Page 49 of The Crimson Lily
“Sorry,” I apologize, licking my fingers. “I’m not good with ice cream.”
He chuckles. The curl of his smile ends in a tiny dimple that is simply irresistible. He’s so handsome in the light of Paris. I still can’t deny that. His blue eyes shimmer with the silver reflections of the Eiffel Tower’s sparkles, and when he looks at me, the earth stops spinning.
“I lo…” No! What am I about to say? I can’t say that! That fact almost escaped my lips. The truth of what I feel for him. But it can’t come out. Not now. Not ever. “When are you going back to New York?” I ask instead.
He simply smiles, then looks at me with a tender gaze. “Tomorrow.”
So, this is to be our last night. I don’t like that idea; it actually hurts in the middle of my chest. It breaks my heart. I don’t want to let it show, but I am Liliana Springfield, and I am very bad at hiding my emotions from him.
“Why so soon?” I ask.
“The mission failed,” he replies. “I need to report back and wait for further instructions.”
I don’t respond. I remain silent, pondering how much the idea of watching him go hurts me.
“I also have a ticket for you,” he finally discloses.
I rejoice a little at the idea of going back with him, but a big question still remains on my mind. “What happens when we’re back?”
I really don’t want him to mention anything about going our separate ways. I won’t bear it if he says something along the lines of letting it be and never seeing each other again.
“I take another job in the meantime,” he replies.
That…isn’t really an answer to my question, is it? Well, it is, but not to myactualquestion. Maybe I just have to be clearer. Maybe I just have to ask what I want to ask. That’ll make things so much easier, won’t it?
I clear my throat, pack all my courage in one ball of words, and throw it at him. “What about us? Will I see you again?” I immediately stuff my mouth with the last of the ice cream so I won’t say anything else to make this situation any more awkward for me.
He looks at me as if I asked something stupid, bearing a little frown with parted lips and a twitch of the nose.
“Did I say something wrong?” I pose, absolutely terrified of the answer.
“Why don’t you know that by now?” he queries. He looks genuinely confused.
I don’t answer; I just stare at him incredulously. He takes a step toward me and grabs the small tissue out of my hands. He then wipes off a little trace of chocolate on the corner of my mouth and goes for my lips.
At the end of the most tender of kisses, he wraps his arms around me and delves deep into my eyes. “I’m not leaving you, Liliana, and I’m not letting you go,” he pledges.
He takes my lips again, gently, but the cadence of his kiss slowly increases, and so does his breath. He bites into my lower lip, and his hands explore my back. I feel his nails delicately scratch my skin. I’m going to lose balance, intoxicated by his exquisite embrace. Maksim lets out a low and controlled growl, his eyes more silver than they’ve ever been.
“We should go before…” I start my sentence and never finish it.
He catches my wrist and leads me away from the Champ de Mars, back to his home. I take one last look over my shoulder, at the golden-lit Eiffel Tower that stopped shimmering because the light show has ended. I capture this instant in my mind so I’ll never forget it. I don’t know if I’ll be back here anytime soon.
PART TWO
CRIME OF TREASON
13
Doctor Gully stares at me, waiting for me to answer her question. I already forgot about it. I stare out of her window, over a garden powdered with snow, with a frosted apple tree bigger than the garden. There’s no sun outside, only the dark gray clouds of a Friday winter morning. It’s cold in Doctor Samantha Gully’s office—my nose is still red from getting here. She’s my new therapist.
“Has the memory of your parents returned?” she asks again, insistent, tapping her pen on her file of wobbly papers.
I shake my head and purse my lips nervously. “I don’t think that’s really possible since they died when I was four years old.”
My fourth birthday, the first birthday I remember, is the day my parents died.
“What about your foster parents?” Samantha insists, seeing through the act that I really don’t want to talk aboutthem.
