[English] The Virgin

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“Thank you,” Elle said. “I’ll work.”

“You will.” Mother Prioress took a step forward and looked down into her face. “You’ll work and you’ll behave. The sisters here have made great sacrifices to be part of this community. They are here to love and serve God, worship Him and pray for His people. This is good and holy work and they are not to be disturbed, bothered, interrupted or interfered with in any way.”

“I understand,” Elle said.

“You had a lover in the outside world. You will keep that information to yourself. We have all taken vows of chastity. Consider yourself under one, as well. You say you aren’t safe outside our walls. Then you will remain inside our walls as long as you are a resident here. You will bring no one else inside our walls.”

“No one.”

“Keep you head down. Stay out of trouble. Work hard. If you harm any of the women here, you will be expelled. Immediately.”

Elle nodded her understanding.

“I don’t...” she began, and paused. Something had lodged in her throat. She swallowed it down. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. Ever.”

“Yes.” Mother Prioress gave her the first smile she’d seen on the woman’s face yet. “Yes, I believe that.” She turned to Elle’s mother. “Take her to the infirmary. I’ll send someone to prepare a room for her.”

“Thank you, Mother Prioress,” Elle’s mother said. Tears of gratitude were shining in her eyes. “Thank you.”

Elle took her mother’s hand and together they started from the room.

“Eleanor?” the Prioress said.

“Elle.”

The Prioress gave her a tight smile. “Elle.”

“Yes?”

“You will do as you are told here. I certainly hope you’re capable of following orders.”

Elle smiled. “Trust me. If I know how to do anything, it’s follow orders.”

Her mother tugged her hand and led her from the room.

“I don’t need the infirmary, Mom,” Elle said.

“You have to call me Sister John or Sister in front of others. And yes, you need the infirmary.”

“It’s bruises and welts. They’ll be gone in a few more days.”

“You look like you were mugged.”

“Nobody gets flogged during a mugging, Mom. And if they did, I’d walk around bad neighborhoods more often.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“It wasn’t even him who did it.” Him. Søren. Although her mother didn’t know that name. She knew him as Father Marcus Stearns. But Elle couldn’t call him Marcus Stearns in case one of the other sisters had heard of him. So “him” it was.

“Do I want to know who did that to you?”

“My friend Kingsley.”

“You have an interesting definition of friend.”

“Maybe a better definition,” Elle said. “It was consensual. You know I like this stuff.”

“And you know I hate that you like it. And I hate him for making you like it.”

“He didn’t make me like it, Mom. And he didn’t rape me. And he didn’t seduce me.”

“You were fifteen when you met him. He groomed you.”

“I was also fifteen when I first tried to get him in bed. I came pre-groomed.” She couldn’t believe they were having this fight again. “If you really thought he was a danger to children, you would have called the bishop. But you know as well as I do that he isn’t.”

“The church has enough scandals. I wasn’t about to create a new one.”

“Two consenting adults shouldn’t be a scandal.”

“Ellie, that man is—”

“Mom, you can hate him if you want to hate him. But at least hate him for the right reasons.”

“Hate him for the right reasons?” Her mother stood up and came over to her. “I thought I was. But you tell me then. What are the right reasons to hate the priest who seduced and beat my daughter?”

“Hate him because I hate him.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Elle asked, meeting her mother’s eyes.

“Because you might stop hating him. And then I would have to stop, too.”

Elle looked away from her mother’s beseeching eyes.

“What did he do to you, baby?” her mother whispered. “What did he do to make you come to me after all this time?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Elle said as they neared a bright white room, no doubt the infirmary or whatever passed for it in this aging edifice.

“You should talk to someone. A professional who can help you.”

“I don’t need counseling. I’m as sane as you are.” If not saner. After all, she wasn’t the one walking around in a wedding dress telling the world Jesus was her husband.

“You could talk to someone here. Sister Margaret is a trained psychologist. And once a week, Father Antonio—”

Elle turned her head and stared at her mother. “You think I’m going to talk to a priest about this?”

“Well...” her mother began. “Perhaps Sister Margaret then.”

If she’d had the energy for it, Elle would have laughed. But she didn’t so she didn’t and in silence they walked into the infirmary.

Her mother left her sitting in a chair while she went to fetch another one of the sisters. Twenty minutes later, a nun who looked about her mother’s age—no more than fifty definitely—entered the infirmary and gave Elle a once-over. Her mother introduced the woman as Sister Aquinas. She wore a white apron over her black habit and her sleeves were pinned up to expose her forearms. Sister Aquinas pointed to a bed behind a white curtain and told Elle to wait there.

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“I’ll go check on your room and make sure you have everything you need,” her mother said, taking Elle’s duffel bag from her. “I’ll be back. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands with Sister Aquinas.”

“Okay,” Elle said, too relieved to have a place to stay for the time being to worry about anything much at the moment. “I’ll see you soon.”

Her mother kissed her on the forehead.

“Thank you.” The two words came out of Elle’s mouth entirely of their own volition.

“You’re thanking me?” Her mother sounded utterly baffled.

“Well, you got them to let me stay here. I know we haven’t gotten along the past few years...ten years.”

“Twenty-six years,” her mother said, but she said it kindly.

She paused to laugh. “Okay, twenty-six years. But yeah, I appreciate it, Mom. Sister John, I mean. Sorry.”

Her mother cupped her face and looked her in the eyes.

“Every morning for the past three years I’ve woken up and prayed the same prayer. Do you want to know what that prayer is?”

“What?” Elle asked, even though she was certain she didn’t want to know.

“Dear God, please don’t let today be the day he finally kills her.”

Once more her mother kissed her on the forehead and then hurried away before Elle could say another word.

