Midnight Scent (Amour Toxique Book 1) (7 page)

Even though he ignores questions about his background and family, from his letters I manage to glean information that at least points to his character. He’s an enthusiastic art collector who loves to paint in his free time. He also runs every morning no matter the weather, and enjoys classical music. He didn’t lecture for the money, he tells me, but rather for the pure joy of it.

The one hint at his background I do get is that he isn’t actually French, despite his French surname. He began learning the language as a child and is now fluent in it.

Before I know it, our conversations turn in a different direction. Our letters return to brief notes again—
his
flirty, with an erotic undertone that leaves me breathless. Our correspondence slowly but surely develops into a bizarre but intense long-distance romance that sucks me in without my explicit consent.

His words echo the ones he wrote to Jennifer, but these are meant for me, and they’re beyond intoxicating. When he talks about being together one day, I humor him, but it’s mostly out of pity since I doubt he’ll ever be free.

Still, I find myself dreaming about him. I allow him to spend most nights with me in my bed, inside my mind. He’s far away but feels oh so near. He fills my dreams and my reality. He could be dangerous, but he’s my comfort zone. He could be poisonous, but he’s my elixir.

When I’m thinking straight, I struggle with wanting to let him go. But the need to keep him is so much stronger. So many times I find myself aching to see him in person, to look into his eyes. If he can have such a hold over me from afar, am I brave enough to withstand what might happen in person?

Chapter Ten

I wake with a rock planted in the center of my stomach. I can’t seem to get enough air, even as I fill my lungs with deep breaths. Nothing can fill me. Not air. Not water. Not food. Only Judson’s words.

I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks, and it’s driving me nuts. We’ve gone from exchanging letters frequently to radio silence. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal, but without his letters, a part of me feels cut off, and I can’t seem to find a replacement for it. Is it over between us? Then again, I don’t really know what we had in the first place. Maybe he has realized, unlike me, that we have no future together. With him behind bars, possibly for life, being together and having a normal relationship feels like an unreachable dream.

My mind keeps going back to our last letters. Did I say something wrong? Is he upset that after a month of correspondence, I’m still refusing to visit him? He has no idea how much I want to see him. At the same time, there are parts of me that are frightened of him. They say he’s a monster. What if he really is? What if he’s dangerous to me? What if someone sees me visiting him and my secret is exposed? What will people think of me then? Am I ready to risk my reputation for him? So many questions with no answers.

With a groan, I pull myself up in bed and blink away the tears from my eyes. I climb down to my desk.

It’s November eighth, and Chelsea is in Destin for an academic conference, which leaves me alone with my loneliness. Milton invited me to a party tonight, but I’ve never gone to a party in Oaklow without Chelsea by my side. She has been my shield in a way I cannot explain—she makes me feel less vulnerable than I am.

I turn on the computer and do a quick search on Judson. Has there been a change to his circumstances? Has he been transferred to another prison, in a different town? The articles on him are brutal, so full of hate. Reading them is the last thing I want to do. But I have no choice. They might hold the information I need.

From the look of things, nothing has changed, nothing new reported. Left with nothing but stomach cramps, I rise from the chair and head to the fridge. I pull out the box with the pink birthday cupcakes Chelsea left me. I doubt they’ll make me feel better, but I settle down on the couch with them on my lap anyway.

The moment I take a bite into one, my phone beeps. A text from Chelsea.

Happy birthday, girl. Try to have a blast today. Do something crazy. A little fun doesn’t hurt. See you tomorrow.

Before I finish reading the text, the phone rings. It’s my mother. As usual, my stomach twists when her photo pops up on my screen. I want to ignore it, but maybe she really wants to wish me a happy birthday. That would be a first. She has forgotten so many times in the past, even though I remembered every one of her birthdays. I need distraction, so I take the call.

“Mom? Hi.” The last time we spoke was three weeks ago, and as usual, that call ended in a fight.

“Don’t hang up,” she begs. “Please, I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, I won’t.” I’m still holding out hope that her next words will be “Happy birthday.”

“Something amazing happened.” She pauses, and I can hear her breathing heavily on the other end. “Great news. I got a call from Maureen Adams, the producer of an upcoming romantic comedy series. They want you in it. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for, baby.”

My stomach plummets and fresh tears well up in my eyes. I grab my midsection to hold down the bile. “In case you still haven’t noticed”—I put the cupcakes on the coffee table and lean my forehead on my knees—”I’m no longer interested in modeling. Acting doesn’t appeal to me either.”

“Ivy, baby, listen.” She pauses. “You have no idea how amazing this opportunity is. Once you go into movies, your career will soar.”

I massage my temples. “I don’t care. I’m not interested in any of it. I’m out, remember?”

“Then do it for me.”

“I’ve done enough for you. I’m sorry, I have to go. I have birthday cupcakes to eat.” My face breaks into a bitter smile. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

The silence, broken only by the sound of her heavy breathing, stretches between us.

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to hang up now, but for the last time, I’m not interested in making your dreams come true. Let me live my life.”

I hang up before she responds. Fighting back tears, I eat up the cupcakes. Surprisingly, they do make me feel a tiny bit better. Left with nothing else to occupy me, I lie back on the couch with a romance novel. An escape is what I need. Later I might spend a few hours at the beach.

At eleven o’clock there’s a knock on the door, soft but still audible. I’m confused as I go to open it. I’m not expecting any visitors.

Just like when Milton left me the flowers, I don’t find anyone at the door. On the doorstep is a flat square box wrapped in gold and silver wrapping paper, with a silver silk ribbon tied around it.

