Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Nicolette
I try to move on. I try to pretend I’m not fighting flashbacks of being nearly raped only a few hours ago.
My face pushed down on the bed, my lungs constricted, unable to breathe…
I shake my head and toss my chin up, my hair falling heavily against my back. I lift my face and focus on the fading sunlight, the happy voices of people on the street, the fact that I’m okay and not hurt.
The vicious tug of my hair, the way that man yanked me to him…
I shudder.
But when I try to change my thought pattern, I find myself instead thinking of… Monsieur. What the girls said about him.
You’ve just become his latest obsession.
Now that he’s seen her, she couldn’t hide if she tried. He’ll find her.
I move briskly down the street, remembering how my mother always told me that getting my body moving would help my mental health.
It’s a warm spring evening in Sartène. This is absolutely one of my favorite times of year.
Full of tourists on spring break or looking for warmer climates.
Street vendors showcasing their wares and food carts tempting me with the tantalizing scents of crepes, quiche, and bastilles—savory cakes stuffed with onion, spinach, and goat cheese.
Far more affordable than restaurant fare, I occasionally allow myself to indulge. Tonight, though, I have no appetite.
I want quiet and a distraction, but few places are open this time of night.
It seems both moments and days ago that the assault took place.
It’s hard to believe it’s already late evening.
I’m not sure where the time went today. I have some vague notion that I’ve been wandering aimlessly.
The thoughts I fight start to war with each other.
The feel of his breath on my neck, in sharp contrast to the chill of terror…
The warm feel of Monsieur’s thumb across my skin
My throat tightens as if I’m going to cry, but I’m not a crier, and I’m not going to start now. To be successful in a job like mine, you have to learn to stifle your emotions, or you’ll never survive.
I won’t lose sight of why I’m here.
I can’t.
“There are rumors,” a woman says in French, her voice teasing. Most people here speak French, though with so many tourists, it’s not unusual to hear other languages as well.
I glance over to see her arm entwined in a man’s, his hand resting comfortably on her elbow. Good. I’ll eavesdrop on a happy couple and get lost in the lilting cadence of French.
“About what?”
“That this city used to house pirates,” she says. “They were notorious, actually, since Corsica is easily accessed by seaports.”
“Mmm. I see,” replies her companion.
“And organized crime,” she says in a hushed voice just as they pass me.
My heart beats faster.
Organized crime.
“Like, the mafia?”
“Yes, but that’s ancient history. They’re gone now.”
“They’re never really gone…”
Huh. How curious.
I give them a quick look, but they’re already nearly out of my sight.
I’ve heard only cursory Corsican history.
I’ve heard the mountainous island’s famous for many things.
Various streets in the oldest parts of town are connected by old alleyways, hidden staircases, and cold, dark, shadowed passageways as if the city itself is a labyrinth.
The shop next to me is closing its doors, and another to the right shuts off its lights.
Up ahead, the only two places left with bright lights, still beckoning tourists and locals to enter, are the tavern and the bookstore.
After today’s adventure, I wouldn’t set foot in a bar.
The last thing I need is anyone’s attention, much less anyone who’s been hitting the drink. No. Tonight, I need anonymity.
The bookstore it is, then, where introverts gravitate, happy to be in their own separate worlds. I may not indulge in food tonight but bringing home a book might be the next best thing.
One of the things I love best about the island of Corsica is that it’s deeply rooted in ancient tradition.
The streets feel as if they’re as old as the mountains themselves.
Even the small stores bear the stamp of time with their age-worn brick walls and small, quaint interiors.
This bookstore feels as if Belle herself could’ve frequented it before she was kidnapped by the Beast.
I push open the door. The bell jangles, announcing my entrance, and I quickly slip down a side aisle to avoid notice. There are hardly any other patrons here. Just how I like it.
A couple talks to each other in hushed voices in the far-right corner of the room.
A tall woman in a short yellow summer dress stands behind them, and I can see the shadow of someone sitting at one of the small round tables in the coffee shop in the opposite corner of the bookstore.
The comforting smells of coffee and baked goods make my stomach rumble.
Mmm. Maybe I’m finally starting to feel better, since I could really go for one of those delicious croissants right about now.
But first, a book.
