Lyon (14 page)

Quickly, she turned her gaze elsewhere and saw something else she would rather not have to dwell upon.
Animals. Large cats, ibexes, deer, foxes, wildebeests, and others she couldn't put names to.

She shuddered, not wanting to trudge along this avenue, but knowing she must. So she continued to hover over him and to journey down this path and others and still others. Only when her head began to throb did she pull away. It would have to be enough.

Cupping his cheeks in her palms, she gazed at him, memorizing his features. Then she sighed. She'd taken from him. Now it was time to give.

“Sleep,” she whispered, touching her lips to his. “Sleep and dream of fornicating with me. Of touching me in every intimate way that can never be between us.”

At this point, she usually left it up to men's minds to build their own prurient fantasies around her. But something drove her differently now.

Scenes of them together—of her with him, engaged in every carnal entertainment she'd ever fantasized about in her lonely bed—flowed from her as she brushed her mouth, back and forth, back and forth, over his.

“Remember these imaginings and relish them,” she murmured. “But now you must sleep, just like all the others before you have. And when you awaken…believe. Believe all these nocturnal fantasies of our time together were real. But let it be enough. Let me be but a fond memory. A woman you blithely plundered in every conceivable way, but whom you feel no compulsion seek out again.”

She levered back a few inches and watched the false impressions seep inside him, imprinting themselves on his subconscious. Then she drew away.

At the exit from his bedchamber, she paused. The desire to turn back for one last glimpse of him nearly overwhelmed her. But she steeled herself and left the room, feeling as though she'd left a vital organ behind.

Returning the knife to the kitchen, she then tucked the ruined trousers she'd pared from his body into her basket alongside the dishes and utensils.

Behind her, the door to his hotel room swished shut and she made for the staircase. She had performed this ritual dozens of times with dozens of men. He wouldn't awaken until morning. They never did.

And when he woke, he would recall only what memories she'd given him of this night. And like all the others before him, he'd never know she'd stolen from him. For he wouldn't find himself missing money or jewels or anything tangible. No, she'd taken something far more valuable from him.

Information.

Outside his hotel, Juliette hurried along the tree-lined Quai d'Anjou at the blunt end of the Île Saint-Louis to the east. The river flowed in the direction opposite the one she went and seemed to push at her, urging her to join its rush and return to the man she'd just deserted. Above her, the moon was a round, cold eye, that reprimanded her through the sway of the trees lining the Seine.
Go back!
it seemed to say.

No! She wouldn't listen! Wouldn't look!

Her steps quickened and she began to run, fearful of nature's heady pull. Turning onto the Quai Henri IV, she spied a waiting carriage at the predesignated meeting place. Advancing toward it, she gave its horses wide berth. Though the team wore blinders, they became restive at her approach. As usual, animals were as wary of her as she was of them.

The carriage door opened and a pale masculine hand reached out to assist her inside. Once she was seated opposite Valmont, he rapped on the underside of the roof above them and the horses began to clop toward home.

After her run, Juliette's breath came in great gusts, and she pressed a hand to her breast, waiting for it to quiet. Knowing that two easily spooked equine brutes were at the head of this conveyance did nothing to slow her pulse, but she pushed the thought of them away. Better this than walking out of doors all the way home!

Meanwhile, Valmont sat with his head resting against the squabs, noting everything about her. She could imagine how she must look to him—all disheveled hair, pinkened cheeks, and crushed skirts.

From under lowered lids, his eyes skewered her. “Did you fuck him?”

Though he'd sent her to Satyr's hotel on his own errand, his tone nevertheless brimmed with outraged accusation. Like a child who'd shared a favored toy, he'd become jealous at the thought of another's enjoyment of it.

“
Non
! Of course not,” she managed to get out as her breathing slowed.

She couldn't tell if he believed her or not, but he let it go for the moment. “Well, what have you brought me?” he asked.

“It's as you thought. He and his brothers are experimenting with cures for the phylloxera.”

He sat forward. “And? What have they discovered?”

“So far, nothing of true merit has occurred to them, though his brothers were hard at work on the case at the time he left Tuscany. The middle brother—Raine—apparently favored hybridization, but is now taking another tack. The grafting of an American vine to an Italian one.” She went on, recounting details she'd gathered from her unsuspecting prey tonight regarding the status of the curative studies recently undergone on the Satyr estate.

“And? What else did you get from him?”

That he keeps two male organs instead of one in his trousers, she thought to herself, but that was knowledge she wouldn't give him.

“He keeps pets on his land,” she said instead. “Wild ones. About one hundred of them.”

Valmont's eyes keened. “What breeds?”

She counted off those she could remember. “Emus, antelopes, bison, caribou, gazelles, giraffes. And cats—leopards, lynx, cheetahs, jaguars, and others. But the pair of panthers seemed more important to him than the rest. The female is set to bear offspring soon. He's worried about how the event will proceed and unhappy at being so far from home at this crucial time.”

She rambled on for a moment, supplying only bits of information she hoped could not be used to Lyon's detriment.

When she finished, he sat back, rubbing his hands over his kneecaps as he considered her news. His thoughts turned inward and she let herself relax until they reached the townhouse.

“I'll say goodnight then,” she told him once they were inside.

“Join me for a drink first,” he said, and her heart sank as she reluctantly trailed him into the salon.

