Sleeping Love (10 page)

Or is that the idea?

‘Sabrina,’ he said it calmly, a gentle soft caress floating on the breeze.

She expected him to say something, to confront the suspicion that he had undoubtedly read in her eyes. But he said nothing, letting it hang there, suspended in the air between them unspoken.

‘Why are you running away from me again?’

He advanced. She firmly stood her ground.

‘I don’t know you,’ she told him with an even voice. ‘Yet, you think you have the right to just walk straight back into my life and take it over without my consent. You are bossy, arrogant, controlling…’ the words trailed off as unexpected angry tears sprung into her eyes.

She watched hurt creep into his eyes from the corners, but he didn’t betray the emotion, taking the reprimand with the dignity of a brave soldier.

How could you be so cruel to him?

He was hurt, it was almost a physical pain they both seemed to share. He reached out with his hand and smoothed it along her jaw, his touch burning away any resistance.

‘I’m only trying to protect you, Sabrina, you must see that. I am terrified that he will take you from me again.’

He was too close again, searching her eyes, holding them captive as they vainly tried to avoid his hypnotic gaze. He looked down at her lips and brushed them with his own before entering her mouth with his penetrating kiss. She didn’t object. It was a deep kiss, possessive, unrelenting. He would never give her up.

‘I’m sorry, Sabrina. I just don’t know how to handle what has happened to us both. All I know is that I’ve spent years searching for you. I never gave up, Sabrina, not once. Then you walk back into my life, and you don’t even know who I am and what we had together. You are in danger, Sabrina. Whoever hurt you got away with it and may come back for more. I have every right to do what is necessary to protect you.’

She turned away looking up the gardens at the smaller version of the Arc De Triomphe built in respect of Napoleon’s war victories. It was in perfect line with the obelisk in the centre of Place De La Concorde, the Arc De Triomphe and the Arc in the business quarter, all visible at the other end of the gardens. She remembered her love for the neat, tidy, formal order of Paris with its beautiful stone architecture, and the people, always wearing their designer clothes with such style and elegance no matter what the age. She remembered the feeling of being very at home in Paris and never wanting to live anywhere else.

She was jerked from her thoughts as she felt his thumb caress her knuckles. It was something she remembered he did to soothe any anxiety, anger or fear he knew she was feeling. An intimate caress to remind her he was close by and she was safe. Every time he touched her it was electric. And the way he looked at her with such yearning and a deep burning passion, it made her feel both excited and afraid. It was a potent cocktail that tempted her self-control.

‘What do you need from me, Sabrina? How can I help you?’

‘I need some space, some distance so I can think clearly and figure all of this out.’

He was silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving her face. She held her breath, still feeling the touch of his fingers over the knuckles of her leather clad hand. And then he simply nodded.

She agreed, suddenly feeling remorse as he removed his hand and put both hands in his pockets of his long military style wool overcoat.

When he returned he looked surprised to find her still standing there. She was herself to a great extent. She always wondered what deferred her escape, a burning need to find out about her past life or the feeling of being torn apart when she left Raoul’s side.

‘I thought we could go for a drink first to warm up.’

His arm hung loosely around her waist to guide her out of the gardens and across the road crowded with manic French traffic. They stepped onto the covered archways of the Rue De Rivoli, glancing at the small boutiques and souvenir shops. There was a multitude of tourists all communicating in different languages and her own. They wound their way past a guide narrating the history of the famous street and slipped in to a tea room named Giselle’s. Her memory was immediate. She had been in Giselle’s many a time.

Yes, I remember. I do, I do. I remember the crisp white tablecloths, the brown leather chairs . . . its old style elegance that always reminded me of the nineteenth century and that movie, Gigi.

The man kissed her on both cheeks in the traditional French style, giving Sabrina the impression that she must have known him well.

Sabrina glanced at the menu and its contents, but put it down dismayed that she could not even remember what food she loved to eat. Raoul placed his hand over Sabrina’s that rested on the table.

