Raw and Broken Ch. 05

He seemed to be studying me as I had studied his painting. "Have you been to the Louvre?"

I couldn't help myself. I rolled my eyes at him. "Of course, I've been living in Paris."

"What's your favorite piece?" He drew closer. Brushed a piece of hair out of my eyes.

I blinked at him. "I-I don't have a favorite."

"Pity." His thumb brushed over my lips. "Maybe it's the wrong type of art."

My breath came out as a shudder when he pulled his hand away. I licked my lips, unconsciously taking a step toward him as he backed up. "What other kind of art would there be? The Louvre is the largest museum in the world."

"Ah, but the Louvre doesn't hold all types of art. Just the more...accepted kind."

"Like your 'War of Feelings?'," I said as we both took another step. Then another. I saw over his shoulder that we were headed toward the wall of bookcases.

He just shook his head.

I stopped and crossed my arms. Raised an eyebrow at him. There was nowhere for him to go now.

But Stefan surprised me by pressing on a section of the nearest bookcase. The wall swung inward with a slight creak. He reached inside, and a soft glow suddenly filled the doorway. "Would you like to see?"

My curiosity got the better of me. I only contemplated for a second what could possibly be in that hidden room. Then I was following him.

The space was larger than I expected. There were two low, upholstered chairs right behind the bookcase-door. They were angled toward each other but facing the opposite wall. Which had another stone fireplace, albeit less than half the size of the one in the den.

Between the chairs was a low table. A silver tray with two empty brandy snifters and a cut-glass decanter half full of a bronze liquid sat in the middle of the table. I wondered if Stefan had been sitting in here, drinking. But I hadn't heard the wall open and close. Had he been sitting in the den in the darkness the whole time? Maybe lying on the couch? I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him in the ballroom where everyone else was celebrating all that we'd accomplished these past six months.

There was a soft click as the hidden door closed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stefan sit in the nearest chair and pour himself a glass of from the decanter. He didn't offer me a drink. I wasn't sure if I was offended or glad. I had a feeling that consuming even the smallest bit of alcohol around him would greatly lower my inhibitions. Best to refrain.

Opposite from where I stood was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, just like the wall through which we had entered. The ones in the den were stained wood and had been crammed with leather-bound novels and masculine knickknacks. These shelves were painted a pristine white, like the walls, and held statues and framed photos that had been spread out to display them prominently. Some of the pieces were specifically backlit.

I was crossing the room to get a better look when I noticed the other framed artwork arranged over the dark fireplace. These did not appear to be paintings like the Impressionist. Rather, they were photographs. Eight eight-by-ten prints in all, four black-and-white alternated with four full-color ones.

My heartbeat picked up as I stepped closer. I ran my hands up and down my arms, trying to quell the goosebumps that were prickling my skin. I licked my lips multiple times. My eyes lingered on one photo and then another, arousal heightening with each new image.

The monotone ones appeared to be of the same man and woman, both with dark hair. He was only fully visible in one, although I assumed it was his hand showing in the others. She appeared to be naked for the most part in the ones that showed her body.

The first photo showed just the woman's backside. Part of her legs could be seen up to her mid-back. She was wearing a black thong, and her hands were tied behind her with a black strip of fabric. The man was kneeling in front of her, his face hidden as it pressed to her belly while he tugged on the ends of the strip binding her hands.

In the second, it was just her face, eyes closed as she faced left. She had her mouth open wide, the tip of her tongue extended as a masculine hand held an ice cube slightly above her. As if she were seductively licking the cube or catching the drips.

Then there was the one with her kneeling next to the man who was fully clothed as he sat in a chair. He looked striking with his clean-cut face, neatly trimmed hair, and his contrasting white shirt and dark suit and tie. But the expression on his face was one of indifference. The woman had her head on his knee, and his hand rested on her hair, as if stroking it.

But I knew better. He was petting her. And not just because there was a black, leather collar around her neck and he held the end of a silver chain in his other hand. I knew because Drake and I had portrayed that same image more times than I could count. That photo made me quickly move on to the next.

