“Are we sure they’re not talking about penises?”
“Might be in the subtext,” Elle said. “Apollo teased Cupid about his little bow and arrow or maybe his penis. I don’t know. So Cupid, pissed off at Apollo for his arrogance, picks up two arrows. One is tipped in lead. One is tipped in gold. He shoots the arrow tipped in lead into the heart of Daphne the beautiful forest nymph. The arrow tipped in gold he shoots into the heart of Apollo. At once Apollo is seized by desperate love for Daphne. And she is seized by hatred of Apollo. He chases after her through the forest while she runs from him as fast as she can. But Apollo gains on her so she prays to her father the river god to turn her into something so Apollo can’t have her. Her father turns her into a laurel tree. From there and ever after, the laurel became the symbol of Apollo.”
“Wait. This girl turns into a tree rather than let Apollo have her?” Kyrie asked. “That’s crazy.”
“I know. But what do you expect from a patriarchal society that prized virginity so highly? Better a woman be a tree or a stone or some kind of mindless but pure object than be sullied by sex.”
“Terrible ending,” Kyrie said. “Very disappointing.”
“I didn’t write it. If I wrote it, there would be much more sex in the story.”
“Then write it.”
“What?”
“Write it,” Kyrie said. “Fix the ending.”
“You want me to rewrite the story of Daphne and Apollo?” Elle looked at Kyrie as if she was crazy. After all the talk about spiders, hand jobs, mazes, Hell and penises, Elle was starting to think Kyrie was.
“You said if I want something fun to read, I’d have to write it myself. I can’t write so you write it for me.”
“I’m not going to write you a book.”
“My sister wrote a book for me.”
“You’re using your dead sister to guilt trip me into writing a book for you.”
“She would have wanted it this way. Come on, Elle. Don’t you want something fun to read, too?”
“I’d give my left arm for a single copy of The Story of O right now. In French or English. Preferably fully illustrated.”
“You write me the story, and I’ll do something nice for you,” Kyrie said.
“What?”
“Anything. You name it.”
Elle narrowed her eyes at Kyrie.
“Anything is a dangerous word where I come from,” Elle said.
Kyrie didn’t look the least intimidated.
“I trust you. Is it a deal?”
“Not a deal. Definitely not a deal. I haven’t written anything since college. And you really shouldn’t trust me. For a lot of reasons.”
“Too late. I already do.”
Elle rolled her eyes.
“Fine,” she said at last. “But only if I get a perfect idea for the story. Otherwise I’m not going to waste my time trying to fix a three-thousand-year-old myth that’s doing fine without me.”
“It’s got a terrible ending. It needs you.”
“If, and only if, I get a perfect idea. Then I’ll write it. And if I write, then you can do something nice for me. Maybe sneak me extra dessert or something.”
“I can do that.”
Kyrie stood in the darkened doorway of the library. This girl...this crazy girl...what on earth was she doing letting this crazy girl into her life? Not just a girl. A nun. An intelligent, weird, wonderful, breathtakingly beautiful nun...
“Have a good night,” Kyrie said. “I’ll say a prayer God hits you with a good idea.”
“Gotta be perfect. Not good. Perfect. Otherwise I’m not writing it.”
“God can handle perfect. That’s His strong suit.”
Kyrie gave her one last smile, turned around and on her naked feet disappeared into the darkness.
Elle exhaled. In that exhale she realized she’d been tense for the past half hour. Tense? Why? Kyrie, of course. She liked her. Liked her much too much. And the last thing Elle needed was a friend in this place. Especially a very pretty friend under a very serious vow of chastity. She’d come here to get away from people, get away from the world, get away from love and sex and men and complications.
Kyrie had the potential to be a serious complication.
For the first time in years, Elle had begun to feel completely safe someplace. She was safe in the abbey, far away from her old life where every day carried with it the risk that Søren would get caught, she would get hurt, or Kingsley would get killed. Here at the convent she had nothing to fear. She had a roof over her head, three meals a day, a small warm bed and a library full of books—boring books. And even worse, she’d read them all by now.