Something turned in Elle’s heart, turned like a knob on a telescope. For the first time, Elle looked through the eyepiece of her mother’s heart, and now, this moment, the light had come into focus and Elle saw what her mother saw—a daughter she didn’t understand in love with a powerful, dangerous man twice her size who couldn’t make love to her without hurting her first. And every day she feared he would go too far and kill her only child. Every time her mother looked at Elle, that’s what she saw. For one second, Elle saw it, too.

“Behind the curtain,” Sister Aquinas said. “I’ll be right there.”

Dazed by her vision, Elle did as told, walking behind the curtain and sitting numbly on the hospital cot.

Sister Aquinas came around with a towel in her hand. She tossed it on the side table and put her hands on either side of Elle’s neck.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Oh...I’m fine,” Elle said.

“Are you sure about that? Your eyes are bloodshot. Are you on drugs?”

“Nothing illegal. I had some nausea.”

“Have you been vomiting?”

“A few times.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“Not since Monday night.”

Sister Aquinas blinked at her. But it was only one blink, one pause.

“Miscarriage?”

“No.”

“I see.” Sister Aquinas took a long breath. “Surgical or medical?”

“Medical.”

“Miferprex?” Sister Aquinas asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“First pills on Monday. Second pill on Wednesday.”

“Today’s Friday,” Sister Aquinas said. “So five days then.” She was speaking to herself. “Have you been to a doctor since Wednesday?”

“No.”

“How severe was the bleeding?”

“Heavy. Very heavy.”

“It’s lighter now?”

“Much.”

“Did you take anything else?” Sister Aquinas pulled out a scope and looked in Elle’s ears.

“Nothing else.”

“They should have given you Tylenol and Compazine.”

“I had a prescription for them,” Elle said. “But I was too sick to go get them filled.”

“You didn’t have anyone to help you? The father?”

“No.”

Sister Aquinas sighed heavily. “It’s times like this I remember why I became a nun.”

Elle laughed. “Because you hate men?”

“No. I never wanted to go through anything alone again.”

“Thank you for being nice about this,” Elle said.

“I’m a doctor. Just because I don’t agree with a certain medical procedure, it doesn’t mean I didn’t learn about it in medical school.”

“You’re a doctor? I thought you were a nun.”

“I’m both. I have some painkillers here. I can give you something for your nausea if you still need it.”

“I think I’m done puking.”

“You’ll probably bleed for a few weeks. That’s normal. But I want you to come back here in a week. We can do a sonogram.”

Elle stared at her wide-eyed.

“You can do that here? You get a lot of knocked-up nuns in here?”

Sister Aquinas smiled. “Kidney stones. I see a lot of those.”

“I see.” Elle rolled back onto the cot while Sister Aquinas prodded her stomach. “I’m going to be okay, aren’t I?”

“Okay? Physically, yes. You’ll be fine. Emotionally and spiritually? That’s between you and God. But if any place can help you get right with God, it’s here.”

“I don’t regret it,” Elle said, and she meant every word.

“Pride is a sin, young lady.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“God sees the heart,” was all Sister Aquinas said to that.

Sister Aquinas continued her perfunctory examination. She made no further comment about Elle’s choice or her spiritual state. But when Elle took her shirt off, Sister Aquinas froze. It was only for an instant, and unlike Mother Prioress, no Catholic oaths were released.

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“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Elle said. “Only welts and bruises.”

“Did the man who got you pregnant do this to you?”

“Yes,” Elle said. It wasn’t a lie. Søren had been in Rome ten weeks, and Kingsley had been her only lover in that time. No doubt who the father was.

Sister Aquinas placed her hand gently on the top of Elle’s head. It felt like a blessing although what she’d done to deserve a blessing, Elle didn’t know.

“God sees the heart,” Sister Aquinas said again. This time it didn’t sound like a platitude. This time it sounded like an apology.

Sister Aquinas applied some sort of cream to her bruised back and gave her a week’s supply of a mild painkiller. Elle accepted the pills with gratitude. It would be nice to be out of pain again. Even better than drugs, Sister Aquinas brought her a tray of food. Last night’s leftovers warmed up, but Elle ate every single bite of it.

“Feeling better?” Sister Aquinas asked when she came for the tray.

“Much better. Almost human.”

“Good. We like humans around here,” she said with a smile. “Sister Mary John will be back soon. Lie down and get some rest.”

Rest sounded heavenly. And rest was heavenly. The pillow under her head felt like a cloud. The plain white cotton sheets might as well have been silk. She was safe, safe at last. And now, now she could finally sleep.

Elle closed her eyes.

Then she heard a noise.

She sat straight up in the cot, her heart hammering against her chest.

Seemingly of its own volition, her body forced her onto her feet, her feet forced her forward. Her steps brought her to the window in the infirmary. It was well after 2:00 a.m. and all was dark for miles around. Elle could see the moon and the stars and the slight reflection of them both on the rolling hills, the fields and forests that surrounded the abbey. She saw nothing else. But she didn’t have to see it. She heard it.

“What is that?” Sister Aquinas asked, coming to stand next to her. “Is that a car out there?”

“No,” Elle said, her voice hollow and scared. “It’s a motorcycle.”

“How can you tell?”

“I know cars,” she said. “And I know motorcycles. That’s a 1992 907 I.E. Ducati. Black.”

Sister Aquinas laughed. “You know the color?”

“That’s the only year they came in black.”

The nun narrowed her eyes and peered out onto the black night.

“Someone you know?” she asked, looking at Elle with a curious light in her eyes.

Elle took a step back away from the window.

Then another step.

Then another. She shook her head.

“No.”

8

2015

Scotland

“I DIDN’T KNOW,” Kingsley said, and Nora turned to look at him.

“What didn’t you know?” she asked.

