Page 67 of Devil In A Suit

The descent into France feels bizarre. I’m sore between my legs, my clit is still throbbing and swollen, and I’m still confused by what happened midair. I don’t know exactly what Ivan is dealing with, but I know whatever it is is a legal problem and it’s big. Big enough to make him lose his customary cool. Now, as we taxi on the private airstrip, the beauty of the French countryside sprawls before me.

A sleek black Bentley is waiting for us outside the plane. A formally uniformed, sour-faced chauffeur holds the door open for me. I murmur my thanks and slide in beside Ivan. As the door closes, I smell it. Ivan and I reek of sex. I steal a sideway glance at him, but he is almost unaware of my presence.

For the last hour, he’s been busy on the phone. Even now his fingers fly across the screen of his laptop as he deals with whatever it is that has gone wrong. He hasn’t said much since I climbed off him and got dressed, and I doubt he will anytime soon. This is a different part of him I am seeing. I can’t help but be worried for him. We’re not friends and we’ll probably never see each other again after the month is out, but I don’t wish himharm. Underneath, I am convinced he is a good man. I trust Muriel’s judgement. I remember my mother used to say, you can tell a man’s character by the way he treats waiters.

I turn my gaze toward the window instead and try to distract myself with the sights of France. The drive to the vineyard is quiet, save for the occasional muttered curse from Ivan. I try not to listen or pry, but the urge to ask him what’s going on is very strong. I tell myself it is none of my business.

Instead, I focus on the scenery unfolding outside the window. The golden fields stretch for miles, rolling over gentle hills, dotted with ancient stone houses that speak of centuries of tradition. The sun is low on the horizon by the time we approach the Ivanovich’s family estate, well one of them anyway.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Set on higher ground the chateau looms against the late afternoon sky. It is a massive pink and white mansion surrounded by sun-warmed stone walls that glow in the low sun. Around it, are vineyards as far as the eye can see, the neat rows of grapevines lining the hills like soldiers. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, but Ivan doesn’t even lift his head to appreciate the beauty and privilege his family have acquired.

The car door opens, and as I step out, we’re greeted by the scent of sweet grapes and earth—a heady, intoxicating mix that hangs in the air. A stiff, unsmiling man in a black suit, I presume to be the butler, waits by the tall doors. He greets us formally by name in an English accent.

“I trust you had a good flight,” he says quietly to Ivan.

“Yes, thank you, Philip.” Ivan turns to me. “This is Philip Barnes, my mother’s butler.”

“Hello,” I say awkwardly. I’ve never been in such a situation.

He nods formally, then addresses Ivan. “Your mother has requested the west wing for you and your guest, Sir. It is nicest this time of the year.”

“Very good.”

He nods again. “This way, madam,” Philip says, leading us inside.

The interior is nothing like the bustling, modern, glass, and chrome world we had come from. The grandeur nearly knocks the breath out of me. It feels like I’ve stepped back in time into a golden era where Kings and Queens surrounded by their courtiers ruled. Mesmerized by the grandeur of the place, the history, the way every gilded detail has been so lovingly shaped by master craftsmen, I look around in awe at the high ceilings, the grand staircase, the fine oil paintings that line the walls. Everything speaks of old money. Suddenly, New York feels brash and loutish.

A young woman in a black dress and a white apron appears bearing a tray with two glasses of some pinkish liquid.

“Aperitive, madam?” she asks, with a smile.

Ivan refuses, but I take one and try to appear composed even though I am anything but.

Ivan says he has to quickly do something on a high-speed computer and leaves, and Philip hands me over to another staff member, a young man, who escorts me through the chateau up to our room. He opens the door and I step in.

Behind me, I hear the man say something in French. I turn around and shrug. “No speak French.”

“Ah. No speak English,” he says with a grin and leaves.

I grin back then close the door and look around. Very impressive. The walls are pale blue and adorned with intricate gold trim. No built-in cupboards here. The furniture is all antique and polished to perfection, and the bed is high and full of fluffy pillows. Tall windows overlook the endless stretch of vineyards outside, and I watch as the curtains sway lazily in the gentle scented breeze coming through the open door to the balcony. I could lose myself in this life.

It’s hard to believe this is my reality. Little ole men scuttling around the subways trying to sell cramped, cockroach infested-apartments as wonderful places to live. I didn’t know better. But now that I do, how could I go back to that?

I put my untouched drink on the table, sit on the edge of the bed and sink into the soft luxury. Just as I begin to unpack my things, there’s a knock at the door. Before I can respond, another staff member enters, carrying bags. Mine and Ivan’s.

My heart skips a beat as the realization hits me. We’re going to be sharing this room.

I hadn’t expected this. I assumed we’d be in different rooms in his mother’s place. We never even slept together in New York. Not once. There’s a part of me that craves his closeness and needs the comfort of his presence, but there’s another part, the rational part, that feels uneasy about it all. We’re not real lovers and the closer I get to him the more painful it is going to be when it is time for me to pack my bags and go.

Quickly, I shower and change into something more casual—shorts and a loose, button-up shirt. Leila’s choice.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror, nerves twisting in my stomach. The person staring back at me looks out of place here, in this world of wealth and power. The luxurious room seems to swallow me whole, reminding me of just how far I am from everything I know.

Another knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.

“Dinner is at eight. Drinks at seven-thirty,” comes the voice from the other side of the door.

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