Page 23 of Innocence Tamed
I hesitated at the entrance, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I had arrived ten minutes early, though I’d spent far too long agonizing over what to wear. I’d finally settled on a simple blue sundress that I hoped struck the right balance between casual and presentable. The morning delivery from Selecta had included several outfits that were far more provocative than anything I’d normally wear, but I couldn’t bring myself to don any of them for this first meeting.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The rich aroma of coffee enveloped me in its distinctivelysharp French variety, along with the sweet scent of baked goods. A few heads turned as I entered, and I felt my cheeks warm under the scrutiny. Did they know? Could they somehow tell that I was here to meet a potential sponsor?
I claimed a small table near the back, positioning myself so I could see the door. A waitress approached, and I ordered acafé crème, my French more halting than usual, then sat fidgeting with the napkin as I waited.
At precisely three o’clock, the café door opened, and Pierre Lemieux stepped inside. In person, he looked even more imposing than his profile picture suggested. Tall and elegantly proportioned, he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to commanding respect. His tailored suit—a subtle gray that somehow complemented his hazel eyes—looked as if some sophisticated textile machine or, more probably, a very expensive seamstress had matched it exactly to his frame.
His gaze swept the café, and when it landed on me, I felt a jolt of electricity run through my body. He smiled—a small, controlled curving of his lips—and strode toward my table.
“MademoiselleCampbell,” he said, his voice deep and melodious, with just a hint of a French accent coloring his perfect English. “A pleasure to meet you in person.”
I stood awkwardly, unsure of the proper protocol. “Mr. Lemieux,” I managed, my voice sounding thin and breathless to my own ears.
He took my hand, raising it to his lips in a gesture that seemed both old-fashioned and oddly intimate. His lips barely brushed my skin, but the contact sent a shiver up my arm.
I became instantly conscious of the other patrons’ eyes, though I couldn’t meet any of them. I felt certain that every person in the café—customers and servers alike—must know this well-heeled man intended to take me back to my apartment, make a woman of me, and claim me as his little whore in the most shameful way possible.
“Pierre, please,” he said, releasing my hand and taking the seat across from me. His voice betrayed nothing that might suggest the terrible, tiny fantasy that had just turned my cheeks dark pink. “May I call you Audrey?”
I nodded, sinking back into my chair. “Yes, of course.”
The waitress appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by some invisible signal. Pierre ordered an espresso in the masculine French tone that somehow conveyed an essential superiority without actually sounding rude at all. Then turned his attention back to me.
“You seem nervous,” he observed, his eyes studying my face with unsettling intensity. “I suppose that’s understandable, given the circumstances.”
I swallowed hard, trying to calm my racing heart. “It’s just… this is all very new to me.”
“Of course,” he nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Perhaps we should begin with something familiar. Tell me about your work in energy conservation. Your profile mentioned it was a passion of yours.”
The request surprised me. I’d expected him to immediately address the arrangement, perhaps even discuss the… well…physicalaspects of what would be expected of me. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested in my professional background.
“I was working on barriers to comprehensive social engineering,” I explained, grateful for the neutral topic. “There’s a critical need for behavioral interventions, especially with the grid instabilities we’ve been seeing.”
Pierre nodded thoughtfully. “A worthy pursuit. The energy crisis has only worsened in recent years. My own investments in sustainable technology have faced similar challenges—balancing innovation with practical implementation.”
Our conversation flowed more easily than I’d anticipated. Pierre asked intelligent questions about my research, sharing his own knowledge of the energy sector. For brief moments, I almost forgot why we were really meeting—it felt like a normal conversation, perhaps even one between potential colleagues.
The waitress delivered our drinks, and Pierre took a sip of his espresso before setting the tiny cup down with precision.
“You’re quite knowledgeable,” he commented. “It’s a shame your internship ended prematurely.”
I looked down at my coffee. “The budget cuts in America. They canceled the program.”
“And now your visa is expiring,” he stated rather than asked.
I nodded, suddenly reminded of my desperate situation. “Thirty days.”
“Hence your interest in Selecta Arrangements,” Pierre said, his voice neutral, neither judgmental nor particularly sympathetic.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I didn’t have many options,” I admitted.
“Few of us truly do when circumstances become difficult,” he replied. “The illusion of choice is a luxury many cannot afford.”
He took another sip of his espresso, watching me over the rim of the cup. Those hazel eyes seemed to see right through me, noting every nervous gesture, every blush.
“Tell me, Audrey,” he continued, “what do you know about Selecta’s involvement in energy policy?”
The question caught me off guard. “Not much,” I confessed. “I know they’re a major corporation with interests in many sectors, but I haven’t specifically researched their energy initiatives.”
