Chapter 6

The Value of a Heart

Dinner continued with an ease I couldn’t have expected. My new husband was charming, quick to laugh, and complimentary of everything: the food, me, the restaurant. Christophe Toussaint was proving to be exactly what he presented to the world. A dashing, intelligent, free-spirited man who indulged in life’s pleasures to their fullest. He plowed straight into everything with gusto—like trying new foods his friend presented to us without even asking what they were. He trusted those around him implicitly to not harm or abuse his positive nature.

It was enlightening to say the least, but a treacherous approach for someone who’d seen the worst of humanity and lived to tell about it as I had.

When we’d finished two bottles of champagne and filled our bellies to bursting, ending the dinner with Bobby’s secret recipe chocolate cannoli, which were, in fact, “to die for” as he’d promised, Christophe led me quietly through the restaurant and into the limo. He said goodbye to his friend, confirming that the two of us would return soon. That comment boded well for my future, since he was including me in his plans down the road.

All of this lulled me into a sense of relaxation and comfort, like a cozy sleeping bag fresh out of the dryer back at the women’s shelter in New York. Those felt like the only times I could truly get warm.

Christophe entered the limo and slid all the way across the bench seat to the center where he could press to my side. Always touching. My husband seemed to be a very tactile person, or perhaps he just enjoyed touching me . That lavish thought fluttered through my body with a hint of caution around the edges, reminding me I shouldn’t be so quick to delve into complacency. I’d had only a single evening with the man. His true nature would present itself as the days carried on. I would be wise to be leery, but not so much so that I couldn’t enjoy his overtures.

I sighed when he curled an arm around my shoulders and brought me against his chest.

“Rest , mon coeur . We will be at the hotel soon.” He kissed the crown of my head.

I closed my eyes, letting the entire evening pleasantly race across my mind. “This was the best night I’ve ever had. Merci , Christophe,” I mumbled, falling into a light doze.

I awoke to a warm press of lips to my cheek. “Wake, cheri . We are here,” Christophe murmured gently.

I allowed him to help me out of the limo and tuck me to his side. I wrapped my arm around his waist, and pinched my toes, holding the loose shoes in place as we trudged through another obnoxiously bright casino. The elevator was a welcome reprieve, cutting off the annoying trilling of slots and cheers from patrons watching others gamble. The food and champagne had zapped all the adrenaline I’d had when we’d gotten married. Now I was exhausted enough to sleep for a week if I was allowed.

I was so tired I didn’t even take a single moment to fret over what our sleeping arrangements would be or whether my new husband would expect to consummate the marriage upon our return.

“An individual from the auction team gave my driver your suitcase and bag. They are there.” He pointed to my meager belongings that had been set in the corner of the bedroom.

I’d slept on the streets or in a shelter back in New York, so I didn’t own anything appropriate for sleeping in. However, when I approached my things, I noticed the red nightgown I’d been given for the auction sitting on top of my shoulder bag. I reached for it, thankful to have something to wear this evening that wouldn’t embarrass me. When I had my own money, I’d purchase appropriate clothing for bed and a new wardrobe that looked the part in order to stand by the side of a man such as Christophe. He deserved the best, and if I was to be his muse, I’d need to look like one. Whatever that entailed…I’d figure it out.

“You can change in there.” Christophe pointed in the direction of the bathroom, offering me privacy for which I was silently grateful.

I pilfered through my things and brought out the small plastic zippered container where I kept my toiletries and shuffled into the restroom.

On autopilot, I removed my dress, hanging it delicately on a towel hook behind the door. I slipped the nightgown on and frowned, wishing I had something special to wear for Christophe. If he wanted to have sex with me, I wouldn’t deny him. For one, it was against the rules of the marriage contract. Two, sex was easier than letting my husband in emotionally. With sex, I could just close my eyes, open my legs, and pretend I was somewhere else until it was over. I learned very early on that it wasn’t good to fight the process. Submitting kept me from being hurt.

Though with the arousal I’d experienced earlier, perhaps I’d enjoy the act. Celine did. She said she loved the control sex gave her over men and over her life in a way we didn’t have in our day-to-day lives. I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing what was under the bespoke suit my husband had worn today. And his kisses… I felt myself blush from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I glanced at my image in the mirror and was surprised to find I looked pretty with a little rosy hue to my skin, especially in contrast to the red nightgown and my olive skin tone.

He might even find me appealing…until he saw the marks on my thighs.

I clenched my teeth and lifted the gown to my waist. The jagged scars marring my inner thighs were ugly but not nearly as grotesque as the way I’d received them. I ran my fingers down the sides of the raised skin, the memory turning my stomach.

You survived hell on earth, Alana. Always remember you are a survivor… Never to be a victim again. Celine’s impassioned chant threaded through my mind, giving me strength.

