If my heart was a little sad at how casual he was about our time-bound experiment, I was determined to ignore it. After all, the only reason I was with Alexander was that he was able to get me access to Dylan. That was all. The fact that Alexander was really Marc from two years ago? The fact that I was insanely attracted to him, that I had even thought the L-word? Those were distractions and I needed to remember that.
He gave me a tour. It turned out that his apartment wasn’t an apartment, per se, not by any conventional definition of the word. It encompassed all four floors of the square brick building. We started by taking an elevator to the roof, where there was a garden overflowing with flowers and small trees with actual oranges hanging off them. An ornamental fountain trickled water in the centre of a small clearing and there was seating around the edges. “It isn’t a proper garden, really,” he pointed out. “But I like to have a bit of green space. It helps me relax. There’s a large park not too far away, if you do want to go running or something.”
I looked up at him sharply at that, wondering if it was possible that he had recognized me. But his expression was friendly and interested. No one could be that good of an actor, I reassured myself. “That’d be nice,” I replied. “I’ll have to go shopping for a pair of running shoes though. I didn’t pack very well when I flew to Bangkok. I didn’t think I’d be running there.”
“I’ll have the driver take you to a store,” he promised.
We continued the tour. His bedroom took up most of the top floor and it was breathtaking. Floor to ceiling windows on three sides. Two doors were set into the fourth side. Sunlight streamed into the room and it was pleasantly toasty. In this room, there were comfortable couches, colourful rugs and a sense of warmth. “I love your room,” I marvelled. This space was similar in feel to his house in the suburbs.
I felt at home in his bedroom. That was not good.
He smiled at me. “I drove the decorator crazy,” he offered. “I asked for worn leather couches that I could flop down in.” He looked at me intently. “And a bed with headboards and footboards for obvious reasons.”
I gulped. I could picture myself tied to his bed, spread-eagled on it. He would tease me endlessly and I would plead and beg for my orgasm. I would be entirely at his mercy and my body clenched in arousal at that thought.
One level down were the other bedrooms, including the one I was sleeping in. “Elodie’s quarters are also on this floor,” he said.
Down from that was a floor that contained a gym, a massive library that I immediately resolved to spend all day in, and an actual movie theatre. I wanted to linger in the library. My eyes kept getting drawn to the door. “This is insane,” I said.
He laughed. “I completely agree. I bought this from a Count with opulent tastes and strained finances. It’s utterly ridiculous. But the house is conveniently located.”
On the main level, were the bits I’d already seen. The living room and a kitchen, with a walk out patio and a tiny little back garden.
In so many ways, this house, as large and opulent as it was, was similar in feel to the tiny house he’d taken me to two years ago. Then too, there had been a garden. Then too, there had been warmth and comfort. Then too, I had felt at home.
Maybe he too was the person I had thought he was two years ago.
Chapter 18
Ellie / Jenny:
It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me that he hadn’t shown me his playroom. I asked him about it at lunch. We were perched on the kitchen island again, eating the vegetable salad that Elodie had made. There was a baguette on the side and I gave it several longing looks, but didn’t take any. I couldn’t be skinny and eat bread at the same time.
“Please,” he looked annoyed. “Just eat. Don’t be one of those women that never eats. It really isn’t attractive.”
Is that an order, Sir? I bit back my snap with difficulty. It was his preference for waif-like women that had driven me to my diet.
To satisfy him, I tore off a small piece. He frowned at me and shook his head. “You didn’t show me your playroom,” I asked him, hoping to change topics before I yelled at him. I bit into the bread and tried to stifle my moan of appreciation. God, I’d missed the boulangeries in Paris.
“Ready to play, Jenny?” He raised one eyebrow at me. “Not afraid anymore?”
“I’m not afraid to see the playroom,” I replied and he grinned. “Is it in the basement?”
He shook his head. “I’m French. The wine cellar is in the basement. The playroom is off my bedroom.”
This was an opportunity to ask him a question I’d been wondering about for two years. “You are French?” I asked him. “I thought you are American. You sound American when you speak English.”