28
HENRIETTE
The master bathroom had an eerie familiarity about it. In fact, it was a near replica of the master suite René had closed off long ago. Moving to another part of the chateau, he created a new master wing. My father always told me it was because it was too painful for him to sleep in the same room—in the same bed where he and Simone had shared such love. I’d seen the room before as the staff kept it clean and dusted, but no one ever used it.
The marble bathroom and golden fixtures were not the only thing that matched the room in Épernay. The color scheme and the layout were exact, down to the placement of the huge tub and the bidet. Tristan’s life had been so entwined in Chateau Lebleu and he’d never even been aware of it. It told me that although Simone was angry with René for the rest of her life, she still loved him. Why would two people never move on, wallowing only in what was lost?
I turned on the water, sitting at the edge of the tub waiting for it to warm before placing the stopper in the drain. Above the tub was bubble bath and salts. I only needed a bar of soap and some shampoo. I didn’t need it to be frilly, I merely wanted to soak away everything I possibly could tonight.
Taking off my black pants and jacket, I peeled myself out of the wrinkled pinstripe shirt that looked as if I’d slept in it for days. With my bra and panties also at my feet, I dipped my toe into the water and sighed. The overwhelming warmth caused my skin to chill in anticipation of submerging my entire body.
I lowered myself in slowly, the water still cascading from the faucet on the side of the wall and into the tub. It made for an ostentatious presentation, but more than that, it was just loud.
Reaching up to turn off the faucets, I moaned as I slid into the deep water. I closed my eyes and lowered myself as far as I could into the tub as to put everything under water except my head.
I took a deep breath and tried not to think. I tried not to think about what had happened. Lucette was dead and I was on the run with a man wanted by the police for her murder. Not to mention I’d left France. I’d left my home. I’d been to America many times, but always with the idea that it was temporary. I’d walked away from everyone and everything with nothing but the clothes on my back and an old watch. And for what? For Tristan Lebleu.
I took another breath, this time saying it aloud. “Don’t think.”
“Don’t think about what?”
I opened my eyes and found him standing over me.
“I can’t think about what’s happened. I’m trying very hard not to think.”
Tristan sat on the edge of the tub, picking up a sea sponge from a shelf nearby. “Sit up,” he said, moving to his knees beside the tub. Reaching across my body, he took a bar of soap from the ledge and dipped it in the bathwater with the sponge.
With deft hands, he worked the sponge into a lather before stroking it across my back.
Pulling my knees to meet my chest, I rested my head on my kneecaps and stared into his face. With each loving stroke of the wet sponge across my back, I felt myself relax.
“How’s that?” he asked, his voice so soft, I could barely hear it.
“Mmmhmm.”
“I know you’ve taken a huge risk coming here with me. I know that.”
I stared at him and blinked, but didn’t say a word.
“But I promise you. I’m going to do everything in my power to make this right, Henry.”
I wiped my face, the bathwater from my hands leaving a trail of moisture across my brow. “I just want Lucette’s killer to pay for what he’s done.”
“He will,” Tristan said. “More than you know.”
I tried to smile and when it wouldn’t come, I found myself looking away from him. I wasn’t the kind of woman who’d ever relied on anyone—especially a man. I needed it to be well within my own mind that no matter what, I would survive. Because that’s who I was.
Touching my chin with his finger, he brought my gaze back to meet his. “Hey. What is it?”
I shrugged, holding back the tears. “I can’t believe I’m still crying,” I admitted. “Isn’t there a point when your body refuses to give you more tears?”
He smiled at me, rubbing his thumb across my cheek. “I don’t think so. I think the heart has to heal in its own time. The tears wash away the hurt—little by little—until there’s nothing left to cry about.”
My eyes widened. “Where did you hear that?”
Tristan shrugged. “My mother used to say it to me when I was little.”
I nodded. “René always said that too.”
Tristan brushed the hair from my face. “I’m starting to think they loved each other more than either would ever admit.”
“Your father professed his love for Simone always. Your mother…” I trailed off.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “She struggled with it. Really struggled.”
Tristan dropped the sponge in the water and began stroking my leg with his bare hand.
“You know,” I began. “My father always said that he was waiting a lifetime to be with my mother again. Perhaps Simone and René couldn’t be together in this life, but will be in the next.”
“Maybe,” he said.
I placed my hand on his face. The warm water trickled down his check, working its way through his day-old beard.
“Do you want me to leave you alone so you can soak?”
I shook my head.
