“I hate you!” Lucian shouted as his fists pummeled the giant. “You’re mean and heartless! No one here loves you! You don’t care about anyone or anything but your stupid money!”
His arms were restrained as he thrashed and spit. His father’s anger quickly shifted into something disturbing. As if deranged, his dad was suddenly smiling at him. “Good, boy. That’s it. Be angry. Let it all out. Tears are for pansies, and no Patras man is a pansy. You see, love weakens a person, makes them vulnerable. Never put yourself in that position, Lucian. You open yourself up for those lesser emotions and you open yourself up to be dominated. Power is control, and having control leads to more power. Love corrupts power.”
As he drew in one enraged breath after another, he wondered how a man survived all those years without a heart. He jerked his arms away, forcing his shoulders out of his father’s grip.
“That’s you. I don’t ever want to be like you! You have no heart.”
His father stood and smiled. It was odd, that was perhaps the one moment of his life he recalled seeing pride in his father’s eyes, but it was for all the wrong reasons.
He nodded. “Go ahead and hate me, son. I’ll survive. I’ve made it through worse. If I have to be the one you hate in order to teach you that it’s okay, then so be it. I will not have a son who cries. Love weakens us, but hate focuses our drive. Embrace it, trust it, let it move you to top of the heap.”
***
“Lucian? Lucian, are you even listening to me?”
Lucian turned to his father, so much frailer than the giant he once was. Now, Lucian was the giant, yet that brought him no comfort in moments like this.
He did the math. His father was about his age when he’d given him that load of crap about love and called it advice, using his age as a reference point on wisdom. Lucian had no answers, likely because everything he knew of emotion and the human heart was stilted, being that this man beside him was the only male role model he had growing up.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
His father frowned. “I said you can talk to me. I’m your father. I want to be here for you.”
Not good enough. His mind played over all of the bullshit his father had spouted over the last couple of decades. This man truly believed that lulling a person into a sense of comfort, getting them to bare their soul, was only a means to an end. He was the python of manipulation, seemingly still but large, waiting until the precise moment to sink its teeth into its prey, strangled it slowly, and swallow it whole.
Lucian shook his head. He had to get out of there. He was being sucked in, and he was smarter than that. “That’s not going to work for me, Christos.”
He didn’t let his father’s surprised expression interfere with his exit this time. He stood. “My days of being a sucker ended a long time ago. Find someone else to buy into your bullshit.”
He hated that the man looking back at him was not the arrogant, heartless giant from his memories, but an older, withered version, sharing the same eyes and nose.
“You don’t mean that,” his father rasped, eyes unblinking, face crestfallen.
Lucian wasn’t sure what he meant, but he couldn’t make a decision like that while his head was a mess and he was working on six hours of jet lag. His dad never had empty sleeves. That was what he spent his life observing, learning. There was always an ulterior motive with him, a way to climb on the weak and slither to the top. He would not be another stepping-stone for this man.
“I gotta go.”
“Lucian,” he pleaded.
He twisted again, this time angry and needing someone to unleash on. Why not let his father have it? He’d taken his abuse for years. Let the old man see how it felt when someone bigger pushed him down. Better he take the brunt of his wrath than his blameless employees. At least with Christos, he could peg some of the blame. Perhaps he was why Lucian could never have a healthy relationship.
“What?” he shouted, and his father sunk back in his chair. “What could you possibly have to say to me? That you love me? No, never that! You don’t love. You find hate a better-suited emotion for advancement. Well, how’s this? I hate you. I’ve hated you since I was a boy and you’re so heartless and single-minded you nurtured that hate, taught me to harness it. I don’t know how to feel anything else for you. I can barely make sense of my emotions because you taught me to hide them. I don’t want to hide them anymore. But you know what, Dad? When I see you I feel more than hate. I feel sadness. I pity you. You have three children and don’t know a thing about a single one of us.
“You think you’re the only one with problems? I could give you a list of problems we’ve worked through over the years—without you! We don’t need you, and if you suddenly feel the need for family, well, I can’t help you. You pushed us all away years ago. So I really don’t know how to comfort you through these moments. I’ve never known how to comfort you.”
He was breathing heavy, waiting for his father to yell back, but he only stared at him like he was some sort of a monster. He uttered an oath. When he couldn’t take that look in his father’s eyes another moment, he snapped, “Say something!”
Christos cleared his throat, but his voice remained a hoarse rasp. “What do you want me to say, Lucian? That you’re right? Okay, you’re right. I was a shitty father and I know even less about raising children today than I did then. Truth be told, you all scared the piss out of me. You were so damn small and delicate. I was afraid I’d break you all. I thought when you got older . . . But by then the bonds were already there. Your mother was the nurturer. I was the provider. I wish I had an explanation for you, but I don’t.”
Lucian shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight, unsure of what to do or say.
His father laughed. “Aren’t we a pair? Two emotionally stunted men discussing our feelings.”
He pursed his lips. “Speak for yourself. I’m only emotionally stunted when it comes to you.”
