Lisa Jones: His Secrets

I see every action Sara has taken since arriving in Paris as a desperate need for the control she trusts to no one else but me, and I need to deserve that trust. If I let us leave this place with the lie that we’ve faced all there is to face from my past, I don’t deserve her trust at all. I owe her the chance to decide if this is what she really wants. And if she decides to walk away from me, I somehow have to let her.

Turning away from the closet, I find Sara dressed in a loosely fitted pale blue dress. It doesn’t have to hug her body for me to envision the soft, slender curves beneath. Her hair is brushed to a shiny mass around her shoulders, her face clean of all makeup, and she has no idea how sweet and perfect she is to me. How very wrong she is for the place I’m taking her. But I also know that neither of us can get back on a plane to the States without our eyes wide open.

Sara and I are silent on the ride to Isabel’s club. She knows when I’m at that place where words don’t do it for me. She understands me in ways I never thought anyone could, and I try to take comfort in that right now, when I know the blinders are about to come fully off. The problem is I’m pretty damn sure that I’m not good for her. I’m just too fucking selfish and in love to walk away.

I pull up to the door of Eclipse, one of Isabel’s clubs, the place she chooses to play her power games. As I shift into park, club staffers are instantly at both sides of the Porsche 911. Ignoring them, I turn to Sara. “This is just like Mark’s club. You do as I say, when I say it. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even look at them.”

“Okay. Chris, I promise you that nothing inside this club matters to us.”

But it does, and I’ve let us both pretend it doesn’t. “I promised you that you’d understand me if you came to Paris. Tonight, I’m going to make sure you do.” Wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, I kiss her deeply. Then I pull back, praying I didn’t just kiss her good-bye.

Reaching for the door, I glance over my shoulder at Sara. “Stay in the car. I’ll come around and get you.”

She nods and I get out, shrugging out of my leather jacket and leaving it inside before handing the keys to the man who greets me. “Keep the car close,” I instruct, sealing the deal with a bill large enough to bypass the club policy that says otherwise. Isabel likes people to stay awhile, and uses every means possible to make it happen.

I round the hood of the 911 as another man opens Sara’s door, and I’m there to offer her my hand, pulling her to her feet and bringing her hips to mine. “Leave your jacket,” I tell her, slipping it from her shoulders, the cold November wind gusting her long hair around her bare shoulders. “They’ll make you check it and I don’t want anything delaying our departure.”

Handing the jacket to the attendant, I let him shut her door. Sara shivers and I run my hands over her arms. “Remember what I said,” I say, my voice low, intentionally commanding. There are too many things inside that could go wrong. I need her with me on this. “Don’t talk. Don’t even look at anyone.”

She offers me a weak smile. “This would be a really bad time for a ‘master’ joke, right?”

I lean in close to her, pressing my lips to her ear, inhaling the floral, sweet scent of her. “I’m not your master, baby. I’m just in charge.”

Her hand settles on my cheek and her low, sexy laugh tightens my groin and makes me want to strip her naked. “In bed,” she reminds me, stating her limits as I expected she would. “You’re in charge in bed.”

I draw her hand into mine, letting her see the heat in my gaze that’s for her alone. “Which is exactly where I wish we were right now,” I say, watching her cheeks flush as if I haven’t thoroughly licked and fucked her many times over. It’s this mix of sweet and sexy that somehow grounds me, keeps me steady and right in ways I wasn’t sure were possible again, before Sara.

I tenderly brush my hand down her hair, then lace my fingers through hers and lead her up the ten brick stairs. We easily fall into step with each other, united as we approach this place.

At the top, the familiar, aging doorman is dressed in his finely tailored black suit, guarding the double castle-like wooden doors to ensure that only those Isabel approves enter.

“Monsieur Merit,” he says, inclining his head.

“Monsieur Augustin,” I acknowledge. The flex of Sara’s hand in mine tells me she doesn’t miss our familiar greeting.

“Will you and your companion be visiting Madame Isabel?” Monsieur Augustin queries, and I don’t miss the way his gaze flickers briefly over Sara, nor the interest she stirs in him. And I know why.

I manage, “Yes. We will.”

“I’ll let her know you’ve arrived, then.” He punches a button on the wall and the doors open.

Together, Sara and I enter the elegantly decorated foyer, a gray-and-white marble floor beneath our feet. The ceiling is low, glittering with some sort of jeweled lights, and several tall wingback chairs are to our left and right. This room, as in all the high-end clubs, shouts of a spa getaway, a luxurious escape. For some who take it all in its proper dose, it is. For others, like me, it’s the facade that hides a drug we take too far.

Sara turns to me. “This is where—”

“Yes,” I say tightly, my eyes meeting hers, holding nothing back. We’re here now. We’re seeing this through to the other side of hell and back. “This is where Isabel beat me.”

“Monsieur Merit.”

I glance up at the sound of my name to a boy who’s no more than eighteen, wearing a fitted, expensive suit, his dark hair sleek and combed back from his baby face. The me of yesterday. No doubt he’s searching for solace from who knows what, and Lord help him for finding Isabel.

The kid motions to the elevator, sounding formal, looking out of place. “This way to Madame Isabel.”

We follow him down the typical Parisian narrow hallway to an elevator that he uses a code to open. Inside, he punches a floor number that punches me in the gut, for it leads to a room Isabel knows I never enter.

The doors close and Sara turns to me, worry for the boy etched in her lovely brown eyes. I quickly pull her against me, pressing my finger to her lips. “Shhh,” I warn softly. “You can’t help him, and if anyone thinks you’ll try, they’ll expel you from the club.”

She inhales and then lets it out, saying, “I already hate this place,” before turning to face the doors again, stepping close to me.

“That makes two of us,” I reply, sliding my hand to her waist in silent reassurance, fighting the urge to drag her out of here and protect her. Eyes wide open, I remind myself. I am protecting her.

Silent seconds tick by, and too soon, the elevator doors open. A scowling Tristan is leaning against the wall directly in front of us, his tattooed arms crossed in front of his T-shirt-clad chest, his long, light brown hair a wild mess barely contained by a tie at his nape. He cuts a look at Sara before fixing me in a contemptuous stare and saying in French, “One woman destroyed isn’t enough for you? Is she Isabel’s consolation prize?”

Lacing my fingers with Sara’s, I speak in clear, hard English. “Don’t push me, Tristan. You won’t like where it takes you.”

I cut to my right down another long narrow hallway to the doorway at the end, and enter what Isabel likes to call the “Hive”—a name meant to signify Isabel as the queen bee who knows just how to sting her followers. It also allows spectators, if the price is right. I was never her damn follower, and I damn sure don’t like being watched.