All He Asks 4 Read online

  Contents

  Episode 4

  About

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  All He Asks

  Episode Four

  Felicity Sparrow

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  All He Asks - Episode Four

  Christine Durand returns to her father’s summer home seeking comfort after a hectic week that has thrown her role as ghostwriter into the limelight. She hopes to find peace and answers—but instead, she finds that she is not alone…

  1

  His hands are on me again.

  He is stroking my back, tracing flaming lines from my shoulder blades down to the hollow of my spine, curving out where back becomes posterior. He brushes my curls aside to place kisses on exposed, sensitive skin.

  Another hand moves between my legs.

  It is good. So very good.

  Yet I know that I should tell him to stop. I should tell him that this isn’t want I want. I should be calling for help.

  Help me. Someone. Anyone.

  But I’m not asking for help.

  The only thing I'm asking for is more.

  I am arching into his touch, gasping out little cries, and gripping his shoulders as he lips the dimples at the base of my back. I am riding the tidal wave of pleasure. I’m savoring the sweetest sin I have ever known, and no matter what I’m trying to tell myself, I love ever moment of it.

  For at last, I am with him.

  After so long.

  Erik Duke.

  I am his, and I am burning.

  -

  Earlier that day.

  Raoul is still sleeping when I slip from bed and search for his driver. Yes, he has a driver. He has a lot of staff. I don’t think that any of them live with him, but it’s impossible to tell; there are always people moving in and out of the penthouse, going from the kitchen to the garage and to the living room.

  As we sleep, his penthouse comes alive with people cleaning, preparing food, and arranging things for the next day. They look surprised to see me moving through the penthouse during the early hours, when they are usually the only ones roused.

  His personal chef meets me in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Miss Durand,” he says. “How can I help you? Are you hungry?”

  I’m not surprised that he knows who I am. It seems like everyone should know who I am by now. There’s certainly been enough media coverage about my role in the Sylvia Stone drama on all the morning talk shows.

  “I’m actually looking for the driver.” I push past him to enter the kitchen.

  The counters are in disarray. Ingredients and knives are spread all over the polished surfaces. Chopped onion stings my eyes, and the smell of the gas range wafts around me.

  The driver is plucking shredded cheese out of a bowl and snacking on it. When he sees me, he hurriedly wipes his hands on his slacks, stands up, and begins buttoning his shirt. His uniform is not as neat as I know Raoul would prefer it to be.

  “I thought breakfast wasn’t for two more hours,” the driver said.

  I smile. I hope the expression is reassuring rather than pinched, because I don’t feel like I’m in much of a smiling mood.

  “It’s not. I actually was hoping that you could take me somewhere.”

  I haven’t put even the slightest note of threatening into my voice, but I can tell that he’s wondering if I will report the fact that he’s hanging out with the chef and eating Raoul’s food in a messy uniform if he doesn’t give me a ride.

  “Does Mr. Chance know about this?” the driver asks.

  He does not. “Of course,” I lie. “Did he forget to tell you about it last night? He’s been so busy, I’m not surprised.”

  The driver is probably thinking about waiting to ask Raoul. I drop my smile and give a disapproving look to the cheese.

  “I’d like to leave now,” I tell him.

  “Of course,” he says. “I’ll bring the car around.”

  He rushes away. I’m not proud of myself for my subtle intimidation of the staff, but if that’s what it takes to leave before Raoul wakes up, then it’s what I’ll do.

  I am due to begin the work contracted with Erik Duke this evening. I will be rewriting my first contracted book with Moonlight Sonata under his guidance. In theory, this should occur at Durand-Price, in a semi-public conference room, where he can neither intimidate nor harm me.

  The idea of facing Erik is sickening.

  Especially after what he did to Mario Stone.

  I’m terrified. Nobody is saying it, but we all know who left the literary agent under the dock on the beach.

  Even at Durand-Price, I won’t be safe from Erik.

  And that’s why I have to leave.

  “Here,” the chef says, grabbing a wrapped sandwich out of the refrigerator. “Take this.”

  I curve my hands around the carefully wrapped paper. “Thank you, but why?”

  “You need to keep your strength up, and you’re not sticking around for breakfast. I’ll make another one.” His smile is warm and understanding. Yes, everybody knows my personal business by now. At least he’s being kind about it. Some of the people I’ve encountered in the streets and at Durand-Price over the last few days have been far less generous.

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  I am numb.

  It won’t take long for the driver to bring the car to the street outside Raoul’s high rise, so I change my clothes quickly in the bathroom. Raoul has given me an entire walk-in closet filled with couture, but I must go through his bedroom to reach it; I don’t want to risk disturbing him and being caught. Instead, I don a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Hardly befitting the girlfriend of an editor and millionaire like Raoul Chance, but nobody should see me dressed in such a way.