“I didn’t know it was that hard for you.” Kingsley’s back rested against a bedpost at the foot of the bed and his eyes searched her face. “I didn’t know about the pain.”

“It was fine after a couple days. Bad cramps, that’s all. Women are used to that.” She shrugged it off. The past was past. She still remembered the pain, but there was no reason for Kingsley to know how well she remembered it.

“We should have been more careful, you and I,” Kingsley said.

“We were fluid-bonded. It’s what we do. That’s the risk we take,” Nora said. “I don’t blame you. Or myself. Not anymore. Accidents happen, right?”

“I’m sorry you went through that alone,” Kingsley said. “I should have said that a long time ago.”

She smiled at him, grateful for the words. “You wanted kids and I knew it. It would have been too sadistic, even for me, to make you hold my hand during the whole process.”

“I thought...” Kingsley began and stopped.

“Go on,” Søren said. “We’re talking about it finally. Talk.”

“I thought I’d lost my only chance to be a father¸” Kingsley admitted. “I convinced myself of that, which is why I wasn’t there for you the way I should have been.”

“You did the best you could.” Nora stretched out her leg and touched her bare toes to Kingsley’s. “We both did.”

“I didn’t,” Søren said.

“You were in Rome.” She turned to look at him. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Somewhere along the way I did something wrong. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been scared to tell me,” Søren said.

“I wasn’t scared to tell you,” Nora said, not entirely truthfully. “I didn’t want to drag you into this. And I didn’t need to talk to anyone about it. As soon as I knew, I knew what I wanted to do. No reason to talk to you about it.”

“Except you belonged to me, and you were going through a difficult time,” he said. “I would have liked to have been there.”

“And I would have liked my privacy,” she said.

Søren took her hand and kissed the back of it. His way of saying “You win this round.”

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Nora asked. “The motorcycle I heard?”

“It was.” He gave her a penetrating stare as if trying to see the woman she’d once been and reconciling her with the woman in front of him.

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“Why did you come to me there?” she asked.

“I had to,” he said simply. “If there was any chance, any chance at all I could speak to you or even see you, I had to take it.”

“How did you know where I went?” she asked. “I was gone one day and by the next night, you’d found me.”

“I knew where you would go because you did what I would have done in your place,” Søren said. “If I were scared and in pain and on the run.”

“You would have gone to a convent?” she asked, smiling at the idea.

Søren smiled. “No. To my mother.”

“I would have loved to have gone to your mom’s house,” Nora said as she glanced at Kingsley who watched them both with quiet intensity. It had been her first instinct to leave the country and hide out at Gisela’s house in Denmark. She’d rejected it out of hand.

“She would have taken you in,” Søren said. “You know how much she loved you. It didn’t matter I was a priest. She considered us married.”

“I know. And I know she would have taken good care of me,” Nora said, recalling in an instant a thousand memories of Søren’s mother. Her Æbleskiver pancakes she’d made in winter. Listening to her and Søren playing piano together. The long talks she and Nora had while Søren was outside playing with his nieces. Nora sensed Gisela wanted Søren to leave the priesthood, get married and have children, but she never said a word about it. His mother respected their life together, their choices, even with all the risks they took. And Nora always loved her for not trying to change either of them.

“You might have been happier with my mother than you were with yours,” Søren said, knowing how fraught her relationship with her own mother had been. Fraught until the day Nora’s mother died over two years ago.

“Probably. But I loved your mom too much to make her pick sides between her only son and me. That wouldn’t have been fair to her,” Nora said.

“Considering how I behaved that night, it’s safe to say she would have sided with you,” Søren said. Nora wondered how her life could have changed if she’d chosen to run to Søren’s mother instead of her own. That year at her mother’s convent had changed everything, and if she’d gone to Gisela’s she probably would have returned to Søren as his submissive in a week. “He sided with you against me.” Søren nodded toward Kingsley.

“You can’t blame me,” Kingsley said without any hint of contrition. “You ****ed up, and I wanted to rip your heart out with my bare hands. It feels good to say that out loud.”

Nora laughed, and shockingly so did Søren.

“I wasn’t very happy with you, either,” Søren said. “You left without a word. Didn’t tell anyone where you went, not even Calliope.”

“That was the point,” Kingsley said, rolling onto his back. “How could anyone tell you where I went if I didn’t even know where I was going? I got to the airport and bought a ticket for the next international flight out.”

“Where did you go?” Nora asked.

“Greece,” Kingsley said. “Then Japan. I spent a month in Hong Kong, a month in New Zealand. New Zealand gave me island fever. I went to the Philippines next, and after that, the French Caribbean.”

“Meanwhile I’m in upstate New York in a convent. Next time I split town, I’m going to your travel agency, King,” she said.

“No more leaving,” Søren said. Nora crawled across the bed and kissed him.

“Never again, I promise,” she said, meaning every word. They kissed again, Søren’s hand resting lightly on the side of her neck, pressing into her collar so she could feel it against her throat. She hadn’t wanted to talk about that year ever, but now that they’d opened Pandora’s box, she felt better, as if the last and final wall between the three of them was tumbling down at last. They should have talked this out years ago. She and Kingsley hadn’t ever talked about the pregnancy they’d ended, but Søren was right as he usually was. Ignorance wasn’t bliss. Ignorance was cowardice.

“Stop kissing him,” Kingsley said. “Get to the nun-****ing already.”

Nora turned her head and glared at Kingsley.

“I’ll tell you about my first night with Juliette if you tell me about your nun. It’s a good story,” Kingsley said. “Deal?”

“Fair trade,” Nora said, and held out her hand. Kingsley shook it. “But my nun didn’t show up for about eight months. Let’s see, I got there in June. It was almost spring when I saw her the first time.”

