Wishing Well(10)

And when he first spoke - when I first noticed the soft, rolling hint of a foreign tongue - it was music to my ears.

To say I was confused why he was staring down at me was an understatement. It wasn’t until he’d propositioned me like a back alley hooker that my anger flared to the surface. I won’t lie and say I didn’t take pleasure in calling him an old man. I had a gift for pinpointing a person’s weak spot, and vanity was his.

I must have struck a nerve because he went from calling me a name straight out of a seventeenth century French romance to calling me a Dirty Girl , as if the implied meaning would be lost within the rain.

Fucking pervert.

I’d called him out on it, had accused him of only wanting to get me in bed, and then he’d done something so out of character that I’d vacillated between whether to knock out his teeth or accept the offer he’d quickly rattled off instead.

I won’t lie, there’s no point when the only audience for this confession is myself. Vincent had startled me from the minute my eyes first met his handsome face. His eyes were the color of glimmering emeralds, a treasure stumbled upon in the depths of some hidden cave, a solitary beam of stubborn sunlight finding its way along the wall to touch those enormous gems and divulge their beauty and secrets.

Framing his face was dark hair I was sure was careless when dry. Although plastered to his head by the unforgiving rain, I could still see the choppy layers, could still imagine a woman wrapping the soft, silken strands between her fingers. And the rain, oh how I’d felt jealous of the drops that were able to touch his cheeks and trace the contours that were carved from stone, the one brave droplet that tracked the curve of his mocking lips to become one with the salt of his copper skin. If ever temptation were to walk this earthly plane, it was in Vincent’s shoes...which made it a shame he was the biggest jerk I’d had the displeasure to encounter.

Choosing to kick out at him, I’d understood my mistake the instant he caught my ankle with his hands, the few seconds he’d enjoyed punishing the bones with the strength of his cruel fingers. Fuck, it hurt, the crushing pain enough to send an electric current shooting up my leg to my hip. I’d looked into his eyes at the moment he’d caused that pain and they were hungry, hard, yet laughing. I should have known then what kind of man he was.

But I was starving. I was cold. I was wet, and not in the good sense of the word. Desperation is such a putrid scent, yet it oozed from my every pore.

He offered me a job. He hurt me. He walked away. And I was the silly girl that followed him.

I should mention the hotel.

The Wishing Well was one of the most famous hotels in the area. Not as large as the skyscrapers that were steel and glass fingers reaching for the sky, the modest, private, somewhat exclusive property demanded far more coin that even the Hiltons could ask for. Luxury wasn’t lost on this walled-in paradise and if ever a castle existed in a city, it was this hotel.

At six stories, I’d only viewed the top floors above the walls that circled it, could only imagine what would be found behind the ivy that clung to stone. It was a small block all on its own with lights that twinkled from the branches of tall trees, soft music often escaping its hold on the weekends when businessman flocked in for some convention at the ridiculously large center down the road.

I didn’t even know his name when we approached the hotel, and I’d almost forgotten it when he opened the gate and allowed me inside to see what he’d made of the place after tearing down what was once was here to construct his ‘home away from home.’

It was as if I’d stepped out of the States directly into a French garden hidden away from the Paris streets, the lights, the wisteria, the cobblestone walkways all at my fingertips without need for a plane or a boat. Although, we ran to avoid the rain, I still caught a glimpse of the well, a large stone circle set among flowers, beckoning me to look inside.

I never had the opportunity to explore before we’d entered the building and I stood frozen and wet, watching as Vincent’s girlfriend came rushing forward. They both spoke French and I couldn’t understand any of what they said, but it must have been words of adoration, love perhaps, or longing, because Vincent backed her against a far wall, their husky voices dropping to whispers, his lips tracing the line of her jaw as his fingers gripped her hip.

Awkward, I wrapped my arms around myself, unsure whether I should turn away to give them privacy. Neither seemed to mind the audience and it made me wonder. Yet, for as out of place as I felt, for as confused, scared and alone, I stood staring as his hand trailed up the side of her body to palm her breast from over the skimpy French maid outfit she wore. At first, I made myself a promise to refuse the job if that’s what I’d be required to wear, but the thought dissolved as the woman’s hips pressed closer to Vincent.

Blake had never made me move like that.

Oh, to be a fly on this man’s wall when he made a woman moan. I was dry mouthed just from imagining it.

Laughter filtered from the woman’s lips, a few more husky words I couldn’t understand whispering out until Vincent abruptly backed away and the woman ran off down a corridor, her shapely legs moving fluidly despite the four inch heels she wore.

When he turned to me, I physically flinched in reaction to the hypnotic heat blazing behind his green eyes.

Straightening his soaked jacket (not that it helped), he grinned, the same type of expression you’d assume a fox would wear while stepping away from henhouse.