Standing beside the infamous fountain, she watched him fill the bowls of two glasses with doses of absinthe. He balanced a slotted spoon across the rim of each glass, then centered a lump of sugar upon each spoon. His hands trembled so badly that he dropped the second one and had to try again. He'd been taking the absinthe more often lately and it was affecting both his faculties and his reflexes.

“I'm tired, monsieur,” she said, but he ignored her.

Setting the glasses under the fountain, he then opened two of its spigots. Ice water trickled slowly, melting the sugar and diluting the liqueur.

“Did he ask you to visit him again?”

“
Non.
” She could feel the blush steal over her face as she watched the concoction
louche
—turn cloudy—with the release of the anise, fennel, and other herbal ingredients. Within moments, the solution had achieved a beautiful opalescent green color.

Valmont's eyes studied her as he lifted his glass and took a careful sip. “You should know better than to lie to me,
ma chérie
. Now try again. Or should I invite young Fleur to entertain me instead? Naturally, I could not allow you to participate for you might bewitch us both. Still, you'd make a fine audience.”

“He claimed he wants to wed me.” The words burst from her lips.

Valmont's contemplated her with new satisfaction. “Ah. You
have
brought me something more after all.”

Obviously pleased, he lifted the second glass and handed it to her as if it were some sort of reward. “Now, let's begin again. What did he say exactly?”

Having denied herself the drops, the thought of another panacea was welcome. She sipped at the absinthe, feeling its welcome burn, as she relayed an edited version of Lyon's proposal.

“He's not the first to offer matrimony under the effects of spirits,” she cautioned. “And his offer hardly matters since I've made him forget all that transpired this evening.”

She turned her head and Valmont's gaze quickened. He caught her chin and angled it so her throat caught the light. “He's marked you.”

Her hand rose to cover the discoloration, which was formed in the exact shape of a man's mouth. “The color of your mood matches that of your drink.”

He laughed softly and let her go. “I'm not jealous,
pauvre chérie
,” he said, but she knew it to be a lie. “I know what is mine and when to share it.”

“So I learned three years ago.”

His face tightened. “Watch yourself. That sounds perilously close to a criticism.”

“
Pardonnez moi, monsieur,
” she said. But she could see it was too late. She'd given him an excuse to turn cruel.

“You tell me he doesn't wish to see you again; then you tell me he does. Now I begin to wonder if you lie about other matters. You haven't been naughty, have you, Juliette? You didn't cuckold me tonight with Lord Satyr?”

“You know I wouldn't,” she bit out.

“Under a full moon, he and his brothers are rumored to be exceptionally persuasive.”

“Nevertheless, I wasn't persuaded.”

“Then perhaps one of your other recent gentleman callers? Have you opened those lovely legs of yours for someone without my permission?”

“
Non.
I swear it.”

He tsked skeptically. “I've taken you at your word for too many months now. Tonight, I believe I'll have a look for myself.” He threw back the remainder of the absinthe and set his glass aside. Then he appropriated her drink and downed it as well. Taking her arm, he turned her toward the stairs as though escorting her to some festive social event.

Instead, he led her upstairs toward his private sanctum, a room she hated more than all the others in his opulent home. Inside, she avoided the wounded, glassy eyes staring mournfully down at her from every wall. He'd dubbed this his trophy room and he'd filled it with the heads and bodies of animals he and his father had destroyed because it pleased them to do so. Among all the possessions in his Burgundy estate, he'd chosen these sad, soulless remnants as some of the few to bring with him.

Eyes downcast, she waited as Valmont went to a basin and washed his hands. He didn't like his employees to begin until he was ready.

Once he was seated before the mammoth desk that dominated the room, he gave a brief nod. “Prepare yourself,” he instructed.

“For?”

He deflected the question, nodding toward the cabinet. She knew what was inside.

“Are you punishing me?” she asked.

His hand pounded the desktop. “Did you really think I'd take you at your word he didn't fuck you tonight? A man like that?”

“Yes.”

“Then you've forgotten your place in the world,
ma petite putain.
Or perhaps I should say,
ma petite
murderess.”

“I'm no killer!” Juliette protested.

“So you say. Even if I could be certain of your innocence, the authorities still believe you guilty.”

“On your testimony!”

“Silence! If you continue to cause me trouble, I may yet see you delivered to prison. Now see to your clothing,
s'il vous plaît
.”

Shaking with anger, she yanked off her petticoats and neatly folded them over the back of the blue and gold inlay Louis XV
chaise longue
that had once graced his family home.

He hadn't examined her in this way since they'd come to Paris. She'd thought he'd begun to trust her. That he'd somehow gotten it into his mind that she was some kind of untouchable Madonna, immune to the desires of the flesh. Little did he know how far this was from the truth. Tonight and the one prior had proven that. And perhaps he suspected her weakness for Lyon. Thus his sudden need to determine if she'd returned in the same state she'd departed. Thank God she had for she had no wish to wind up imprisoned.

The tray was there on the bottom shelf in the tall, freestanding cabinet, just as she remembered from Burgundy. She opened the glass doors and took its handles, pausing when something foreign caught her attention. The shelf above had once contained monogrammed family porcelain, but was now lined with an assortment of inexpensive bric-a-brac instead. It was an odd little collection, which didn't seem suited to Valmont's interests.

She peered at the first item in the row. A swatch of mottled brown fabric.

“Hurry up, girl!”

Her hand jerked, rattling the instruments on the tray. Lifting it, she trudged toward him, like one headed for the guillotine, and set it on the corner of his desk.