It’s a command, not a request. He’s never forced me, but he has faith in his skills. He knows how to use his hands to turn me into putty.
My breathing is shallow when he finally steps away and gives me space. He unpacks the groceries and fixes an early supper of grilled chicken and pan-roasted vegetables. His manner is strong and confident. His actions say he knows what he’s doing. The question is, do I?
Chapter 17
Zoe
For two days, Maxime pampers me. He bathes me, dresses me, washes and dries my hair, and massages my body. He does the grocery shopping and replaces the cubes with granulated sugar. He cooks and cleans the apartment before going to work at his new office in town. It’s a hectic schedule for him, but he doesn’t complain or show fatigue. He’s my dedicated and uncomplaining servant.
The rain stops on the third morning. When the sun comes out, the ants disappear. My health returns and everything goes back to normal. Well, as normal as this situation can ever be.
I’ve been closed inside for as long as I can bear. I’ve had nothing but time to think. The more I think the more anxious and resentful I become. Resentment comes from Maxime forcing my hand and anxiety from knowing I’m not strong enough to resist him forever.
As promised, he hasn’t touched me while I’ve been ill, but sleeping next to him reminded me of how if feels when his hard body slides over mine, how my skin comes alive when he drags his hands over every inch of me, and worst of all, how it feels when he rocks a gentle rhythm into my body. It reminded me of how he makes me fall apart and come together all at the same time.
When nature gives me this reprieve, I get dressed, pull on a light coat, and step out into the sunshine. The salty air and far-off calls of seagulls are familiar. I stop for a moment on the busy pavement to take it all in. The fact that I can leave the building and go wherever I like doesn’t fool me into mistaking this for freedom. I have my phone in my pocket. Maxime can—will—track my movements. I could’ve easily left the phone behind, but there’s something other than Maxime’s possession that keeps me prisoner. It’s the danger that will always hover over my life. He’s no longer the mafia boss in Marseille, but Alexis wants him dead. I have no doubt he’ll use me to get to Maxime. With no guards to trail behind and protect me, I’m taking every precaution I can, including taking the busy roads.
The walk and fresh air do me good. I feel invigorated when I get to an open-air textile market I remember from driving past here once. The smell of grilled chestnuts from the vendor stand mixes with the odor of chemical dye from the fabric. Weaving through the aisles, I drag the familiar perfume into my lungs. Despite my situation, my spirits lift. It’s like the smell of roasted beans when entering a coffee shop on a cold morning or the welcoming scent of ink and paper in a bookstore on a lazy afternoon. Only, it’s the cocktail of threads and colors that makes my heart beat faster. With it comes the rush of memories from the fashion academy and, like an answering echo, a wave of nostalgia. I miss this. I miss the slide of fabric through my fingers and the soothing hum of a sewing machine.
A piece of organza hanging from a wooden rail lifts in the breeze. The floral print catches my eye. It’s pink and lilac, soft and lovely. I said I was done with sewing, but maybe it’s because I’ve been stuck on my old designs. Romantic designs. Walking to a stand with a much statelier roll of navy linen, I rub the coarse fabric between my fingers. Maybe I was looking at the wrong dreams.
“Would you like this fabric, ma’am?” the vendor asks.
I look up. The woman has a friendly smile. A red scarf tied around her hair brings out the warm tone of her skin and eyes.
I don’t have any money on me. I didn’t even know this was my destination when I started walking. “Oh, I’m just browsing.”
“Please cut the lady however much she wants,” a deep voice says.
I spin on my heel. The sight of him takes my breath away even after all this time. With his hands shoved into his pockets, Maxime’s stance is relaxed, but I recognize the power running underneath. As always, he’s dressed immaculately. Even his casual street clothes scream of sophistication and a keen sense of fashion. A roll-neck black T-shirt and fitted pants are rounded off with a brown coat, matching scarf, and short boots, but it’s not the clothes that define the man. It’s his presence. It’s how he dominates the space and demands attention. It’s what that look on his face promises.
Women stop talking to stare. I stare, too. I take in the familiar sharp chin and deep lines, the crooked nose and bump on the bridge, the gray eyes that cut through defenses and intentions, and the strong mouth that makes knees weak. His hair is ruffled, curlier from the humid air, and the longer sideburns give him an artistic look. He could be an eccentric painter or a brilliant rocket scientist, a mafia boss or a man bathing a woman on his knees. He could be a jet fighter pilot or a diamond tycoon. A woman’s imagination could run wild. What every female here knows with instinctive knowledge is that those hands, those hidden hands, can stroke a cheek as gently as they can squeeze around a throat. This is a man who can make a woman’s fantasies come true, and his gaze is trained on me with
