His arm wraps around my waist. “This is why I didn’t want you around Tristan. I didn’t know what he’d tell you, and I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t use you to hurt me, like Amber tried to tonight.”

“But he called you to come and get me.”

“Yes, and I was sure he was setting me up and I’d ind you in some compromising position sure to rip my heart out.”

“You doubted me, then, too.”

“I didn’t know what they’d told you or made you believe about me, Sara. I didn’t know if Amber told you about her parents.

Or if she convinced people to lie and say I frequented that place.

Believe me—my imagination went wild on the drive over here.”

I hug him. “No more secrets. No more doubt.”

He strokes hair from my face, and softly repeats, “No more secrets. No more doubt.”

Still Saturday, July 14, 2012

Still in the cofee shop . . .

There’s a convention in town and I can’t get a cab. So al-though I can’t believe it, I’m going to let Ava drive me to a hotel.

I can only hope tomorrow will be better. Maybe I’ll call “him”

after all. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just wait until he comes back. Or maybe I’ll let tomorrow decide for me. Maybe then I’ll even feel 100 percent like the old Rebecca Mason. Tonight . . .

I’m almost home.

Twenty-Five

I blink awake the next morning, inhale the scent of Chris clinging to the sheets, and almost forget he’d returned to the museum for the night. I run my hand over his empty place beside me, wishing he were here. Wishing I wasn’t alone, he wasn’t alone in his battle against the old demons I’d awakened last night. Alone. I’d fallen asleep hating that word, wearing one of Chris’s shirts, and missing him horribly.

The sound of water running confuses me and I sit up, then realize it’s the shower. It takes me a moment to process that Chris is home, and he didn’t awaken me. I glance at the clock and it’s already ten.

I know he’s eager to get on the road today, and I throw of the blankets and head toward the bathroom. Fighting nausea from the tequila, I lean on the door frame to steady myself.

His head is dropped forward under the water, his broad shoulders and back angled toward me. Wondering how he’s feeling after last night’s confession, I tug of my shirt, then cross to the shower door.

When I open it Chris’s gaze shifts to me, and he pulls me to him under the spray of water and wraps his arms around me.

“I missed you,” I say, touching his face.

He lowers his head to mine. “I missed you, too.”

We just stand there a few moments, and the sense that he’s struggling is strong. “Are you okay?”

“It’s always a rough few days.”

This is about his parents, and years of punishing himself for what he couldn’t prevent. But knowing about Amber’s parents now, I can see why he can’t let go of the pain. “When is the actual day?” I ask.

“Tomorrow.”

I wonder how many times he’s taken a beating to get through this anniversary—but this year, he’s spending it with me. The signiicance washes over me with the water, a lood of understanding. He’s letting me be there for him. This amazing, wonderful, lawed man is giving himself completely to me, instead of shutting me out, as he had with Dylan.

I hug him tightly, silently telling him that I’m there for him.

And when I raise my head and he kisses me, and passion claims us, I hope that I’m helping him escape his past, as he’s helped with mine.

And I vow he will never need a whip again.

The drive to Fontainebleau, a commune on the outskirts of Paris, begins with a call from our attorney about my passport. I listen closely as Chris talks to Stephen, trying to decipher what’s being said.

Chris’s sigh when he hangs up isn’t encouraging. “There’s no movement on the passport yet. Without a body, they can’t build a case against Ava they can be certain will stick. That means they have to charge her with attempted murder to ensure a conviction.”

“Of me,” I supply.

“Yes. Stephen thinks they’re holding your passport hostage to get you to agree to come back and testify for the grand jury.”

“Can they do that?”

“No, but they aren’t admitting they’re doing it, either.” He glances at me. “They can’t get an indictment without you, Sara.”

“So we have to go back.”

“It would be the right thing to do. We’re done here after this weekend. We can head to San Francisco and stay a few months.”

“What about your charity events?”

“I want to be here for tomorrow’s event, but then I don’t have to be back until late November. This will give us a chance to clear your passport for a longer stay in France anyway.” He gives me a small smile. “You can learn French before we return.”

I give a short laugh. “Don’t count on that one.” I open my mouth to express my concern that this is a ploy by the police to get me back and investigate me for Rebecca’s death, but stop myself. This weekend is about Chris. Only Chris. “We would make Katie happy.”

He cuts me a sideways look. “That we would. In fact, she called to check on me today. I can’t talk to her.” His lips tighten.

“Maybe you could call? Tell her traic is bad and I can’t talk?”

“Of course.” I dial Katie, and her warm greeting is welcome right now. We chat a few minutes, and when she asks to speak to Chris and I give my prepared excuse, she says, “Tell him it’s okay. He doesn’t have to talk. I know he has you, and you’ll take good care of him.”

“I will,” I promise. “I absolutely will.”

“I know, honey. We love you for loving him the way you do.

Call me when you can, and let me know how he is.”

I promise and we hang up. I stare out of the window, ighting the tears I don’t want Chris to see, determined to be strong for him.

“She didn’t believe the traic thing,” Chris says.

I shake my head. “Not for a second.” To get his mind of the bad stuf, I start asking questions about our trip. We spend the rest of the hour drive talking about the amazing forest surrounding Fontainebleau, which, with its towering trees, is nature’s artwork, and about the château his parents bought as a vacation home when he was a small child, even before he moved to Paris with his father. But no matter how I try to keep him talking, the closer we get to our destination, the quieter Chris becomes.

When inally we pull up to the secluded, several-acre property, I’m blown away by what looks like a medieval castle. It’s more the size of a hotel than a house, with steepled points to its rooftops and towering white stone walls, set in the middle of short, sloping hilltops.

“It’s amazing, Chris,” I say, turning to ind him staring at it as if he’s never seen it before.

