Protege(3)
She swallowed as the compatible conversation drifted into an unfamiliar territory. “Am I in trouble?”
His eyes creased again, but she was coming to recognize the expression as a sort of smirk. “No, but this application is trash.” He dropped the entire file into the leather can beside his desk, and she flinched. That seemed a bit dramatic. “Now, continue with your story. You were flitting from one blog to another, landed upon some interesting D/s forums, and . . .”
It was difficult to determine if his tone was impatient or amused. She detected a dry sense of humor but didn’t know him well enough to assume he was teasing. He could very well be annoyed and rushing this meeting to its end.
“Um . . .” She swallowed again, her throat dry, but her hands were too numb to lift her glass. “Well, I guess I just kept reading until someone mentioned Fernweh. I saved the article to my favorites. That’s how I came to your site. It doesn’t show up when you search it on any of the search engines I’ve tried.”
“Precisely the way we prefer it. I’d like the link to that article when you have a moment.”
“Sure.” It became clear her application had been accepted only because they wanted to know how she’d discovered their company, which was probably why her paperwork was now in the trash. Disappointment moored her insides, pulling tight until she felt slightly ashamed of her actions, but she was unsure why.
Slowly, she frowned and asked again, “Am I in some sort of trouble?”
His hands now rested on his lap. His fingers entwined, thumbs folding over each other in a slow revolution. “No. I’m merely contemplating how to proceed.”
She glanced around the office, hoping he’d make up his mind sooner rather than later. She had to use the restroom and her meter only had about twenty more minutes.
“You do understand that this is not a sex club.”
Her attention snapped back to him. “That’s not what I thought it was at all. Dear Lord, do such things really exist?”
***
Jude chuckled. Her southern accent was an abrupt shift from the throaty French dialect they’d been using. This woman had no business being here. “Indeed they do, but that’s not what Fernweh is.”
Her soft pink lips parted, showing white, slightly crooked teeth. There was such innocence in her hazel eyes. Her round cheeks reminded him of a woman from the twenties, but her hair was quite long. He couldn’t decide how long, as it was clipped back, but bronze curls sprang with unruly determination to be set free.
There was something so charming and proper about southern women. They possessed an aged eloquence that seemed depleted in East Coast women, replaced by cutthroat drive and grit. West Coast women also lacked this unnamable quality as well. Sometimes there was nothing more appealing than an independent woman, who knew what she wanted and just how to get it, but today he experienced an appreciation for antiquated charm.
Fernweh had very specific policies about welcoming newcomers. It was unheard of for an application to arrive without a distinct link to a prior client. The site that linked the outside world to theirs would be disabled within an hour to avoid repeat episodes. But that still left this situation. She’d come all this way . . .
“Tell me about your family.”
Her hand delicately lifted to her throat, narrow and unmarked as porcelain. Rubbing lightly across her collarbone, she pursed her full lips.
“Take a sip of water, Ms. Banks.”
Lifting the glass, she did as he instructed without raising a brow. As the glass lowered, she smiled as if appreciating his assistance. “Thank you.” Such manners. “My father’s in a Texas penitentiary.”
He made a mental note to check into that. “And your mother?”
“He shot her when I was eleven.”
It was a legitimate challenge not to show a reaction to her words. “And she passed from this?”
“Yes.” Her eyes held cool acceptance, as if after so many years she learned to look back on the incident without personal attachment.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Were you close to your mother?”
“Yes, but I was also close to my father. People don’t seem to understand that when someone does something so heinous, they’re somehow separated in your mind, split into two people—the before and the after. Everyone expected me to confess how horrible my father was after he murdered my mother, but I couldn’t. The truth being, he was the one that helped me with my homework, and he’d lovingly prepared my breakfast the morning he killed her—peach oatmeal with extra raisins, the way I liked it.”
“That had to be difficult for you.”
“Very. After she died, I lost both of them. Not because he went to prison, but because he no longer fit the mold of my dad. I don’t know who that man is, but he isn’t my father.”
Eleven was a young age to be orphaned. Those preadult years usually held more implication than any other stage of life. He wondered what sort of challenges she’d faced, overly curious to fill in the gaps.
Then there was the disconnect she’d experienced with her father, a man she’d supposedly trusted and believed was good until he proved to be something undeniably bad. Having been betrayed by someone close to him and finding out she was not the woman he suspected, Jude understood what Ms. Banks was referring to. When a person shocks others by behaving well outside their expectations, molds are broken and one is left with shattered pieces that no longer fit. There’s no point to solving the puzzle. Better to just throw away the broken bits and wipe the surface clean. Ms. Banks seemed to accept that theory as much as he did.