Page 21 of Prelude To You

And who could blame him?

The Navigator slowed, the windows cleared and the partition between us slid down.

“It’s a miracle,” I declared. “I can see again.” My attempt at humor fell flat. But before I could feel too stupid, we pulled up to a pair of massive black iron gates flanked by twin guardhouses.

A guard nodded at George, and the big gates slid open. I almost swallowed my damn tongue. It was the kind of entrance I imagined might lead to a two-hundred-year-old sanitarium in a historical horror show.

Soon enough we were cruising down a very long driveway, dwarfed by ancient moss-draped oak trees on either side. And then I saw it in all it’s magnificence: a grand old chateau with countless arched French windows and towers, no doubt built during the Gilded Age. And it never seemed to end.

The place was framed by a brooding sky and surrounded by a garden, or rather a paradise. There was even a pond with floating water lilies. It was the kind of place where, if you listened carefully, you might hear the gods whisper on the breeze.

No doubt the far side ended on a rocky shore, offering a view of the surly North Atlantic. When I finally remembered to breathe again, my gaze met George’s in the rearview mirror.“Holy shit, George. Not to sound nervous but there’s been a mistake. One of us is at the wrong place, and I don’t know but I think it might be me.”

George remained neutral. He was probably used to this kind of reaction, especially at the rate these people were going through readers. “You are definitely in the right place, Miss Le Roche, I can assure you.”

As we drew closer to the mansion, its grandeur assumed an air of melancholy, the splendor stifled by unmistakable gloom. Honeysuckle crawled out of crevices, clinging to the walls as if trying desperately to cheer the place up—and sadly failing to do so.

And maybe it didn’t help that the sky was covered in a thick gray blanket of clouds, a conspiracy of impending rain.

It was just a job, I thought to calm my overactive imagination. A place where I had to be for a few hours a day, six days a week. That was to say I got the job, of course.

The Navigator stopped near the colossal entrance. George was out of the car and opening my door in less than a second. “Welcome to the manor, Miss Le Roche. I wish you the very best with your interview.”

How many times had he said that, and to how many people?

Clutching my confectionary box, I stepped from the car. It was one thing to view the mansion from the back seat on the driveway. It was quite another to stand in front of the place as it loomed over me. The word “imposing” came to mind.

I imagined this was what Jane Eyre must have felt like, when she first arrived at Thornfield Hall.

7

ROMAN

By daybreak, I was contemplating a quick nap on the Chesterfield couch. Going to bed was out of the question. My plan to exile all thoughts of The Dancer wasn’t working as well as I’d hoped. An unbearable desire had gestated somewhere inside me, that apparently only she could quench.

Exclusivity with one woman was such a far-fetched notion that I’d never even considered it. There was no desire or time to permanently indulge the whims of love with one person. Or to think about any scenario that might potentially obliterate everything I’d worked to become.

Or rather, what I’d been painstakingly molded to become.

I was not a man who dwelled over the what-ifs in life. Nor did I regret past actions, because I always thought things through before doing them. But last night was a turmoil of uncertainty, regret, and unresolved need.

The regret was not kissing The Dancer, but discarding her when all I wanted to do was take her in my arms and keep her there. Which was spectacularly peculiar. Me of all people, coddling a sentimental reaction. Or even having a sentimentalreaction in the first place. That wasn’t me. Or at the very least, not the me I thought I was.

The foundation for my entire existence was the education I’d received to prepare me for taking over the business. I was fine-tuned to within an inch of my life. Like my father before me, his father before him, and his father before him. There was no deviating from the mission that was my life.

I dealt with my body’s basic needs in the same way I would with any machine that required maintenance. In order to run well, certain things had to be kept in good condition. I kept up my end of the bargain by staying healthy and fit.

Not that I didn’t indulge on occasion. A couple of whiskeys now and again, and the odd Swiss chocolate treat. And then there was sex.

In my twenties, sexual fulfillment was necessary to keep my focus and drive. My sex life was limited to a few beautiful women in my social circle, who were there for the occasional fun time only. They had no delusions about relationships or happily-ever-afters.

But eventually the lack of spontaneity, and being bored to tears in their company, made these arranged evenings lose their appeal. I couldn’t remember the last time one of them happened. In the months since, I’d become reliant on my morning showers for relief, and that suited me fine.

Until this lovely, mystical creature breezed into my life. The Dancer.

I’d factored everything into my life. Except meeting someone who changed the very fabric of my thought process. My mind suddenly shoved all business matters aside to make way for every lascivious thing I wanted to do to her.

I’d apparently committed her every detail to memory. Her body’s reaction to my touch, the way those sensual lips parted insilent invitation, her delicate fingers slipping inside my collar to caress the back of my neck…

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