Page 5 of The Crimson Lily

B éatrice. Right before the accident, I made a mental note to call Béatrice Leclerc.

I’m two months late. The plane’s lights turn on and wake me up.

The pilot announces that we’ve started our descent.

I check the still-empty seat next to me, then move my gaze to the man who has snored louder than a plane engine all the way here.

He opens his eyes, smiles at me, then stops smiling when he notices how terrible I look.

He can probably see how tired and overwhelmed I feel. He says nothing.

Out of the plane, my head is buzzing. The migraine is back. I just want to lie on the nearest bench and sleep. Ah, there is Maksim, waiting by the exit of the tunnel back to our plane. He’s been waiting for a long time, Mr. Business Class.

“Good morning!” I cheer way too loudly as I walk up to him. “Sleep well?” My smile is definitely forced.

He smirks at me. “Not bad, how about you?”

I shrug and don’t make a peep until we get to the luggage belt. I’m distracted by everything that’s going on in Charles de Gaulle Airport—the crowd, the noise, the colors. When I see my oversized suitcase, I jump on my feet and go for it. I pull the handle all the way out and turn to Maksim.

“So, where are we going?” I ask.

“Taxis,” he replies.

Okay …?I follow him through the airport to the taxi area, where he picks the longest black car—how typical—and gives the driver the address of…?a hotel. I catch the word opera . It rings a one-time bell, as if I knew exactly where we’re headed and suddenly don’t anymore.

Dozing off again, I stay silent, quiet, and try to get to Twitter, then realize I don’t have internet in France. Hence, I decide to make conversation with my traveling partner, who is looking out the window, at the city skyline forming all around us.

“Where are we going now?”

He turns his face to me. “To a hotel.”

This guy only gives simplified English answers. I need more information. “And then what’s the plan?”

He exhales deeply and clenches his fists. He looks at me with ice-cold eyes. I interpret that as a warning. A warning that I should stop asking questions immediately. For the lack of a better response, I roll my eyes and twitch my nose at him. I find this the best way to express my annoyance.

About an hour later, we reach a hotel in the heart of Paris, the Opera Ambassador hotel along the Boulevard Haussmann.

Could he have picked a more luxurious place?

Flashbacks race through my mind as we step out of the car.

I’ve been here before. Not this hotel, but this street.

I spin on my heels, admiring the architectural designs of the buildings around me.

These tall, elegant blocks of symmetric Parisian homes make me feel so small.

The sunlight of an August morning warms my face.

I close my eyes for a second, breathing in deeply.

In this brief moment of delight, I feel more alive than I have in the past two months.

When I twirl to the hotel’s entrance, Maksim is looking at me with a curious light in his eyes.

He’s looking for too long. I don’t blame him.

I hold a smile bigger than my face, and a stranger could find me a little on the hysterical side.

I think Maksim is just making sure this excitement doesn’t make me run off.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, almost like I’m justifying my euphoria. This sight is more than gorgeous, that’s undeniable, and Maksim fits perfectly with the scene.

I blush. I shouldn’t be thinking these things now.

We go inside the Opera hotel and Maksim checks us in—the executive suite booked for ten days under the name of Kovalyov.

Or is it Kavalyow? I didn’t quite catch that.

He isn’t going modest, that’s for sure. A suite?

I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a suite before.

I’m getting very excited, which is better than panic and loss of control.

A man approaches and offers to take my suitcase.

His eyes open wide when he looks at my face.

I completely forgot about the pockets under my eyes and the slight bruise on my cheek.

But then it hits me—pun intended. The man casts a very concerned glance at Maksim, who stands with his back to him, still processing the payment for the room.

Even when leaning over the counter, Maksim is still much taller than me.

Actually, he is much taller than me and the luggage man.

I simply nod at the luggage man with my lips folded awkwardly.

He takes off with my suitcase and Maksim’s duffle bag.

I just observe him walk to the elevator and watch him disappear in it.

I’m about to turn around when I feel a hand down the arch of my back.

It gives me this gentle push to get me walking.

“Let’s go,” Maksim whispers to me, almost in my ear.

His voice sends a thousand shivers down my spine.

He leans closer to me. I can feel his minty breath brush against the side of my face.

I’m so drawn to him, a connection that goes deeper than I dare imagine.

I picture that hand, making me turn around, pressing me against him.

I can see it in my mind, his hand exploring my body, his lips going down my neck…

?Stop right there, Liliana. Stop everything you’re doing. Stop everything you’re thinking.

What am I even doing? Am I going to share a room with this…

?criminal? There’s just one room booked, I realize.

I really hope it has separate beds. I can’t see myself sleeping next to this man, the one who barged into my apartment with his friends two nights ago and tied me up to a chair.

I can’t imagine what else he could do to me.

Or could I? What the hell is wrong with me? Man, I need sleep.

I got dibs on showering first. When I come out, I take a glance at the large mirror pane.

I check myself, but not before a moment of fascination with the mirror that hasn’t gone all foggy from the steam of an extremely hot shower.

I need to know what anti-fog product they’re using.

I shake my head— focus ! I don’t look as bad as I’d expected.

The only trace left of my interrogation is that small bruise that’s turning dark purple.

The rest of my skin is porcelain. A bit of sleep will still do me good, and I intend to do just that, no matter what the stranger on the other side of the wall says.

I need to get rid of the buzz in my head.

I brush my teeth and slip into a pair of black cotton shorts and a large white shirt four times my size.

This is to be my outfit for the day. I step out of the bathroom, still furiously drying my hair with a simple towel.

The room is larger than I imagined. There is a long, dark wooden closet that extends the entire length of the wall by the bed.

There’s also a black desk and a striped carpeted floor that feels soft under my feet.

A gray velvet couch and matching seat are situated by the flatscreen TV in the other corner.

I’m about to give Maksim an exaggerated comment about how amazing the shower was when I notice him on the king-size bed, fast asleep.

He’s taken off his suit jacket and has rid himself of his shoes and belt.

He has undone the first two buttons of his black shirt, a few dark hairs peeking out from the opening.

I approach the bed cautiously, as if it’s the lion’s den.

I don’t want to wake him, but I also have to get my rightful spot.

Right now, he’s lying in the middle of the bed, blocking my access.

Plus, I’m sure he needs a shower as much as I do, so I have to wake him.

I ditch the towel I still have in my hands and crawl up to him, slowly, from the right side of the bed.

I bring my hand above his shoulder and…?no, I chicken out.

I don’t dare wake him. I sigh and look at him for a moment.

His jawline is simply perfect, the rough way it curves under his ears.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the whole shebang of the situation I’m in, but right now, I want to rid that man of his black shirt.

That’s when I notice the smirk on his face.

“You’re awake,” I comment, feeling duped.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

He stands from the bed and marches to the bathroom. I hear the guttural sound of water raining down; this is my cue to grab my phone and hide underneath the soft linen sheets.

After connecting to the hotel Wi-Fi and using it for a few minutes to access news, Twitter, and parrot videos, I open Facebook.

Right after the accident, they told me to check social media to find any traces of my past. I opened the laptop that was apparently mine only to find that I really wasn’t active on social media at all.

I had a Facebook account, but I barely made any use of it.

The only pictures were of archaeological sites I barely remembered.

I went through my extremely small list of friends and gave up on contacting even one of them because none of their names meant anything to me.

Plus, since none of them had visited me at the hospital, I’d drawn the conclusion that we were never real friends.

However, now I have a name to look for, and there it is: Béatrice Leclerc.

Birthday…?October 10, studied art history and archaeology at Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne. From…?Fort-de-France. Lives in…?Paris.