“What do you want?”
Scooting back in the tub, I made room for him to join me.
Tristan twisted his head. “Really? You want me in there?”
I nodded.
Tristan stood, reaching behind his head to the nape of his neck to tug off his t-shirt. His jeans hung on his hips, revealing the waistband of his black boxer briefs. Already barefoot, I watched him unzip, dropping his pants to the floor of the bathroom. Then slipping off his underwear he stood over the tub, his manhood thick and growing harder by the moment, bobbing under its weight.
He walked away.
“Wha? Où allez-vou?” I couldn’t even think to ask him where he was going in English.
Opening the walk in shower, he turned on the faucet, then turned to look at me.
“I’m not a bath kinda guy. I can watch you all day in there, but…”
Standing up, the water drained off my body and I stepped out and onto the bathmat, one precarious foot at a time. Tristan said nothing, but merely watched. I loved looking at the rock-hard slabs of muscle he so powerfully displayed. Wet, I walked straight into his arms. His body warm and inviting. I pressed myself into him, my slickness gliding across his skin. I felt the hardness of him pressed into my hip.
Breaking our embrace, I beckoned him into the shower with me.
He shook his head. “Wait.”
“For?”
“I don’t use this bathroom. I don’t have condoms in here.”
“We don’t have to do that,” I said.
“If by that you mean make love,” Tristan whispered into my ear with a kiss. “Then you’re dead wrong. Because I can promise you, I want that.”
I stepped into the warm stream of the shower, leaving him behind. The water washed over my face and hair and I slicked it back, reaching for the soap. Tristan stood back and watched as I squeezed the liquid into my hands, soaping my hair and body.
“Shit,” he hissed, before walking away.
“Tristan?” I called out.
He was back in less than a minute and out of breath. In his hand was a small foil packet.
Stepping into the shower, he placed it in the soap dish as he pinned me to the cold wall of the shower stall.
Taking my mouth in a rough and needy kiss, he picked me up, my legs wrapping around his body in an instinctive grip.
“I can’t get enough of you, Henry. I can’t,” he whispered, the water running down his cheeks, matting his long hair.
Gripping my neck, he pulled me closer for a deeper kiss, and I tightened my hold around his waist. As he tugged at my lips with his teeth, I moaned at his erotic gesture. Tristan was more Frenchman than I ever thought possible.
I ran my hands through his long mane, brushing the hair from his face. Kissing him, our mouths were hot, wet with water and passion. My legs tight around his hard body, I wanted him. So I told him so.
“Fais moi l’amour, Tristan.”
“Make love to you?”
I took his rugged face in my hands and stared into his blue eyes as he placed my feet back on the tile floor. “Oui.”
Tristan brushed his lips across my wet collarbone, his fingers stroking my delicate tissue. Dropping my head back in approval, I moaned, my nails digging into his rigid arm muscles.
Grabbing the condom from the soap dish with one hand, Tristan, kicked open the shower door with his foot, picking me up in his arms and carrying me out.
Wet and dripping, we went to the thick rug on the bathroom floor with a thud, Tristan taking the full brunt of the fall.
Rolling us over, our laughter quickly turned to hot, wet kisses. I found it hard to breathe as Tristan pressed my thighs wide with his strong legs. He looked down at me, his blue eyes twinkling in the crystal lights. I kissed him sweetly and he groaned at my gesture, then buried his face inside my neck. Tearing open the foil packet, he wasted no time.
He cupped my bottom in his sure grip, lifting me into a deft roll of his hips as he slowly slipped inside me. Pleasure emanated through my core, my body aching for every bit—every inch of him. Digging my fingers into his back, I felt him tense. He arched, driving his thrusts harder, faster. A deep growl erupted from his mouth, spurring me on.
I wrapped my legs around him again, caging him physically just as he’d caged my heart.
“Jesus, Henry,” He cried. “Dear God. What are you doing to me?”
Everything inside me tightened, my back bowing as pleasure tore through me. Crying out in ecstasy, I shouted his name, then collapsed in his arms.
Tristan pulled me forward, his hips bucking upward in uncontrolled fits of passion. With one erotic cry, he looked into my eyes. All fear. All doubt. Every hesitation was gone from my mind.
Catching his breath, he brushed his lips against my temple. “Que mes baisers soient les mots d’amour que je ne te dis pas.”
“Let my kisses be the words I cannot say…Tristan,” I whispered. “I told you not to fall in love with me.”
“Too late.”