The Boss (Chateau Book 3) Page 17

  “I don’t read anymore.”

  “When did you read?”

  “In school. I was in the top prep school in France.”

  I didn’t know anything about his life before he was the boss. It was hard to picture him being anything other than this, the man who stomped through the snow in a bomber jacket and stared down anyone in his path with a spray of bullets. “You read a lot then?”

  “Book a week.”

  He seemed to lack empathy and emotion, so it surprised me that he’d gotten lost in so many books in his youth. “Did you graduate?”

  “No.” His eyes started to turn cold.

  Gilbert told me he had a hard life, but attending private school didn’t scream struggle. “Gilbert mentioned you’d had a hard life. What happened?”

  His open eyes remained glued to my face, a never-ending silence ensuing.

  I suspected I wouldn’t get an answer.

  “Sorry, I just…” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “I had a hard life. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  I looked down at the closed book in my hands, wishing he could confide more to me so I could understand why he was the way he was. Gilbert spoke so highly of him, and while Fender was actually gentle, affectionate, and kind, he was still a high-level criminal. He was refined and respectful toward me, treated me better than any other man in my life, but he did unspeakable things. Maybe what happened to him in his past would explain this dichotomy in his personality. “You can always talk to me, you know.” When there was no response, I lifted my gaze and looked at him.

  His appearance was exactly the same, as if he never drew his eyes away.

  I started to ramble because that gaze was so unnerving. “Not that you have to. I just mean…I want you to know I’m here.”

  As if he didn’t hear a word I said, he just stared. Eyes glued to my face with a level of attention I’d never received before, he studied me like he was too absorbed with the way my lips moved to take in anything else.

  I lay beside him, tucked under the sheets, my thigh hiked over his hip with my arm against his chest. He ran hot, probably because he had muscle on top of muscle, so the sheets were down to his waist when they were pulled to my shoulder.

  Every time I opened my eyes, he was staring at me.

  Our faces were pressed close together on one pillow, and my fingertips rested against his chest, feeling the searing skin against my fingertips. Sometimes my palm glided to the area over his heart, feeling that strong and slow beat, like he could fall asleep.

  But he never did.

  No matter how comfortable we were, how tired he was from slamming his headboard into the wall, he never closed his eyes and drifted off. Wide awake and alert, he was more prepared for a run than sleep.

  That look was intense and as deep as ever, even though we’d been wrapped up together for several hours at this point. The breaks in between were short because he never needed more than fifteen minutes to recharge and want me again. His desire was potent, and he was entirely focused on me.

  The fire died down in the background, and instead of falling asleep so he could carry me, I decided to leave on my own. If I continued to fall asleep with my makeup on, it would cause a breakout, and I didn’t want that. I rose and scooted to the edge of the bed, my back to him. “So, you’re having dinner with the president?” I ran my fingers through my hair, and instead of sliding through silk, my fingers got stuck on the tangles and the sweat. “Is that like…the American president?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited for further elaboration. When it didn’t come, I got up and pulled on my clothes.

  He eventually got up too, pulling on his boxers and standing tall in the bedroom, the fire blanketing him in a glow. With those dark eyes and that tightness in his jaw, he looked like he was part of the underworld, emerging from the flames in human form.

  I came around the bed, sensing his chin turn as he watched me move past the fire. “Does this dinner include me?”

  He stared for a long time before he walked up to me, his arm sliding around the small of my back and hugging me toward him, his chin dropping so he could actually look me in the face. His other hand went to my throat, getting a soft grip as his thumb brushed over my jawline. He turned my face slightly so he could press his face into my cheek. There was no kiss, just the closeness. “You’re my woman, chérie.” That was all he said before he silently excused himself to the bathroom. The shower turned on a moment later.

  My eyes shifted back to the bed. The sheets were still warm. His scent was soaked into the fabric. My mind pictured me crawling back inside and refusing to leave. It was the closest thing I had to home.

