Curing Doctor Vincent (The Good Doctor Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

He laughed. “Don’t
worry, I’ll give some to Sebastian.” With that he disappeared.

The doctor grumbled.

The moment of truth.

“So…”

He cut me off with a
kiss and adjusted me so that I sat in his lap, legs straddling him. “Elaine, I…”

“Shhhh…there’s
nothing to say.” I placed a soft peck on his lips.

“But there is. I feel
so much. So much uncertainty, so much hope, so much love.”

I looked away from
him. It was too late for me. I loved him and I knew that if I found myself on a
plane when this was all over, it would crush me. I couldn’t listen to him speak
of love.

“Why don’t we get
dressed?”

“Elaine?” With a
finger on my chin he guided me back to meet his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. In
fact, there’s quite a bit right.”

“Then why are you in
a hurry to leave me?”

I placed my palm on
his cheek. “I don’t want to leave you.” Never was there a truer statement. But
it was hard to breathe. “I just think that you should consider celebrating your
success.”

“What makes you think
I’m not right now? I have the most beautiful woman in my arms, one I just made
love to. The ultimate prize for my success.”

I smiled and tried to
hide the pain. “We should go get cleaned up. It’s getting late. Didn’t you say
that you have to spend the morning at the office tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

I leaned forward and
placed another soft, lingering kiss on his lips. “Then let’s get you dressed.
And we want to be well rested for our last day together, right?”

The silence that hung
in the air spoke volumes. He released me, but didn’t dispute the timeline. My
heart hurt that much more. I unwound myself from him and gathered my clothes. He
did the same.

Pulling on his pants,
he paused. “Elaine?”

“Yes.” I pulled my
hair loose from the back of my dress and turned my back to him.

“I can’t stop
thinking about what you said at the theater. About loving me. I can’t think
about anything else.”

I couldn’t look at
him. Hell, I couldn’t breathe. I took a deep breath.

“Well, then it’s a
good thing that I’m leaving soon. I wouldn’t want to be known as the woman who
ruined the great Xavier Vincent’s plans.”

“You already have.”

“I would say I’m
sorry, but I’m not.” I backed up so he could zip my dress.

His finger blazed a
trail up my spine and he placed a kiss on the back of my neck that made me
shiver. I let go of my hair and turned.

“That’s what I love most
about you. Your honesty. How you risked everything for the truth.” His lips
captured mine, and our mouths danced.

I buttoned his shirt—one
by one—savoring the feel of the light dusting of hair that cushioned his undershirt.
Our lips parted with reluctance. “I think we end up valuing what we went the
longest without. I spent my whole life in the dark. Never knowing that as my
father chewed his prime rib, he was plotting the dismemberment of a stranger. When
I’m weak I sometimes wish that he had never been caught. I know that makes me a
terrible person.”

He backed away a step
and tucked in his shirt, then grabbed his jacket and tie and wrapped his arms
around me. “No, it doesn’t make you a terrible person. It makes you a grieving
person. You’re grieving for the life you knew. Trust me; grief can make you
feel terrible things. But have no doubt, in those defining moments, someone of
your character will always choose the noble, yet more troublesome path.” He
squeezed a little tighter. “Come on. I think there is champagne downstairs. We
could both use a nightcap.” He took my hand in his. It felt so normal. So real.

He was bound to
destroy me.

Chapter 11

Secret

The morning light was
a rude awakening. Not only was I tired and deliciously sore from the night
before, but I woke in the guest bed. After the second glass of champagne I’d
rested my head against Xavier’s shoulder and that was the last thing I
remembered. But I had hoped with the strides he’d made that I’d at least end up
in his bed.

After the revelations
and the previous evening’s events, I had to find out what Miriam had gifted me.
Why had she been so edgy? I retrieved the small purse I’d used the night before
and pulled out the envelope. I tucked my finger in the seam and tore an opening.
Inside was a paper, the size of a business card with what appeared to be an
address, and a key.

I got ready in record
time and after noticing that Xavier’s coat was missing from its usual spot near
the front entrance, I figured it was safe to leave. But I had no idea how to
summon the driver. I opened the front door and stared directly into his chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry,”
escaped on a gasp. Not that it mattered, he couldn’t speak English.

He smiled.

I reached into my
pocket to retrieve the envelope and handed him the card with the address. “Can
you take me here?” I pointed to the card with 125 Toret, Paris written on the
front.

He nodded his head in
affirmation, turned and opened the door for me.

I climbed in and
spent the next hour dreaming about all the wild things the secret might be, but
anything fascinating was erased by Miriam’s nervousness and her talk of a
burden.

Sometime later the
driver stopped outside Lydia’s Gallery. I checked the address on the card and
the numbers and the words on the street sign. This was the place. But why here?
Surely, she didn’t give me the smuteria as a gift.

