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She heard a sudden, sharp hiss. For one horrifying moment, she thought it was coming from the corpse, but then Alexi grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back from the coffin.
“Sale garce!” He uttered a vicious curse and shook her. “You’re just like him. You’ll do anything to save your pride!” Her hair came loose and tumbled down her back. He shoved her into the small black chair next to the casket. “Nothing is too vile when your pride is at stake.” He wiped away the kiss with his bare hand, smearing her lipstick across her cheek.
She tried to push his arm away. “Don’t touch me! I hate you. Don’t ever touch me.”
His grip loosened on her arm. He said something so softly she almost missed it.
“Pur sang.”
She stopped struggling.
He stroked her mouth with his fingers, his touch gentle. He traced the line where her lips came together. And then, unexpectedly, his finger slid inside her mouth and moved gently along the barrier of her teeth.
“Enfant. Pauvre enfant.”
She sat there stunned, spellbound, mesmerized. He crooned as if he were singing her a lullaby. “You have been caught in something you don’t understand. Pauvre enfant.”
His touch was so tender. Was this the way fathers treated daughters they loved?
“You are extraordinary,” he murmured. “The photograph in the newspaper didn’t prepare me.” He gently tangled his fingers in the tendril of hair that had fallen over her cheek. “I’ve always loved beautiful things. Clothing. Women. Automobiles.” He brushed his thumb over her jawline. She smelled his cologne, faintly spicy. “At first I loved indiscriminately, but I’ve learned better.”
She didn’t know what he was talking about.
He touched her chin. “Now I have only one obsession. The Bugatti. Do you know the Bugatti?”
Why was he talking about a car? She remembered what she’d seen in the garage, but she shook her head.
“Ettore Bugatti called his cars pur sang, pure blood, like a Thoroughbred horse.” The tips of his fingers brushed the polished onyx drops in her earlobes and pulled gently. “I have the finest collection of pur sang Bugattis in the world, all but the crown jewel—the Bugatti Royale.” His voice was soft, loving…hypnotic. She felt as if he’d cast a spell over her. “He built only six of them. During the war, one Royale was left in Paris. Three of us hid it from the Germans in the sewers beneath the city. That car has become a legend, and I’m determined to own it. I must own it because it is the very best. Pur sang, do you understand me, enfant? Not to possess the best is unthinkable.” He stroked her cheek.
She nodded, although she didn’t understand at all. Why was he talking about this now? But his voice was so loving, and the old fantasies rose up inside her. Her eyes drifted shut. Her father had seen her, and after all these years, he finally wanted her.
“You remind me of that car,” he whispered. “Except you are not pur sang, are you?”
At first she thought she felt his finger on her mouth. Then she realized it was his lips. Her father was kissing her.
“Alexi!” The shriek of a wounded animal penetrated the room. Fleur’s eyes flew open.
Belinda stood at the door, her face twisted with anguish. “Get your hands off her! I’ll kill you if you touch her again! Get away from him, Fleur. You mustn’t ever let him touch you!”
Fleur rose awkwardly from the chair. Her faltering words were unplanned. “But…He’s…He’s my father…”
Belinda looked as if she’d been slapped. Fleur felt sick. She rushed to her mother. “It’s all right. I’m sorry!”
“How could you?” Belinda’s voice was almost a whisper. “Does one meeting with him make you forget everything?”
Fleur shook her head miserably. “No. No, I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Come upstairs with me,” Belinda said stonily. “Now.”
“Go with your mother, chérie
.” His voice slid between them like silk. “We will have time to talk after the funeral tomorrow and make plans for your future.”
His words gave her a sweet, fluttery sensation that felt like a betrayal.
Belinda stood at her bedroom window looking through the trees at the headlights flickering past on the Rue de la Bienfaisance. Muddy mascara tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped onto the lapels of her ice-blue robe. In the next room, Fleur slept. Flynn had died without ever knowing about her.
Belinda was only thirty-five, but she felt like an old woman. She wouldn’t let Alexi steal her beautiful baby away. No matter what she had to do. She stumbled over to the stereo. An hour ago, she’d made a phone call. She couldn’t think what else to do. As she looked around for her drink, she knew that, after tonight, there couldn’t be any more.
