Soft Limits Page 4

  I’m tempted to say, “Un café, s’il vous plaît,” but that might invite more questions in French. I’m also tempted to order myself, as the attendant undoubtedly speaks English as well, but I like Frederic’s solicitousness. It’s flattering. Worst feminist ever, I think, as I ask him for coffee. He accepts the cup, milk and napkin from the steward and places them in front of me, chatting all the while to her in French.

  “Merci,” I say when she’s gone, and my accent isn’t too horrible.

  “De rien,” he replies, adding sugar to his black coffee. “You must make sure you don’t work the whole time you’re in Paris. You must enjoy yourself, too. It’s your holiday.”

  I laugh, incredulous. “You mustn’t say that or I will spend all my time in the Louvre or drinking coffee by the Seine. I mean to work hard, but I will make some time to see the galleries and eat gateau.”

  “Good. Now. I read a lot of the pieces you wrote in that archive your sister sent me and I want to talk about them.”

  I nearly choke on my coffee and put the cup down. “Oh, dear. I thought we were pretending you hadn’t.”

  He gives me a curious smile, sunlight flashing over his face. We’re out of the suburbs now and over his shoulder I can see the landscape has opened up into countryside. “Why did you put them online if you didn’t want anyone to read them?”

  “I posted them anonymously online. They’re in a place where only people who feel the same things as me about those characters will read them. It’s a safe place. We’re kind to each other.”

  “Am I not kind to you? Do I not love those characters, too?”

  “Oh, yes, you’re kind and of course you love those characters. But you think about them in very different ways than a fifteen-year-old girl does. Some of that stuff is so old.”

  “Not all of it,” he points out.

  Jesus Josephine Philomena Christ. He’s not smirking or teasing, but I know exactly which pieces aren’t old and none of them are what you might call “family friendly.” They were written after the True Blood story I shared with Mona, so she probably didn’t realize how embarrassing the newer part of the archive would be for me.

  I’m twisting my napkin and he captures my hands in his. “Evie. Look at me.”

  His hands are very large and warm, and I want to look at them, not into his eyes. But he waits, and a moment later I glance up.

  “You like to write, and I confess I can’t see you as a biographer for the rest of your life.”

  The train plunges into a tunnel. The Channel Tunnel? No, it’s too soon. The darkness seems to be pressing through the windows on us. “That’s a strange thing to say given what you’ve hired me to do.”

  “This is an opportunity, not your whole career. I am your Sabine Montrechet, and I assure you she was merciless with me. Now, tell me your ambitions.”

  “I want to earn enough money from my writing—”

  But he shakes his head. “Not what you told me over dinner. Something more. Something that resonates with you.”

  I can’t think while he’s holding my hands and I feel claustrophobic. When are we going to get out of this tunnel? “Can I drink my coffee?”

  “When you tell me what you want.”

  I want to drink my coffee. That’s all I know I want, can’t you see? “Stop being so pushy, will you? You’re as bad as Mona.”

  Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “Oh? Do I tease? Do I roll my eyes at you? Have I ever laughed at you or made you feel silly?”

  “Well, you’re very demanding.”

  “I told you I was.”

  He did, didn’t he? But he was also on his best behavior in the garden and over dinner, it seems, because he was nothing like this. I haven’t signed the contract yet as he told me it won’t be ready for a few days, but I’m tempted right now to tell him where he can shove it.

  If you ever make me feel silly or foolish I will make you sorry, I think at him, my eyes narrowed. Then I take a deep breath and try to answer the question. What do I want? Or what do I not want? That might be easier. I don’t want to feel that I’m forcing myself to be something I’m not. That was the problem with Adam, I think.

  “I want to be honest with myself.”

  That sounds vague and I expect it won’t satisfy him, but to my surprise he releases my hands. “Good. I like it.” Settling back with his coffee, he asks, “What is being honest with yourself?”

  If I knew the answer to that don’t you think I would be doing it? Because it’s easier than talking about my feelings, I say, “I wrote a story. My own story. For a magazine.” I wrote it weeks ago. If I don’t open up the file and look at it again it might not be terrible. It’s safer where it is so I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.

  He smiles like he’s delighted. I’ve seen him smile many times during curtain calls and in publicity shots, but nothing compares to the real thing, up close. “Wonderful. Have you sent it in?”

  I hesitate. “The deadline’s tomorrow at five.”

  The smile dims, and he looks suspicious. “You weren’t going to send it in, were you? You thought that now you had this job you didn’t need to. I will not be your excuse, Evie. Are you going to send it in before the deadline?”

  Drat the man. I did think that yesterday, and I was glad. Well, what could be the harm in sending it in? It will be a step toward something, even if I don’t know what that something is. “I suppose.”

  He puts down his coffee and speaks slowly. The emerald glimmer is bright in his eyes. “Not suppose. Promise me.”

  “I’m going to put in the book how much of a bully you are, you know.”

  “Say, I promise, Frederic.”

  “I promise, Frederic. There, are you happy?” I hope Sabine Montrechet drove you up the wall when she was your mentor.

  He smiles at me like he is happy. “Good girl. I am.”