The final black-and-white was just of the woman's face again. This time, she had the simple, black strip tied around her eyes. Her head was tilted back as in the second photo, also with her mouth wide open, but she was facing the opposite way. The masculine hand held her chin with the thumb resting on her lower lip and tongue. Simple, yet it said so much.

In between these frames were four photos of naked, individual women, all of different skin tone and hair color. They were bound with equally colorful ropes tied in intricate knots and designs, as if they were wearing the ropes as clothing. And each woman was in a different position: standing, sitting, kneeling, hanging from an unseen device above the camera's view.

As erotic as the black-and-white photos were, the ones with rope-work were more arousing for me. They were—in a word—beautiful. They were more artistic than pictures of naked people, which seemed a bit like porn. Someone had put time and effort into not only the colors of the rope used, but the designs the color would make when completed.

"I can't read your silence, Daphne. If you're in shock or awe."

I smirked and turned to face him. "So this is what you meant by art that isn't accepted in the Louvre."

"They're not my best."

I hoped my soft moan wasn't audible. "You took all of these?"

"It's my...hobby."

I suddenly thought of Malcolm and his love of rope bondage. Of Darryl who had briefly mentioned he liked photography, and if this was what he had meant. It would be interesting to see the results if these three men collaborated.

"So do you like them?"

"Yes." I barely stopped myself from adding, 'Sir.' I gulped. It was a good thing I was leaving tomorrow. This man had quickly become a bigger temptation than I'd imagined. "So you don't model but you take photos of models?"

"Oh, I'm in some of my photos as well. I just save those for...well, private viewing. This is just a fraction of my collection. And these aren't the kind of models you'd see on the runway."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," I whispered. I closed my eyes as I felt the heat of him grow closer.

He brushed my hair aside so it fell over my left shoulder. Very lightly, he pressed his lips to the back of neck along the curve on my right side. His voice was a low whisper as he continued, although it seemed loud in my ear. "Would I be surprised to learn why you stopped Edward from smacking you that day of Pauline's show?"

I turned abruptly to face him, and he took a step back. I clenched my hands at my sides, not because I was mad but because it was the only way I knew how to control myself at the moment. To not throw myself at his feet.

"Since you insist on knowing, Edward doesn't have the first clue about women or how to treat them. And I only let my partner spank my ass. For the record, I'm a submissive with masochistic tendencies, although I'm trying to quit. I've enjoyed seeing your collection. Thank you for a lovely evening."

I was so thankful the door handle wasn't hidden on this side of the wall as I stumbled back, searching for an escape. The wall swung out easily. I expected him to follow me. To stop me. I didn't look back, but I couldn't hear anything except my own footfalls as I hurried through his den and out into the hallway.

The party was wrapping up as I rejoined the American and French teams in the ballroom. Stefan did not appear as we travelled en masse to the front of the house to say our goodbyes. There were lots of hugs and tears. Promises to stay in touch. Then we were in the limos, riding back to our flat.

I spent the rest of the evening packing. Trying not to think of Stefan. Of how much I'd miss my little garden view. The city. The hustle and bustle to get to photo shoots. I focused instead on seeing Malcolm and Becca. Being a future aunt. Walking on the beach, my toes digging into the sand as the cold water rushed over my feet and legs. On watching the stars from the observation room. Just being home.

###

The sky was overcast when I woke. I took my time rolling out of bed. Taking a shower. Getting dressed for the last time in Paris.

I did one final inspection to make sure I'd not missed anything as I passed the time before my taxi would arrive. We'd all agreed not to make a big to-do about our departures. That's what last night had been for. Bridget and two of the American girls would be traveling back to the states together while the other two had later, separate flights. Mine was the only one in the morning. I'd been too anxious to sit around all day pining away for Delaware.

Bridget was still sleeping as I took my things out into the common hallway near the main door. I had just put my key on the small table in the kitchen when there was knock at the flat's door. I checked my watch. I still had three hours until my flight, but I guessed it didn't hurt to get to the airport early. Besides, I was ready to leave.

I grabbed my purse and jacket and opened the door, expecting to find the taxi driver waiting. I stumbled back when I saw Stefan standing there instead.

"Bonjour, Daphne." He gave me bises. "I'm sorry. I startled you. Forgive me, mademoiselle."

