. . .”
His gray eyes held steady.
She scraped her teeth together. “I didn’t . . . I . . . I didn’t know you . . . you cared anything about historic preservation.”
He said nothing at first, but the affront in his eyes hinted that he knew she was trying to escape the moment.
Mercifully, he played along. His words came slow and deep. “People nowadays, they wanna do everything lackadaisical. It’s only in the older buildings that you find a true sense of craftsmanship. Besides.” He turned to the side, and Madeleine followed his gaze to the ballroom, where a wheelchair held the glowering form of Chloe LeBlanc. “Miss Chloe convinced me to come here tonight.”
“Chloe?” Madeleine gave a start.
He returned her gaze. “I’ve been helping her out in a few matters.”
Madeleine was puzzled. But the longer she stood in silence, the deeper she slid back into the quicksand of his gaze, and she wrestled to free herself from it. He had her on a thread and he knew it. And he seemed to want to keep her there.
Her senses burned. A strangely familiar cobweb settled over her mind, a betrayal, and her hands lifted almost of their own volition. They settled over her belly and felt the sleek satin fabric, a delicate overlay that heated when layered between the skin of her torso and that of her hands. And those hands wanted to move higher, up above her ribs.
Her heart raced. She felt exposed, unclean. It was as if she couldn’t control her own movements. She turned away from him abruptly, hands shaking. Her eyes focused beyond the corridor, to the cool white marble of the entrance hall.
She blurted, “Have you seen my father?”
She heard blood throbbing at her ears and was unwilling to meet his gaze. But Zenon did not reply. He fell silent, and remained that way until she dared to look upon him again. And when she did she saw that his eyes had changed. The intensity had dimmed to frustration. He looked away, seeming to cast his thoughts elsewhere.
“Daddy Blank. I don’t know.” He snorted and looked down, and then up at her again. “Look, I’m sorry about Marc. Been meaning to tell you.”
She swallowed.
“We were real close when we were kids, remember?” he said. “You and me and Marc? Things changed over the years and that’s a damn shame. Marc was one of the good ones, yeah. I think he might’ve done something that he weren’t proud of.”
This left a bad taste in her mouth. Marc’s sense of guilt over the electrocution had been plain to everyone. And the usual arguments reared in her head: an accident; in the electrical field this was a common tragedy.
Zenon watched her face as he spoke. “Wish I could have talked to Marc before he shot hisself.”
Madeleine wavered. Tears emerged and she shook her head. “It’s all right Zenon. We all have regrets.”
He stepped toward her. “Do we?”
She straightened her back.
The intensity returned to his stare. “Is that how it goes then, Madeleine? We just keep fighting our instincts and leave it at having regrets?”
And at once the tide of heat washed over her again. Fierce and ringing, saturating every cell. So sudden it stole the breath from her lungs. And somehow she knew that he was doing something to her. The scientist disconnected from her body and observed that these compulsions were not her own. And yet that didn’t make any sense. She took a step backward. He caught her wrist.
“How long you gonna fight it?” His eyes, stark and blue, forced their unsanctioned gaze into her.
She shook her head. “Stop. Zenon, don’t.”
And she yanked away, but he held her firm. His stare gripped her with the same intensity that he gripped her wrist.
“Don’t what? Stir up some primitive urge? I think you’d like that, yeah. I think you’d like that a whole lot. Don’t struggle with me,
chère
, you might just stir it up in me.”
And she felt him sweep her in. A whirlpool devoid of oxygen or emotion or anything but the most basic,
His gray eyes held steady.
She scraped her teeth together. “I didn’t . . . I . . . I didn’t know you . . . you cared anything about historic preservation.”
He said nothing at first, but the affront in his eyes hinted that he knew she was trying to escape the moment.
Mercifully, he played along. His words came slow and deep. “People nowadays, they wanna do everything lackadaisical. It’s only in the older buildings that you find a true sense of craftsmanship. Besides.” He turned to the side, and Madeleine followed his gaze to the ballroom, where a wheelchair held the glowering form of Chloe LeBlanc. “Miss Chloe convinced me to come here tonight.”
“Chloe?” Madeleine gave a start.
He returned her gaze. “I’ve been helping her out in a few matters.”
Madeleine was puzzled. But the longer she stood in silence, the deeper she slid back into the quicksand of his gaze, and she wrestled to free herself from it. He had her on a thread and he knew it. And he seemed to want to keep her there.
Her senses burned. A strangely familiar cobweb settled over her mind, a betrayal, and her hands lifted almost of their own volition. They settled over her belly and felt the sleek satin fabric, a delicate overlay that heated when layered between the skin of her torso and that of her hands. And those hands wanted to move higher, up above her ribs.
Her heart raced. She felt exposed, unclean. It was as if she couldn’t control her own movements. She turned away from him abruptly, hands shaking. Her eyes focused beyond the corridor, to the cool white marble of the entrance hall.
She blurted, “Have you seen my father?”
She heard blood throbbing at her ears and was unwilling to meet his gaze. But Zenon did not reply. He fell silent, and remained that way until she dared to look upon him again. And when she did she saw that his eyes had changed. The intensity had dimmed to frustration. He looked away, seeming to cast his thoughts elsewhere.
“Daddy Blank. I don’t know.” He snorted and looked down, and then up at her again. “Look, I’m sorry about Marc. Been meaning to tell you.”
She swallowed.
“We were real close when we were kids, remember?” he said. “You and me and Marc? Things changed over the years and that’s a damn shame. Marc was one of the good ones, yeah. I think he might’ve done something that he weren’t proud of.”
This left a bad taste in her mouth. Marc’s sense of guilt over the electrocution had been plain to everyone. And the usual arguments reared in her head: an accident; in the electrical field this was a common tragedy.
Zenon watched her face as he spoke. “Wish I could have talked to Marc before he shot hisself.”
Madeleine wavered. Tears emerged and she shook her head. “It’s all right Zenon. We all have regrets.”
He stepped toward her. “Do we?”
She straightened her back.
The intensity returned to his stare. “Is that how it goes then, Madeleine? We just keep fighting our instincts and leave it at having regrets?”
And at once the tide of heat washed over her again. Fierce and ringing, saturating every cell. So sudden it stole the breath from her lungs. And somehow she knew that he was doing something to her. The scientist disconnected from her body and observed that these compulsions were not her own. And yet that didn’t make any sense. She took a step backward. He caught her wrist.
“How long you gonna fight it?” His eyes, stark and blue, forced their unsanctioned gaze into her.
She shook her head. “Stop. Zenon, don’t.”
And she yanked away, but he held her firm. His stare gripped her with the same intensity that he gripped her wrist.
“Don’t what? Stir up some primitive urge? I think you’d like that, yeah. I think you’d like that a whole lot. Don’t struggle with me,
chère
, you might just stir it up in me.”
And she felt him sweep her in. A whirlpool devoid of oxygen or emotion or anything but the most basic,
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