“Merci, monsieur,” she simpers, with a flirtatious smile.

Sweetheart, I’m married.

I raise my left hand to stroke my chin, making my ring obvious, then return to Ana, who is looking at the nudes.

“Changed your mind?” I ask.

She laughs. “No. They’re good, though. And the photographer’s female.”

I cast my eye over them again. One catches my attention: a woman kneels up on a chair, her back to the camera. She’s naked, except for hooker heels, her long, dark hair loose. A memory I don’t want stirs in the back of my mind and I’m reminded of the bleak black-and-white photo on my bulletin board.

The crack whore.

Fuck.

I look away and take Ana’s hand. “Let’s go. Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” she says with an uncertain look as I open the door and step out into the fresh air. I’m grateful to get back outside where I can breathe again.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Protected from the fierce Mediterranean sun, we sit beneath bright red parasols on an archaic stone terrace at a hotel restaurant. We’re surrounded by geraniums and ancient ivied walls. It really is stunning. The food is off the charts, too. Damn, but the French can cook. I hope Mia’s learned some of these skills. I’ll have to persuade her to make dinner for us someday.

When I pay the check, I give the waiter a hefty tip.

Ana is sipping coffee, admiring the view. She’s been quiet, and I wonder once more what she’s thinking about.

Yesterday?

I shift in my seat.

I’m still trying to shake off my nightmare. Fragments keep haunting me and it’s unsettling. I’m reminded of Ana’s question yesterday evening about braids. Did it stir something from my subconscious?

Communicate and compromise. Flynn’s words circle my brain.

Maybe I should talk to Ana. Tell her the truth. Perhaps that’s why I’m getting these vivid flashbacks. I take a deep breath. “You asked me why I braid your hair.”

Ana looks up, expectant. “Yes.”

“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”

Ana blinks, in that way she does when she’s processing information, but her eyes are wide and clear, and all I see in them is her compassion. “I like it when you play with my hair,” she says, but her voice wavers, and I think she’s just trying to reassure me.

“Do you?”

“Yes!” The vehemence in her tone surprises me. She clasps my hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.”

Time stills, and it’s like she’s knocked all the air out of my lungs.

I’m in free-fall.

Why does she say shit like this?

She says she doesn’t want to hurt me.

And yet…

My eyes stay glued to hers, because in spite of what she’s just said, Ana’s my life raft, and I’m drowning in a wave of uncertainty that I don’t understand or know how to process.

I can’t do this.

I don’t want to think about the past.

It’s been. It’s done.

It’s too painful.

My gaze drifts to her hand in mine and to the red mark around her wrist. It’s a stark reminder of what I did to her yesterday.

I hurt her.

“Say something,” she whispers.

I need to get out of here. “Let’s go.”

In the street, feeling adrift and unsure of myself, I reach for her hand once more. “Where do you want to go?” I ask, but it’s more to distract myself from what’s hovering at the edge of my memory. Whatever it is, it’s dredging up these unwanted and unsettling…feelings.

She smiles. “I’m just glad you’re still speaking to me.”

Only just! You mentioned “love” and the crack whore in the same sentence.

“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished.”

I’m expecting her to sulk or berate me, but as I watch a kaleidoscope of emotions cross her face, what settles in her gaze is love.

Her love.

For me.

I think.

All the wrongs right themselves, and my world spins on its proper axis once more. I fold my arm around her and she slips her hand into my back pocket, her palm against my ass. It’s a possessive gesture, and I live for it.

We walk down one of the cobbled streets, stalked by our security, when a fine jeweler’s store catches my eye. We pause outside, and I have a sudden urge to buy Ana a piece. Grasping her free hand, I rub my thumb along the red wheal left by the handcuff yesterday. “It’s not sore,” Ana says, correctly interpreting my look of concern. I shift so Ana has no choice but to take her other hand out of my pocket. Around that wrist, she’s wearing my wedding gift to her, which I purchased in the crazy rush to buy our rings from Astoria Fine Jewelry. It’s a white gold Omega De Ville with diamonds; I had it inscribed.

Anastasia

You Are My More

My Love, My Life

Christian

And that was never truer than now.

Yet beneath the strap lies a red mark.

That I gave her.

And all those hickeys, too.

Because I was pissed at her.

Damn. Releasing her, I gently grasp her chin and raise her eyes to mine. She stares back at me, as guileless as ever, and with the same look of love.

“They don’t hurt,” she whispers, and I take her hand again, and plant a soft kiss on her wrist.