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I don’t bother to argue. What’s the point? Maxime does what Maxime wants. Nothing has changed.
The doctor who takes my temperature and blood pressure is the same one Maxime took me to for a birth control shot. Dr. Olivier has been administering my quarterly shots since then. Which reminds me, I’m almost due for another.
“You have a bad bout of flu,” Dr. Olivier says. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do except recommending a couple of days in bed and painkillers for the fever and ache.”
“That’s what I told Maxime,” I say, embarrassed about wasting the doctor’s time. “Since you’re here, can we schedule an appointment for the next birth control shot?”
“You won’t need it,” Maxime says from the door, carrying a tray with scrambled eggs and tea.
I give him a startled look. “I don’t want to fall pregnant.”
“There’s no fear of that if you refuse to sleep with me.” He balances the tray on my lap.
Dr. Olivier clears his throat. “Call me when you’ve discussed it.”
Gathering his instruments, he packs everything into his doctor’s case. “Keep her indoors,” he says to Maxime. “We don’t want to risk pneumonia if the infection spreads to her lungs.”
Maxime sees him to the door. When he returns, he looks at the tray on my lap. “Shall I feed you?”
“No thanks.” I pick up the tea. In all honesty, I am hungry. “You didn’t have to do this, but thank you.” Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I have to forget my manners. I have to cling to some shreds of decency unless I want to turn into a savage like my husband.
The warm smile clashes with the cold burn in his eyes. “You’re always welcome.”
Chapter 15
Maxime
The doctor is barely gone when Zoe’s fever spikes again. Forty degrees. I make her drink another painkiller and take her temperature. The fact that she doesn’t argue or slap my hand away tells me how sick she is.
Good going, Belshaw.
Aren’t we off to a great start?
Cursing myself, I go to the bathroom to run a bath. Her wedding dress lies in a dirty heap on the floor. The bath is stained with the dye. I clean the bath and let the water run cool. While I’m waiting for the bath to fill up, I gather the dress and carefully fold it into a bag that I store in the dressing room to drop off at the dry cleaners later. Zoe put months and a lot of love into the dress. I don’t want it spoiled.
When the bath is ready, I go back to the room for my flower. She’s curled into a ball, huddling beneath the blankets.
I pull the covers away. “Come on, cherie. A bath will do you good.”
She turns on her other side, facing away from me. “Go back to your champagne and your hotel. I don’t need anything from you.”
Fucking Fran. Letting Zoe believe the worst was a low blow. I’ll deal with her later. “Let me help you, Zoe.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ll be fine.”
No, she won’t be fine. Not for a while. She definitely needs help. Unfortunately, I’m all she’s got. She has no one else. Another fault of mine for isolating her when I first brought her to France. Of course I also ensured no one in the fashion design school she attended befriended her when I forced them into enrolling her.
“The water’s cool,” I say. “It’ll help break your fever.”
Enough. I’m not arguing with her any longer. She’s obstinate because her feelings are hurt, but I know what’s best for her. She doesn’t have enough strength to fight me when I scoop her up and carry her to the bathroom. An overwhelming sense of protectiveness invades every instinct I possess. She weighs nothing. She’s so small and fragile it scares me. Nothing can ever happen to her. I won’t survive it. She’s weak enough that I have to prop her up in the chair to undress her.
“Don’t,” she says, gripping her pajama top together when I try to unbutton it.
I move her hand away. “There’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
The blue color of her eyes looks paler with the dark rings marring them. The adorable freckles on her nose stand out against the unhealthy white of her skin.
“I hate you.”
“Maybe one day you won’t.” A man can only hope.
I must be a sick pervert, because my body reacts when I pull the pajamas off Zoe’s body. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’s naked underneath. No underwear. I’ve missed her full breasts and that womanly triangle of hair between her legs. I’ve missed the smell of roses in her hair. I miss her laugh so much it’s like a gaping hole in my chest. My feelings and lack of control may not make sense, but what does is that I can’t live without her. Without her presence, I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. Even eating is nothing but a mechanical act.