I take my time perusing the shelves, fingering the books on the end caps displaying staff recommendations, and end up in the romance section of the store. A large, hardcover edition of contes de fées—fairy tales—catches my eye.
I reach out to stroke the beautiful picture on the front—a thin wisp of a woman in a flowing gown beside a huge, hairy beast. Even if I didn’t know French, I’d know this was a book of fairy tales, featuring my favorite heroine of all time and her intimidating hero beast.
Taking the book off the shelf, I finger the golden edges of the pages. I draw my finger along the embossed lettering on the spine, then open the book.
I nearly squeal. Each story begins with stunning, full-color illustrations. Yes, this is the book I need tonight. I glance at the price and wince. I make good money at La Maison, but this is more than I usually spend on myself…
I don’t want to go home alone. I need something to occupy me tonight.
I pay for the book, still debating with myself about the coffee shop. I don’t like spending money frivolously. As if reading my mind, the cashier smiles at me and hands me a white slip of paper along with my receipt. “Our treat, mademoiselle.”
I glance at the slip of paper, a small advertisement declaring that all hot drinks and pastries are half off tonight. Huh. I can’t remember them ever doing that before.
“Oh, lovely, thank you.” That makes the decision much easier. I’m buying myself a cup of hot tea and a croissant. After all, he gave me the night off with pay. Who wouldn’t want to be paid for reading while eating a pastry?
I turn to the coffee shop and stop, midstride.
“Everything alright, miss?”
“Yes, yes, thank you,” I say in an almost whisper.
No.
This… can’t be. Am I so focused on Monsieur that I’ve conjured him in my mind?
Maybe it’s just someone who looks like him. Maybe… this has just been a weird day.
I have to see for myself.
When I step toward the coffee shop, I can see more clearly, the overhead lighting now directly over me. I stand stock-still while my gaze focuses on the patron in the corner. His back is to me… and he’s wearing an entirely different outfit than he was earlier today…
Why on earth would Monsieur Fabien Gerard be here? Of all places? I’m sure a wealthy, well-known man like him would have no use for a small coffee shop like this.
Did he follow me here?
No, of course not, he looks like he was probably here before me.
I remember what the girls said about him. I remember my purpose. I draw in a deep breath and walk over to him.
It can only help my cause if I get closer to him.
“Nicolette?”
I plaster a smile on my face and turn toward him. “Monsieur!” I say with a terrible attempt at pretending I didn’t just see him. “I didn’t recognize you.” Unfortunately, I’ve grown used to numbing my conscience, and the lie slips off my tongue with unsettling ease.
“Come,” he says, his voice a low rumble. He gestures to the vacant chair across from him. “Sit.”
The note of command in his voice arrests me. My feet move toward him even as my mind screams in warning.
They told you he’d be obsessed.
They told you not to trust him.
They told you to run.
But no, I reason, it’s not possible that he followed me here. Obviously, he was here before me. He had no way of knowing I’d come here. It’s just a coincidence.
I sit in the chair across from him, on the edge of the seat in case I need to fly away.
It’s unnerving how he makes me feel shy. Sometimes, I have to nearly beat myself over the head with why I’m here, so I don’t lose my courage.
I’ve been with so many men by now, I’ve lost track. I thought the shy side of me was gone for good, that I’d adopted a more confident persona.
I thought wrong.
When Fabien Gerard leans toward me, his brow furrowed in concentration, I have to make a concerted effort not to swallow my tongue.
“How are you?” he asks in a low, resonant voice.
Below my peripheral vision, he folds his fingers loosely, a man at rest, as if those very fingers didn’t inflict terrible violence and maybe even death just hours ago.
This man couldn’t be the same that threw another man against a wall.
This man in front of me’s refined and sophisticated, a gentleman with impeccable manners.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice wobbles. Maybe I can let him think he can protect me. That I need him. “Just a little… shaken is all.” It’s not a complete lie at all.
A look of concern washes over his face. “I’ve already contacted my brother and Gwen. We’re putting heightened security measures in place immediately.”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s rarely necessary, but—”
“I won’t allow anything like that to happen again.”
Why is he treating me like this? Is this a show? But no, it doesn’t look as if he’s inauthentic.
“I’d appreciate that. We all would.”
“Consider it done. What can I get you to drink?” I like the way he speaks English, with only the slightest hint of a French accent.