…
Several hours later, after more rounds of tests and an introduction to using crutches safely and responsibly, Emile was finally discharged. He’d been relieved when Theresa had offered to come home with him.
“Key?” She held out her hand when they stepped out of the elevator.
“Card in my pocket.”
She rolled her eyes but slid her hand down to fetch it out. She opened the door and held it for Emile to hop through.
“You should go to bed. You look exhausted.”
Emile had taken easily to the crutches, and the short walk to the lift from his room in the hospital had been no problem. He’d managed to produce a smile for the photographers lurking outside the hospital before Theresa had bundled him into the taxi. But now, after the journey in the back of the cab and another stretch on the crutches to his apartment, he was almost shaking with fatigue.
“I’ll be fine.” If he went to bed, Theresa might decide her presence was no longer necessary. She’d been freaked out this morning, with all that nonsense about the pre-nup and the divorce.
Theresa shrugged. “Suit yourself. But at least sit down before you fall over, okay?”
Too tired to think of a suitable riposte, Emile made his way slowly to the sofa and collapsed gratefully into its soft leather-covered cushions. He tossed his crutches down and carefully lifted his foot onto the coffee table. Bliss.
“Coffee? Since you’re not tired.”
He closed his eyes. “No coffee. Can you get a pillow for me?”
“You’d be more comfortable in bed, if you’re going to sleep.”
“I’m not. I just need something soft under my foot. And something half-decent to drink. There’s a bottle of claret in the kitchen. You can open that.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir.”
He opened his eyes to see her with her hands on her hips, pretending to be cross with him. Her eyes gave her away, though. He could see amusement there, not quite masking her concern. She cared about him, even though it would kill her to admit it. “Is something the matter, chérie?”
“Just wondering what your last slave died of.”
He shook his head sadly and sighed. “My wife refuses to care for me when I am injured.”
“I didn’t refuse. But it wouldn’t hurt you to use the magic word now and then.”
He frowned. “Abracadabra? If you’re expecting me to do conjuring tricks, chérie, I think you overestimate even my abilities.”
She laughed. “The magic word is ‘please’, Emile.”
“Aha.” His lips twitched, but he managed to suppress his grin. “That is what your mother taught you, no?”
“Well, I suppose so. It doesn’t matter. It’s just that I’m not really used to looking after people like this.” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of his foot.
“And I am a bad patient. I understand. Please, I would very much like a pillow and a glass of wine. If it is not too much trouble.” He gave his most charming smile but spoiled it by winking outrageously at her.
“Much better.”
“And when you bring them, I shall give you a little reward.” He made a kissing mouth at her.
She narrowed her eyes at him but she relaxed her stance, and he could tell she wasn’t cross any more. She brought the pillow and arranged it under his foot, lifting his injured leg with surprising care and tenderness. She poured them both a glass of the claret and sat beside him on the sofa.
“Merci beaucoup.”
“Didn’t you promise a reward?”
“Ah, so I did.” He removed her glass and put it with his on the side table. “Come here, ma belle.” He slid his hands into her hair, soft tendrils rather than gelled spikes today, and let his thumbs rest on her jaw. “Okay?”
Her face softened and her eyes gleamed for an instant with what he very much suspected were tears that she had forced back. She wouldn’t want to cry, and certainly not in front of him, his tough, little wife. One day, he’d find a way of getting her to admit her emotions with actual words, but for today he’d let her take the easier route.
“Okay.” She nodded.
“Good.” He took his time about kissing her, holding back until she gave a frustrated grunt and took over. It felt as though her kisses were punches, though whether she was angry with him or some unnamed enemy, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps she was angry with herself. She’d been holding everything in all day while the doctors stood around assessing him, so it was understandable that she needed to let it out somehow, and this was better than an actual fight.
She was tearing at his clothes, heedless of his bruises, ferocious in her grasp of him. Emile held on and let her do her worst. A few more scratches weren’t going to make any difference to him while he was lying around doing nothing for the next six weeks. He helped her drag his sweater over his head and then let her deal with the buttons on his shirt. She fumbled for a few seconds, then gave up and tugged it upward, too. The cuffs caught on his wrists, leaving his arms stranded over his head. Theresa barely glanced at them and evidently didn’t care enough to stop and free him. Emile leaned back more comfortably and watched her continue. She had him arching off the sofa when she bit at his nipples, then groaning in delicious agony when she swirled her tongue over them, soothing the hurt.
But without his hands he wasn’t enough of a sparring partner. She couldn’t maintain the battle single-handed, and so after a few minutes, her motions slowed and eventually, she sat back, breathing heavily. Emile brought his cuffed hands down and began to extricate himself from the fabric. Theresa reached over and helped him, slipping out the cufflinks from inside the turned-out sleeves. She placed them neatly on the coffee table, then leaned across him to pick up her wineglass.
“I’m sorry,” she said, after she’d drunk half the glass. “I wasn’t thinking. Did I hurt you?”
“I’m taking so many painkillers that I wouldn’t notice.”
“Oh. Should you be drinking that wine, by the way?”
“Yes,” he replied firmly, and reached for the bottle to replenish his glass and hers.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
He shrugged. “I feel fine. It might make me sleep better.”
“Not the wine. Though two glasses is more than enough.” She moved the bottle out of his reach. “This. Put your shirt back on.”
He held up the crumpled fabric. “Do I have to?”
“I told you this morning. We have to stop pretending this is any kind of marriage at all.”
She edged away from him on the sofa. Emile cursed his foot that wouldn’t let him slide towards her. “We aren’t pretending, Thérèse. Wasn’t that the whole point?”
“Yes, but there’s nothing to be done until next October. I’ll sort it all out then, as we planned, don’t worry. In fact, if we aren’t having sex, it will be much easier, because we can claim adultery.”
“Claim it?” He frowned. “What on earth does that mean?”
“You can’t divorce on the grounds of adultery if you’re still having sex together, even if one of you is shagging someone else on the side. But this way, it’ll be easy. I’ll do it, if you prefer. Though that means you’ll technically have to be the one to file. I’ll do the paperwork for you, though.”