Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
My own daisy, in a vase on my table. I didn’t steal it from someone’s garden. It was growing wild on the pavement, right there for the taking.
Chapter 17
Zoe
Persistent shaking pulls me from my sleep. I fight it, but I can’t ignore the deep voice or the French accent. I wake with a gasp when I remember where I am.
“Easy, Zoe.” Maxime brushes a hand over my shoulder. “You have to wake up. We have an appointment in Marseille.”
Rubbing my eyes, I turn to face him. He sits on the edge of the bed, dressed in a dark suit. His hair is still damp from his shower. The smell of winter hangs like a faint cloud around him, but it’s pierced with the summery fragrance of roses. A cup of steaming tea stands on the nightstand.
“I brought you an infusion,” he says. “Fran can make you coffee if you prefer. Breakfast is waiting downstairs.”
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly, my manners still intact while I’m half asleep.
“You’re welcome.” He takes my hand and kisses the back, then puts something in my palm.
I lift my hand and stare at the cellphone.
“My number is programmed.” He gets to his feet. “Come down when you’re ready. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”
I only get to my senses when he’s gone. Maxime had opened the curtains. The sky outside is still dark, dawn barely breaking through a thick layer of clouds. I look at the telephone screen again. The time says it’s eight o’clock.
Wait. I have a phone.
Shooting upright, I type in the number for the correctional service where Damian is held and press dial. A message comes on in English, announcing I don’t have access to the service. I check the settings. Of course. I can only dial Maxime’s number. I didn’t expect anything different, but my shoulders sag in disappointment.
Dejected, I reach for the tea on the nightstand. Folding my hands around the cup, I inhale the fragrant herbal tea. It smells of roses and raspberries, the same tea Maxime served me in Venice. I take a sip. It’s a delicious blend. The brew warms and somewhat fortifies me.
Memories of last night’s discussion turn in my head as I shower and change into a pair of slacks and a cashmere sweater with frilly sleeves that have been neatly arranged in the dressing room. Maxime must’ve unpacked the suitcase either last night or this morning. I thankfully fell asleep before he came to bed. I wasn’t going to unpack. Putting the clothes he’d bought for me in his closet doesn’t only feel wrong, but also way too final. After putting on a pair of ankle boots, I go downstairs where a breakfast of croissants and orange juice is set out in the dining room. Maxime is seated at the table, reading something on his phone. Judging by the pastry flakes in his plate, he’s already eaten.
When I enter, he gets up and pulls out a chair for me.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
“Yes.” Surprisingly. “Why are we going to Marseille?”
“You have a doctor’s appointment.”
Of course. Relief flows through me. The last thing I want is an unplanned pregnancy.
He checks his watch. “I have a few instructions to give to Fran before we leave. Any meal preferences for this week’s menu?”
I shake my head. I don’t care what I eat. I hate that I have to eat Maxime’s food at all.
“Maybe later,” he says with a stiff smile.
I eat quickly, and when he returns, I’m ready.
Like yesterday, Maxime drives us while two men follow in their own car. I stare at the scenery outside, at the cliffs, the beach, and the city that comes into view forty minutes later. From afar, the buildings aren’t impressive. The only piece of architecture that stands out is the church on the top of the hill. As we enter the center of town, the buildings change from white concrete blocks to beautiful old ones with French windows, blue shutters, and ornate balcony rails. He parks in front of a building with a sculptured entrance, each top corner supported on a marble angel’s shoulders.
“Wow,” I say as I look up at the carved wooden door.
Putting a hand on my back, he buzzes us in and leads me up a stone staircase to the third floor. A middle-aged man with mousy hair and glasses opens the door when Maxime rings.
“Max.” He pats Max on the back before extending a hand toward me. “Mademoiselle Hart. I’m Dr. Olivier.”
I accept the handshake automatically. From the fact that he speaks English, Maxime must’ve briefed him about me before we arrived. What did he tell the doctor? That I’m his willing lover? Or does the doctor know the truth?
“Come through,” the doctor says, showing us into an examination room.
The far end next to the fireplace serves as a sitting area. Maxime takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. He pulls me down next to him, not letting go of my hand but arranging it on his thigh instead. It’s an intimate act, a loving one almost, and the doctor’s gaze slips to our intertwined fingers as he takes the chair. It’s acting, all part of the role Maxime plays. That means the doctor doesn’t know the circumstances of why I’m here.