“That’s when I met Juliette, too. February in Haiti on the beach. I don’t remember the day of the week, but I know it was Valentine’s Day. Someone told me that.” He laughed at something and didn’t tell them what.

“You start,” Nora said as she slid over Søren and got out of bed. “I’m opening the wine.”

“We’re saving that for the reception,” Kingsley reminded her.

“If this storm doesn’t stop, we’ll all drown by morning and all that wine will have gone to waste.”

“You make a good point, Elle,” Kingsley said. “I’ll have a big glass. I’ll get in trouble with Jules for hiding from her. I might as well get in trouble with her for drinking, as well.”

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“Why would she be mad at you for drinking?” Nora asked.

Kingsley grinned broadly. “Because she can’t have alcohol again for seven more months.”

Nora almost dropped the wine bottle.

“Juliette’s pregnant?” Nora asked.

Kingsley raised his finger to his lips. “Only you two know now.”

Nora ran to Kingsley and embraced him. “You slut,” she said, planting a kiss on both cheeks.

“She wanted two,” Kingsley said. “And le prêtre doesn’t look a bit surprised.”

“I’m trying to look surprised,” Søren said with a sly smile.

“You knew?” Nora asked.

“Juliette and I were working on something together recently. She got light-headed and almost fainted. She told me why she wasn’t feeling well in exchange for me not calling an ambulance for her.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Nora asked, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pointing at his nose. “You jerk.”

“I’m a priest. Keeping secrets is my job,” he reminded her, taking her hands off his shirt and kissing them. He looked from her to Kingsley. “I’m very happy for you. And relieved you finally said something so I could tell you that.”

“Are you happy?” Nora asked Kingsley, already knowing the answer.

“Is the pope Catholic?” Kingsley asked.

“Pope Francis is a Jesuit,” Søren said.

“And Catholic,” Kingsley said.

“Being a Jesuit takes precedence,” Søren said.

Nora sighed. “Typical. So typical.”

Søren got out of bed and stood in front of Kingsley. He grasped the back of Kingsley’s neck, bent down and kissed him. Nora went back for the wine and let them have their moment of privacy. She opened the Syrah and poured three steep glasses. She brought one to Kingsley, one to Søren and kept one for herself.

“When are you telling Nico he’s going to be a brother again?” Nora asked as she slid back onto the bed, careful not to spill any wine on the sheets. They’d already pushed their luck with fire-play and very wet ***. If she got her deposit back on this room, it would be a miracle.

“Soon,” Kingsley said. “Now that you both know, I’ll call him tomorrow. You think he’ll be happy?”

“Thrilled and relieved,” Nora said. “The more kids you have, the less pressure he feels to have them. He’s already made Céleste the legal heir to his vineyard. But don’t tell her that. She’s only three, but I can see her attempting a coup.”

“I’m relieved I won’t have to worry about being a grandfather anytime soon,” Kingsley said with a wink at her. He pushed a pillow behind his back, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He had the legs of a professional soccer player, which the kilt displayed to marvelous affect. No wonder Juliette with her fetish and her pregnancy hormones had been all over him the past two days.

“No chance of that from me,” Nora said. “Cheers to the good Doctor Hélène Faber.” She and Kingsley clinked glasses, which was likely the first time in history two people had ever toasted to a woman’s sterilization procedure before. Then again, no two people in history had Kingsley and Nora’s history. With everything they’d put each other through, they’d had two choices—hate each other or love each other. They were so much alike, hating each other would have been like hating themselves. And both of them were rather too self-important for that sort of nonsense.

So they picked love.

“I have you to thank for my children,” Kingsley said, pointing his wineglass at her. “All two and one-third of them.”

“And why is that?”

“I would never have known about Nico if it wasn’t for you. I would never have met Juliette if you hadn’t left him.” He pointed at Søren.

“Then shouldn’t I get some cre*** here?” Søren asked.

“Oui, you get all the cre*** for being such an enormous asshole neither of us wanted to see you for a full year.”

“Thank you,” Søren said, saluting with his wineglass. “Cre*** where cre*** is due.”

“Did you know Juliette would be the mother of your children when you met her?” Nora asked.

“The opposite,” Kingsley said. “I thought she’d be a terrible mother when I saw her. In my defense, she was assaulting children. In her defense, they deserved it.”

“No wonder Juliette wouldn’t tell me about when you all met,” Nora said, pulling the sheets up around her again. She pressed close to Søren, relishing his warmth and his nearness.

“Juliette,” Kingsley began, and his voice changed subtly as he spoke. He sounded far away and Nora wondered what he was remembering and why it hurt so much. “She was in a difficult position back then. Trapped, you could say.”

“So what did you do?” Nora asked, as eager to hear Kingsley’s story of that year as they were to hear hers.

“I did what I always do when I meet a beautiful woman,” Kingsley said with a shrug. “I ****ed her.”

9

2004

Haiti

KINGSLEY WOKE UP that morning and decided to **** the first girl who’d let him. Luckily there was a girl conveniently located in his bed. Who she was he didn’t quite remember, but it didn’t really matter. She was there by his invitation and her choice. Names, dates, places—the rest was irrelevant.

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Last night—that’s when he’d met her. He’d gone to a bar last night, drunk a few gallons of rum...or something. He’d met a waitress who spoke no tra***ional French and a little English. He spoke English and enough Creole to have her sitting on his lap by the third drink and home with him after the sixth. Home wasn’t anything more than a shack on the beach furnished with a bed and a well-stocked bar, but that hadn’t deterred her from spending the night with him and on him. Gorgeous girl. Coffee-colored skin and eyes, short curly hair that formed a halo around her face, lips like candy he clearly remembered biting.