I exited the car and
again gave the driver a thank you. He may or may not have understood. The handwritten
address couldn’t have been penned by Miriam. Her hands were too shaky.

After taking in the new
window display of modern erotic photography, I opened the door to the gallery.
The sound of door chimes announced my arrival. Patrice looked up from her
newspaper from behind the reception desk. She smiled and gave me a cordial, “Bonjour.”

I returned her smile,
nodded and busied myself searching the exhibits for any clue. Did she want me
to find a painting? Was it stolen goods? Why the hell I was here?

A framed notice
behind glass showcased some kind of greeting written in French, but it was the
signature that caught my eye—Lydia Vincent. The signature matched the
writing on the card. This was about Lydia, not Miriam.

The memories of the
rainmaker kept interrupting my concentration as I searched. I found myself
gazing at the painting of the angel once more. The cage, his clipped wings and
the woman standing over him, deserved another moment of admiration. The
lifelike details and the vibrant reds against a black backdrop gave the scene
of an angel losing his freedom a gothic, foreboding feel. It was hard to look
away.

Exhibit after exhibit
and none that required a key.
The stairwell was clearly
marked and the basement was my last hope. The fire door squeaked and gave way
to a stone and mortar stairway. Concrete formed the path up, but down was
everything you expected from a creepy Paris basement. Good thing the sex was good,
because basement diving in Paris, instead of visiting the Louvre, was pathetic.
Just another sign that I should probably let whatever Miriam’s burden was,
remain a mystery. I prayed there wasn’t a dead body or something horrid like
that.

I took my first step onto the stone floor and stood
between the units made of wooden frames and chicken wire labeled one and two. Various
artifacts littered the walk path. I searched up and down the main aisle for
anything that might match the key. Lydia had a ton of stuff. But nothing. Who
did Miriam think I was, Sherlock Holmes? Worried Patrice might find me
rummaging in places I wasn’t supposed to be, I hurried back upstairs.

I nodded to Patrice, whose welcoming smile was now a
suspicious glare. The tinkling bells sounded as I walked outside, assessing whether
I should give up or perhaps ask Patrice, or find a way to get in touch with
Miriam.

I pulled the key and the note card from my pocket and
looked at them again. The key had ‘1b’ etched into the metal.

Up the hill was a building, attached to the gallery, which
looked to contain small apartments. Could that also be 125 Toret? An ornate,
large front entrance and many balconies adorned the structure. I climbed the
stairs and on a door directly in front of me was 1b.

I wondered if the doctor had enough clout in France to
expunge my record, should I get arrested for breaking and entering. The key
slipped into the lock and the door opened easily. It was an office.

There were two desks, complete with two computers and two
leather high back chairs. The walls were covered in charts and graphs, broken
up with the occasional erotic painting. There were also several bookcases
filled with books. The one window overlooked the gallery.

From where I stood, the handwriting on the desk blotter matched
the writing on the card—Lydia.

Why would Miriam send me to Lydia’s office? A mug sat on
the desk and the dark brown stain in the bottom had long since been coffee or tea.
The newspaper on the desk was three years old. The furnishings were covered in
dust and in the far corner of the room a stain on the ceiling revealed water
damage. No one had been there in a long time. There were still crumpled up
papers in the trash.

What was this all about? I walked around the desk and
there was a photo of a beautiful, young, Lydia. Strange… Why would she have a
photo of herself? I moved to the next desk and upon it sat a photo of a young
Xavier on his wedding day. The age difference between the two was striking. His
smile was bright and naïve; it was nearly impossible to believe that this man,
less than a decade later, had made the largest advancement in Cancer research
ever—a definitive cure.

I pulled out the chair that faced the door and started
looking through the papers on the desk. Nothing of interest. On the bookcases
were dozens of notebooks in custom binding. I picked up the first one and a
newspaper clipping fell out.
Youth Pleads
Guilty to Murdering Girlfriend
. The article went into details of Samantha’s
death from strangulation. It was Xavier.

I opened what could be best described as a scrapbook and
began to read. Thankfully, Lydia wrote in English, but the disturbing thing was
that there were journal entries that corresponded with the date of his crime. He’d
said he hadn’t met her until college. What the fuck?

I laid the book—much like a parent might make for a
child—on the desk and read entry after entry. Every detail of his life
was noted, even those as a small child.

Hours passed and I was engrossed in a tale with fewer
victims than my father’s but no less devious. I skimmed notebook after
notebook, stopping to take in the details of the horror story. I felt sick to
my stomach and my head cloudy from shock. Inside a black leather journal found
in the back of desk drawer, I found the most damning evidence. I grew sick from
each chilling excerpt.

