Double Dealing: A Menage Romance(84)
I unzipped the bag, looking down at the frosted face that looked back at me, so like mine but slightly different. I’d been shown photos of our past, the two of us with our arms slung around each other's shoulders, with the woman Jordan between us, all of us looking happy on some beach.
But I didn't remember it. The names Jordan and Francois stirred something in the soup that was my past, but it still didn't have the same emotional connection as my thoughts of my Svetlana, who had loved me and used me at the same time. My sleep had been disturbed constantly by images of her in my mind, waking up not at the foot of her bed like I'd expected, but in a place with people I didn’t know.
Four days after my rescue I found myself in the basement of a techno club restaurant, staring at the body of the man who was apparently my brother.
“What the hell happened, anyway?” I asked his dead body, knowing I wasn't going to get the answers I needed. “Why the hell was I kidnapped?”
“I knew I'd find you here,” Jordan said behind me quietly. I turned and saw her leaning against the door of the freezer, her arms crossed over her chest and a kind look on her face. She was just as confusing as everything else. I could see she was amazingly beautiful, with a voluptuousness to her features, but I just couldn’t quite recall anything despite getting a feeling every time I laid eyes on her. “It's quiet.”
“It is,” I agreed, turning back around to look back down at Francois. “After four days of chaos and noise, I find myself needing more of it.”
“I'm sorry that we haven't given it to you,” Jordan said, crossing the room to stand on the other side of the table. “I've spoken with some of the doctors and psychologists that are helping us — they said you would need it, but until you’re safe, we can't seem to find any.”
“I just want answers,” I said, sighing again. “Why was I there? Why was I brainwashed? What am I supposed to do about these feelings that I have? What the hell is going to happen to me?”
My fingers trembled as I gripped the edge of the table, wanting to scream at Francois's body, demanding that he give answers.
Finally, Jordan's voice cut through my confusion. “Felix, what's on your back?” she asked quietly, her voice still tender. “I'm sure you've wondered how you got that X-shaped scar.”
“I have,” I said. “It is a strange scar.”
Jordan reached down and unbuttoned Francois's shirt, stripping it off of him. She reached across and pulled him onto his side, showing me the similar scars on his back. “There are other reasons, but I think in the end, this is the main reason why.”
“What are these?” I asked, tracing the ruptures on his back. They were obviously fresher than mine, the skin still pink and raw even in death. “Are they from our childhood?”
Jordan let Francois's body roll back and zipped up the bag. “Let me tell you the tale of two women, two men, and how forty-seven minutes total created a gulf that was nearly insurmountable.”
It took her over an hour, at the end of which we were both shivering from the cold of the meat locker, but the chill that coursed through my body was deeper than that. “All of this, over a gold crown and an apparently meaningless title, or at least one of little power?”
“I wouldn't say little power,” Jordan replied. “Twelve of the fifteen men who rescued you were relatives of yours. They risked their life for a man they had never even met, simply because he was their king and their kin.”
I shook my head, rubbing again at my temples. “Jordan . . . this is difficult for me. I know that you and I, and apparently Francois, were in love?”
She sighed again. “We were. I'll tell you the story, but not here. I'm freezing, and looking at Francois — it hurts too damn much. Come to my room, it'll be quiet there.”
We left the restaurant and made our way through the darkened streets, going back to the cheap inn that we'd rented for the night. Jordan explained their line of thinking, which was that the lower profile we traveled, the less likely we were to incur Vladimir Ilyushin's notice.
“We met when you literally ran me over in a museum,” Jordan said as we walked, the streets quieter than I'd expected. “At first you two kidnapped me because you thought that I might have been able to identify you.”
Something stirred inside of me, a few more puzzle pieces falling into place, and I blinked. “I . . . I think I remember, at least some of it.”
“Good,” Jordan said, smiling. “Let it come in time. There's no rush.”
“Why not?”
She reached up, stopping her hand an inch short of my face before dropping it back to my side. “Because you’re back, and while I can see it in your eyes you don't yet recognize who I am, or what we shared together, I'm a more patient woman than you think. Come on, let's get you some peace and quiet in order to think, you've probably had enough new information for the day.”
Jordan led me back to the inn, making sure I was safely in my room before pausing at the door. She hesitated, and I could see the conflict in her eyes. She wanted to join me, but she also knew that the man she saw in front of her was not the same man who had taken her to bed before. “Okay, well, I guess I'll see you in the morning then,” she said. “We've got a long ride in front of us. We’re going to make a straight shot all the way to Albania. Syeira and Charani are looking forward to seeing you again, and we have to bury Francois.”