I firmed my spine and dropped the nightgown back into place. Most of the men I’d had sex with for money ignored them altogether, preferring to enter me the second they were erect and to rut like a dog until they were done. Maybe Christophe would be the same. Yet something told me with the attention to detail this man had already paid to me, I’d eventually have to address them. Until that time came, I would forget about it. I would distract him with my body and my touch for as long as possible.

Content with my plan of action, I brushed my teeth, washed all the makeup off my face, lotioned my entire form, and finished with a brush to my hair. It shined like black oil gliding over my shoulders and chest.

“This will have to do. I hope my husband likes what he sees,” I said to my reflection, then sighed before opening the door and turning off the light.

The room was dark. Christophe lay under the covers, his upper body clad in a white T-shirt. The covers were pushed back halfway in invitation beside him on the bed.

“You are a vision, Alana,” Christophe said as I slowly padded over on bare feet.

“Thank you,” I responded while standing next to the bed. “Would you like me to remove my nightgown?”

He frowned. “Do you want to remove it?”

I licked my lips and twisted my fingers together as I shook my head.

“If sleeping naked is not your preference, you needn’t do it now for my benefit,” he stated cryptically.

“Don’t you want to…” I gestured to the bed.

“Sleep?” he answered, patting the empty space next to him. “ Oui , I am exhausted. We had a very big day and I’m filled to the brim with Bobby’s masterful meal. Come, mon coeur . Lie down and get some much needed rest. Tomorrow is a new day. The first of our married life together. I am looking forward to its splendor.”

I quietly slipped into bed and held my breath as he slid the covers over me. Then he wrapped an arm around my waist and tugged me to the center of the bed where he’d turned onto his side. Consistent with his tactile nature, he tucked me to his body. This time, my back to his front, our bodies touching. I held perfectly still, unsure if I should even breathe as I didn’t want to disturb him. Christophe tucked his face against the crook of my neck and sighed deeply.

“Relax, Alana. I do not bite, nor am I a restless sleeper.” He nuzzled against my neck and placed a kiss to my shoulder.

I allowed his warmth to ease the tension within me and, shockingly, I did as he said and relaxed fully against him, waiting for something to happen.

He hummed and then yawned. “Goodnight, my beautiful wife. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, husband,” I responded, not knowing what to do, say, or how to react. I kept expecting him to move his hand from around my waist to between my legs, or up to cup a breast, but the action never came.

He truly meant to sleep next to me.

I waited until his breath became even and his arm heavy against my waist before I allowed myself the security of closing my eyes.

* * * *

A scratching sound invaded a wondrous dream I was having of dancing with Christophe while wearing a crimson ball gown in a room filled with gold-framed mirrors. My head was tipped back, and I was laughing while the world spun around me in a series of speckled rainbow colors.

I squinted as light prickled against my eyes. Peeking through half-raised lids, I felt a sunbeam streak across my face. I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the bright rays. The scratching sound continued from somewhere near my feet.

“ Bonjour, wife. ” Good morning, wife , Christophe said. “Stay still a few more minutes. Merci .”

He thanked me for some strange reason.

I blinked several times and reached out. My hand made contact with a thick piece of paper or parchment of sorts. I turned my head to the side and noted dozens of pages with black marks all over them.

“What are you doing?” I croaked, my mouth dry from sleep.

“I woke hours ago to your slumbering beauty, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Alarm bells went off in my brain. “What couldn’t you help?” I pushed up on an elbow, a few slips of paper falling to my lap. There were pages everywhere. I reached for one and studied the image.

It was me. Or a portion of me. This one in particular was a drawing of me, on my side, sleeping. The mound of my hip accentuated, the curve of one breast tucked behind the satin covering of my nightgown. Even the strands of my hair were surreally depicted, wrapping around my form like a shroud or a cocoon. The likeness of my face was uncanny, even though I could tell the image had been hastily sketched.

I reached out for another one, and saw it was of my hand. The bones appeared gentle and elegant. Neat lines curved around my nailbeds. What shocked me was that it had been done so meticulously it could have been a drawing that took someone else months to complete. And yet, he’d done it this morning. Along with all of the others.

“How long have you been awake?” I asked, worried I’d slept the day away, but finding I hadn’t when I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and it read nine o’clock in the morning.

“I rise with the sun, cheri ,” was his harried non-answer.

Christophe didn’t speak again, seeming enchanted by his drawing. I pushed myself up to a fully seated position, my back against the headboard, the sun now out of my eyes. My husband was hunched at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, head down, a large notebook in his lap, and a black piece of chalk clutched in his wildly moving hand.

His head lifted and our gazes met. He smiled so brilliantly my heart clenched. The air in the room filled with a buzzing energy I could feel surfing the fine hairs along my arms.

“May I see?” I asked, wanting to be a part of whatever had him smiling and exuding such kinetic energy.

He pressed his lips together and cocked an eyebrow. “It is not done,” he teased playfully.

“Is it of me?” I asked, knowing based on all the other pages strewn about that it was.

