The Story of Son(12)

“I shall take your memories—”

“No, you won’t.” She put her hands on her hips. “Because you’re going to swear on your honor, right here, right now, that you won’t.”

She knew she had him because she sensed there was nothing he would deny her. And she had absolute faith that if he promised he would leave her memories alone, he would.

“Swear to it.” When he stayed quiet, she pushed her wet hair back. “This needs to stop. It isn’t right on so many levels and this time your mother picked the wrong bitch to throw down here with you. You are getting out and I’m going to spring you.”

The smile he gave her was wistful, just a little lift to his mouth. “You are a fighter.”

“Yes. Always. And sometimes I’m a whole army. Now give me your word.”

He looked around the room with yearning in his face, his eyes intent as if he were trying to see through the stone walls and the earth up to the sky that was so far away. “I have not known fresh air in . . . a long time.”

“Let me help you. Give me your word.”

His eyes shifted over to her. They were such kind, intelligent, warm eyes. The sort of eyes you would want in a lover.

Claire stopped herself because being his Good Samaritan did not include sleeping with him. Although . . . what a night that would be. His big body was no doubt capable of— Stop it.

“Michael? Your word. Now.”

He dropped his head. “I promise.”

“What. What do you promise.” The lawyer in her had to nail down the specifics.

“That I shall leave you intact.”

“Not good enough. Intact could mean physically or mentally. Say to me, ‘Claire, I will not take your memories of me or this experience from you.’ ”

“Claire . . . what a lovely name.”

“Don’t stall. And look at me as you say it.”

After a moment, his eyes rose to hers and he didn’t blink or look away. “Claire, I will not take your memories of me or what transpires from you.”

“Good.” She went over to the bed and lay on top of the velvet duvet. As she arranged the lapels of the robe, he sank down into the chair.

“You look exhausted,” she said to his back. “Why don’t you come lie down? This bed is more than big enough for the both of us.”

He braced his arms against his thighs. “That would not be appropriate.”

“Why?”

All the candles dimmed. “Sleep. I will come to you later.”

“Michael? Michael?”

Abruptly, a wave of exhaustion came over her. As she blacked out, she had a fleeting thought that it was because he had willed it so.



Claire woke up in total darkness, with the sense that he was looming over her. She was in the bed, as if he’d tucked her between the sheets.

“Michael?” When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Is it time for you to . . . ?”

“Not yet.”

He said no more and still did not move, so she whispered, “What is it?”

“Did you mean it?”

“About getting you out?”

“No. When you asked me if I would . . . lay beside you?’

“Yes.”

She heard him take a deep breath. “Then may I . . . join you?”

“Yes.”

She moved the sheets, making room as the mattress dipped low under the great weight of him. But instead of getting in, he stayed on top of the duvet.

“Aren’t you cold?” she said. “Come inside.”

The hesitation didn’t surprise her. The fact that he lifted the blankets did. “I will retain my robe.”

The bed moved as he shifted and the sound of the chains chilled her, reminding her they were both trapped. But then she smelled dark spices and could only think of holding him. Easing herself over, she touched his arm. When he jerked then settled, she was aware she had decided to be with him.

“Have you had many lovers?” he asked.

So he knew what she wanted, too. And she had a feeling he had come to her because he was seeking it as well. Still, she wasn’t sure how to answer the question without making him feel insecure.

“Have you?” he prompted.

“A few. Not many.” She’d been much more interested in winning at the negotiation table than sex.

“Your first time, what was it like? Were you scared?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to get it over with. I was twenty-three. I started late.”

“Is that late?” he murmured. “How old are you now?”

“Thirty-two.”

“How many.” Now, there was a masculine demand in his voice, an edge. And she liked the contrast with his essentially gentle disposition.

“Only three.”

“Did they . . . please you?”

“Sometimes.”

“When was the last time?” The words came fast and low.

He was jealous and it shouldn’t have pleased her, but it did. She wanted him to feel possessive, because she wanted to have him.

“A year ago.” He exhaled as if relieved, and in the silence that followed, she became curious. “And when was the last time you . . . relieved yourself?”