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She presses her lips together and leans back to study me.
“What?” I ask, alarmed at her expression.
“I know nothing about art, Christian.”
I shrug. “We’ll buy only what we like. This isn’t about investment.”
She looks a little less alarmed, but preoccupied nevertheless.
“What?” I ask again. “Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”
Her expression remains the same.
“What now?” I ask. Fuck, Ana. Are you still angry about yesterday?
She shakes her head.
“Tell me,” I beg, but she gives nothing away. “You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” I can’t look her in the eye; instead, I bow my head and nuzzle between her breasts.
“No. I’m hungry,” she says.
“Why didn’t you say?” I ease her off my lap.
Ana and I fall under Saint-Paul-de-Vence’s spell. We wander the narrow, cobbled streets, breathing in the Gallic wonder of it all, followed from a discreet distance by Taylor and Philippe Ferreux. Ana is tucked under my arm, where she fits perfectly. “How did you know about this place?” she asks.
“Dad e-mailed me when we were in London. He and Mom came here back in the day.”
“It’s beautiful.” Ana waves her hand in homage to our spectacular surroundings.
We stop at a small gallery with some striking abstract art in the window and decide to venture in. I’m taken by some erotic photographs that are on display inside. They’re beautifully composed. “Not quite what I had in mind,” Ana says, her tone wry.
I grin down at her. “Me neither.” My hand finds hers as we study some still-life paintings, all vegetables and fruit. They’re good.
“I like those.” Ana points to some peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” She giggles, her eyes alive with mischief and memories—of our reconciliation—maybe?
“I thought I managed that quite competently. I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—I embrace her and nuzzle her ear—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”
Ana gasps, distracted by my teasing lips. “What?”
“The paintings—where would you put them?” I graze her earlobe with my teeth.
“Kitchen,” she breathes.
“Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”
“They’re really expensive!”
“So?” I kiss the spot behind her ear. “Get used to it, Ana.” I release her and approach the sales assistant to purchase all three of the paintings and give her my credit card and our address in Escala for shipping.
“Merci, monsieur,” she simpers, with a flirtatious smile.
Sweetheart, I’m married.
I raise my left hand to stroke my chin, making my ring obvious, then return to Ana, who is looking at the nudes.
“Changed your mind?” I ask.
She laughs. “No. They’re good, though. And the photographer’s female.”
I cast my eye over them again. One catches my attention: a woman kneels up on a chair, her back to the camera. She’s naked, except for hooker heels, her long, dark hair loose. A memory I don’t want stirs in the back of my mind and I’m reminded of the bleak black-and-white photo on my bulletin board.
The crack whore.
Fuck.
I look away and take Ana’s hand. “Let’s go. Are you hungry?”
“Sure,” she says with an uncertain look as I open the door and step out into the fresh air. I’m grateful to get back outside where I can breathe again.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Protected from the fierce Mediterranean sun, we sit beneath bright red parasols on an archaic stone terrace at a hotel restaurant. We’re surrounded by geraniums and ancient ivied walls. It really is stunning. The food is off the charts, too. Damn, but the French can cook. I hope Mia’s learned some of these skills. I’ll have to persuade her to make dinner for us someday.
When I pay the check, I give the waiter a hefty tip.
Ana is sipping coffee, admiring the view. She’s been quiet, and I wonder once more what she’s thinking about.
Yesterday?
I shift in my seat.
I’m still trying to shake off my nightmare. Fragments keep haunting me and it’s unsettling. I’m reminded of Ana’s question yesterday evening about braids. Did it stir something from my subconscious?
Communicate and compromise. Flynn’s words circle my brain.
Maybe I should talk to Ana. Tell her the truth. Perhaps that’s why I’m getting these vivid flashbacks. I take a deep breath. “You asked me why I braid your hair.”
Ana looks up, expectant. “Yes.”
“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”
Ana blinks, in that way she does when she’s processing information, but her eyes are wide and clear, and all I see in them is her compassion. “I like it when you play with my hair,” she says, but her voice wavers, and I think she’s just trying to reassure me.
“Do you?”
“Yes!” The vehemence in her tone surprises me. She clasps my hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.”
