Wishing Well(2)

Small numbers were indicated above the door, Meadow’s steps coming to a stop outside room three.

“Here we are. Are you sure you want to talk to him?” Her escort attempted to smile, but the expression was lost within the concern written over his face. “He’s not the nicest of people.”

Unable to stop the burst of laughter, Meadow tucked her tape recorder beneath her arm. “I assume none of the men currently on death row are.”

Nodding, the guard rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah, but some are worse than others.”

Meadow inclined her head, sucking in a steadying breath as the guard opened the door and led her into the room. The moment her eyes met Vincent’s her heart screeched to a stop, one heavy beat bringing it back to life as the room spun around her.

“Good luck,” the guard whispered on his way out. Casting a glare in Vincent’s direction, he warned, “Best behavior, Mercier. We’re watching.”

With a smile that could only be accomplished by the most devious of lovers, Vincent responded, “Bien s?r.”

The guard hadn’t closed the door before warning Meadow, “He tends to mix his native language with English. I hope you understand French.”

With that, the door slammed closed and Meadow was left to stare at a devil with the face of an avenging angel. Prison had done nothing to strip him of his masculine, feral beauty.

With dark brown hair swept back and dusting his collar, Vincent leaned back in his chair, his shackles jangling against the table. Green eyes studied her, the emerald color glimmering beneath the lights above their heads. His cheekbones were aristocratic, his jaw square and dusted with stubble, and his lips as sultry as she remembered them.

“Meadow Graham, how lovely of you to accept my invitation. I’ll enjoy my last days of life with a woman as beautiful as you to gaze upon.”

“Cut the shit, Vincent. I’m not here for your benefit.”

He laughed. The deep, smooth sound tugging at Meadow’s resolve. “And here I thought you’d be more elegant than your sister, especially with the benefit of your European education.”

Meadow didn’t have to look beneath the table to know his long legs were stretched straight, a lazy pose that masked the predator staring her down. “We were identical twins, our personalities as alike as our appearance. And you’re not exactly the type of person I would consider worthy of my most polished of behaviors.”

Vincent’s eyes locked on her, but Meadow couldn’t shake the feeling he was looking straight through her. “I have no doubt you’re as delicate as Penelope, despite your lack of savoir-faire .” His deep voice held a hint of his French accent, still a rolling lilt despite the brusque tone of his American English.

“Penny,” Meadow said, stressing the name her sister preferred, “was anything but delicate.”

He grinned, the cruelty of the expression bleeding into the room. “Inside, she was as delicate as a flower. Even if she attempted to disguise it with her rebellion.” Regarding his fingernails, the superficial gesture at odds with the shackles cuffing his wrists, he murmured, “A rebellion that didn’t last long.”

Meadow’s blood boiled. Vincent glanced up and grinned. “You should sit so we can begin. Only seventy-two hours remain of my life, and this story is quite long. Why come if you only intend to glare at me like a cat with her fur stroked the wrong way?”

Ignoring his attempt to manipulate her emotions, Meadow slowly prepared her recorder, setting the tape and closing the lid before hitting record. Turning, she eyed the beautiful man chained to a table, fought against the pull she had towards him. “I’d like to discuss what I already know about you first. Although I didn’t bring it today, I want to begin this interview with a question. Specifically, why did you feel the need to have someone deliver to me my sister’s diary?”

He didn’t need to answer for Meadow to know exactly why Vincent had the gift delivered shortly after his arrest, but she wanted the confession on tape, wanted to ensure she did, in fact, know him as well as she believed. As far as Vincent knew, her only knowledge of him came from that journal, but there were other communications, other means for her to understand the nature of the man staring back at her. Vincent Mercier held his secrets close to his chest, but in that, so did Meadow. The next three days would be a game on both their ends.

His responsive grin confirmed her beliefs before his words broke the stiff silence in the room. “Ah, ma chèrie , but I think you already know the answer.”

Leaning against the table at her back, Meadow’s palms were planted against its surface. “You can stop there with the pet names. Thanks to my European education as you so deemed it, I understand enough to know what you’re saying to me. And I’m not your anything.”

“Pas vrai , you are my interrogator, are you not? By standing where you are, you have a relationship with me already. Not only that, but you are my last victim, the woman who will forever mourn the last life I took. I will die in three days, but you will live on in your grief...and your hatred. And for that, I will also live on, until the day you take your final breath. It’s poetic, is it not?”

“It’s too bad I never liked poetry.” Meadow said in bitter retort. “Let’s just get this started and stop playing around. The seventy two hours you have left are winding down.” She grinned. “Tick tock.”