  The cleaners largely ignore me as I walk through Raoul’s pristine penthouse to the front door. Everything looks perfect. His floors are polished so shiny that I can see the reflection of the underside of my shoes as I hurry through the living room. There is not so much as a mote of dust drifting through the early morning light.

  If I were anyone else, my life could always be like this.

  I could lose myself in the peaceful safety and security of Raoul’s comfortable lifestyle.

  But I’m not anyone else.

  I’m Christine Durand. Moonlight Sonata’s latest contracted author, daughter of the great Fletcher Durand, and protege of international bestselling author Erik Duke.

  My life is not destined for such ease.

  I open the front door.

  There is a man in the hallway outside.

  I stop short with a little gasp. For an instant, I think that it must be Erik Duke, coming to make me atone for the time I’ve spent in Raoul’s penthouse. But even though this man bears some superficial similarity to Erik, in the color of his hair and in his stature, I quickly realize that there is no mistaking this man for the bestseller.

  He doesn’t have the gravity that Erik does. He doesn’t make my whole body burn at the sight of him.

  And this man has a police badge clipped to his belt.

  “Christine Durand?” he asks when he sees me. He seems as surprised to see that I’ve opened the door as I am to see him on the other side. His hand had been lifted to knock.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I was just on my way out.”

  He doesn’t let me brush past him. “I have a few questions for you about Mario Stone.”

  “I’ve already given a statement to the police. My lawyer has advised me not to talk to anyone else about Mario Stone without her present.” This is mostly true. In fact, she isn’t my lawyer--she’s Raoul’s lawyer, just as the closet filled with co
uture is Raoul’s. But the effect is the same.

  Bringing up my legal counsel has been enough to get police to leave me alone up until the moment, so it gives me the confidence to walk past him and move for the elevators.

  “What about discussing Erik Duke?” he calls from behind me.

  I stop.

  What about discussing Erik Duke?

  My statements concerning Mario Stone haven’t involved Erik so far.

  We all know what happened to Mario. There’s no question about it. But there’s also no proof. There was no DNA evidence on Mario. He hasn’t woken up from his coma to tell us what’s happened to him, either--and we’re still not certain that he will ever wake up. Without witnesses, without evidence, nobody has dared utter Erik Duke’s name in front of the police.

  Still, I know as well as anyone else what the truth is.

  I turn slowly.

  The detective looks triumphant to have gained my attention.

  “What about him?” I ask. It takes all of my willpower to keep my face and voice neutral.

  “Do you know anything about his whereabouts on the night of the sixteenth?” he asks.

  My eyes narrow with suspicion. I know a lot about Erik Duke’s whereabouts that night. That was the party where he shattered my life by revealing my professional relationship with Sylvia Stone.

  Where he had been before and after that--I don’t know.

  I can only suspect.

  “He was at Sylvia Stone’s launch party,” I say. “You must already know that.”

  “Where did he go afterward?”

  “Home, I assume. He lives at a property in Maine. You should ask him yourself.”

  “I will,” the detective says. “But I wanted to see your face when I asked you.”

  I am not a good liar. It doesn’t come naturally to me.

  I wonder what this detective has learned about me.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Who are you, exactly?”

  He pushes his jacket aside to make sure that I can see his badge. “Detective Mifroid.”

  “Well, Detective Mifroid, I can’t give you any helpful information about Erik Duke. And I won’t speak to you about him--or anything else--without my lawyer present.” If I sound calm, it is because the angels have gifted me with a miracle.

  My thumb presses the button for the elevator. I have to get out of here before Raoul awakens.

  It seems like the number indicating which floor the elevator is on changes in slow motion.

  The detective stands beside me. He is very intent on staring at me, as though he can unlock the mysteries of Erik Duke if he can just find them on my face. I can hardly blame him for wishing such things. I wish I could find Erik’s mysteries, too.

  “Has he ever hurt you?” he asks me.

  I try not to react. “No, of course not.”

  “Are you afraid of him hurting you?”

  That answer comes just a heartbeat slower. “No.”

  “What’s the nature of your relationship with Erik Duke?”

  I am about to snap. “Professional. Why?”

  He takes a photo out of the inner pocket of his jacket and shows it to me.

  Detective Mifroid has somehow gotten a glossy eight-by-ten of the moment where Erik had his arms wrapped around me on stage at Sylvia Stone’s launch party. The way he is looking at me…it’s far from chaste. It also makes his intentions for me far from secret.

  In the photo, I look frightened. But there are multiple ways to interpret the flush on my cheeks and the way my lips are parted.

  The detective is a smart man. He sees through the layers.

  “We can protect you,” he says softly.

  He’s not here to attack me, even if it feels like it.

  For a moment, I want to jump into his arms and tell him yes. Protect me. Take me somewhere that Erik Duke can’t find me.

  But I know such a place doesn’t exist.

  The elevator arrives.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “And you need to speak to my lawyer if you want to talk to me again.”

  I step into the elevator.