That slight bit of sarcasm left his father’s eyes, extinguished by yet another cutting truth. Perhaps he was getting too old for this verbal sparring that had always been their sole means of communication, but Lucian didn’t know how else to talk to him.
Christos lifted the papers on his desk, aligned the edges, and made a show of stacking them. Without meeting Lucian’s gaze, he mumbled, “Perhaps you could stay here, at the house, rather than at the hotel. Tibet would love—”
“Christos—”
“Right. You have business to attend to.” His disappointment seemed so real. “Will I see you again before you leave?”
He was suddenly exhausted. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“I’d like to, see you again that is.”
There was something frightening about the way his father said that. He was being melodramatic. “I’ll . . . I’ll let you know.” He quickly turned and exited the room, cutting off any further comments from his father.
When he reached the hall, he saw Claudette. She left whatever she was doing to come to him. “Did you ’ave a nice visit, garçon?”
“Is he sick, Claudette? Really sick?”
She turned away, then back to him. Lowering her gaze to the ground, she wrung her fingers and whispered, “Your father is not well. Madame Tibet cries often. We thought we might have lost ’im during these last few weeks.”
“Why didn’t someone call us?”
She met his gaze. “Would you ’ave come if I did? I do not know what would be worse, me going over ’is head and contacting you when ’e asked me not to, or seeing the hurt in ’is eyes when I confessed calling ’is children, but not a single one of them came to ’im.”
He didn’t answer. He wouldn’t lie to her and he couldn’t honestly say if he would have come. “May I use a telephone?”
She looked disappointed, but showed him to the closest phone. His cell servi
ce was shit this far out in the country. Claudette shut him into the library, and he found the phone on the table by the window.
As he dialed the hotel, he looked through the curtains. He stilled when he saw Tibet sitting on a cement bench in the garden. She must have returned from shopping.
He frowned. She was crying.
Tibet was a tiny woman with dark black hair and tiny features. Her nose was long and her lips thin and tight like a bow. Her brows were narrow and arched naturally high. She was a beauty of the European sort, a native of France.
He stared as she dashed away a tear with a handkerchief. She was alone. He’d never seen much emotion from her, or perhaps he never really looked. This was the woman who destroyed his parents’ marriage.
“Bonjour, Hôtel Patras. Puis-je vous aider? . . . Bonjour?”
Lucian stared at the phone. He was rendered mute a moment as he waited for his brain to kick in. It didn’t. His mouth was the first part of his body to work, and he was shocked when he heard himself say, “This is Lucian Patras. I need to reach Jacques Dubois. He’s a chauffeur there.”
“Oui, Monsieur Patras, I can reach Jacques for you. He is still on zee road. Shall I telephone him for you?”
“Yes, please tell him to return to my father’s estate with my belongings. I’ll be staying here.”
Chapter 20
Jeu Sur
Translation: Game On
The Parisian culture was something that had always appealed to Lucian. He adored watching the people from the benches bordering the River Seine, loved the scent of fresh baguettes flowing from café windows. The fluid language was familiar and eased his mind like lyrical poems even when he was overhearing a mother chattering on about her list for the market. He loved Paris, but had never been more miserable in his life.
Meandering up the cobblestone thoroughfare, he sneered at couples as they embraced and strolled along beside him. Bistros opened their doors to patrons, beckoning guests to dine on their cuisine, but he wanted nothing to do with such vulgar displays of culture. Everything he’d eaten in the past week tasted like ash on his tongue. Even the most delicate and buttery pastries filled his mouth like flavorless mush.
The skies weighed like dull blue cotton, and the manicured grounds sat like graves beneath his feet. Nothing was as it should be in the most romantic city in the world when he had no one to share it with. The idea of being there alone never bothered him before, but it bothered him now.
A group of young women dressed in their slim heels and swank Blemar Pierre dresses tittered by. One dark-haired beauty offered him a shy wave behind the backs of her friends. Lucian couldn’t even muster a smile. He was miserable, and he knew the cure to what ailed him was nowhere on that continent.
What was he doing there? Wasting time dancing around his family issues, knowing there were so many more pressing decisions to be made, like deciding what held more value, his word or the woman he loved.
Stupid question. Evelyn of course was more valuable. How could he have let things come to this? What was she doing at that very moment?
He thought coming here would put some distance between him and his issues, but all it did was make him feel less in control of himself, a feeling he loathed above all things.
She was his, and he had pushed her aside in some twisted attempt to do the honorable thing. He paid her no honor with such actions. She would eventually find out, and he was a fool to assume Parker Hughes would be the only one responsible for her hurt.
Lucian was as much to blame as the boy. They’d both acted like self-serving pricks. So why was he still over three thousand miles away from her? Why was he still letting fate decide what was best for him? She was his, damn it. It was his job to protect her. What if this was killing her?
He shivered as a chilling thought ran through his mind, not for the first time. What if she was fine? What if she was over him? Perhaps she truly hated him and now moved onto other endeavors? For all he knew, she and Hughes were laughing at his expense right at that very moment.