And any minute now he’d remember her name. He rolled onto his side, spooned against her back and kissed the tip of her shoulder. Her name—it started with an S. He wanted to say Sabrina but that wasn’t quite it. She stretched out in her sleep and pushed back against him. **** it. He didn’t even remember his own name this morning.

She rolled onto her stomach as Kingsley ran his hand down her back. She had the soft smooth skin of a woman who spent her days naked on the sand.

“Bon maten,” she murmured as he nibbled the back of her neck that smelled lightly of citrus. Without taking his mouth off her body, he reached over the bed, pulled out a condom and rolled it on. No more accidents. No more mistakes. No more mornings like that one he’d had last year when he saw with his own eyes the consequences of his carelessness.

He pushed the thought out of his mind as he moved on top of the girl.

“Oui?” he asked. “Non?”

“Wi,” she said, Haitian Creole for yes and gave him a smile that also said yes.

He laughed in her ear, nudged her thighs apart with his knees and settled into her with a few slow thrusts. She was still wet and open inside from the *** they’d had a few hours earlier. Wet and warm and he groaned from the pleasure of it. It had been a long time since he’d let himself have vanilla ***. It felt like a vacation—lazy, easy, self-indulgent.

But he wasn’t complaining and neither was Sabatina.

Sabatina—that was her name.

Kingsley rolled his hips against hers, keeping the pace slow and easy. Her mouth opened under his, inviting his tongue in for a dozen more kisses, a dozen more bites. She tasted like white wine and pears. Lowering his head, he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked deeply while she arched underneath him. He pushed deep and her hips rose off the bed to welcome him into her. Last night...he could barely remember ****ing her, although he knew he’d enjoyed it and so had she. Still, it felt like the first time with her so he took his time, relishing each push and the pleasant pressure it gave him in his stomach, thighs and back.

Her mouth curled into a smile of intoxication. She murmured softly in Creole. He didn’t understand a word of it, but the tone was definitely encouraging. He licked and kissed his way from one breast to the other. Still he moved in her, harder and deeper. She reached her arms up to wrap them around his neck. Out of pure instinct he grabbed her arms and pressed her wrists down into the bed on either side of her head and bore down on her with a brutal thrust. She gasped and cried out. Kingsley froze.

“Don’t stop,” she said in her heavily accented English. He put more weight onto her wrists, more power into his thrusts and ****ed her six inches into the mattress. Spread out beneath him, she received everything he gave her without protest and with enthusiasm. He released one of her wrists and yanked her leg around his back. When he pulled out¸ he pulled out all the way to the tip. When he thrust back in, it was with every inch at once as far as he could go. A deep pulsing resonated inside his thighs and hips all the way to his ****. He couldn’t hold out much longer, but thankfully neither could she. He increased his pace and was rewarded with the lusty cry of her orgasm and the subsequent contractions of her vagina around him.

He dug his fingers into her flesh and let himself come at last. The relief as he collapsed on her body was profound. He wanted to close his eyes, fall asleep inside her and not wake up for days. Instead, he pulled out and lay on his side facing her.

“You liked that?” he asked.

“Non,” she said, smiling broadly. “I loved it. But...”

“No buts,” he said. “You stay. I’ll find breakfast.”

“I can’t.” She rolled up and stretched her neck left to right. From the floor she picked up her dress and pulled it on over her head. “I have to go.”

“You have to work?”

“Babysit,” she said. “Maman has to work today.” She kissed him quick and hard before sliding off the bed. She shoved her feet into her sandals and tied a ribbon in her hair to tame it. “But I can come back tomorrow night.”

“You should,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

“For how long?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Until they kick me off the island.”

“This is Haiti. You spend money here, you can stay forever.”

“Maybe I will.” His money wasn’t running out anytime soon. And the thought of returning to New York now, in winter, with no one to welcome him home but a brokenhearted priest?

“Good. I never ****ed a white man before.”

“Is that why you came back here with me?”

“Wi,” she said with a wink.

Kingsley laughed. “I feel so used.”

“You want me to come back and use you again?”

“Why not?” he asked.

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“I don’t know.” She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “You were talking about another girl in your sleep last night.”

“I was? Who?” Kingsley hadn’t talked in his sleep in years as far as he knew. Not since that year after he moved to Manhattan and was still recovering from his gunshot wound.

“You never said her name. It was ‘she.’ Who is she?”

“I must have been dreaming. I know a lot of girls. They all have names.”

Sabatina grinned. “I’ll use you again tonight maybe. Come back to the club if you want. I can be your Valentine’s Day date.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I don’t remember what year it is.”

Laughing, she bent over and kissed him once more.

“It’s 2004. Valentine’s Day. Now I have to get home before Maman kills me.”

“You live with your parents?” Kingsley asked.

She nodded as she bent to tie the laces of her sandals.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Eighteen,” she said, standing up straight again.

Kingsley’s stomach flipped a few times. Eighteen? She was only eighteen? His last girlfriend had been twenty-seven. Somewhere deep in his psyche, his conscience reminded him it still existed.

“I have a rule. I don’t **** women under twenty-five.”

“Then you broke your rule.” She laughed again. “It’s good. I like older men.”

She ran a hand through his hair once, and after one more kiss, a kiss he didn’t return, she left him.

Somewhere he had a watch but he didn’t bother checking it. All he did was grab a towel, wrap it around his waist and walk out to the ocean. It must have been early. It looked early. But the temperature had to be in the eighties already. No one else was on his stretch of beach yet so he dropped his towel and dived naked into the clear waters. He swam out a hundred yards and rested on his back in the water. When was the last time he’d taken an actual bath or shower? He couldn’t remember. Who needed a porcelain bathtub when he had the ocean fifty feet from his front door?