  But I left, walked down the stairs, washed off my makeup, and then crawled into the ice-cold bed.

  Alone.

  Fender drove us into the city.

  I wore something Gilbert had picked out for me, a skintight black dress, high heels, jewelry, and an overcoat to fight off the cold. My hair was curled but elaborately pinned to one side, the strands coming down one shoulder to expose the bare skin of the opposite one. My styling skills had improved, but I wasn’t talented enough to pull that off, so Gilbert had someone do it for me. My makeup was done too, a striking smoky look that Fender appreciated the second he looked at me.

  Fender handed over the car to the valet, and then he grabbed my hand, holding it aggressively as he guided me inside. It was the first time he’d ever grabbed me this way, his large hand encompassing mine almost completely.

  When we stepped inside the restaurant, the staff immediately knew who he was but didn’t speak a word to him. The maître d’ came forward, gave a slight bow, and then indicated into the candlelit restaurant decorated in shades of rose gold, with crystal chandeliers. He led the way, bringing us farther into the restaurant and toward the rear where the windows were located.

  The restaurant was a five-star Michelin-rated restaurant, so Fender was in a black blazer with a black shirt underneath, in dark dress pants and dress shoes. An expensive watch was on his wrist, and while I didn’t know much about jewelry, I imagined it was worth more than the restaurant itself.

  He dropped my hand and moved his hand to the small of my back, drawing me close so he could speak to me before we approached the table where a middle-aged man sat with a beautiful woman my age. “His mistress, not his wife.” In the car, he’d told me how to address his wife, but that plan had now been canceled. “Mademoiselle is fine.” When we approached the table, President Jacques Bernard rose to his feet to greet Fender with not only a handshake, but a gentle pat on the shoulder. They exchanged a few pleasantries in French before Fender introduced me. “Ma petite amie, Melanie.”

  I gave him a smile, extended my hand, and greeted him in French the way Gilbert taught me. “C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, monsieur.”

  He gave me a smile before he leaned in and kissed each of my cheeks. “Tout le plaisir est pour moi.” He turned back to Fender. “Où l’avez-vous trouvée, Fender? Elle est magnifique.”

  I didn’t understand most of what he said, but I gathered that he addressed Fender, then called me beautiful.

  Fender’s only response was a slight smile. He moved to one of the chairs and pulled it out for me before he scooted it in and took a seat beside me. When we were all seated, he spoke in French, and I assumed he talked shop because Jacques turned serious and listened attentively.

  His mistress, Kendra, gave me a couple smiles across the table but spent her time drinking her wine and helping herself to the sliced baguette in the center of the table. She was pretty much ignored the entire time, and she was so beautiful that there was no chance she actually enjoyed spending time with a man twice her age and a tenth of her attractiveness.

  Fender and Jacques continued their intense conversation, the servers supplying more bottles of wine, taking our orders, bringing us appetizers we didn’t even ask for. Fender had his arm around the back of my chair most of the time, sometim
es on my thigh under the table, where his fingers purposely hiked up my dress slightly so he could touch my bare thigh instead. Sometimes he would grip me in the middle of the conversation, squeeze me just the way he did when he was on top of me, and other times, he was gentle, his fingers curling back underneath the dress so he could feel my panties. All of this happened without him losing focus on the conversation, listening intently then speaking passionately about whatever their conversation entailed. I’d learned a bit of French, but I had absolutely no idea what they discussed. Couldn’t even guess.

  Kendra and I weren’t included once in the conversation, so Jacques didn’t even know I couldn’t speak French. We said goodbye then left the restaurant. Fender was quiet on the drive, not saying a word to me.

  I spent my time thinking about the mistress.

  It didn’t seem as if she even liked him.

  Didn’t seem as if he cared much for her either. She was just a beautiful young woman to fuck afterward.

  What about his wife?