"Bonjour, Stefan." I returned the greeting and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind me for the last time. I draped my jacket over my two bags. I'd had to buy a second one to fit all the new clothes I'd bought and been gifted. "You're forgiven."

He stood with his hands clasped in front of him. Very formal like. "What is this?"

"Suitcases. You know, the things you put your clothes and toiletries in when you're traveling?"

"Yes, I know what they are used for. But why are they out here?"

Shit. I'd hoped to have avoided this conversation. To already be in the air before he'd realized I was gone. I sighed. "My taxi will be here shortly."

"I don't understand. I knew the other girls were going back to America, but I thought you were accepting Pauline's offer. Or was it Rene's? Either way, my mother wanted to extend the invitation to stay in the flat if you didn't have other arrangements. Muriel told her how much you liked it here."

"Thank you, it's a very generous offer, but I can't accept it."

He smirked at me. "You have a better offer? Another man has made you swoon?"

"No, I need to see my family. I have to go home."

Stefan's face fell as he ran a hand through his hair. "Don't you see, Daphne? Your home is here now."

Damn, could the guy not look so desirable, even upset? "I'm sorry. I really am."

The taxi driver opened the front door right then, and I pointed to my suitcases. He nodded and disappeared outside again. When I followed, Stefan was right behind me.

Suddenly, he spun me around and hugged me. As I pulled away, unsure of what I was truly feeling, he caught my face in his hands. His eyes were glossy as they searched mine.

He kissed me then. Hard. Passionately. It left my legs shaky. He pulled back only far enough to separate our lips. "Please stay."

"My sister-in-law is expecting. She needs me."

"I need you."

"I can't." I kissed his cheeks and left him standing on the stoop.

I didn't look back as the car pulled away from the building. My heart said to tell the driver to turn around. That I was making a mistake. But I resisted and listened to my head. Stefan was just a man. I'd get over him.

###

There had been a lot of hugs when Malcolm and Becca picked me up at the airport in Philadelphia. Even more tears. God, I'd missed them. Skype just couldn't compete with physical contact.

I had been gone six months, but everything seemed the same as soon as I walked back into their mansion on the beach. Well, except for the fact that Becca was pregnant. And the master suite was under construction to partition a section off to be the nursery, so Becca was using the guestroom I'd previously slept in. I'd been relegated to the second guestroom—the one where Drake had stayed on his visits. But other than that...

I'd told Muriel I appreciated her offer to move back to Chicago, but I would rather stay and work on the east coast if possible. She was looking into getting me set up with an agent out here. In the meantime, Malcolm and Becca had insisted I stay with them. I wasn't going to argue.

We got into our old routine, except now I was the one being overprotective...of Becca. She'd finished her book, so she had a lot of free time on her hands while Sue, her agent/editor, did the final proofreading. We talked about all things baby as we sunbathed on the sand, or walked along the beach, or just sat around the house enjoying the early summer.

I had been back a month when Malcolm approached me one evening after dinner. Becca had gone to lie down. I'd taken a glass of wine out to the expansive porch and curled up in a chair, watching the waves roll in and out under the darkening sky.

He took a seat in the chair next to me and stared out at the ocean for a few minutes. His deep voice startled me when he finally spoke. "Tell me about Paris."

It was the first time we'd had alone since I'd returned. As I shared my adventures and he added his own quips, I realized how much I'd missed these chats with him. Once my story was told, we sat in silence.

"Do you miss it, Daphne?"

My mind had wandered to a place I didn't want it to go—to a topic I had intentionally left out—so I was grateful for his distraction. But I blinked at him, unsure what he was talking about. "Hmm?"

His eyes turned to me, bright despite the lack of light. "Paris. Do you miss it?"

"Yes. But this is where I'm needed right now."

He frowned. "You came back because you thought we needed you?"

It was my turn to frown. "You don't?"

"It's not that, Daphne. I—we, Becca and I—want you to do what you feel led to do. Not out of some sense of obligation. To repay us or show your gratitude. We're very glad to have you back. We've missed you tons. But you need to feel free to go and do whatever you want, whenever you want. We appreciate your help around the house, especially in Becca's condition. Our invitation from last year stands: you're always welcome to stay as long as you want...as long as you need. You're still our family. But we never want you to feel you have to stay."