As he floated under the morning sun, he tried to forget he’d ****ed a girl twenty-one years his junior last night. Twenty-one years. He was old enough to be her father and then some. Then again, he’d lost his virginity when he was twelve or thirteen...twelve maybe. Thirteen? Whichever it was, by that math he couldn’t **** anyone more than thirteen years younger than him. That was Elle’s age...twenty-six. For a minute he let himself think about her, something he’d been trying to avoid for months. Where had she landed? Had she given up and gone back to Søren? He doubted it. Once a week he called back to his office and spoke to Calliope. No news from her yet. The house was quiet. The city was quiet. The dogs were content and his clubs were thriving in the hands of their capable managers. Everyone missed him, Calliope said. But no one needed him.

And no one back at the house had seen or heard from Elle or Søren since Kingsley had left the country in June. Either they were tucked tenderly in Søren’s bed making up for all that happened between them, or she was still gone and he was still searching. Kingsley refused to admit that he cared which one it was. His part in their domestic drama was done. They were adults. They didn’t need him around to solve their problems for them.

Yet...

Still...

He couldn’t stop wondering.

Reluctantly he swam toward the shore and grabbed his towel off the sand. He didn’t dry off with it. No need in this heat. He’d be mostly dry by the time he reached his beach hut. Back inside, he drank a bottle of water and pulled on a pair of tattered khaki pants and a white shirt. He didn’t bother buttoning it. He put on a pair of sunglasses and walked back out into the heat of the day in search of food and alcohol and anything else that would get him through the day.

A hut on another patch of beach half a mile away sold fish and fruit to visitors. He might eat there. He might keep walking. Didn’t really matter. He wasn’t going to starve. And he had no schedule to keep. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit he was bored. Bored in Paradise. But after five weeks of sleeping on a beach, bathing on a beach, walking on a beach, eating on a beach, having *** on a beach...he’d kill for the sight of a skyscraper or a mansion or a television broadcasting a French football match. He had no idea how Les Bleus were doing this season. As long as they were beating Denmark he could sleep at night. When he called home next time, he’d ask Calliope to check the scores for him. Even in Paradise, a man had needs.

Kingsley turned a corner and smelled fish frying in the near distance. Instead of awakening his appetite, it made his stomach tighten. After all he drank last night, he wasn’t quite ready for solid food yet. Maybe in an hour or two he could eat. For now he would wander and not care where his feet took him.

He started caring very quickly where his feet took him when he realized they had taken him into a heavily touristed area. He would have been happy to go his entire stay in Haiti without setting eyes on any white Americans. So far he’d done fairly well staying away from happy families and/or businessmen trying to find a new way to exploit Haiti’s beauty and resources. Yet everywhere he looked, he saw white faces squinting behind fashionable sunglasses, teenage girls in tiny bikinis, little boys building and destroying each other’s sand castles, and bored mothers and bored fathers trying to pretend they weren’t annoyed when their children interrupted their naps or their reading.

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How did people go through life being so bored and so boring without killing themselves? Never be boring was the one and only commandment he followed. All the other commandments he considered mere suggestions.

He hated to admit that maybe if he stayed here in Haiti he would turn boring, too. Sleeping with an eighteen-year-old girl by mistake had been the only not-boring thing he’d done in weeks.

Bored and boring. He did the same things every day, walked the same paths, saw the same faces give or take a few minor variations. He’d caused no trouble, started no fights, blackmailed no politicians and engaged in only the most minor and unimpressive of ***ual peccadilloes. If things didn’t get more interesting fast, he’d be forced to go back to Manhattan to find a reason not to shoot himself in the head.

Good thing he hadn’t packed his gun.

A few women and even more teenage girls gave him appreciative stares as he wove through the path of their chaises longues and beach chairs. He saw the rapacious looks in their eyes, their knowing smiles at each other. American women in foreign countries were more ravenous than a pack of sharks in a feeding frenzy. Could they not get laid back in the suburbs where they came from? He glanced at the men with them and rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. No wonder they were staring at him. They really should have left their excess baggage back home.

He passed through a cluster of torchwood and palm trees. Off the path now, the ground grew rockier. He didn’t care. This morning he’d remembered to put on shoes before heading out. Shoes were pleasantly optional on the beach in the morning. And if he wasn’t going to wear boots, he’d rather wear nothing at all.

Boots. He did miss his boots. He missed his boots and his bed. The beach hut wasn’t bad but the bed was no bigger than a full-size. He could only fit two people in it. After island hopping from New Zealand to the Philippines, he’d come to Haiti five weeks ago, rented a hut and settled down. But perhaps it was time to go home. Calliope asked him every week when he was coming home. He still didn’t have an answer for her. If Elle was still on the run, he’d given her an eight-month head start to hide. And perhaps Søren had gotten the hint that Kingsley wouldn’t do his dirty work for him this time. Kingsley turned around. He’d make a call. See what the flight options were for the week. Maybe it was time to go back. Or at least go somewhere else. Martinique? St. Croix? Miami? Manhattan? He would miss Haiti. After all it was beautiful, peaceful, restful.

And boring.

Kingsley heard a scream.

He whipped around, all senses on high alert. The scream had been loud, high-pitched and pained. He raced a few steps deeper into the trees and saw a boy—pasty white and still wearing his baby fat despite being twelve or thirteen—squealing in agony. Another boy next to him dropped a coconut-sized rock on the ground.

“Pick on someone your own size,” Kingsley heard a woman yell at the boy in a strong French accent.

Then a rock whipped through the air and hit the boy again on the back of his Ludacris T-shirt.

“Crazy bitch,” the boy shouted. The woman picked up another rock and threw it at him, hitting him in the thigh.

“Tu n’es qu’une merde, tu ne sais à rien,” she shouted.