  Would Fender do the same to me? When my beauty faded or his interest expired, would I be home while he brought my replacement to dinner? It shouldn’t matter to me, but it hurt, picturing him sticking his hand up some other’s woman dress possessively.

  He left the city and drove down quiet roads into the countryside, pushing the car to high speeds because there was no such thing as a speed limit for him. His elbow moved to the center console, and his hand reached for mine without taking his eyes off the road. Gently, his fingers encompassed mine, holding them in his grasp rather than interlocking our fingers.

  I stared at his touch. “What did you talk about?”

  He answered immediately. “Work.”

  “He’s…involved with the camp?”

  “Indirectly.”

  That made my stomach sink like it was suddenly made of lead. In my naïveté, I assumed organized crime was small and localized. But now I realized how far those webs really stretched, how money could turn good men bad. My reality was shattered in that moment, because all the securities we took for granted weren’t actually real. Regimes didn’t always fall. Sometimes they grew bigger and bigger.

  When we returned to the palace, we immediately went to his bedroom. The fire was already going because Gilbert prepared for his arrival. The flowers in the vases had been changed, the bed had been prepped with turndown service, even French chocolates on the pillows.

  Fender didn’t care or notice any of that.

  He dropped his blazer off his massive shoulders, yanked his shirt up his back and over his front, revealing the chiseled physique underneath. His shoes were kicked off, his bottoms were gone, and then he came at me hard.

  His mouth collided with mine as he grasped the zipper at the back of the dress. He kissed me as he dragged it down in one fluid motion, getting it loose so he could yank it off me then grab one of my tits.

  My body immediately smoldered at his fire, my breaths becoming pants, my nails becoming daggers into his flesh.

  He yanked my thong down my ass as his lips dove to my neck next, sucking the skin, giving a slight bite to my shoulder, and then he scooped my ass into his arms as he lifted me off the floor, my heels still on.

  He dropped me onto the bed, my head near the corner of the bed in the opposite direction from the pillows. His knees pushed my thighs open, and his body lowered onto mine, finding my entrance with his rock-hard dick and pushing inside with a masculine moan. One hand fisted the back of my hair, and he looked into my face as he rocked into me.

  I moaned when I felt him, always surprised at his girth, never quite ready for it.

  His kisses had been aggressive. His touch demanding. But once he had sunk inside me, his hips rocked into me slowly, and he took his time. We moved together, eyes locked on each other, and he pressed his lips to my cheek as he whispered to me. “Chérie, tu es à moi. Tu es la seule. Je t’aime…”

  I could make out some not all. Sweetheart, my only…

  It was insulting that I had to leave and go back to my room.

  Like a mistress.

  I was there when he wanted, then excused when my use had expired. I suddenly felt like Kendra, just seated on the opposite side of the table, just a fuckable trophy. I sat up in bed and looked out the window for a moment before I sighed and got to my feet.

  He was smart and intuitive, unlike most men, so he could discern words that were never spoken. His deep voice immediately addressed me. “What is it, chérie?”

  Without looking at him, I gathered my clothes off the floor and picked up my heels where they’d been kicked away. “Nothing.” The evening had been unforgettable, with gourmet food and first-class service, with a beautiful man who couldn’t keep his hands off me until he’d been thoroughly satisfied. But I suddenly felt cheap. “Goodnight.” I escorted myself to the door without giving him a backward glance.

  “Melanie.” His voice was quiet but contained so much power that it stopped everything in the room, even the flames in the hearth. His feet thudded against the rug around his bed when he left the bed and got to his feet.

  I stared at the door, buck naked, my dress and thong in my hand. I was about to leave, like some kind of prostitute. My job was done, and now it was time to get out of his face.

  “I asked you a question.” His voice grew louder as he came closer to me, the anger becoming more palpable when he didn’t get an answer. He barked orders and expected obedience, so it was naturally infuriating when that didn’t happen with me.

