I’m pacing again, my steps soundless on the plush carpet in my office. Is she safe? Is she scared? Is she replaying the memory of what happened to her over and over in her mind? I want to know. I need to see her.
I swipe through security footage again. My heartbeat spikes when I see a lush sweep of brown hair by the hallway that leads to the workout room, but when the woman turns, it isn’t her. I curse under my breath, moving from frame to frame more and more quickly. Where is she? Where did she go? I gave her the goddamn night and the following week off, but I already know—that won’t be enough. The thought of any other man touching her…
I freeze when I catch her on camera leaving. She took a left and went north, ten minutes ago. Where did she go? I want eyes on her, for fuck’s sake, preferably mine.
I stand to leave and call Louis again. “You still with my brother?”
“No, he left a minute ago. What do you need?”
“Nicolette left and went north of here. Where could she have gone?”
He pauses for a moment. “I’m not sure. There aren’t many things open this late at night, are there?”
“No, not nearby.”
“Give me a second.” He’s silent, likely looking up things on his phone. “Looks like the only places open are a bar and a bookstore.”
“Names. Text me.”
I’d bet my eye teeth she wouldn’t go to a bar after what happened today, and from what I know about her already, I can easily predict the bookstore is where she’ll end up.
I disconnect the call. Walk to the bathroom adjacent to my office and change into something more casual. Grab my wallet and phone and leave.
She needs to think this was an accident, a coincidence. I can’t let her think I’m stalking her. And yet…
I call Louis one more time. “Boss?”
“Have two dozen pink roses sent to Nicolette’s room with a card. I’ll text you the sentiment.”
“Yessir.”
I take out my phone and think about it before I press “send.”
A little something to brighten up your room with an apology for what happened earlier. ~Fabien
Something innocuous and simple. Something that won’t make her suspect that I’m about to make her mine.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nicolette
I try to move on. I try to pretend I’m not fighting flashbacks of being nearly raped only a few hours ago.
My face pushed down on the bed, my lungs constricted, unable to breathe…
I shake my head and toss my chin up, my hair falling heavily against my back. I lift my face and focus on the fading sunlight, the happy voices of people on the street, the fact that I’m okay and not hurt.
The vicious tug of my hair, the way that man yanked me to him…
I shudder.
But when I try to change my thought pattern, I find myself instead thinking of… Monsieur. What the girls said about him.
You’ve just become his latest obsession.
Now that he’s seen her, she couldn’t hide if she tried. He’ll find her.
I move briskly down the street, remembering how my mother always told me that getting my body moving would help my mental health.
It’s a warm spring evening in Sartène. This is absolutely one of my favorite times of year. Full of tourists on spring break or looking for warmer climates. Street vendors showcasing their wares and food carts tempting me with the tantalizing scents of crepes, quiche, and bastilles—savory cakes stuffed with onion, spinach, and goat cheese. Far more affordable than restaurant fare, I occasionally allow myself to indulge. Tonight, though, I have no appetite.
I want quiet and a distraction, but few places are open this time of night. It seems both moments and days ago that the assault took place. It’s hard to believe it’s already late evening. I’m not sure where the time went today. I have some vague notion that I’ve been wandering aimlessly. The thoughts I fight start to war with each other.
The feel of his breath on my neck, in sharp contrast to the chill of terror…
The warm feel of Monsieur’s thumb across my skin
My throat tightens as if I’m going to cry, but I’m not a crier, and I’m not going to start now. To be successful in a job like mine, you have to learn to stifle your emotions, or you’ll never survive.
I won’t lose sight of why I’m here.
I can’t.
“There are rumors,” a woman says in French, her voice teasing. Most people here speak French, though with so many tourists, it’s not unusual to hear other languages as well.
I glance over to see her arm entwined in a man’s, his hand resting comfortably on her elbow. Good. I’ll eavesdrop on a happy couple and get lost in the lilting cadence of French.
“About what?”
“That this city used to house pirates,” she says. “They were notorious, actually, since Corsica is easily accessed by seaports.”