  * * *

  The morning dawns clear and warm and I push the casement windows open in my bedroom and lean out into the day. Paris. No university. No family. Just me, some very well paid work and a beautiful and exciting place to explore.

  My room’s small and simple, with white linen sheets on the bed and a thin, very soft gray blanket lying over the comforter. It’s too hot for anything but sheets, though. There’s no more air-conditioning in France than there is in Britain. My handful of sundresses are hanging in the closet and I’ve put all my socks and underwear, T-shirts and shorts into the drawers. My toothbrush is sitting by the ensuite sink.

  Frederic’s not there when I pad out to the kitchen at half past nine, but he’s left me a note. At the studio all day. Call me if you need anything. Home by six. F.

  I make a pot of tea and drink a mug by the window. Frederic’s large, airy flat is in a district called Le Marais on the right bank of the Seine. It’s an old part of the city, with narrow cobbled streets and eighteenth-century terraces.

  When he gave me the tour of the flat yesterday afternoon he concluded with “And you can just see the Cathédrale Notre-Dame from that window.” It’s the window I’m standing in front of now. I can see the two tall, square towers of the cathedral and I’m reminded of Frollo and Esmeralda.

  The day is too lovely to be shut up in the study he’s given me so I get my laptop and work at the dining-room table. It stands in an impressive living space filled with natural light. There’s a baby grand piano in front of the windows, gleaming darkly, with the sofas arranged in a sunken space below. On the other side of the long room is the kitchen, which seems perfectly functional but unused.

  Frederic’s sent me a list of names, email addresses and telephone numbers of people I can interview for the biography, and I will contact them, but first I want to sketch out a rough plan for the book. Which periods of his life have been most significant. What should the overarching thread of the
story be. Rags to riches? Boy next door? Eccentric genius? To get started, I spend the morning Googling him and reading every article, interview and Tweet I can find. He’s not got any social media accounts of his own but there are numerous fan accounts.

  By lunchtime I feel restless, and I grab the set of keys he gave me and head outside. I have no idea where anything is or what I want, but it feels good just to explore the streets. There’s a small supermarket close by, and a few bistros, but I keep going until I find a café and order, very haltingly, a salad and strawberry tart. I eat sitting outside at a wicker table, relishing every bite.

  I get so lost in my notes and research in the afternoon, and a large cafetière of coffee, that it’s a surprise when I hear keys in the front door. Frederic appears, sees me sitting at the table with my laptop, and smiles.

  “I hope you haven’t been there all day,” he says, taking off his jacket and coming toward me.

  “Nope. I went out for the most delicious lunch.”

  “Oh, yes? Where?”

  I stretch my arms up over my head. I’ve been sitting still too long. “No idea.”

  He laughs. “Well, as it’s a nice evening, shall we go for a walk and I’ll show you the area? Let me take a shower first, though. That studio is so stuffy.”

  While he showers I change out of my shorts and T-shirt into a long green skirt and cream top. I wait by the window, looking out toward Notre Dame and drinking a glass of water. I think I know how I want to tackle the biography now, and I’ll start calling people to interview in the morning.

  When Frederic comes back he’s wearing a fresh shirt and his curls are damp. As he heads for the front door, he asks, “Did you send your story in?”

  “Oh.” It’s nearly six thirty. Well after the deadline.

  He stops, turning to me with a frown.

  “No, I didn’t. I sort of forgot.”

  His narrowed eyes are filled with reproach and my heart starts to batter against my ribs. He shouldn’t look at people like that. He’s taking years off my life.

  “You forgot?”

  I didn’t forget forget. It occurred to me several times throughout the day but I kept putting off thinking about it. Each time it got easier and easier as I convinced myself that the story was rubbish and Frederic wouldn’t remember my promise anyway. “It wasn’t any good. It was terrible, in fact. They wouldn’t have liked it.”

  He just looks at me, his lips pressed together and his eyes hardening like glass. “That’s not acceptable, Evie.”

  The bottom falls out of my stomach. What does he mean? He walks past me back into the room. “It’s much more important that I focus on the biography right now,” I explain. “I would’ve had to spend most of the day editing it to make it...”

  But I trail off because Frederic doesn’t seem to be listening. He sits down on the sofa and unbuttons and rolls back the sleeves of his shirt, looking me in the eyes the whole time. Then he points to one knee. “Come on.”

  I frown, puzzled. “What?”

  “Get over my knee.”

  I let out a bray of startled laughter. “What?”

  “I’m not kidding, Evie. You went back on a promise and I take promises very seriously. So I’m going to punish you.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me? What are you going to do, spank me?” I can’t help but grin at the absurdity of this question.

  “Yes.”

  My pulse pounds hard in my ears. I can see from his expression that he’s not kidding, not even a little bit, and suddenly I’m not smiling anymore. “Look, I’m sorry that I broke the promise but it was my story and I didn’t think it was any good.”

  “Ten,” he says.

  “Ten what?”

  “Nine.”

  “Are you counting?”

  “Eight.”

  “Frederic, this is ridiculous. Stop playing around.” His brows are drawn together and he’s looking at me from beneath them with all of Hyde’s malevolence, the Phantom’s power, Frollo’s fury. But there’s more to it than that. This isn’t an act. He’s not playing. This is him, and he means it.