But still...this was what she needed now. Safety. Peace. Quiet. Complications were the last thing she needed. She’d had enough of those for a lifetime. She’d back away from Kyrie. Far far away from her. She’d get away from Kyrie if she had to turn herself into a tree to do it. And tonight would mark the first and the last of their late-night fireplace conversations. No more of those. Never. No. Not a chance.
Elle returned the copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology to the shelf. She went to bed and slept and when she woke up she was still thinking about Kyrie. About Kyrie and her sister the writer, who’d died, and Kyrie’s demand that Elle write her a romance novel.
Sweet girl. Very pretty. Totally delusional.
Outside the window in the light of dawn, she saw a blur in the distance. Elle pulled on a sweater and squinted into the new morning. It was a woman out jogging in winter running clothes. Jogging. That was all. The abbey had neighbors, normal people who lived out in the country. Sometimes Elle saw them driving or walking. Nothing special about a woman jogging in the morning.
Or was there?
In the back of Elle’s mind she saw something.
Not something...someone. A girl.
And the girl was running for her life. Elle closed her eyes, let the picture come into focus. It was a teenage girl who was running. Long stick-thin legs, arms pumping, feet pounding the fresh green earth under her feet and trees racing past her with every step. She ran because someone chased her. A man. A beautiful man who was beauty and music and reason personified.
“Don’t run...” Elle whispered to the girl. “He’s the only one you shouldn’t run away from.”
Elle’s eyes opened, but the vision remained.
“Fuck...” Elle sat down on her bed with a groan.
Kyrie’s prayer had been answered.
Elle had the most perfect idea.
16
Haiti
BY DAWN THE next morning, Kingsley had returned to his beach hut. He’d only slept an hour or so the night before. He hadn’t wanted to waste a single moment he had with Juliette sleeping. When she wouldn’t talk to him, he’d fucked her again. And again. He’d spent most of the night inside one part of her body or another. They’d had so much sex he could hardly move this morning. And he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to think. But when he closed his eyes all he could hear was Juliette’s voice speaking her perfect French.
“Mort,” she’d said when he asked her what he could give her.
Death.
She wanted to die. And she wanted him to kill her. But he’d kill himself first before he killed her.
Madness. She’d refused to say anything more to him about last night. She’d only kissed him until he forgot everything. But this morning, he remembered.
Rolling out of his bed hurt but he did it anyway. He found his cell phone and dialed home. Calliope answered on the third ring.
“Yes, Mr. King?”
“Report?”
“It’s too quiet here,” she said. “The dogs are napping. The house is closed up like you asked. Are you coming home soon?”
“Not yet. Look, I need you to find out some information for me.”
“Absolutely,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. His assistants were always chosen for their interest in and ability to find out things they shouldn?
??t know and get themselves in trouble. Calliope, although painfully young, was no exception.
“I have an address,” he said. “A house outside Petionville. I need you to see who owns it.” He gave her the address. “Also, look up a name for me. Juliette Toussaint.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Stunning. I’ve never seen her equal.”
“Good. Are you bringing her back with you?”
“I will or I’ll die trying.”
Calliope laughed. “You sound much more like your old self,” she said, and he could hear her typing in the background. “I’ve missed you. Everybody really misses you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Okay, your ex-girlfriends don’t miss you, but everyone else does. People think you’re up to something since you’ve been gone so long. They’re talking about you and Elle both being gone.”
“What’s everyone saying?” he asked, curious despite himself.
“Um...well, one rumor I heard is that you and Elle fell in love. You stole her from her priest and eloped with her. You two are supposedly on an around-the-world honeymoon.”
“She would commit ritual suicide in Times Square before she married me. Anything else?”
“Some people think you’re on a talent scouting mission, and you’re out to find new Subs and Doms for the club.”
“Not true, but much more likely than the first rumor.”