  The detective doesn’t join me. But there is sympathy in his eyes as the doors slide shut, leaving him in the hallway beyond.

  2

  For most people, childhood is a distant memory, only vaguely recalled with a rosy glow. When asked, people may be able to tell you their fifth grade teacher’s name, or the breed of their first dog; they may smile at the thought of things they did as a child so far in their past.

  My childhood is two hours outside of the city on the beach.

  It is time travel, having Raoul’s driver take me to the old Durand property. I know every curve in the road as well as I know the route from my apartment to my place of work. The trees are ageless, unchanged since I was a little girl who climbed them for fun. The blue sky is the same steely, calm observer of my arrival that it has always been.

  And the ocean is waiting for me with frothy white arms.

  Fletcher Durand’s property is on a cliff overlooking the water. It has a private beach below. At this distance, in the dim light of dawn, its wings and gables and tower look like the silhouette of a cemetery.

  The phone in Raoul’s limousine rings as the car pulls into the long, oval driveway at the front of the house.

  The driver answers. He speaks quietly.

  I know it is Raoul trying to find me.

  He will be angry and disappointed to know that I’m not going to Durand-Price that afternoon, but he will reschedule my first editing meeting, I know. He will take care of everything. And eventually, he will understand why I’ve had to run for now.

  I need to be somewhere that my father once lived, breathing the air he once breathed, unraveling the mysteries that still lurk in the darkest pits of my heart.

  The car stops. The window between my compartment and the driver’s roll down, and he turns to speak to me.

  “Mr. Chance has instructed me to bring you back to the city,” he says. He looks annoyed that I’ve deceived him.

  Before he can drive away, I unlock the door and let myself out.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” I say. “I don’t need your services anymore.”

  “Get back in the car, Ms. Durand,” he says.

  “Tell Raoul that I’m sorry.”

  The driver won’t manhandle me back into the car; he doesn’t realize that it’s urgent enough to be worthy of a physical altercation. But there’s no doubt in my mind that Raoul would throw me over his shoulder and drag me away from the manor, kicking and screaming if need be.

  The limousine is gone by the time that I have reached the front door of my father’s summer home.

  The stairs leading to his front door are lined with bushes that have not been maintained in years. They are overgrown in place and dead in others. My fingers linger over shriveled yellow roses.

  I remember where the spare key is hidden under a loose piece of door frame. I find it easily, and I’m surprised when the lock opens easily for me.

  The door swings open.

  Dappled sunlight spills through the windows, making the foyer glow like the flowers imprinted on the glass. The bureau I used to hide inside as a little girl is still across from the front door. An ornate mirror hangs over it. But the face in it is no longer that of Little Christy; it is the face of a woman with wild gold curls.

  I touch my cheeks in surprise when I see myself. If my father’s summer home is a cemetery, then I must be the ghost haunting it. I look wan. Sickly, almost.

  How long has it been since I’ve eaten well? Slept a full night? My eyes are shadowed with deep circles. My cheeks are hollow. My lips are almost the same color as the surrounding skin.

  There is a drop cloth on top of the bureau. It must have been over the mirror, but fallen off. I cover my reflection. It’s easier not to acknowledge how terrible I look rather than try to do anything about it.

  “Are you here, Father?” I whis
per.

  Even speaking quietly, my voice echoes in the hollowness of the house.

  He doesn’t respond to me. Still, I don’t feel alone.

  This is the home where the great Fletcher Durand wrote so many books. As I wander through the halls, I can remember the rapid-fire drumming of his fingers against typewriter keys echoing against the walls so clearly that it’s almost like I’m hearing him again.

  The house is creaking around me. It is a windy day. In those creaks, I hear the memory of the many footsteps that once tread the antique wood floors--other authors, editors, artists, my own shoes, those of the Chance boys, my mother when she still loved Fletcher Durand.

  In the rushing of wind through the cracks in the roof, I imagine that I can hear the whispers of masculine voices as they discuss the vagaries of publishing contracts and life.

  Something is dripping somewhere. It falls in time with my beating heart.

  The home has never been particularly well-maintained. It wasn’t an issue of money. My father had plenty of that until the day he died and left it to his mistress. He loved that the house had so much character--the creaks and cracks and broken pieces inspired him, he said.

  He used to cuddle me on that violet couch and tell me that the house was talking to me. I only needed to listen to what it said and the house would inspire me, too.

  It’s not inspiration I need today. It’s answers.

  Hope.

  I wander up the staircase to the second floor. The doors at the top have been flung open by the wind. The locks on them were always weak, and my father never bothered to have them replaced; the remoteness and quality of the neighborhood made it seem like an unnecessary waste of time.

  On the other side of the doors, a narrow balcony is all that prevents me from toppling into the ocean. I can see the crashing waves through the railing.

  Standing at the precipice, eyes closed, face turned into the breeze, it almost feels like my father’s hands are sliding down my shoulders.

  It’s okay, Christine, he would tell me.