hide. I close my eyes and contemplate just going under and letting the water consume me, but I doubt Christophe would allow it.
His dark chuckle sends goosebumps skittering across my skin. “Want help or should I just let you finish on your own?”
I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter and dip my chin below the water until I hear his footsteps retreating. When I chance a look, all I see is the blur of fine black trousers and a fitted white dress shirt before the doorway is empty again.
The scent of his cologne hangs heavy in the humid air swirling around me. Teasing me. Caressing me.
My thighs are slick with arousal and my body is thrumming with want. I’m closer to coming now, just from seeing Christophe—smelling him, having him in the room with me—than I was when my fingers were a blur on my body.
I slide my hand down, between my legs and with his gorgeous face in the forefront of my mind, I come undone.
God, there is something wrong with me.