“You’re psycho,” his friend yelled, and he picked up a rock as big as a fist. The woman had thrown rocks the size of walnuts which would leave nothing but bruises. This boy was out for blood.

“Do it,” she said. “You murdering little bastards.”

Kingsley stepped between the woman and the boys.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Kingsley said in English to the boy with the big rock.

The boys took one look at him and made their first smart decision in their young lives.

“Come on. Let’s go,” the other, smaller boy shouted at his friend. The older boy dropped his huge rock and ran off as fast as his pale, hairless legs could carry him.

“Casse-toi,” came the woman’s voice again. She cursed in French but switched back to English when she saw him standing there. She must have assumed he was American. How insulting. “I should have killed them.”

She bent down and picked up a soccer ball.

“You forgot your ball,” the woman shouted, this time in English. “Want it back?”

She made as if she would throw it at them. Kingsley stopped her.

“I’ll take it,” Kingsley said. He grabbed the ball out of her hands, dropped it on the sand and kicked it with the perfect blend of force and precision. A hundred feet away, the ball hit the older boy in the back of the legs and sent him tumbling to his knees. He scrambled up and ran off again.

Kingsley looked at the woman. She looked at him.

“You have good aim,” she said.

“You’re not the first woman who’s told me that.” He waited. The woman got the joke. He could see that in her eyes. She did not, however, find it funny. She turned from him and knelt on the ground.

“What were they doing?” Kingsley asked her.

“Killing babies.”

Kingsley looked down and saw a bird’s nest on the ground, eggs shattered and oozing on the sand. A small bird with yellow on its wingtips danced in distress around the branches of a flowering bush. The woman studying the broken nest had dark skin and large black eyes. She looked much closer to twenty-eight than eighteen, thank God. Her long straight hair was pulled back in an elegant high ponytail. She wore a white ankle-length skirt and a white halter top that left her flat and muscled stomach bare. She was tall, too. Almost as tall as he. Her eyes were full of fury and her hands had balled into fists. She had the bearing of Cleopatra, the face of Venus and the wrath of God. And whoever she was, she’d attempted to stone two boys to death for the crime of throwing rocks at a bird’s nest.

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“Little monsters. Look what they’ve done.”

“Do you want me to kill them for you?” Kingsley asked, almost sincere in his offer. He could hardly imagine a good man growing up out of the sort of boy who’d crush bird eggs for pleasure. “I didn’t pack my gun, but I can use my hands. I can drown them and make it look like an accident. Oui? Non?”

Her dark eyes flashed in his direction.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all,” he said. Pas du tout. If this woman had asked him to bring him the heads of those boys to her on a platter, he would have done it.

“No,” she said. “Let them go. They’re in God’s hands. We all are.”

It could have been a platitude—in God’s hands—but the way she said it made it sound like a fearful threat.

The woman knelt in the sand in front of the bush that the boys had attacked with their rocks. She studied the scene of carnage—the shattered eggs, the broken nest.

“Men destroy everything,” she said, talking to herself. “Why do they have to destroy everything?”

Carefully, as if the nest was made of glass, the woman lifted it off the ground and tucked it into a tree. Then she bent down again and covered the broken eggs with sand. She did so quietly, reverently, as if performing a sacred burial ritual. The mother bird flitted down to the sand, looking for her lost babies.

“Try again, Maman,” the woman said to the little bird. “Try again for me.”

He looked at her face, and saw tears on it. Tears over a broken nest and a baby bird.

**** Manhattan. And **** the entire world.

Haiti had just got very interesting.

10

Upstate New York

“BEWARE THE IDES of March” read the note Kingsley had slipped under her bedroom door. “Don’t drink any alcohol today. Dress in your finest and wait for me by the Rolls at ten.”

Eleanor supposed this note was Kingsley’s version of a birthday card? Card and invitation. She hadn’t planned on a big party for her twenty-sixth birthday. Sounded like Kingsley had planned one for her.

When evening turned to night and the city turned on its lights and switched off its inhibitions, Kingsley put her in the back of his Rolls-Royce. He had a smile on his face, a secret little smile. Something told her she was about to get her birthday present.

“You know I’ve had *** in the back of a Rolls-Royce,” she reminded him. “So don’t even ask.”

She’d had *** with him in the back of a Rolls-Royce so many times she’d lost count. Luckily it was a limousine-style Rolls that kept the backseats separated from the driver by a partition and a thick black curtain.

“I know you’ve had *** in the back of the Rolls-Royce. But not with him.”

“Him who?” Eleanor asked.

The car pulled over. The door opened.

A young man of about twenty-three years old with dark spiky hair, a handsome face and a dirty grin got into the car.

“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he said.

“Oh my God. Griffin.” Eleanor threw herself into Griffin’s arms, and he pulled her so close to him it almost hurt. “When did you get back?”

“Two nights ago.”

“And you didn’t call me?” she asked, feigning irritation.

“Surprise,” he said, grinning.

She sat on this lap and wrapped her arms around him. Griffin...she loved this kid. Had it only been eight months ago when Kingsley had first summoned Griffin to the town house and shown him the ropes? She’d been in the ropes that night as Kingsley beat her and ****ed her, all as part of a demonstration showing Griffin what kink in action had looked like. He’d taken to the scene like a duck to water, but old habits had died hard. Kingsley had caught him snorting coke in one of the town house bathrooms one day and stone drunk the next day. Kingsley had enough demons of his own, he’d said, without inviting Griffin’s demons over for tea. So Kingsley had laid down the ultimatum—go to rehab and get clean or...get out. Griffin had gone to rehab.

And now he was back.

“God, I missed you,” she said as she pressed her face against his warm strong neck and inhaled cedar and suede. Griffin always smelled as if he’d just stepped out of a shower.

“Good,” he said, taking her by the upper arms and positioning her on his lap. “Because I’m your birthday present.”

