“I’m supposed to tell you that I’m full from the pastry you made me eat,” she replied ruefully. “But I’m actually starving.”
She was noticeably more relaxed around me than she had been earlier in the evening. I couldn’t explain why it mattered but it did. “Come on then, Jenny.”
If I had it my way, we would have eaten somewhere else. The L’Opera restaurant on a concert night was a place to see and to be seen. The wealthy preened there, with young women on their arms. There were more diamonds in that room then at a DeBeers convention. I rarely ate there, finding the atmosphere fake and pretentious beyond belief.
The waiter led the way to a secluded booth where we would be guaranteed our privacy. Unfortunately, we were intercepted by someone I definitely did not want to run into. Pierre Baudot.
Heir to a cosmetics empire, dissolute playboy and wannabe Dom, Pierre had tried year after year to convince Lori to allow him to attend her auction. Year after year, Lori had refused him entry, noting that he treated his women like property.
But Pierre did know about the auction and he was not stupid. He could put two and two together. Instinctively, my arm went around Jenny’s waist. I wanted to protect her from this.
“Ah, Alexander,” he came up to us. “Ca va?”
“Pierre.” I didn’t keep the disdain out of my voice; the man knew exactly what I thought of him.
“Et vous êtes?” He held out his hand to Jenny.
“She doesn’t speak French,” I said in English. “Jenny, this is Pierre Baudot. Pierre, Jenny Fullerton.”
“Ah, you are visiting, yes? Conveniently for three months, like Alexander’s other women?” His eyes roved all over her body, resting for an instant too long on her cleavage. The look in his eyes was covetous and knowing.
I wanted to punch Pierre in the face. I felt Jenny stiffen next to me, then she put her arm around my waist. “Good to meet you,” she said. Her voice was cold. “Alexander, we should eat?”
My kitten had claws. Fancy that. I suppressed a smile and nodded to Pierre. “Au revoir,” I told him. I had no doubt that I’d run into him again. Some people, like bad pennies, kept showing up.
In the booth, she looked at me steadily. “He knows about the auction?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Is he not rich enough to participate?” Her voice was curious.
“He treats his women like possessions and Lori doesn’t approve,” I responded. “You didn’t find him charming? He’s wealthy enough. Lots of women like that.”
“He scared me.”
I nodded. “You have good instincts then. Pierre thinks he can buy women.”
“You are wealthy enough and you actually bought me,” she pointed out.
“Have I ever treated you like a possession, Jenny?”
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “You haven’t.” Her eyes met mine. “I’m sorry. May I pay the price in the playroom?”
“No.” My voice was harsh. “I understand that trust is organic, that it comes over time. It is earned, not given. But I’m going to say this again and I’ll keep saying it until you do believe it. I’m not going to punish you for having a conversation with me.” I looked at her. “Do you think my ego is so sensitive that I’m going to beat you for disagreeing with me?”
She trusted me two years ago in Paris. I wanted that moment again. I wished I knew what was different this time.
She flushed. “I do trust you not to hurt me,” she whispered.
“Do you?”
Food and wine appeared in front of us. I took a sip of the deep red as I waited for her response.
“I’ve never been afraid of you in bed.” Her eyes were lowered on her plate. “I recognise that there’s a difference between you and Pierre.”
If we both were honest with each other, we wouldn’t be dancing around, playing word games and trying to avoid the misunderstandings, but I couldn’t reveal the truth without knowing who she was and why she had found me. Until my detectives uncovered her identity, we were stuck in this pas-de-deux.
It had been so much easier two years ago.
***
I gestured to the chandelier in the centre of the theatre as we walked in. “It fell once, killing a member of the orchestra. They wrote that into the Phantom of the Opera.”
Her mouth formed into a perfectly expressive O; her eyes widened. “Really? Or are you just making it up?”
I shook my head. I held her hand as the symphony got underway. Her eyes were closed as the music started. Her shoulders swayed unconsciously to the melody, her foot tapped a soft rhythm. I didn’t watch the stage – I watched her. I couldn’t pull my eyes away.