Page 28

Interlude

Weston

Weston’s anger is a wall as he stands over Sadie, his eyes lit with rage. He backs her toward the bed in the Paris apartment until she feels the footboard against her hips. Even now, even as her fear crawls bitterly up her throat, desire is still there, that tender ache that tempts her into forgetting the real reason why she’s come here. Almost.

“I knew you’d come to your senses, my love.” His hands rove over her as he bends to kiss her neck.

Sadie pushes against his chest, locking her elbows. “No, Weston. No more.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” He grins and turns from her abruptly, crossing to the enameled liquor cabinet and withdrawing a decanter. “Wine? Whiskey?”

“No thank you.”

He pours himself a whiskey, then leans against the wall, crossing one foot insouciantly over the other. “If you won’t let me have you, why are you here?”

“I want answers. About the past. Marguerite. Claire. Florence. What happened between the three of them? And what did you have to do with it?”

He loosens his cravat, takes a long swallow. “Tell me what you think happened, and I’ll tell you how wrong you are.”

“I’d prefer it if you took me into the past and showed me. I don’t trust a thing you say.”

“I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me.”

She laughs. “Oh, really? I heard about what happened to Sybil. How you encouraged Florence to betray Marguerite’s confidence over Hugh. How you strung poor Claire along for years with promises you had no intention of keeping. Marguerite warned me about you. About how dangerous you are.”

He laughs. “Oh, she told you I’m dangerous, did she? I had nothing to do with that girl’s death. Sybil. She had a melancholy temperament. It got the better of her. Your gardener is only trying to scare you away from me, so you’ll run to him.” He gives a haughty sniff. “He’s the least worthy rival I’ve ever had. And as far as Claire and me, Florence was to blame. She wouldn’t let us marry. Every time I tried to end things with her, she’d threaten to kill herself. She was mad.” He smirks. “Florence was delightful when she was happy. A tyrant when she wasn’t.”

“Why should I believe you, Weston?”

He shrugs. “Because I’ve only ever shown you the truth. Told you the truth, unlike your family. You’re wasting your time, asking Marguerite about the past ... she’s full of false memories. Her disease has infected her mind. Made her believe things that aren’t true.”

“Did she kill Claire?” Sadie pins him with her eyes. “I saw her. In a dream. Standing on a cliff. Claire’s body was on the rocks below. She looked dead.”

“Iris,” he hisses, slamming his whiskey glass down on the cabinet. “Oh, Iris, you cunning little bitch.”

“What does Iris have to do with any of this?”

“She controlled Marguerite. Lorded over her. She’s still trying to control her. Now you. I was worried when I saw Marguerite painting her portrait that she would meddle with things, influence you away from me.”

“They were lovers, weren’t they?”

He ignores my questions, paces around the bedroom like a caged lion. “At first, Iris liked me. Admired me, even. She loved it when I posed for her silly little sketches.” He laughs. “I thought she was my ally. She wasn’t. She was party to their deception. She did nothing to stop it.”

“What happened? Whose deception?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He stalks toward Sadie, his eyes lit with desire. “I’ll show you the truth, in good time. But for now, let’s forget about all that.” His hand curls behind her neck, drawing her to him. “Time is a slippery thing. All we might ever have is right now, Sadie, and you’re such a delightful distraction.”

Sadie turns her face away as he tries to kiss her, ignoring the way her body wants to curve into his, eager to cede the shaky ground she stands on. She thinks of Beckett instead. Kind. Honest. Hardworking. Real. “No, Weston. You don’t get to have me anymore. This isn’t real. It must stop.”

Weston’s hands tighten, holding her against him. “If it isn’t real, could you feel this?” His tongue traces the sensitive skin below her ear, and she nearly swoons. “You can say what you like, Sadie. But you know I’m real, that we’re both here, in Paris, in 1883, in an apartment overlooking the Avenue Millaud.”

If this is all an illusion—some voluptuous figment of her imagination—could she smell the scent of spring lilacs filtering in through the open window? Hear the strike of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones below or the shout of a street vendor hawking his wares?

Weston slides his hand down her thigh. “Your body betrays you, my love,” he whispers. “Your blood runs as hot as mine. Give over to it. No one can make you feel the way I do.”

“I hate you,” she says, her last bit of resistance fading, failing. She surrenders, as she knew she would. He captures her lips with a vicious kiss and carries her to bed.