Confused, I lift it into my hands and take it inside. I open it so fast, the pretty paper is in shreds when I’m done. The unwrapped box is also silver. I lift the lid and gasp.

Fragile silk and satin spills over my fingers as I pull out the gift. A matching set of black-and-white lingerie—panties and a bra—framed by soft, pretty ruffles.

There’s a note, but I’m a little afraid to read it. I don’t know how I know, but somehow I do: it’s from Judson.

I bite my bottom lip as I open the small envelope.

It doesn’t matter where I am. I’ll always remember the day you were gifted to this world. I hope you like my little gift to you. Bon anniversaire.

J.D.

At first I wonder how he knows today is my birthday, and then I remember I had mentioned it in one of our letters. Here I was thinking he had changed his mind about us, and he sends me a birthday gift. One that freaks me out and excites me all at once. The earlier tension of the morning melts away, leaving my heart lighter.

I remain on the couch for almost an hour, wondering what I should do. Judson has reopened our line of communication and seems to have taken our relationship to another level. Am I prepared for this level of intimacy? The flirty letters were one thing. This makes it so much more real.

My phone rings again. I expect it to be my mom, calling to apologize. I’m on too much of a high to hold a grudge right now, so I pick up without looking at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Ma chérie?” The voice hits me like a thunderbolt. I grip the phone tighter.

“Prof—Professor Devereux?” My voice is a soft whisper on my tongue. “Is that you? Where are you calling from?”

He chuckles. “Where else? Anyway, I thought we were on a first-name basis.” His voice turns my knees to water. Good thing I’m sitting. “I can’t talk for long. Did you receive my gift?”

I’m silent for a heartbeat as conflicting emotions course through my body. My mind is numb. I wanted this. I wanted him, longed for him to contact me, dreamed of hearing his voice so many times. Now everything is happening so fast. My heart gallops like a wild horse inside my chest.

“Yes. Judson.” My fragile voice shakes as the words leave my lips.

“Good. I want you to wear it tonight and think of me. Will you do that?” He speaks with strength and authority. The intensity in his tone sends a shiver through me.

I take a deep breath and bite my bottom lip. His voice. Oh my God. I had expected it to be sexy. But the real thing is beyond my wildest dreams. My senses reel, short-circuited by his raspy baritone.

Realizing that he can’t see me nodding, I reply, “Yes.” From his end, I hear a distant bell and the sound of metal against metal. He’s still in locked up. What did I expect? “How did you get my number? How did you deliver the—?”

“I have my ways. I’ll always find a way to get close to you. Never forget that.”

The line goes dead, but I hold the phone to my ear for a while longer, hearing his voice inside my ear. I have so many questions. I want to listen to him talk to me forever, but he’s gone.

Chapter Eleven

I take a breath before knocking on Paulette’s door. I’m not at all looking forward to the session.

Paulette is perched on the edge of her desk, eating a Granny Smith apple. She looks up when I walk in, and places the apple on a small ceramic plate. A smile forms on her lips as she wipes her hands with a Kleenex.

“I’m so glad to see you, Ivy. It’s been quite a while.” She stands up and comes to shake my hand. Then she waves at the sofa.

I take a seat. My mouth feels like sandpaper.

“I’ve been busy preparing for exams.” It’s partly true. I have been busy lately, but if I’d wanted to, I’d have found time to come and see her.

“Well, I’m glad you made some time.” Paulette sits down on the couch. “How are things going? I’m guessing you’ve settled in completely now?”

I nod and run my hands over my camel capri pants, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Really well, thanks.”

We’re both quiet for a while. I feel her eyes on me, though I keep mine downcast. Can she read my mind? Is she able to see what I’m hiding?

Paulette crosses her legs, the material of her melon pleated skirt spilling onto the couch on either side. She clasps her hands over her knees. “The reason I asked to see you was to find out if any more letters have arrived for Jennifer.”

“No. None.” I avert my gaze again.
Please, don’t ask more questions
, I silently plead. I’ve never been good at lying.

Paulette is quiet again, and I swear I can hear the wheels turning inside her head. She knows I’m avoiding something. I look up to meet her eyes and force a tiny smile.

“Ivy, is there something you want to tell me?”

“No, nothing at all. Things have been great.” The words tumble out of my mouth too fast. I must sound completely full of it.

Paulette leans back on the couch, eyes glued to me. “I hope you’re not in contact with Professor Devereux, Ivy. He’s a dangerous man.”

“I don’t know why you would think that. There’s no reason for me to be in contact with him. I don’t… I don’t even know him.”

“I see.” Paulette stands and goes back to her desk. She lifts her apple to her lips and takes a bite. She chews silently for a while as she moves toward the window.

She turns back toward me. “I’m sorry if I’m getting it wrong. But in case you are in touch with him, I want to warn you. Psychopaths can be charming. You have to be extremely careful.”

“You think he’s a psychopath?” I realize too late that I haven’t disputed the accusation. Have I dug a hole for myself? I’m better of letting her believe what she wants to believe, and refrain from confirming her suspicions.

“The man murdered somebody… brutally. There’s something terribly wrong with him. And he can be dangerous to any person he comes into contact with, even from a distance.” Paulette returns to the couch, still eating the apple.

Something hot and furious forces its way up my throat, forming words that pour out of my mouth before I can stop them. “What if—what if Oliver Banes really raped Jennifer?”

Paulette dips her head to the side. “If that’s the case, if he really was a rapist, you think he deserved his fate? You think he deserved to die like that?”

“I’m only saying Jud—Professor Devereux might not be the only bad guy in all of this.” I can’t seem to stop myself. “I mean, does righting a wrong really make someone a psychopath?”