  “Seven.”

  “I’m not getting over your knee,” I snap. “That’s screwed up.”

  He stands up and walks toward me. “Six.”

  I back away with my hands raised. “Okay, wait a sec. I know I did promise you that I would send my story in, but I didn’t think it was that important to you. Now I know, you’re into your promises. Got it. Super noted.”

  “Five.” There’s a predatory gleam in his eye. If this was the savannah I would be a gazelle cut off from the herd.

  He’s down to three and I’ve backed into the dining table. He’s not going to do anything unless I say it’s okay. He’s too much of a gentleman, too—

  “Two.” He’s right in front of me now, nose to nose, so close I can feel the heat coming off him.

  “Frederic—”

  “One.” He reaches out and grabs me by the shoulders, turns me bodily round and pushes me down over the table. My hands brace against the wood but then he grabs both of them, pins them behind my back and holds both of them in one of his. Something fizzes through me but I’m too shocked to pay it any mind.

  Then he’s pulling up my skirt and my behind is exposed. “Oh, chérie,” he murmurs, running a finger over the fabric of my very small, high-cut panties. “You’ve made this so easy for me.”

  My hot cheek is pressed against the cool wood. I struggle, trying to get my hands free but he has them in an iron grip. Is this the same man who so courteously carried my luggage? Who looked genuinely pleased when I agreed to write his biography? I knew he could be considerate one moment and demanding the next, but this is off the charts. His fingers are running over the bare skin of my behind. He’s not groping me, exactly, but there’s something appreciative in the way he’s stroking me. It’s sort of nice, and maybe I’d be enjoying it if I wasn’t so embarrassed about what he intends to do. “Frederic, I didn’t—”

  “Did you tell me you were going to send your story in?” he asks.

  “Well, yes, but—

  “And did you go back on your word?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He lifts his hand away and brings it down in a loud, stinging smack.

  “Ow!” Even though I knew it was coming the feel of him spanking me is shocking, and my head rears up. “What are you doing?”

  He pauses, his hand hot against my burning skin. “I’m disciplining you for breaking your word. It’s up to you how much. If I let go of your wrists will you stay where you are?”

  Stay where I am, biddable and silent? “You have to be kidding me! I’m not a child or a naughty schoolgirl. You can’t spank me for breaking a promise.”

  His hand clamps even more tightly around my wrists and he leans over me as he speaks. “If you’re going to act like a child, I will. You could have been mature and told me that you didn’t think the story was ready, but instead you lied and disobeyed me behind my back. So, are you going to be good?”

  “You’re a bully! You’re rotten and mean, and...and...” And why can’t I think of anything but school-yard complaints for how he’s acting?

  “I’ll take that as a no.” He straightens, and his hand lifts away and he spanks me again.

  It’s more shocking than painful. More chastening than demeaning. It’s also a little ridiculous, having my skirt rucked up around my hips and being spanked, and in between squirming in his grip I start laughing. I can’t control it, almost like it’s a hysterical response. I wonder if he’s going to get mad at me for laughing but he doesn’t say anything.

  I realize a few minutes later that he’s let go of my wrists and my face is pillowed in my arms as I squeal. Even though I’m unrestrained I don’t move, half laughing, half yelping w
ith the surprise and sting of each slap. You can move, so why don’t you move? Tug your skirt down and run away. But even as I urge myself to do this, another voice stops me, more silky and insidious than the last. You sort of deserve this, don’t you? Something hot and squirmy settles between my legs, and suddenly I’m anticipating the spanks, not bracing against them.

  Finally Frederic stops, one hand resting heavily on my lower back. “Good girl.”

  I stay where I am, hiding my face in my arms. I feel strange and hot and my heart is racing lightly. There’s also something vaguely unfinished about the sensations that are pounding through me. I want to ask for something but I don’t know if I dare. I remember what he so angrily declared on the train. Do I tease? Do I roll my eyes at you? Have I ever laughed at you or made you feel silly?

  “Wait,” I whisper, my voice muffled.

  “Minette?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. I can’t believe I’m about to ask this but I’m tired of keeping my mouth shut about the things I want. “Could you, um...”

  He waits, not moving.

  “Hit—hit me again. It’s not...worked yet?” I don’t understand what I’m saying but I know I can take more, that I want more.

  “You want me to keep hurting you,” he says slowly. I suddenly realize how awful my request is and I move to get up, but he holds me down with the hand on my back. “I didn’t say you could move. So. You feel like you haven’t been punished enough for what you did?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just feel like I don’t want you to stop yet.” He doesn’t say anything and the silence is excruciating.

  “Not here.” And he helps me up. I try not to look at him but he catches my chin between his fingers and peers at me closely. I feel hot and flustered, wondering what he’s thinking, what he can see in my face. His expression is unreadable. Severe, but not angry, and I get the feeling he’s trying to discern what I’m thinking.

  Finally, he asks, “Can you take your skirt off?”

  I feel a pulse between my thighs and realize there’s something vaguely sexual about this. No, something very sexual.