“I heard someone say you’d run out of money and that’s why you sold the Cuffs and Le Cirque.”
“I have so much money I couldn’t spend it all in ten lifetimes. Especially now that I sold the clubs.”
“You might not want to know this...but there’s this new Dom around who’s talking shit about you.”
“Who?” Kingsley demanded.
“He works for a new kink club. His name is Brad Wolfe.”
“I refuse to believe that’s his real name.”
“He was at a party me and Tessa were at. Wolfe said you probably got in trouble with the law and you’re on the run from the cops.”
“If you see him again, tell him I’m on vacation. With his mother.”
“I’ll send him that message today. With pleasure. Are you ever coming back?”
“I’ll come back as soon as I can. I have unfinished business here, however.”
“Well, you have the most beautiful woman in the world to deal with, right?”
“Absolument.”
“We need a new white queen around here now that Elle’s gone.”
“Juliette’s black.”
“Okay, a new black queen then,” Calliope said. “I don’t care what color she is. But it’s really boring around here without you and Elle. It’s like...”
“What?”
“It’s like the lights went out when she left.” Calliope paused. “Literally. I’ve never seen the town house this dark. No one ever stops by anymore. It feels like the whole Underground’s gone dark.”
“I know,” Kingsley said. That’s exactly what it was. And now she was gone and everything had gone dark.
“Elle was supposed to teach me how to sub. She said I was a natural.”
“I’ll find you a teacher when I get back.”
“I don’t want another teacher. I liked her.”
“Has anyone heard anything from her? Has she contacted anyone at all? Griffin? Tessa? Irina?” Kingsley asked, already knowing the answer. He knew Calliope would have called the second she had news.
“No. Sorry, King. No word from her or your priest. Do you want me to send someone to check on him?”
“Leave him be. He’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Kingsley considered lying. Reconsidered it.
“No. If she doesn’t come back to him, I doubt he’ll ever be fine again.”
“King, it’s been eight months. I don’t think she’s coming back.”
“That’s her choice then.” He kept his voice flat, but inside his guts churned with the idea he might never see Elle again. That maybe no one would ever see her again. “Did you find anything for me?”
“Yeah, here it is. That address? It belongs to Gérard Guillroy.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“Did you have to see him about your passport?”
“Why would I have to see him about my passport?”
“Because he’s the French ambassador to Haiti.”
Kingsley’s blood went cold.
“The man who owns that house...the address I gave you, he’s the French ambassador to Haiti?”
“He is. Has been for over fifteen years. Forty-eight years old. Two children in their late twenties. One grandson. Rich wife lives in Paris. They’re still married but apparently separated. She stays in France. He spends most of his time in Haiti. What about him?”
“He’s forty-eight you say?”
“But incredibly handsome. Silver fox.”
“What?”
“I mean he has gray hair. But he’s really handsome. French George Clooney.”
“And rich?”
“Super rich. He’s got Oprah money. Should I send you all this stuff I have on him?”
“No. And pretend we never had this conversation.”
“I pretend that with all our conversations.”
“What about Juliette? Did you find anything on her?”
“Nothing but the basics. Age and birth date. Born in a Petionville hospital. Parents aren’t married. Father’s and mother’s names are listed. That’s it.”
“There has to be more.”
“This is Haiti, not Manhattan,” Calliope reminded him. “Not every country has computerized records on everything.”
“They should. It would make my life easier.”
“Yours and mine both, boss. But if you want to know more about this girl, why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“I’ve asked. I can’t get anything out of her.”
“Why not? Did you piss her off?”
“I fucked her for eight straight hours last night.”
“Eight hours? Tell me again why we’re not sleeping together.” Calliope sighed.
“Because you’re eighteen, and I don’t sleep with my assistants.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m old enough to be your father, and you should remember that.”
“Juliette is thirteen years younger than you are.”
“Do as I say, not as I do.”
“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Calliope said. “Except you’re gorgeous and you pay me really well to put up with you.”