‘It’s a little different from what it used to be seven years ago. Ah there it is. We would have breakfast here before, as you so astutely put it, we ran amuck in the shops.’

Amuck was such an English word, one of her words. It was an inelegant word that his soft accent seemed to make sound almost poetic.

‘But I don’t really like shopping that much.’

Raoul raised one dark eyebrow making him look devilishly sexy. She tried to avoid making contact with his eyes, but he was there holding her own captive. They were mesmerising, beautiful and haunting. She haunted them. She could see his memories of their life together reflecting back at her.

‘Oh yes you do, Sabrina. It is your favourite past time, and you are relentless in its pursuit.’

He shook his head with amused disbelief leaving her feeling annoyed that he knew so much that she didn’t. She watched him give the menu another closer look.

‘Well you didn’t have tea because you hate tea in France and any other European country. You always complain that it looks and tastes like dishwater.’

‘Yes, he’s already on his way to France. He wanted to be here on Friday, but he is a doctor, a heart surgeon and couldn’t get away. He will arrive at the Chateau later on. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to spend the day worrying about meeting him.’

Sabrina felt her eyes sting with tears.

‘My parents?’

‘They died when you were twelve in a car accident,’ he told her gently. ‘Your brother was nineteen at the time, and he looked after you. I’m so sorry, Sabrina.’

She swallowed hard and tried to blink her tears away. It was just like being a ghost in your own life. Raoul stroked her fingers with his thumb over the hand she rested on the table. But she snatched it away. He stared down at the bare table where they had been connected and sighed. Sabrina couldn’t speak, she was too choked with emotion and the effort of containing her feelings to this stranger. He didn’t remove his concerned eyes from her once, even when he ordered her usual of a cappuccino and a decadent butter croissant covered in sugar.

They visited the Louvre first. She slowly began to remember her way around the smooth display floors and was able to follow its labyrinth appearance, with its long halls and wide staircases. It made her feel confused.

How can I remember my way around this magnificent building, yet I can’t remember my own name and identity?

After a tour of the French and Italian paintings, they ended up in the Denon Wing to view the Sculptures. So far an amicable distance between them had been maintained and discussion had centred on the painting techniques of her favourite painters, Caravaggio, Vermeer and Da Vinci. But now they were looking at the Sculptures, Raoul appeared to be closing the distance both physically and emotionally. She responded by moving away to look at a particular piece she felt drawn to look at.

‘I’ve seen this before haven’t I? Many times before.’

She was talking to herself as though locked in some distant memory she was trying to keep hold of and examine in detail. Raoul eyed her cautiously, expectant. He nodded, and Sabrina smiled with triumph.

‘I like it don’t I? In fact, I will go as far as saying that it is my favourite next to…’ she paused. ‘Yes, the Venus de Milo and The Wings of Victory. It’s one of the reasons you and I come here.’

She turned to him unable to hide her glee. He took hold of her hand and brought her fingertips to his lips. She blushed conscious of people around them. He stared at her with hooded eyes that made her insides melt and turn to warm liquid. She tried to remove her hand and break the spell, but he held it firmly, rhythmically rubbing his thumb over her knuckles again.
So much for
distance
. He led her around to the front of the sculpture.

‘It’s Psyche revived by Cupid’s kiss, made in 1793 by Antonio Canova.’

She accessed the information easily from her splintered memory. Reeling it off with direct precision as she did the many historical facts that lay dormant in her mind. Raoul moved behind her. She could feel his breath blow tantalisingly against the lobe of her ear as he spoke.

‘You find this sculpture intriguing and erotic,’ he whispered seductively.

He began to walk around her as if viewing his own exquisite sculpture. She was spell bound unable to move a muscle. All she wanted to do was to listen to the hypnotising erotic note of his voice. He lifted her hand and trailed a digit over its back.