My lover pulled me into his arms and silenced my rising questions with a harsh kiss. I rested my hands against his chest, drawing comfort from his large bulk, his familiar presence. The feel of his expensive jacket under my hands, his mouth, hard and demanding as he kissed me, and the tangy smell of his body as he engulfed me in his arms.
I had the distinct feeling that he wanted some sort of reassurance but what?
With an arm around my waist, he turned to Claude and asked in his rasping, gravelly baritone,
‘How do you feel, son?’
Claude gaped at him. Lucien had never cared to ask about his wellbeing before this, even during occasions when Claude had been younger and getting into one scrape after another. Generally, he behaved as if Claude was part of the furniture, barely deigning to acknowledge his presence in private.
So this query about Claude’s well-being was definitely an eye-opener for Claude. Quickly recovering himself, my son stammered, ‘I’m good Sir. I mean…’ he indicated his heavily bandaged arm with a small grin, still not sure that his formidable father had been asking about his welfare.
‘Good,’ grunted Lucien, holding my arm as he turned,’ We need to make sure you are up to the fight with the Stone Wall next month.’
Grinning gleefully, Claude nodded his head enthusiastically.
“There’s still a month, Sir. I should be…’
Lucien met his eyes and growled, ‘Take care. I do not want my son to make a fool of himself before the audience in the first fight at the new club.’
Claude stumbled, taking a step back, astonishment and joy warring with each other on his handsome face.
“Pappa, I mean, Sir, did you say I will be fighting in the inaugural fight at the new Club?’ he breathed, excitement shining in his eyes.
I opened my mouth to speak but my husband pre-empted me.
He nodded brusquely and turned away, holding my hand, and making me join him.
I met Claude’s eyes as Lucien wrenched me along; my son was pumping the air with his fist, overjoyed. Signalling his fierce pride at having been finally, so very belatedly, acknowledged by his father, the man I knew he idolised.
But I had no time to talk to him, to warn him about taking it easy. Lucien was dragging me to the elevator.
*
“What is it, Lucien?’ I said in a low voice. I could see he was disturbed.
The men with us hung back a few paces as we made our way to the elevator. Beatrice came to the door of the kitchen. It was early evening and I had already set in motion the preparations for tonight’s dinner. All that remained were the finishing touches. Over her shoulder, I could see Camille peering anxiously at me.
The older woman signalled me with her eyes and I nodded as I was hurried across the carpeted floor to the elevator by my impatient husband. I knew she would take care of the final touches but Lucien’s preoccupied air worried me.
Yet I knew my husband well enough to remain quiet. When we entered our suite of rooms, I turned to him apprehensively, unable to hold myself back.
‘Lucien, what is it? You look so preoccupied and you are upsetting me.’
He held me in his arms, his hands, large and capable, on my waist as he met my eyes. I knew he wanted to tell me something momentous and was debating with himself over how to go about it.
How much to say and how much to withhold for my sanity.
As I gripped his arm and stood, looking at him, he sighed.
“Woman, there are a few things I need to tell you.’
*
His raspy baritone was gruff and I knew he was finding it hard to disclose whatever he wanted to say.
My heartbeat quickened.
“What do you…mean?’ I whispered, fear heightening my breathing..
He pulled me into his arms, taking his time to claim my mouth but I pushed him away as best as I could. I could see that he was trying to comfort me in the way he knew worked best between us; this raging fire between us, this physical union that both of us craved. But right then, I did not want to be distracted by his physical exploration of my body; I wanted to keep my wits about me.
‘Lucien,’ I said as he placed his hand on my blouse and unbuttoned it, his hand seeking my full and heavy breasts, tugging the large, firm nipple out and bending to suckle.
The familiar weakness, the desire, flooded me but I needed to keep a clear head.
“Stop it!’ I struggled weakly against the arm that held me to him,” What were you saying?’ I panted for I knew he was trying to distract me.
He sighed and stilled.
Tilting my chin, his eyes moved from my swollen lips to my eyes as he said softly,
‘COLE is not my son. ‘
*
The words echoed in my head and I stood, stock still in shock; I met his eyes, searching his face, not too sure that he was telling me the truth.
I swallowed, unable to believe what he had just told me, this bombshell.
The hard grey eyes, flint-like, met my questioning gaze steadily.
I shook my head wildly, “When … did … when did you find out?’
He looked away and I knew he had known for a while now.
And then, with a sinking heart, I realised that he was staring at me, waiting.
With a sinking heart, I realised he had still something more to say.
There was more.
*
I moved away from him, wrapping my arms around my body, trying to concentrate. My face was flushed. my body was trembling.
‘What…what more are you keeping from me?’ I whispered.
He sighed and his eyes moved away.
Stepping forward, he gripped my arms, although I tried to avoid him.
‘Woman,’ he grunted, his mouth on my nape,
” I knew a long while back that I had not fathered a son with some random whor*.’ he growled.
I stepped back, almost stumbling and he gripped me. I tried to resist, fury growing as I hissed,
“You…knew?’