He smiled ear-to-ear, a wide dirty grin that Griffin had perfected. Women and men both fell for that grin all the time. She was no exception. But until tonight he’d been off-limits for anything but friendship.

“Are you serious?” She looked back at Kingsley. “Søren’s okay with this?”

“He is,” Kingsley said. “But if you don’t believe me, you can ask him.”

The car pulled over again. The door opened again.

And Søren got inside.

She was off Griffin’s lap and in Søren’s arms in an instant.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Søren whispered in her ear. “But is it for me? Or for him?”

“Always for you,” she said, kissing him on the mouth. “I can’t believe you...”

“This is what you requested for your birthday, wasn’t it?” Søren asked, a slight smile at the edge of his lips.

“I was joking. Sort of. I didn’t think you’d say yes.” Now she understood why Kingsley wouldn’t let her drink. Griffin was two days fresh out of rehab. No reason to tempt fate by letting him taste alcohol on her lips.

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Søren had teased her about her crush on Griffin, the new Dominant Kingsley had found. She’d sworn up and down her feelings for Griffin were of the purest sort of friendship. Although she wouldn’t mind getting ****ed by Griffin, of course. It would make a lovely birthday present, she’d said to Søren. She’d been joking obviously. Sort of. Not entirely.

“I pay the most attention when you pretend you’re joking,” Søren said, proving once and for all that he knew her better than anyone.

“I love you, sir.”

He kissed her back, kissed her deep, and at the moment when she thought the kiss would go on forever, Søren gripped her by the back of the neck, unbuttoned the top button on her blouse and said, “Who’s first?”

That’s when Eleanor knew Griffin wasn’t her only birthday present that night. All three of them were.

The silence that follows such a question is pregnant with possibility. And in those few seconds, the various possible scenarios flashed through Eleanor’s mind. Søren shared her with Kingsley all the time. Kingsley even had permission to be with her when Søren wasn’t there. And once Søren had ordered her to spend a week at a mansion in New Hampshire with a man named Daniel. But she was one woman in the back of a Rolls-Royce and three different men were about to **** her.

Happy birthday to her.

“I’ve been in rehab for the past month. If I don’t **** soon, I will literally die,” Griffin said.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Søren intoned smoothly. He unbuttoned another button on her white sheer blouse. “Eleanor’s fond of you, Griffin. I think she’d be most heartbroken if something happened to you.”

“I would, Griff. You’re my favorite rookie.”

He glared at her, his handsome brow furrowing in playful disgust. “I should spank you for calling me that.”

“You should,” Søren said. “She won’t learn to respect your authority any other way.”

“Come here, bad girl.” Griffin tapped his lap. “I have a present to deliver.”

“One moment.” Søren reached into the pocket of his black overcoat. “First things first.”

He wrapped her collar around her neck and locked it into place. She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes.

Søren put his mouth at her ear and whispered, “Even with them you’re with me. Remember that.”

“I remember, sir,” she whispered back.

“You want this?” he asked, even softer now.

“Yes, sir.”

“Happy birthday, Little One.”

He kissed her neck where the leather of her white collar met her skin and she shivered in pleasure. Fear radiated through her body as Søren transferred her from his lap to Griffin’s. But he was there, Søren was. Watching, guarding, protecting her. Nothing to be afraid of. Tonight was for her pleasure only.

Griffin had never kissed her before. And before he did now, she saw him glance at Søren for permission. Søren nodded and Griffin pressed his lips to hers. She opened her mouth, sensing his nervousness at performing for a crowd, this crowd especially. Kingsley and Søren sat on the back bench seat. She and Griffin were on the front one that sat behind the curtained wall separating them from the driver. No two men in the Underground were more feared and respected than Søren and Kingsley. And now Griffin was going to **** her while they watched. If he could get it up under such circumstances, she’d be impressed. He shifted her on his lap and she felt his erection pressing hard against her bottom.

Count her impressed.

Griffin deepened the kiss while Eleanor unbuttoned his shirt. She touched his broad muscular shoulders and biceps as he bit and nipped at her lips. For a moment she forgot she had an audience until Griffin threw her onto her back in a quick show of power and dominance. She gasped in surprise. From the back of the Rolls, Kingsley and Søren applauded.

“Good show,” Kingsley said. “Nice technique.”

“It’s not easy to catch her off guard,” Søren agreed.

“Are you two going to comment the entire time?” Griffin asked, looking up from her.

“Of course,” Kingsley said, reaching into a black satchel next to his booted legs. “I’m the French judge. He’s the Danish judge.”

Kingsley handed Søren a set of cards with the numbers one through ten on them.

Score cards.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Griffin said, groaning and burying his face against her chest.

“Be glad Mistress Irina isn’t here, Griffin.” Kingsley shuffled casually through his cards. “No one ever impresses the Russian judge.”

Eleanor reached up and touched Griffin’s face. He met her eyes and she met his. He had rich hazel eyes, sweet and soulful, like a child’s almost.

“Make me feel good,” she said in a voice low enough only Griffin could hear it. “Please, Mr. Griffin. It’s my birthday.”

“For you, anything,” he said back. He sat up and yanked her across his lap. She’d thought the threat of a spanking had been only that. A threat. But he wrenched her skirt up to her hips, pulled her white panties down to her knees, and hit her hard enough she flinched.

“God damn,” she said, shocked by the force of the hit. She braced for a second slap, but instead he worked a single finger into her vagina from behind. She dug her hands into the leather of the seats as Griffin pushed his finger deeper into her. Very quickly she grew wet from the touch and Griffin pushed a second, then a third finger into her. With both hands he spread her open wide, exposing her to the view of everyone in the back of the car. It was a humiliation, a violation. She loved every second of it.