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She opened the door slowly, peering out into the unknown building, taking stock of the details. A wide corridor with black and white tiles, tall ceilings and elaborate chandeliers was framed on either side by big pieces of art—historical, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, influenced by the French revolution. She moved further down the corridor, wishing she had her walking stick, even as she realized her ankle was doing much better today. Perhaps the decent night’s sleep had benefited her injury? She moved on instinct, and came to a large, formal sitting room, with black leather, designer armchairs, a low set coffee table, a spread of newspapers and the aroma of coffee.
She didn’t usually drink the stuff, but her stomach gave a strange lurching and her mouth filled with saliva; she found herself wanting a cup of something warm more than life itself.
“You’re up.” His voice was graveled and seemed to come from a long way away, so she spun almost guiltily.
He stood with obvious concern, his features dark, his skin equally so, beneath his eyes, leaving her to know that he’d had nothing like her blissful night of sleep.
“Yes. That bed was way too comfortable,” she said, awkward suddenly, and shy too. A thousand feelings rammed into her with the intensity of a runaway freight train. Gratitude, desire, shyness, need.
He stared at her as though appraising her, as if by looking at her alone he could see how she was feeling, could understand the cacophony of emotions barraging her.
“I’m glad you slept well.” He gestured to the seats. “Please.”
She eyed the lounge chair, then looked behind them, to the enormous window that framed a picture perfect view. “Where are we?”
“France.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Exactly?” He murmured, pouring a coffee from a French press and carrying the cup towards her. Up close, she saw new details, or perhaps they were details she’d noticed but not fully appreciated until this particularly golden morning light bounced off his face. His freckles, for instance. There was only a handful, five or six, leaping across his cheeks, but they made her stomach fall to her toes with a desire to lift up and kiss each one. His long, curling lashes, so thick and dark and clumped together.
Her hands, slightly unsteady, curled around the coffee cup, and she was disappointed he managed the handover so deftly, so their fingers barely glanced. But where they had touched, sparks simmered in her blood and she had to blink quickly to clear the erotic direction of her thoughts.
“This is my chateau in the Loire Valley.”
“Really?” Her heart soared. “How lovely.”
“Lovely?” He repeated, apparently bemused by her description.
She grimaced. “I know, the circumstances aren’t ideal, for either of us, but I’ve always wanted to see the French countryside, and never had time.”
“This is not a sightseeing holiday.” His assertion was sharp and condescending enough that in her frazzled state, she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. She turned quickly, lifting her coffee cup, pretending fascination with a tapestry hanging on another wall. The morning light caught the threads and detail of the image but she couldn’t have said what she was looking at. Her vision was decidedly foggy.
“You won’t be leaving the chateau,” he said, more calmly, gently, so the tears, if anything, felt more urgent. “Fortunately for you, there is plenty here to keep you entertained.”
That caught her attention. “Exactly how long are you imaging I’ll stay?”
“Until this matter is sorted.” His response was unequivocal, and while her nerves were stretching tight with the temptation of that, she found herself shaking her head, pushing back the fantasy.
“It’s very kind of you to want to help, but I can’t hide away here indefinitely, Leonidas. I have to get back to training next week.”
His eyes narrowed. “And if your stalker has not yet been caught?”
She shivered. “I’ve lived this nightmare for a long time.”
“And you can keep going as you have been?”
She thought of her life. The walls closing in on her. The apartment she kept sparse so she could see every corner, the fear that was her constant companion, the dreams she’d been having, of being stabbed while she performed, red blood leaching into the white of the ice. She thought of how strong she’d been, all on her own, no one to lean on, no one she could trust completely, and she wanted to weep—only it wasn’t yet time to let go of her strength. She needed it still, even as Leonidas seemed to want to ease her burden.
“If I have to,” she said stoically.
His expression was sympathetic and that pulled at something inside her, making her heart twist painfully. “I refuse to let him win,” she said after a beat. “Skating has been my whole life for a long time, my anchor point, and I have worked so hard to reach this record, I cannot—I refuse—to let this derail me.” She lifted a hand, brushing her brow, then moved awkwardly towards the seats. He helped her, and sparks flew into the air around them, so she startled at his touch, eyes flying to his before she could control her reaction.
Once she was seated, he moved to the seat opposite, but didn’t sit down. “What record?”
But she was lost in thought, trying to work out how to explain her life and motivation to him. “Figure skating isn’t something you can do forever. I’m twenty four and I’ve been competing internationally since I was sixteen, training at an elite level for many years before that. It’s hard on the body. I’ve had broken ribs, wrists, I’ve been bruised all over from crash landings against the ice. The fitness regimen is punishing. I train six hours a day, not including general exercise. At some point, I’ll have to walk away from all this,” she said, with a small shake of her head.
“And you don’t want to?”
