Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 9
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Hands shaking, I make a mug of tea. Earl Grey, a touch of milk. By the time I’m swallowing the final mouthful, the elevator dings again, and my door opens.
The figure that stalks through my door is not a client.
• • •
Fury turns dark eyes darker. Lids narrowed to slits. Chest swelling and compressing, fingers curled into fists.
“Are you okay, X?” Voice like thunder, rumbling on the horizon.
I shrug. “It was . . . unpleasant, but I will be fine.” My voice is steady, but raspy from being choked.
Hands on my shoulders, gently but firmly holding me in place. Eyes sweep over my face, searching. Flick down to my throat. “He bruised you.”
I touch my throat where William grabbed me. The flesh there is tender. I twist gingerly out of the hold on my shoulders, turn to the mirror on the wall above a small decorative side table. My skin is dark, the color of caramel, maybe even a shade or two darker. I don’t bruise easily, but there are fingerprint-sized bruises on my throat. My eyes are reddened. My voice is hoarse, raspy.
Presence behind me, hot and huge and angry. “That little fuck is lucky Len got to him before I did.”
That makes me shudder, because I’m pretty sure William will never again be as pretty as he once was. Nor as . . . healthy. “I’m fine.”
“He’s cost me money. You can’t work the rest of today, at least. Maybe longer. You can’t see clients with bruises on your throat.”
So much for concern, it would seem. I push away a knot of bitterness.
“Did Len check the tapes?” I ask.
“Why do you care?”
“I heard what he said to his friend. He should be stopped.”
“A report has been filed. The police are investigating.” It is not an answer, but then I know better than to expect a confirmation of the cameras and microphones.
I know they are there, but no one will outright confirm it. It is some kind of secret, as if I am not supposed to know that every move I make, every word I speak is watched and overheard. It is for my own protection, I do realize that. Today’s events prove as much. But most days, the utter lack of privacy grates, weighs heavily.
“I will be able to work tomorrow,” I say.
“Dr. Horowitz will be by later today to check on you. Take it easy for the rest of today.” A nose in my hair, near my ear. Inhalation, exhalation, slow, deliberate, with ever so slight a waver in the exhalation. “I’m glad you’re okay, X. No one will ever put their hands on you ever again. Clients will be even more thoroughly vetted from now on. That should not have happened. If you’d been seriously hurt, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Trained a new Madame X, probably,” I say, recklessly. Foolishly. Stupidly.
“There will never be another Madame X. There is no one else like you. You are special.” This voice, these words, low, quavering with potent emotion, I do not know how to absorb them, how to react to them. “You are mine, X.”
“I know, Caleb.” I can barely speak, do not dare glance in the mirror, do not dare witness such vulnerability, such strange and alien passion.
Fingers, just the tips, the pads, brushing down my cheek. Tracing my high cheekbone. I finally must glance in the mirror, see the dark hair head-and-shoulders above me. Nearly black eyes, pinning me in the reflection. Fingertips, trailing down the side of my neck. Hand, twisting, reaching around my throat, fitting fingers one by one to the bruises, but gently, tenderly, barely making contact.
“Never again.”
“I know.” I whisper it, because it hurts to speak, and because I somehow dare not speak any louder.
I see the tableau, frozen in the mirror glass: Charcoal suit coat-sleeve, slim, tailored, molded to a thick arm. Coat unbuttoned, tie knot just barely visible over my right shoulder, a perfect triangle of crimson silk against spotless white. Dark, potent eyes on mine, a hand clutching my throat. Possessive, owning, yet somehow gentle. A promise, not a threat. Yet . . . still a warning. Mine, that hand on my throat says.
A sudden, deep inhalation, and then I am alone at the mirror, watching a broad back and wide set of shoulders recede.
When the door clicks shut, I can finally let the breath I’ve been holding rush out, can slump, shaking, hands on my knees. Step out of my bright red Jimmy Choo heels, leave them at the mirror, one upright, the other tipped onto its side.
I suck in a breath, let it out. Another. Shake my hand, curl fingers into a fist, a vain attempt to stop them from trembling. A sob rips out of me. I stifle it. Another, louder. I cannot, cannot. If I give in, that door will open again and I’ll succumb to the need for comfort. And I, at war with my disparate selves, need that physical comfort, that carnal reassurance . . . and I also loathe it. Hate it. Revile it. Feel a deep, secret need to shower and scrub the memory of it off my skin as soon as the door closes behind that broad and muscular back.
Yet I need it. Cannot fight my body’s reaction to such raw, masculine, sexual, sensual primacy.
I grab a throw pillow from the couch, cross my arms over it, bury my face in the scratchy fabric, and let myself cry. The camera is behind me; it will only see me sitting on the couch, finally processing the events of the morning. It will only see me engaging in a normal, natural reaction to trauma.
I shake all over, shaking so hard my joints hurt, sobbing into the pillow. Alone, I can strip off the armor.
It isn’t until I’ve nearly cried myself out that it hits me: That was the first time in recent memory that a visit came and went, and I remained fully clothed the entire time. An anomaly.
I let my tears dry, find my breath, find my equilibrium. Set aside the pillow. Stand up, shake my hands and toss my hair. No more weakness. Not even alone.
I glance at the clock; it is 7:48 A.M. What am I going to do with the rest of the day? I’ve never had a whole day to myself. It should be a luxury, a precious gift.
It isn’t.
A whole day, alone with my thoughts?
I am terrified.
Silence breathes truth; solitude breeds introspection.
FOUR
You are a woman. I was not expecting this. The dossier listed your name as George E. Tompkins. Twenty-one, five-seven, only child and heir to a Texas oil baron’s rather significant fortune. George Tompkins. No photograph. I was expecting a Texas kid, all twang and “y’all” and a big shiny belt buckle and scuffed Tony Lamas.
Nine A.M., because Caleb canceled my first few appointments of the day so I could sleep a bit later . . . and apply extra concealer over the angry black-green-yellow bruises on my throat.
Eight-fifty-eight A.M.: ding . . . knock-knock. “Madame X?”
A lady is never caught speechless. So I blinked, summoned my smile, and ushered the tall, lanky Texas kid into my condo. Speechlessly, but with the expected grace.
You are tall, lanky . . . with prominent breasts that can’t quite be hidden, even behind a baggy white button-down shirt. An actual bolo tie. Yes, scuffed Tony Lamas. And yes, a shiny belt buckle larger than both my fists together. Stunning green eyes, hair somewhere between dark blond and light brown, expensively cut and styled . . . short, swept off to one side, parted neatly. A male haircut, not a pixie cut, but a true male style. No earrings, no bracelets, no rings, no necklace. No hint of femininity whatsoever, except those breasts, which I imagine are simply too large to hide, so you don’t bother.
You stride past me, back ramrod straight and stiff, a swagger to your walk, a sway/sashay that’s a strange mix of masculine and feminine. You peer around at my home, the Van Gogh Starry Night print on the wall, the Sargent portrait that is my namesake on another. The white leather couch, dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, exposed support beams crossing the ceilings made out of the same imported African teak as the floor. The built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf—more African teak—filled to bursting, stacked three deep in places, with books. Fiction of all kinds, biographies, translations of ancient classics, current literary novels, thrillers, horror, true crime, indie-published romances, nonfiction on subjects as far-ranging as biology, physics, psychology, history, anthropology . . . I read just about everything. It is my only pastime, my only form of entertainment. You spend several long moments in silence, perusing my collection of books.
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