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“Why wouldn’t he tell her?” he asked Jason. “Why not let her know?”
“Shame. Selfishness. Sociopathic tendencies. Pick a trait.” He put down his glass and leaned forward. “You weren’t there, Theo. You didn’t see how she was living in Ulaanbaatar. She had nothing, no family, no money, no choices. And fucking Lemaitre got a twinge and sent me to bring her here for his goddamn pleasure, so he could gaze on what he’d fucking wrought.”
“Do you think it was that way? Do you think he feels nothing for her?”
“Curiosity and pride. I think that’s what he feels.” He grabbed his head again. “Fucking hell. She’s his daughter. She’s so sweet and lovely, and beautiful, and he doesn’t fucking care.”
“We don’t know for sure she’s his daughter. We don’t know—”
Sara’s voice carried down the hall from the bedroom. “Jason?”
He rose to go to her, but Theo took his arm. “You can’t say anything to her. Not until you talk to Lemaitre.”
“She deserves to know who he is.”
“And if he denies her again?” asked Theo. “Then what? The Citadel rejection was bad enough. If he rejects her in this—”
“I would kill him.”
Theo tightened his grip on his arm. “Talk to Michel first. Say nothing to Sara until you know for sure.”
Jason pulled away from Theo and strode down the hall to the bedroom. Sara stirred, pulling out of Kelsey’s arms. “Is everything okay? I heard fighting.”
“No fighting, baby.” He leaned over the bed and stroked her hair. “Just talking. Everything’s fine, but we should give Kelsey and Theo their bed back. They have a guest room where we can sleep.”
“Goodbye, little one,” Kelsey murmured as Jason gathered Sara in his arms. He carried her down the hall, where Theo waited, holding open the door.
“Bonne nuit,” he said. “Stay for breakfast tomorrow?”
“Oui,” said Jason. “Thanks.”
Sara was already half asleep by the time he laid her on the bed. “Stay with me,” she sighed, clinging to him. “Please hold me.”
He pulled her close, as close as he could along his body, and wrapped her tightly in his arms. “Sleep now, good girl. It’s been a long night.”
“Did you have fun? Did I please you, Master?”
He stroked the smooth skin of her cheek. Did he see, now, the slightest hint of Lemaitre’s angularity in her facial lines? “You always please me,” he said, nuzzling her. “You’re my special little one, no matter who I allow to fuck you. I love you the best.”
“You love me?” she asked, pressing her face against his neck.
He was more certain than ever that he did. “I love you the best,” he repeated. “You’re my eternal girl.”
“Jason,” she said drowsily, “Theo is my coach. We’ll get in trouble, won’t we? If Mr. Lemaitre finds out about this?”
“Mr. Lemaitre won’t say shit,” Jason replied, trying to keep the fury from his voice. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? Master’s orders. Now go to sleep.”
* * * * *
After breakfast, Jason took Sara back to the dorms and left her with a kiss and standing orders to rest for the remainder of the afternoon. Then he headed to Lemaitre’s home in Avenue Montaigne, spoiling for a fight.
He banged on the door just before one. “Michel. It’s Jason. Let me in.” He banged again, harder. “Michel!”
The door whipped open. Lemaitre glared at him. “Must you shout like a hooligan? You’re going to alarm the neighbors.”
“I don’t care if I alarm the fucking neighbors.” He grabbed his boss by his starched white shirt and pushed him into his home. “You fucking bastard. Are you Sara’s father?”
Lemaitre shoved his hands away. “Do you dare?” he asked through his teeth. “We’re not animals. Stop acting like one.” He threw him off and smoothed his shirt with an affronted scowl. “We can talk or we can fight. But we won’t fight in my home.”
Jason stared at him, too angry to come up with civil words, but he must have looked civilized enough, because Lemaitre turned and shut the door.
Jason glanced around his boss’s pristine living space, glad there weren’t any naked slaves chained in the corners. He’d been here a handful of times, for dinner parties or emergency meetings. Lemaitre didn’t have a sprawling mansion, although he could have afforded it. His sunlit pavillon was tucked among others of utilitarian-modern design. The interior was strangely neutral. Everything in Lemaitre’s home was white, taupe, ivory, mahogany, or steel. Not what one would expect from one of the most creative personalities in the world.
“Are you going to answer my question?” Jason asked, his hands in fists at his side.
“Perhaps. If you’ll sit down and compose yourself.” He gestured toward a low sofa upholstered in some smooth, easy-to-clean fabric.
So much sex has probably happened here, he thought as Lemaitre took the seat across from him. He perched on the edge.
“Can I get you something? A drink?”
“You can answer my fucking question. You can tell me what the fuck is going on, why you brought a performer here who’s your daughter, and treated her exactly like everyone else.”
His words snapped out like cracks of a whip. Lemaitre’s only reaction was a slight negative tilt of his head. “Not exactly like everyone else. Everyone else is permitted in the Citadel. She is not.”
“So it’s true?”
Lemaitre leaned back, scratching the side of his knee. “I expected your visit today, but not this confrontation. You want to know if I fathered Sara? Yes, I did. Am I her father? I think we both know the answer to that.”
“You’re either her father or you’re not, you glib piece of shit.”
“I’m your boss,” he said, his gaze hardening. “I provide your livelihood. You might conduct this conversation with a little more respect.” He stood and crossed to the kitchen, and returned with a crystal tumbler of water. “Drink this. Drink all of it before you say anything else.”
“I’m not six years old,” said Jason. “I didn’t just wake up from a bad dream.”
“Still, you’re agitated. Water has a way of calming the soul. Drink.”
Jason wondered if it was spiked with some kind of designer, Lemaitre-style drug, but he drank it anyway, and he did gradually feel calmer.
“Where is Sara now?” Lemaitre asked when Jason leaned to pla
ce the glass on the side table.
“Do you care?”
“I suppose what I mean to ask is, does she know why you’re here? What prompted this confrontation?”
“You want to know if Sara knows? No, she doesn’t, not yet. Theo and I figured this out last night while she was asleep.”
His brows rose. “She slept with you and Theo last night?”
“You don’t get to ask that,” Jason snarled. “You’re not her father, right? You just fathered her.” Okay, so maybe the water hadn’t calmed him after all. “Sara’s still oblivious, and I didn’t want to tell her until I talked to you.”
“I’m grateful for that.”
“But she ought to know you’re her father.”
Lemaitre held up a finger. “She has a father. A good man who didn’t question the eye color, who raised her as his own.”
“He passed away a couple years ago, along with her mom. In an accident in Ulaanbaatar, which is a hell of a place to drive.”
Jason could tell by the shock on Lemaitre’s face that he hadn’t known. A moment later, he’d neutralized his expression. “What a tragic loss. But Sara loved that man as her father. She’s twenty-two years old. Why would she want a new father now?”
Jason didn’t have an answer to that. He knew Sara loved her Mongolian father, despite the circumstances of her parents’ deaths. But a father was a father, and if Lemaitre was her father…
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about this,” Lemaitre said. “I’ve agonized over it. I decided it was kinder not to tell her.”
“It’s kind until she shows up at the Citadel and sees you in action, and fantasizes about becoming your slave.”
“I trust you’ll see that doesn’t happen.” Lemaitre’s gaze skewered him. “What were you thinking, bringing her to the back rooms?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You realize she’s...” His voice choked on the words. “She’s just like you, Michel. Exactly like you. She likes to play hard.”