  I slowly turned around and looked up to meet his gaze, my anger rising when I saw the rage in his dark eyes. “So, that’s just normal? A man to abandon his wife at home in favor of his mistress?” Sometimes I became so absorbed in Fender that I forgot he was a criminal who had the fucking president in his pocket. He had no values. He had no morals.

  His intense eyes constricted as his eyebrows furrowed.

  “Just changes his fucking mind at the last minute and takes his mistress instead?”

  His expression didn’t change, like he had absolutely no idea what I was saying. “It’s common for a man to have a mistress.”

  My eyebrows heightened at his honesty. “And that’s just perfectly fine?”

  A long silence stretched, his eyes shifting back and forth as he regarded me. “I’m sure his wife is aware of that fact, yes.”

  I let out a long, drawn-out breath. “Wow…okay.”

  “It’s common in French society. Not scandalous like in your country.”

  I pivoted on the spot and headed to the door, eager to get the hell out.

  “Melanie.” Now he did raise his voice, coming at me in a rage, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me back. He squeezed my arm as his dark eyes drilled into my face, backing me up into the wall so I couldn’t get away. “Speak your mind. Now.” He released my arm but kept me pinned in place, his hands pressing into the wall on either side of me, his thick arms as strong as steel bars in a cage.

  I met his eyes before I dropped my gaze.

  “Eyes. On. Me.”

  I sucked in a breath between my closed teeth and obeyed automatically. “Is that all I am to you?” My voice came out quiet, the hurt coming through. “A mistress? I’m the woman you fuck in your bed, but I’m not the woman who sleeps there. When my beauty fades, will I be replaced with a Kendra? Is that the kind of life I can expect?”

  He was absolutely motionless long after I confessed my fears. His eyes stopped shifting back and forth, turning still like the rest of him, like he didn’t even need a breath. His palms remained planted against the wall. He moved in closer, getting right in my face. “You insult me.” His palms dragged down the wall until his arms dropped by his sides. “Get out.” He turned away and walked back to the bed, his muscular back tightening and shifting with his movements.

  I breathed hard as I remained in my spot. “Whatever…” I turned to the door and yanked it open.

  “Improve your French.” He turned back around and stared me dow
n with a smoldering look of hatred. “Because you suck at it.”

  “Sit.” Fender pressed his hand into my shoulder, forcing me down onto the bench.

  “No…please.” Tears ran down my cheeks as I watched the executioner drag Raven across the snow and to the noose that waited for her. I grabbed on to Fender’s jacket and tugged. “Please do this for me. Please spare her.”

  He turned away and looked at the blood in the snow from the previous victim. “I can’t stop this.”

  Raven dragged her feet and turned to me, tears down her cheeks. “Melanie, help me!”

  I pushed against his hold and fell to the snow. “No!”

  The executioner forced her onto the box and tightened the noose around her neck.

  “I’m sorry!” Tears blurred my vision, so I could barely see. “I’m so sorry! Forgive me.”

  The executioner tightened the rope and then kicked the box from underneath her.

  She dropped and swung on the rope.

  “No!” I sat in the snow, convulsing with sobs that cracked my chest.

  The executioner readied the knife and stabbed her in the stomach.

  She gave a grunt when the blade pierced her, her blood dripping to the snow.

  I fell to the earth, buried my face in the snow. “All my fault…all my fault…no…”

  I jumped up in bed, gasped for breath, and tugged at the sheets like they were piles of snow. Tears were hot on my cheeks. There was a fire in my fireplace, but there were no torches hanging on the wall. The room was chilly, but not stinging with cold. My palms dragged against the sheets to feel the silk instead of the powder. “A dream… It was a dream…not real.” The room started to infiltrate my vision, the shape of the bed, the windows covered with curtains.

  My bedroom door opened, and he came inside, a dark silhouette.

  I immediately jolted, spotting his dark outline and seeing the executioner.

  He moved to the bed quickly. “Chérie, why are you screaming?” He sat at the edge of the bed and reached for me.