“I don’t get out here much, so I have a lady and her young daughter, who live in the property behind the house, look after it for me.” He glances at me. “Grab your jacket. I want to show you something before we go inside.”

I slide my coat on and Chris walks around the 911 to open my door. He helps me out and slides his arm around my shoulders, his big body sheltering me from the cool day. I think he has something in his other hand, held down by his side, but I can’t tell what. I’m about to ask what it is but he points to a hill under a massive, lealess tree with huge draping branches, which I’m sure is gorgeous in full bloom. As we get closer, my stomach clenches as I discover we’re about to visit not one, but two graves.

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what to say, and if I talk too much, Chris won’t have a chance to say what he needs to say. Today is about listening, or just being silent by his side, if that’s what he needs.

Under the tree by the graves, Chris sets down the item in his hands—a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He is one big, dark storm cloud ready to burst, and I prepare myself for the downpour, complete with plenty of lightning and thunder.

After shrugging out of his coat, he spreads it out on the ground and motions for me to sit. Glad I have on my favorite worn, faded jeans, I scoot over to allow him to share my seat.

Chris opens the wine, sits on the cold ground beside me, and then gulps a big swig of wine right from the bottle. “Have some,” he says, ofering it to me. “It’s one of my father’s prized ten-thousand-dollar bottles. Good stuf. Don’t waste it.”

Knowing this is signiicant for him, I accept the bottle and chug some wine. The light, sweet lavor explodes on my tongue, and it would be delicious if it weren’t laced with the bitterness of his father drinking himself to death, after years of shutting his son out of his life.

Chris takes another long drink and ofers me one, as well. I hold up my hand. “No, thanks.” I just can’t stomach it.

“There’s something else I haven’t told you,” he says.

In his eyes, I read that the “something else” is big. I grab the bottle and tip it back, then hand it back to him.

“The accident that killed my mother happened a few miles from here.” He slugs more wine, then lies back on the ground, the bottle in one hand, his other arm over his eyes. “And I was in the car.”

My breath lodges in my throat. He’d been a small child.

Much too small to have to watch his mother die. I’d barely handled the loss of mine as an adult.

“A truck hit us,” he continues. “The man driving had a diabetic attack and blacked out. He crossed the lane and hit us head-on. Metal rammed through the windshield.” He pauses, his breathing ragged. “I was in the backseat in a seat belt, and both myself and my father were remarkably unharmed—but I remember the glass and the blood. I should have been too young to remember, but I do. In bloody, vivid, f**king color, I remember my mother bleeding, and my father screaming and crying and begging her to breathe.”

Tears streak my cheeks and I wipe them away. As the seconds tick by, Chris doesn’t move. He lies there, his hand over his face, that bottle of wine in his hand. And I know that there is no right thing to say—there is only what I do.

I push to my feet and take his hand. “Get up, and come with me.”

His hand drops from his face and I can see the redness in his eyes, the tears he’s hidden from me. I don’t want him to hide anything from me. “Where are we going?” he asks.

“We’re going inside.” I tug his hand. “I have something to show you.”

“Inside?” He doesn’t move. “Where you have never been before.”

“That’s right. Come on.”

“All right,” he agrees, and, thankfully, he hefts himself up to his feet, takes a swig of the wine, and throws the bottle away across the open hilltop. “Show me what you want to show me.”

There is curiosity in his eyes.

Curious is good. It’s far better than pain. This is working.

We cross the hilly lawn and head to the door. Chris’s big body is tense as he unlocks the door and waves me forward.

The spacious entry is paved with stone, and my gaze sweeps the stairwell to the left. A wooden balcony wraps around an upper level that spans the entire room, and I admire the incredible chandelier suspended from the center of the vaulted ceiling.

When Chris shuts the door, I step directly in front of him.

“Undress,” I command.

A shocked look slides over his face. “What?”

I barely contain my smile. “Now you sound like me.” I cross my arms over my chest and try to seem as authoritative as he always does. “You heard me. Take of your clothes.”

His expression starts to soften, a hint of amusement lighting his troubled eyes. “Let me get this straight.” He points a inger between us. “You are ordering me to take my clothes of.”

“That’s right.”

He stares at me for several beats and then laughs. Hugging me close, he murmurs near my ear, “After you, baby. That’s how this works. You should know this by now.”

“Hmmm,” I reply, and he eases back to look at me.

“Hmmm?”

I play with a spiky strand of his blond hair by his collar.

“Hmmm,” I repeat. “I don’t seem to comprehend this rule. I’m afraid you might have to spank me to get your point across.”

His eyes heat and, with a low growl, he picks me up and starts carrying me to what I assume is our new bedroom. And that’s where we are going to ride out this storm.

I wake the next morning, immediately aware of the delicious ache in my body from the prior afternoon and evening with Chris. I smile and reach for him, only to ind him missing.

Remembering what today is jerks me to a sitting position, and I glance around the fancy bedroom with elegant, mahogany-trimmed walls and expensive mahogany furniture and conirm he’s not here. I reach for my cell phone by the bed and glance at the time—eight o’clock. I wonder if he slept at all.

Then I see a piece of paper on the pillow next to me: a hand-drawn map, for inding Chris in this gigantic maze of a castle. I rush to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face, admiring the magniicent vintage claw-foot tub that sits smack in the center of the bathroom. Not because it’s gorgeous, which it is, but because Chris and I spent some interesting time in that tub last night.

I hurry and make myself presentable, dig slippers and a robe from my suitcase, and snatch my map. Not surprisingly, the two stone corridors, and several doorways and passages I travel, end at a long stairwell. I might not be in the city anymore, but Parisians seem to love building things in levels. I don’t mind. It seems everything Parisian is growing on me.