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“Don’t speak her name!” he lashes out, baring his teeth like a monster.
Arsène’s neck flushes. It surprises me, and I realize I never considered him to be fully human. He is so formidable that the only thing that seems remotely mortal about him is that he apparently cared for his fiancée.
Bringing this man down a notch or two is soothing. I’d been at a point of disadvantage both times we’d met. While he’s still technically my employer, at least this time around I don’t have to deal with an immediate calamity like I had in Italy and at the morgue.
“Tell me, Arsène.” My voice softens. “Are you still on your trading ban?”
“No,” he says flatly.
“I see.” I pout, tapping my lips. “Wouldn’t want to rock the legal boat again, would you?”
“There’s absolutely no connection between Calypso Hall and my SEC ban.”
“No,” I agree. “But you know how slow and grinding the wheels of the law turn. Not to mention all those legal fees you’ll have to shell out on this failure of a theater.” I look around, fanning myself. “You’re going to be deep in the red if I sue. And I will. Because we both know you have no good reason to fire me.”
“If you stay . . .” He chooses his words carefully. My corroded heart beats wildly in my chest, reminding me for a change that it is here, that it’s still working. “I’m going to make your life so miserable you’re going to regret the day you were born.”
Leaning forward, I get so close to him our noses almost touch. He smells of sandalwood, moss, and spice. Like dark woods. Nothing like Rahim. Nothing like Paul. Nothing like anyone I’ve ever known.
“I understand, Mr. Corbin, that you’re used to getting your way since people either fear you, loathe you, or are indebted to you. Well, we have a saying in the South. You look rode hard and put up wet.”
He frowns. “Sounds like a dirty pickup line.”
“Horses break a serious sweat when they run fast. Especially under the saddle. A good rider always takes care to walk their horse and let it cool down before they bring it back to the stable. Then brush it dry. You . . .” Now it is my turn to give him a cool once-over. I don’t know what comes over me. I’m usually the nice one, the dependable one, voted Most Likely to Run a Charity in high school. But Arsène forces me out of my restraints. He is wild and barely civilized. And so I decide to leave my God-fearing-gal persona at the door. “You look haggard. Sure, you still dress the part, and your haircut probably costs more than my entire outfit, but there’s no light behind those eyes. No one’s home. I can take you down, Mr. Corbin. And you can bet your last dollar that I can hold my own.”
Since I know darn well this is the best monologue I’ve ever delivered that wasn’t written by a playwright, I decide to retire while I have the upper hand. I shoulder past him, knocking over a stack of sheet music on my way out, along with a vase of flowers. My hands are shaking. My knees bump together.
Pushing the door open, I tell myself it’s almost over. I’m almost out of harm’s way.
But then he opens his mouth, each of his words like a bullet through my back.
“It should’ve been you.”
I stop. My feet turn to marble.
Move, my brain instructs them desperately. Don’t listen to this awful man.
“I think about it every day.” His voice drifts along the room, like smoke, engulfing me. “If only you hadn’t been given that stupid role, she’d still be here. Everything would have been fine.”
Would it?
Would Grace still be his, even though she went to Paris with another man?
Would Paul still be mine? Even if I didn’t turn out to be the woman he’d wanted for himself when he married me? Did we really know the people we loved?
“Oh, Mr. Corbin.” I let loose a bitter smile, glancing behind my shoulder. “Maybe you’d have been happy, but you can’t say the same for your fiancée. That’s why she was on that plane to Paris.” I deliver the final blow. “To be loved by someone who knows how to love.”
Finally, I manage to move my legs. I stalk off before the first tear falls.
But then I remember: I don’t have the simple pleasure of crying anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ARSÈNE
I don’t know what surprises me more. Seeing Winnifred Ashcroft in my domain, or all the fresh anger that ignited in me when her blue eyes met mine from across the theater.
The pain, anger, carnal agony slammed back into me in full force. Like the last nine months never happened.
She seems to be a decent actress. This, of course, has nothing to do with why I’ve decided to keep her. Neither did her little stunts about suing me or leaking it to the press. All of them were puppy bites—meant to hurt but nothing but amusing.