“I am taken with you, Alana. I have never known a person or place that moved me more. I need to create your image. But it must be just right. All of these”—he gestured to the papers covering the bed and floor like confetti—“are practice for what is to come.”

“And what is to come?” I swallowed down the nerves that instantly coiled like a snake in the pit of my belly.

“My life’s best work. The piece I was born to create and share with the world.” He responded as though it were a vow, a conviction, a prophecy he must heed or else.

“And what happens if the ultimate piece of art isn’t received well by the public?” I asked, curious how the mind of an artist worked.

“It matters not.” He held my gaze with such intensity it was as though his hand held my chin aloft. I couldn’t look away.

“But I thought that if it was to be your best work, it would be something…special. Something the world has never seen,” I surmised.

He grinned boyishly. “And it will be. But, mon coeur , the only person who can determine what is to be my greatest creation is me. If others appreciate it, I would be pleased. Though I will not value the importance of my art based on what or how others perceive it. I am the only judge.” He dipped his head, ripped out the page, and handed it to me thoughtfully.

My hand shook as I grasped the edge of the paper.

My breath caught as I looked directly into a depiction of my face. Except the eyes were open with nothing filling them. They were empty ovals, though the rest of my features were there. My hair fell around my shoulders perfectly, my mouth slightly open in an expression of inhaling or gasping. In my hand, directly in front of my chest, the image held an anatomical bleeding heart. It was as though I’d removed my own heart and was handing it to the viewer.

“I don’t understand. Why are my eyes blank?” I frowned while I took in the nuance of my hollowed cheeks and the pinch of my brow as though my imaginary self was pained.

“They are not blank. They are empty.” His response was soft, alluding to a much deeper meaning.

“And why am I holding my heart?” My voice trembled along with my bottom lip. My nose itched and I felt the tip tingling with the telltale signal that tears would surely follow.

“You aren’t holding it, cheri . Your subconscious is offering it unceremoniously.”

My gaze snapped to the image and then back to his soulful one. “Why would I do that?” I whispered, fearful of his answer.

“Because you don’t know its value. That’s why your eyes are empty. You know not what you give of yourself. Soon you will understand your worth, and that image will change. I will help you see the importance of gifting such a piece of you. A piece I intend to own and hold most dear.”

My nose started to run, and I wiped it with the back of my hand. “I don’t understand. You speak in velvet-coated riddles. It confuses me.”

He stared mutely at me for a full minute, the air between us palpable as though it lived and breathed, gliding along every surface of exposed skin to tease and taunt.

“And one day, when you have let your guard down and offered your heart and soul for my safe keeping, you will understand.”

“And if I don’t?” I challenged, not intending to ever give anyone my heart. Not the real me.

“You will.” He stared back, looking stoic and calm.

“But if I don’t? What happens then?” My voice rose, a hint of frustration clear in my response.

His shoulders fell and he tilted his head as though resigned. “Then we will both be sad, because we will have lost what could have been the greatest love of all time.”

Suddenly he uncurled his legs, stood, and came around the bed where I had slowly crept into a ball, just then realizing I’d scrunched my knees up to my chest protectively. He leaned down, curled a finger under my chin, and pressed his lips to mine.

It was a soft, barely there press of his mouth, but I felt it ease the ache of my contorted position.

“I will call room service and have them deliver an American breakfast. I love how big and boldly Americans do things. Especially their food. It’s magnifique, non ?” he asked, positively giddy at the idea.

I nodded. “I’m not a picky eater. Anything is fine.”

“This is good. We are the same. See, my wife,” he said and kissed me again, keeping his face only a few inches from my own, “we already have things in common.” He smiled, pecked me a third time, and then stood. “I’ll leave you to gather your thoughts and wait for you in the living space. I have a fun idea for our second date.”

The heaviness of our intense discussion moments ago was just gone, slipping into the ether as if it was all the same to him. While the echoes of what he’d said—and more, what he’d drawn —still bubbled uncomfortably within me.

It was incredible how heartfelt and powerful conversations between us could be and then suddenly disappear into a light, playful manner only moments later.

I wondered if I’d ever get used to the extremes when it came to Christophe.

“Second date?” I called out as he reached the bedroom door.

“ Oui . Last night was our first. Today is our second. I am courting you properly as a woman of your stature, intelligence, and beauty deserves. Dress comfortably,” he said with a flourish and left the room.

He was going to court me.

Why? He’d already purchased me—signed, sealed, and delivered. He didn’t need to earn my favor.

Perhaps he wants to earn your favor, Alana?

I eased out of bed, went to my suitcase, and removed my best pair of denim jeans and a beautiful forest-green sweater. Celine and I had purchased matching ones as our combined birthday presents last year. We’d gotten them in a buy one, get one sale and had received many compliments asking if we were sisters when we’d worn them. It was a good memory, and I decided I’d take that happy feeling and the anticipation of going on a second date with my husband into this new day.

The first day of my new life.