Fucking Charles. “Maintain
the integrity of the project,” is what he always preaches until he gets himself
in a bind. “Keep your distance.” Is what he told me last time, but now when it’s
his fat in the fryer, rules are meant to be broken. Why does it have to be my
subject? Can’t he pick someone else? If I could kill Charles, I would. He has
controlled me since I was a child when he would sneak into my room late at
night. I’d kill him not only for that, and for getting me into this bloody
awful Society, but also for all of the sick, twisted perversions his mind
constructs. I’d be doing the world a favor to rid it of that sociopath. He killed
that girl. He knew she was X’s girlfriend, and that bastard had to kill her and
now he wants X to take the fall. He’ll pay for breaking his own rules. I’ll
make sure of it.

Dear God… Miriam’s
father, Charles? The Society? Lydia knew Charles killed Xavier’s girlfriend and
never told him. That bitch!

Charles calls it conditioning. That’s how he explains his choice
to place Subject X with those horrid people. I wish I had been able to follow X’s
case from the beginning, but let’s face it, Charles only brought me in to lighten
his case load. I’m safe since he feels he has control of me. I had always
suspected the family abused X, but hearing the tales of what his father did to
him made it real. I doubt Charles would see it as a tragedy since one abuser
usually defends another. When I’m indignant about his decisions, Charles is
always careful to point out that this is exactly why the “no contact’ rule
exists and by breaking it I only caused my own suffering.

What in the hell were they doing? Playing games with
people’s lives. So that was why she never slept with him. She was keeping her distance.
She perpetuated all his nightmares.

Rage. Burning rage bubbled through me. Lydia was lucky she
was already dead.

This afternoon I stood in
the doorway to X’s study and watched him devour the knowledge from document
after document. It’s been months since he started this fool’s errand. When he
placed his hand on my cheek, and told me he’d give up everything to save me
from the cancer, I almost confessed. But what is the kinder path? I didn’t make
him a subject. I inherited him and my only solace is that I tried my best to
salvage even the smallest amount of normalcy for him. I married him to give him
every opportunity—access to my family’s money and my constant oversight.
But the decision is coming soon, if he doesn’t reach his ‘potential’ before
thirty, he’ll be executed. I can only hope the cancer takes me first.

What the fuck? Execute
him if he doesn’t reach his ‘potential’? Who the fuck were these people?

I’m getting weaker every
day and the cure still eludes X. Charles had to die before I did. I couldn’t
allow him to ever tell X. I refuse to allow him to hurt anyone else. If nothing
else, I am an unsung hero for ridding the world of Charles Lemiux. X is the
closest thing I’ve ever known to love; I can’t bear for him to know the truth. Charles
and Miriam are the only people who know my secret. Miriam is loyal to the core,
but Charles was enterprising.

It was my only moment of smug satisfaction in the horrible
story I had just read: Miriam’s betrayal.

She continued,
It
should only take a couple of more doses to finish him off. Lazy man should have
gotten his own coffee.

She’d killed Charles. I eyed his coffee cup sitting on the
other desk. This was their office. They were a team. Always had been. Xavier
had been manipulated by two people who held the title of Doctor. What did I do
now? Miriam wasn’t kidding. This was a burden I didn’t want. I had fallen in
love with Xavier just in time to crush him. Son of a bitch. I slammed my hand
down on the desk.

My heart filled with hate. I was happy he didn’t get a chance
to save her. How could I save him? Should I keep these secrets to myself and
carry this nightmare back with me to the States or should give him the truth? Fuck.

I had to leave. I couldn’t take any more.

I placed everything back where I found it and I locked the
door on my way out. The sun hid behind heavy clouds signaling the threat of
rain. The limo sat outside the gallery, waiting. I walked down the stairs and
directly to the limo door, but the driver wasn’t there. I turned around just in
time to make eye contact with Xavier, standing in the doorway of the gallery. His
instant smile broke another piece off of my heart.

Several large strides and he threw open the door. “Elaine…
You had me so worried. Are you all right?”

I nodded, but it was a lie. I wasn’t fine. I couldn’t let
him know so I tried to keep my features under control, but the urge to cry stung
my eyelids and tightened my chest.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something shiny
that reflected the sunlight. Before I could register his movements he wrapped
his hands around my back and clasped the shiny object to my neck.

“Let me see.” He lifted and held in his hand a pendant
that hung from a silver chain. “It’s perfect. That jeweler is a true artist and
he made this in record time.”

In his hand was a small wire cage with a pair of detached
wings sitting inside. Just like those in the painting of the angel who had been
forbidden to fly away.

“It is beautiful.” I blinked my eyes, fighting tears.

“It’s how I feel, you know. Like you freed me.”

“But the door was open all along.”

“You’re right, the angel thought he had to fly to escape,
but if he leaves the idea of his wings behind, he can walk out as a man.”

I wiped the escaped droplet from my cheek. Could I get
away with not telling him? If I really left tomorrow, was the truth worth
destroying his world? I should throw away that key. Let him keep his love.