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“You’re angry with me,” he whispers, running his nose along the line of my neck.
Goosebumps break out over my skin. It’s a lot more complex than anger. What will he say if I confront him about the letters? He’d tell me he never lied. He’d say he told me I could write them. He never promised to mail them. He’d know I snooped around in his study, and he’d want to know why.
I swivel the chair away from his touch. I’m only a woman, and he makes me weak. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone. His tie sits askew, as if he’s pulled on the noose. I trace the outline of his chest with my eyes, remembering every groove and outline that define his muscles. I commit this sin, taking with my eyes, but I can’t look lower to where his manhood swells under the expensive fabric of his tailored pants.
“Eat with me,” I beg. Anything to not let me give in to temptation. Our love and hate runs too closely together. Fucking, and hating, and loving have all become the same thing.
“Whatever my flower wants,” he says, tracing my lips with a finger.
I lean away. “Please, don’t,” I say with a shaky breath. “Don’t call me that, and don’t touch me. I’m not ready.”
To my relief, he drops his hand. When he takes the chair on the opposite side, the distance is my saving grace. I lift my glass. He does the same. I drink. So does he. I eat and drink, watching him do the same. He tells me we should have a picnic in one of the sheltered coves in summer. One of the coves. We can never swim on his private beach again. I haven’t said goodbye to his house. The notion jars me. I never had time. Not enough to find closure. I listen while he talks, happy for him to make conversation for the both of us like only he can.
We finish the champagne in front of the fire sitting side by side on the sofa. Our bodies aren’t touching, but I remember with longing how I used to curl up in his lap. The logs are almost burned out when he finally gets to his feet.
Yawning, he says, “I’m tired. Come to bed?”
“I’ll be right there.”
I wait for him to disappear into the bedroom before going through the pockets of his jacket where he’s thrown it over the back of the sofa. No phone. I didn’t expect as much. He usually carries it in the pocket of his pants.
I give it a good ten minutes before going to the room. Maxime is passed out in bed, snoring softly. One arm is thrown over his forehead, and the other is resting on his stomach. The nightstand is empty except for the lamp. There’s no phone. I go to the dressing room. His clothes are neatly folded on the velvet bench. The sliding doors of the closets are open. Half of the space is filled with his shirts, pants, jackets, and shoes. He must’ve sent them with my things. I couldn’t even pretend to be interested in how his team has organized our clothes. Maxime must’ve opened the closets to make sure they’ve done a good job.
Listening to be sure he’s still snoring, I feel through the pockets of his pants. Shit. Nothing. I check in the bathroom. No phone. I go back to the room to check the nightstand again. Kneeling, I check under the bed and utter a soundless sigh of relief. He dropped his phone between the nightstand and the bed. He’s really knocked out good.
After hastily pulling on a pair of socks, I touch Maxime’s hand gently. He doesn’t stir. I poke him a little harder. No reaction. Taking his thumb, I push it on the thumbprint button of his phone to unlock the screen, and then slip through the room to the living area. I can’t go out into the hallway. The guard will be there. Instead, I pull the French doors open as quietly as I can and close them behind me. The night is freezing cold.
It’s not that late yet. With shaking fingers, I type the number for the correctional services where Damian is held and bite my nail as I wait for the call to connect. My body is shaking from more than the cold. If Maxime catches me, he’ll punish me like never before.
“Johannesburg Correctional Services. May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Damian Hart, please.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Calling hours are from nine to eleven am.”
“It’s a family emergency. May I leave a message?”
“Do you know his section?”
“A section.”
“Hold on, please.”
The line goes on hold. A song comes on. Please, hurry.
“Ma’am, he’s been released on parole.”
My mouth parts, but no sound comes out. I cough. “I’m sorry,” I squeeze through my tight throat. “Can you tell me when?”