Lucian ground his teeth together and shouldered his way through a crowd. He needed to get back. He was as useless as tits on a bull sitting here with his thumb up his ass in old fucking Paree. He hadn’t even done business since he arrived.
He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense. His head was so twisted up. He was adrift and desperately needed to get back on track.
He took a cab back to the mansion, and Claudette greeted him at the door. “Your father is sleeping,” she informed him.
He needed to get a call out to arrange his flight home. “I’ll be in the library.”
She nodded and stepped aside, taking his coat.
As he shut the door to the library he turned and stilled.
“Lucian.” Tibet stood from the dainty table by the fireplace. “I’ll be finished here in a moment. I was just trying to figure out some of these insurance papers.” She was flustered and appeared to be crying again.
He awkwardly stood with his hands in his pockets. For seven days he had successfully avoided being alone with the woman who ruined his mother’s life.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. Her trembling hands gathered several papers and hurriedly pushed in her chair.
He sighed. It was her damn house. He could be nice. “You don’t have to leave on my account.”
She eyed him curiously and nodded, lowering her small frame back into her chair. She mumbled something in French. Tibet was many things, but timid was never a label that fit her.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room. “Is there something I might be able to help you with?”
She shook her head hopelessly, her mouth tight, but pushed the papers in his direction.
He approached the table and took the top page. They were life insurance papers. His stomach sunk like a lead balloon. He swallowed. “These are for Dad.”
She sniffled. “Oui. I can’t seem to make sense of things. Christos told me to take care of things, but . . .” Her shoulders quaked. “I do not want to make plans for my husband’s death,” she sobbed.
Discomfort had him holding his breath. He searched for comforting words and came up short. Was he really that sick?
The papers were all written in French. His mind switched to metric as he reviewed the policy. He needed to take himself out of the equation in order to comprehend what he was reading. “Everything looks to be in order here, Tibet.”
She sniffled and took the paper from him. The next paper she handed him reviewed burial arrangements. Fuck. He found himself lowering into a chair.
His fingers sorted through the stacks of papers. Medical bills, scripts, statements for physical therapy; it was all so overwhelming. He rubbed his head and frowned.
“It was very nice of you to stay here, Lucian,” she suddenly whispered. “Your father enjoys having you here.”
His mouth tightened. They’d barely spent time together and he was leaving as soon as the arrangements were made. “I appreciate the welcome.”
Tentatively, her hand settled over his. He stared at her small, dainty fingers, still beautiful for a woman of her age. It was the first time, to his recollection, that she’d ever touched him. “He loves you.”
His throat worked to swallow. “Well, he’s never said so, but I’ll take your word for it.”
She withdrew her hand. “Christos is not a man who says such words easily. I don’t believe he understands what it truly is to love, but his heart knows it, and the funny thing about love is that your mind doesn’t need to think in order to love someone. You just do it. Sometimes we even love someone when we know we shouldn’t.”
He knew she was referring to loving his father. “I think this calculation is wrong. The copay was thirty euro, yet the doctor has you down for fifty. You may want to call them about that.”
“Thank you,” she whispere
d, tucking the paper into a folder after making a note at the top.
They sat in silence for the next several minutes as Lucian reviewed his dad’s forms. As he reached the last one, Tibet seemed tired, but a bit more in control of her emotions. As he handed her the last of the papers, she asked, “Does she love you?”
He frowned. “Who?”
“The woman you are running from?”
He stilled. He was not running. “I’m not running.”
She waved her hand. “Of course you are. That’s what you Patras men do; you run when your heart distracts you from business.”
“You’re wrong—”
“Then why is she not here with you? Or why are you not there with her?”
“How do you even know there is a her?”
“A woman knows such things, Lucian. You are a man in the torturous claws of love.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes scrutinized her sincerity, and he found no reason to believe she was being anything but sincere. Still, he wasn’t sure he could have this conversation with Tibet.
When he didn’t reply, she said, “I still remember the first time I saw you as a boy. You were devilishly handsome, running through the lobby of the hotel. I watched from afar as your family checked in. Antoinette was not yet born. I remember thinking, he’s going to be even more handsome than his father.”
He didn’t want to think about moments like that. She shouldn’t have been there.
“Your mother had come to Paris for that visit. After the three of you left, your father told me he could no longer continue our affair.”
“As always, he proves to be a man of his word,” Lucian said dryly.
“He kept his word . . . for a while. But eventually our paths crossed again and we were right back where we left off, in love. You see, Lucian, when you love someone, you do so without choice. It is a force of its own and no amount of time or distance can dissolve such feelings.
“Your father wanted to be a good husband, and I never wanted to be a mistress. I tried not to love him and he tried not to love me.” She laughed. “I do believe he was quite irritated with his inconvenient emotions. Over time, we realized there was no use fighting what we felt. Our lives became incredibly easier once we simply embraced it.”