I just nodded. He had always been such a good friend. Now my brother-in-law. I had wondered if that would change now that Drake was gone. I guess he didn't think it did.

"I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, Malcolm. You know it."

By the way he took a deep inhale and let it out slowly, I knew it was something he'd not only put a lot of consideration into, but it was also important to him. "I want to take Becca back to Chicago. A mini vacation now that summer is here. Before she's unable to fly. We still have her condo there. And Sue has been begging to see her."

"That sounds wonderful. I'm sure she'll love it."

He cleared his throat. "There's just one thing."

"Malcolm, just spit it out."

"It's just going to be the two of us. I didn't want you to get upset that we're not inviting you."

I processed his words for a moment. It hadn't even occurred to me that I would go with them. But now that he had mentioned it, I was a bit disappointed. Still, I smiled and took the hand he had rested on the arm of the Adirondack chair. "I'm fine. Really. I'd be happy to take care of the house while you're gone."

He let out his breath and squeezed my hand. "Thank you, Daphne.

"Don't mention it." I turned back to the ocean view, telling myself I was going to have some me-time.

"Please don't say anything to Becca. I want it to be a surprise. It's the anniversary of when we first met."

"When do you leave?"

"In a hurry to get rid of us?''

I laughed. "No. Just curious how long I have to keep my mouth shut."

"Uh huh. We'll leave Saturday morning."

"Are you just winging it, or do you have a set time to come back?"

"Just a week probably. We'll see how she's feeling. So far, she hasn't had any morning sickness. Plus, I know she'll worry about you."

"Tell her not to. I took care of myself in Paris. I can handle a week alone at the beach."

"I will. No promises, though. You know her."

I nodded. We'd returned to our mutual silence for several minutes when I thought of something. "I have a favor of my own."

"Whatever you want."

"Can you stock up the fridge before you leave?"

Malcolm's deep rumble of a laugh made me grin. "Should we leave the car, too?"

"No, I should be fine lounging on the beach while you're fighting traffic in the big city."

"Rub it in, sweetheart. Rub it in."

###

Malcolm and Becca had been gone a day before I got up the guts to check out the nursery. They'd chosen not to find out the gender of the baby, and therefore had decided to decorate in a neutral color. The room had been framed and dry-walled for a couple of weeks, but they'd painted it just a couple of days earlier. It was a soft, buttery yellow with white crown molding and a chair rail. Matching white plantation shutters covered the window that had been installed to look out over the Atlantic.

A folding chair half draped in a tarp sat in one corner of the room. I took a seat as tears filled my eyes. While there was no furniture or any other indications that this was a baby's room, the knowledge that its intention would be that had kept me away. I'd imagined having a room just like this...somewhere. With Drake of all people. That dream had not come true. But it was for the best.

I forced myself to get up—to not linger in my misery any longer—and exited the room. It occurred to me that I'd not seen much of the master suite in all the months I'd lived here. It was Malcolm and Becca's sanctuary, of course. I'd always considered it private. And she had always cleaned the room herself. But I didn't think they'd mind me being up here now. At least for a few minutes.

I stared up at a green and gray section of fabric on the ceiling above the bed. Directly across from the foot and a low bench was a wide window overlooking the ocean. I contemplated why one would put fabric on just one section of the ceiling. I found a set of switches on the wall and tried to turn the lights on. I heard a soft, whirring motion instead, and looked up to follow the sound of the noise.

Then I laughed. That fabric section hid a skylight. What ingenuity. Their own private observation room. I bet it was very romantic while having sex.

I closed the panel and looked around the room, noticing three doors down a short hall. The first two opened into a bathroom and a walk-in closet. I was contemplating what the third could be—if it was a room that could have been used as a nursery—when I turned the knob and met complete blackness. There wasn't even a crack of light on any of the walls suggesting a window.

My hand fumbled along the wall directly inside the door until I found a switch. There was a snapping sound as I flicked it upwards. Soft, yellow light in sconces on the black walls lit up a dungeon that rivaled the private rooms at the erotic club back in Chicago.